No More Stories

The door to the chambers clicked shut. The lock tumbled. The sound was loud in the quiet room.

The king stood by the bed.

-You followed, he said, without turning around.

-A story has no purpose without a listener.

-The stories are over.

He turned. He looked at her. He stripped away the persona of the indulgent monarch. He was just a man. A hungry one.

-I told you I don't want to break you. Like the Vizier.

-You are not him.

-No. I am worse. I am greedy. I want more than secrets.

He walked toward her. He stopped a foot away.

-I am finished with the appetizers.

Scheherazade looked at him. Her breath hitched.

-Appetizers?

-The stories. The riddles. The hand-holding. They were the first course.

He pointed to the floor.

-Kneel.

She hesitated. Just for a second. A final calculation. Then she sank down. The silk pooled around her knees.

She looked up at him. Her neck was bared. It was an offering.

-What does the king desire?

He reached for his belt. The leather creaked.

-I want the main course.

-I am yours to consume.

-Good.

He stepped closer. He looked down at her.

-Open your mouth.

She parted her lips. She did not look away.

-Wide.

She obeyed.

-Tonight, you do not speak. Tonight, you serve.

He dropped his hand to her head. He tangled his fingers in her hair. He pulled gently. Her head tipped back.

-The time for words is done.