There lived many years ago, in a distant land, a cruel and powerful tyrant named Zandor the Terrible.
His was a well-earned notoriety, gained by countless wicked actions, among them keeping his people in a state of virtual slavery. He would tax them beyond reason and execute them for the slightest protest. He stole from the countries treasures, while raping and pillaging those neighboring countries unlucky enough to border his own. He was hated and feared by everyone. Especially feared, because it was said that he possessed the magical power of invulnerability.
This was not idle rumor. It was officially recorded by Zandor's court biographer that three times he had been struck by assassin arrows; and twice more wounded by the enemies sword in battle. Yet each time he survived, reappearing to his people after only a few days convalescence, unscathed from wounds that would have killed most men.
It was the magic of the fleece that kept him thus, the ``golden fleece'' as he called it, stealing the phrase from the ancient Greek legends. The most closely guarded secret in the kingdom. Only two other people knew of this fleece: Alzira, his beautiful young wife, and Elle, the Nubian hand-maiden who was Alzira's servant, confident and (it was whispered in court) her lover.
It was Alzira who actually possessed the magic, a mysterious power bestowed upon her
when she was a child. A power that would remain with her for as long as she remained a
virgin. This alone was the reason Zandor married her, keeping her a virtual prisoner in
his own palace, denying her the tender love of a husband and secluding her from all men.
The only time Zandor touched her was when the power of her fleece was needed, and then he
would strip her naked, roughly, and quickly begin the healing process. He would look upon
his wife's young body with mounting lust -- the delicate curves of her breasts, the
slender waist, the soft, pearly skin -- wishing that he could consummate the marriage and
knowing that he never could, for the magic would be gone forever. The magic that lie
between her legs: the shimmering, golden pubis nestled between her tender young thighs,
blessed by a cynical old shaman -- long since dead -- with the power to heal.
Zandor's power led itself to many indiscretions -- the Terrible One was inclined to take freely from those around him, no matter how precious or scared the object was.
One fateful night he came to the modest quarters of Elle, who lived in the palace as did all the royal servants. He came with the sexual hunger of a wolf, lusting for her dark-skinned beauty.
He spoke not a word to her as he entered her quarters, but savagely threw himself upon her naked, sleeping body. Elle, swiftly awakened, fought back fiercely, raking her fingers down his cheeks, drawing blood.
Zandor laughed, her fury serving only to ignite his burning lust more than he would have thought possible. He raped her brutally, savoring the immense power he felt from lancing this strong, long-legged black woman; growing drunk on the sensual pleasure he stole from her. During the course of the night he raped her again, and yet a third time, taming her as one would tame a wild horse.
Not once that night did Zandor think that his actions would be the catalyst for his
downfall.
Wagstaff, the tall, powerfully built Captain of the Guard, was Elle's secret lover. When he learned the next day what Zandor had done, he flew into a rage.
``If he were not invulnerable, I would kill him with my bare hands!'' he shouted, stalking his chambers as Elle told him what had transpired. She had never told anyone the secret of the King's `invulnerability'; now she decided it was time.
``Zandor is not invulnerable,'' she whispered, then, breathlessly, she told him the story of Alzira's golden fleece.
Wagstaff shook his head in amazement when she was finished. ``How do you know this is true? And why did you not tell me sooner?''
Elle hesitated. Should she risk losing this wonderful lover, a man that satisfied her desires as no other had, by telling him the true nature of her relationship with Alzira? Deciding that the greater sin would be to lie, she told him everything. She told of Alzira's budding, yet unrequited sexuality. Of the natural longings forbidden her by Zandor. Of her subsequent need for a lover and the fascination she always had for the tawny, silken flesh of her hand-maiden. She told him finally of the endless nights of love between the two women, the Sapphic pleasure they enjoyed.
``You should have told me of this before,'' said Wagstaff.
``You're a man,''she replied, staring into his blue eyes. ``Could I hope for even you to understand this special love? To not feel disgust? Inadequacy?''
Wagstaff leaned suddenly forward and passionately kissed her thick, cinnamon lips. Gripping her hands with his own, he brought them to his crotch. To his swelling prick. ``Feel my disgust,'' he whispered, licking her neck.
The blood pounded in Elle's veins. Together, they fell onto the bed, tearing like animals at their clothes. They fucked wildly, Wagstaff kneeling between her legs, lifting her by the hips to meet his spearing cock. Elle felt like a child in his hands, felt like her entire body was opening, becoming a soft, velvet channel for his steely rod. He lifted her, higher and higher still, his strong arms pounding her body into his cock. She began to cry, then laugh, her head thrashing from side to side, the fire in her cunt spreading through her belly, into her limbs, into the tips of her clawing fingers. They came together, Wagstaff roaring as he seeded her womb; Elle screaming in silence, her body taking on a life of its own, tearing itself away from her control, from any semblance of modesty. Tumbling and thrashing into the volcanic world of pure, exquisite release.
Later, as they held each other, they plotted their revenge.
Alzira knew that she shouldn't have allowed the tall (and yes, undeniably handsome) palace guard to enter her bed-chamber, but she felt obligated to her hand-maid, Elle, who obviously had more than a passing interest in the man. Beside's that, she couldn't just leave him stand there, bleeding onto the floor.
Thus, Alzira let him enter and soon found herself in the uncomfortable position of sitting on her own bed next to the wounded guard, who was stretched out on the sheets. And worse, listening to Elle, beautiful Elle, her lover -- begging her to use her magic power on the man!
Had Alzira known that a carefully punctured sack of goat's blood lay hidden in Wagstaff's crotch (for indeed, it was the intrepid Captain of the Guard lying upon the bed) she undoubtly would have thrown him out. Instead, she looked dubiously at the wound and asked, ``How did this happen?''
Elle commenced a wild tale of attempted assassination, and the heroic intervention on Zandor's behalf by Wagstaff. ``The poor Captain,'' said Elle, ``he took the arrow meant for your husband, the King.''
``My goodness,'' exclaimed Alzira. ``What should I do?''
``The King gave me strict instructions.''
Wagstaff moaned from the bed. Elle pointed at him.
``As a reward for this man's bravery, the King said you were to take care of him as you would your husband.''
Alzira frowned, her round face the very picture of innocence mixed with doubt. ``Where is Zandor now?''
``Seeing to the execution of the would-be assassin.''
``I suppose my husband was aware of the, um, exact locale of this courageous man's injury?''
``He was.''
Alzira sighed. ``So be it.''
As short in stature as she was fair of skin, Alzira hopped nimbly astride the good captain and began to raise her bedclothes. As she did, Elle swiftly lowered Wagstaff's breeches -- a feat in itself since the warrior, seeing the magical golden fleece slowly revealed before his eyes, was burdened with an erection worthy of a stallion -- and hid the empty sack of goat's blood under the bed.
Because most of the red liquid had been absorbed by his clothes, very little could be detected on his pulsating shaft. ``It looks fine to me,'' whispered Alzira, gently touching it with the tips of her fingers, in awe of its size. ``But, truthfully, I have little experience in such matters.''
``Yes, kind Lady. But I, Elle, have much. If you do not act soon this man will be a man no longer.''
Alzira bit her lower lip. Raising her slender legs, she straddled the Captain, her golden fringed cunt enveloping the entire length of his hardened member. She could feel the heat emanating from it and shuddered to think of the consequences if, by a slip of fate, his throbbing lance entered her. Slowly, carefully, she began to administer treatment, sliding herself back and forth atop his shaft. An immediate change came over her, as sudden as lightening in the summer sky. A change most apparent in the pink, now wet, folds of her virgin cunt.
``I must stop!'' she cried. ``If I continue I will do something forbidden . . . I will lose my power!''
But even as she spoke her body, not to mention Wagstaff, betrayed her: the lips of her wondrously moist channel opened willingly, and by directing his prick with one hand and suddenly thrusting upwards, Wagstaff buried himself deep within her.
``Oh! Oh!'' she gasped, frozen momentarily between equal halves of pain and pleasure, her long protected maidenhead finally torn asunder. Her body wanting to escape, yet not wanting to.
Elle moved onto the bed. She embraced Alzira, playfully nibbling on her ear. Her long, expert fingers cupping and kneading the young girl's breasts. She whispered lewdly in her ear -- ``Fuck, Alzira . . . slide your wet quim up and down his manly spear . . . feel him explode inside you!''
Alzira, having finally overcome all fear and inhibition, did what her hand-maid
suggested, and more. In an instant, all the sexual desire denied to her for years was
released. She rode the good Captain like a hurricane until he spent, deep in her belly,
triggering her own thrashing, crying orgasm. Her body, as taut as the reins of a chariot,
suddenly released itself, and she drifted down from the pinnacle of sexual ecstasy, like a
fallen rose in the wake of a storm.
``What have you done!''
Zandor the Terrible burst into his bedroom, trembling with rage. His black eyes jumped from Elle, to the Captain, to his no longer innocent wife. ``I'll kill you!'' he cried out. ``Kill all of you!''
``You'll kill no one,'' hissed Elle. ``Your secret has been exposed and your claim to invulnerability is no longer viable. If you so much as raise a finger, all the people of the kingdom shall know! All the rulers of the lands surrounding you, all your countless enemies shall know!''
Zandor felt mortal fear for the first time in his long reign as tyrant. He knew in his heart that the woman before him, this Nubian servant, issued no idle threat. Worse still, he knew that the power of the fleece had been irrevocably lost. ``Please tell no one,'' he suddenly begged, his voice like a child's.'' I would be killed in an instant . . .''
``And with good reason!'' shouted Wagstaff, looming naked above his cowed Ruler.
``Death would be too good for this swine,'' declared Elle. ``You may still play ruler, Zandor, but by our rules. You will call your armies back from War! Return the treasures you've stolen! And put an immediate end to all senseless taxation and persecution!''
``Yes, yes,'' agreed Zandor, now on his knees. ``Only please, tell no one of my secret.''
Alzira, quite bored with all the talk of politics, suddenly pulled Wagstaff back onto her bed, nimble young fingers coaxing his dangling cock into life. ``Can't all this talk wait?''
Elle laughed, joyously, as Zandor stared in frustration. Then she leered at him, much the same as he had looked at her the night she was raped, and produced, from Wagstaff's uniform, a riding whip. ``Disrobe,'' she commanded the whimpering tyrant.
According to F.J. Matozzo: I've been ransacking my past for some bio material, but there's nothing much there except that I've been writing for several years and have, through laziness, lack of talent, inspiration, and time, established myself as one of the most obscure semi-amateurs in the country. Currently working on a book (why doesn't that surprise anyone?).
For more stories by F.J. Matozzo, click here.
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