Troubadour

“Tell me a tale, troubadour.”

“A tale, you say? Does milady wish to proffer a suggestion by way of genre?”

“How about a story of romance and amour, to maintain the mood as we relax and refresh ourselves?”

“Oh, but an excellent choice milady. While we catch our breaths, I shall recount to you a pulse-quickening account of a whirlwind romance, blazing with passion and unbridled carnality to make your breath catch in the back of your throat, and set your very being aflutter.”

“If your performance is as good as that previous, I am sure it will.”

“I shall endeavor to try. But what to speak of… ah! But of course.

This is a tale as old as time itself, but never a tired and dusty story. It is timeless, ageless, because it is one of the driving force of people: Love. The kind that burns brightest in the dark and best not glanced upon, for its intensity would blind those with prying eyes. And eyes is what it started with.

Their gaze ensnared each other from across the room, a boring function where the lady of the tale was the trophy wife, paraded about on an arm like she was cattle to be flaunted and lusted over from afar. Those green eyes spoke of a great tedium, and a yearning to be set free. It was that very look that caught his eyes.

He was a simple man, doing a simple job of delivering food and entertainment to the tables while dressed up to make the everyday action seem more… fitting, of the class. His face was sombre as requested, but his eyes spoke of mischief and a love of life. He was a man to who the common could be made fun. And this presented an opportunity for him.”

“An opportunity?”

“Oh yes, for the old tales speak of the damsels in distress and the dashing knight galloping to their rescue. But he was without horse, for who brings a horse to a diplomatic function? His armour did not shine for it was finest, if loaned, cloth. And his journey would be difficult, navigating the tiresome and the gluttonous.

But she was discarded as if she were a mere servant for the husband had to talk shop. And so he made his way over to offer beverages and fine delicacies, and converse politely. And so they talked, and soon they laughed, and after that? They slipped away into the shadows, away from the talks of money and politics. As the orchestra played the backing to the lavish night, they danced quietly, hearts racing and minds enamoured.

She was the first to suggest it. To embrace the spirit of the evening and delve into the darkness and to find themselves a quiet corner of the world to talk freely, so she could enjoy the company of a man who was not only paying attention when drunk or salacious. With food and drink did they wile away the time, and the universe, being the caring mother of us all, smiled upon her children and made each minute akin to an hour.

She spoke of dashed dreams and distant desires, of the gilded cage wrought of finest materials but still restrictive. In turn, he told her of the world outside the cage. He would not spare her details, for honesty was a commodity that she was not given in abundance as opposed to pretty jewels or fine silks. His account of the world was eloquent but frank, and it enthralled her as she imagines the pits of despair and the soaring highs of freedom, a delicious chiaroscuro that far surpassed the art that adorned the walls of her noble prison.

It was inevitable that as their minds touched, that their souls would entwine. And like lodestone to iron, their bodies were drawn into intimate embrace. Deft hands and silken lips explored the acres of skin, delving into the caverns formed by their clothes. Said clothes were soon discarded to leave them as the Gods made them.

As key to lock, their bodies fitted together perfectly and opened her eyes to a world of pleasure, far beyond the feeble attempts that her husband would offer her sacred temple, while his tongue would roughly lather her breast with lethargic and unskilled motions. It overwhelmed the poor girl, brought to the precipice and pushed over by another in a manner that had only been achievable by her own means before. As her chest fluttered in exhaustion, they fell to the covers to recline, taking the time that the universe had bestowed upon them to talk further as their bodies recovered from their expression of primal desire, the night air cold on their forms.”

“And… then what happened?”

“They embraced in the warmth of each other, supping from glasses of clearest water and sparkling wine, before she asked of the man a boon. And ever the gentleman, he accepted.”

“What did she ask for? More of the same?”

“I shall quote that beautiful young lady verbatim. In her songbird voice, weary from her exertions, she asked: ‘Tell me a tale, troubadour.’ And with that simple request, he did.”

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