Dominion

Being that he was the true absolute power in the Empire, and being that his ego matched, or far exceeded what some believed,Victor stepped out onto the balcony dressed and feeling like a king, or at least, the son of a son of a king. His royal purple robe flowed elegantly to the floor, trailing behind him as he walked, and was tied around the waist with a golden-silk sash. On his feet were soft, black silk slippers shipped directly from Hong Kong. What else would he wear that was so close to perfection, but silk? His hands, two fingers short of ten, were clasped casually behind his back, as he looked out into the fog that shrouded his kingdom, London.

He clenched his right hand into a fist and pressed it into the palm of his left, before bringing his hands to grasp the balcony’s granite bannister. “I only need a golden crown befitting my station,” he said, to no one but himself.

He had seen one in the palace once when he was a child. It had the largest diamonds he’d ever seen from the African continent and emeralds from India. And beside it had been a bejeweled… that word both excited and amused him, sceptre that should now be rightfully his. This brought a wide grin to his face, something he did not often do. He never grinned or smiled unless it truly amused him or made a point, like ordering someone’s murder, for instance.

He forced his face into a placid calm and tightly closed his eyes. He wondered, but only briefly, how that kingly artifact would sit in his hand with his pinkie finger missing. He shrugged off the thought. It would still be a firm grip and he wouldn’t let that mishap in his youth deter him in the least. He would focus on taking what was most certainly within his right and when he was sitting on the throne of his own making, he would cover all of his finery so that those things were as bejeweled as the sceptre that would rest in his hand.

He turned on his heel, cast a languid glance at the city sprawl, and returned to stand before the crackling fire. The gold gilt mantle above, gleamed a golden yellow-red and sent hints of orange flames to dance along the blade of the polished steel Samurai sword displayed there. No other accoutrement cluttered the two metres of imported Egyptian marble. The display of the ancient weapon was enough, he thought, as he stretched out a thin finger to trace the intricate carving along the side of the blade. It was his very own name, etched in old style Japanese. He smirked, rubbed at his fingers, satisfied there was no dust, and went to his desk.

Victor relaxed into the hard-backed leather chair and rhythmically tapped to music only he heard. He realized the desk’s size was immense, taking up easily a quarter of his cavernous inner sanctum, but, when others stood before him it made him appear larger, more imposing than he truly was. This amused him greatly. It excited him into arousal even more. He stretched out his legs, removed his slippers and pressed his feet into the gold and crimson Persian rug that was just large enough to encompass the large desk, but still show the rich calamander wood floor beneath it. He’d had the rug shipped directly from Tehran a year before after having sent several buyers around the world to find suitable decorations for his estate house. Flowers and vines of gold intricately woven into the mostly crimson fabric of the rug gave the room a regal air that gave him great pleasure.

He reached under the desk, feeling around for the right spot and then did the exact same with the other hand. The indentation was only discernible to one who knew it existed. He pressed up simultaneously with both fingers, then twisted them ever so slightly, as he pressed. He gingerly let his fingertips slip away as small drawer on the left side of the desk popped open.

He pulled it out fully, which was exactly twenty centimetres, closed his eyes and placed his hand on the rough, scarred board. There was no depth to this drawer. No room to hold a single thing, but perhaps a sheet of thin paper. He moved his hand along the scratched surface, feeling the thin lines that almost completely covered it, and began to count.

He lifted his hand and pushed the drawer closed. It was nearing time to add another etch to the hundreds that were already marked upon the board. He opened his eyes and leaned back. It would have to be, as it always was, someone who directly challenged his power; someone who’s death would make a firm statement. He wasn’t clear yet who that someone would be, but he would calculate and discover them soon enough.

He slipped his hand into his robe and pulled the length of his cock. He wasn’t a man of height or breadth. He didn’t have the large, calloused hands that curled into giant fists like the burly guards that even now stood outside of his doors. But what he did have was a cock of renown. He was, in fact, slight of build, being much less than two metres.

His hawkish nose was reminiscent of the Royal line that sat upon the British throne. He had their eyes as well, a deep blue that made his face appear paler than it really was. He had his mother’s eyebrows, his father’s eyes, his grandmother’s lips and his father’s chin. He was handsome; he knew this and so did so many others. His looks matched his current power, or even surpassed that, he mused. He pulled once more and let himself go.

It wouldn’t do to waste what would surely be needed later in the evening when Horatio joined him in his bed. As had happened innumerable times in the past few weeks, he would give the knock, unlock the door, slip quietly inside and disrobe as he made his way through the inner sanctum to the bedchambers. Once there, he would slip beside Victor, kiss his cheek…and climb atop him and spend the remainder of the night with his cock firmly and deeply up his arse.

In the morning there would be a little something extra stuffed into the left front pocket of Horatio’s vest to keep him quiet about their encounter. It would do a number on his reputation if anyone were to discover his proclivity for being buggered, especially when he’d gone to great lengths to have rumor spread about his cock size. Night couldn’t come quickly enough, he mused, finally allowing the daydream to wither away just in time for a knock upon his door.

Three, one and then followed by four quick raps. He debated responding, knowing that the door would not open unless he did. The guards, not the brightest two he could have chosen from, but rough, wrecked and on the run, knew full well to never allow that door to open unless he responded in some fashion. They, of course, had the wits about them enough to know if he were in danger and would act accordingly should they need to. They were just the kind of fellows he could control easily with more coin in their pockets than either would see in a lifetime on the streets of London.

He rose from his chair, arranged his robe appropriately and went to stand before the fire, which was now a barely crackling glow of orange embers. He sighed, “Yes, what is it?” He emphasized just enough to show his disdain at being disturbed on a Wednesday. He hoped it was Horatio, the larger, black haired brute from East London who would open the door. He was the current favorite. He was stupid warmth on a cold night. Even with wealth, the night still had a deep chill, especially when you slept in a bed alone.

He stared at the double-wide, carved from a single tree, dark mahogany doors, the knobs of which were gilt with gold and ivory from Africa and gritted his teeth. “I said, what is it?”

Jason Edding Victor Leach