The Kings Personal Joker (boyxboy)

Chapter Ninety Nine

Just when the palace guard stepped inside with a low bow to ask the King what his preference was I saw my clothing laying scattered on the ground, reached for it and hid it behind me just as Lady Thera waltzed in without invitation or admission. Like a wife already settled in a home.

"Your Majesty," She bowed a half bow, the kind a lady gives when she is from exceedingly good background, paired with a certain kind of informality too. The gentle three layer gown flowing about her like glowing waves, white flowers embroidered subtly on the white fabric, leading right into the ribbons and corset.

"Lady Thera." He said with a sort of casual disinterest that restrained something more calculated and irritated, pulling his sheets back over himself with eyes that grew cold.

"I thought I would read you a poem for the night." She said impressively.

But instead of accept the well-intended gesture he directed her attention toward me with a hand movement.

She turned to look at me and blinked, a wide eyed look seemingly both surprised and horrified. "Ah, hello."

I swallowed, "Hello ma'am." I half bowed from my seat, unwilling to get up.

She frowned. "It is late, send him on his way and I can take care of you tonight."

Demosthenes glanced at me. "Well? Are you tired?" He asked, the slyness in his eyes made my face warm.

I panicked when the attention was so casually directed at me and when she looked at me my face burned, I hunched slightly, looked down at the erection that persisted and wished I had some ice to address it with.

He was a cruel man, I thought, with some measure of embarrassment. With a nervous bow I replied, "No, Your Majesty. Not tired... Not tired Your Majesty."

He replied with an evil smile.

My chest rose and fell from where I sat, Thera was clearly annoyed but she smiled at me in a polite way that was designed to look friendly.

"I see... Well some music to aid my poem would be rather acceptable too, wouldn't it?"

He said nothing, only glanced at me.

My breath shuddered as I raised fingers that had previously been on his cock to the strings of the instrument and played a few slow notes, the only kind I could imagine would not outplay the kind of poetry she seemed to be fond of.

She nodded. "Never much of a fan of these foreign instruments but it will do."

Then she settled by his bedside like a wet nurse to an ill child and waited for him to lay down on his bed which he did after a moment, and drew the sheets over himself, back against the headboard with cushions behind him.

She gave me a pointed look and I started playing random notes, not knowing exactly what poem she planned on or what sort of mood I was supposed to be setting. I would have rather had my lyre, an instrument I knew better, but a lyre wasn't big enough to hide behind when one was erect and dying inside.

"In early morning clouded sky,
Birds circle low over stocks of rye,
Humble workers worketh steady below,
Roughen their hands so their crops may grow.
Travelling through is a king and his men,
Their steed trampling by in four and ten,
Urgently galloping through valleys and hills,
To a home that a longing and yearning instils."

I closed my eyes, I knew this poem, part of it not the full thing, we sang a lot of poetry and plenty we did not know where it hearkened from. Singing was so much more common outside, after eating we sang, while working we sang, during walking we sang, and especially when we were drunk we sang.