Micro Monday
You Would Die to Join This Club
And so would everyone else…
Their sculpted bodies glistened, some with sweat, some with oil, some with water droplets leftover after their shower.
The Queen valued personal choice. She did not dictate how a man should present himself, only that he looked and acted his best when in the waiting room.
And they waited. Luxury surrounded them: the most comfortable sofas that any of them had ever seen, carpets that snuggled their bare feet, the finest mirrors with which to inspect and admire themselves, and the most extravagant food and drink money could buy.
None of the consumables were touched. A critical point in time such as this had no tolerance for indulgence. A gram of extra sugar or fat could tip the scale. Six-percent body fat and the golden ratio must be maintained.
Every man strutted without a top. It was not a rule, but rare were the men who have devised a method to flaunt their physique better clothed rather than unclothed.
With the exception of the bottom half. But even this exception featured few variations. No one here skipped leg day. These thighs were meant to be exhibited. The only difference was the length of their shorts. Every pair was above knee-level. A few wore only thongs, but this was an extreme that did not serve all, not even the ones who chose it. Most wore shorts that stopped at mid-thigh.
Many discussed the myriad ways they would worship the Queen.
“I’m going to eat her out for at least twenty minutes.”
“Only twenty minutes?”
“Variety is the spice of life.”
“I’m going to be a tiger and demand that she drop to her knees and fill up her mouth.”
“I can top that. I’m going to turn her around, bend her over, and show her the Adonis that I am.”
“I’m going to stretch her legs to their limit.”
“I’m going to run my lips and tongue over every square centimeter.”
Silence fell when the gate eased open. All eyes turned that way.
Anticipation and tension saturated the room.
A light shone on a single candidate. The chosen one.
Tension eased. Disappointment abounded. But their faces hid it well. Any outward disagreement was frowned upon.
The chosen one restrained from demonstrating his elation. Doing so would have seemed uncouth. He strode through the open gate, making little eye contact with his brethren, and prepared to meet the Queen.
When his gaze found her, he knew perfection. The calculus of nature had settled on her and decided to move nowhere.
His shorts, stopping at mid-thigh, grew tight. She wore nothing. She needed nothing. He was the only man alive to witness such beauty.
There was a bed in the chamber. There was also a chair. There was also a table. There were silk swings. The carpet here made the one in the waiting room feel like sandpaper.
They perused all the furniture. Her body bent in ways he had not thought possible. He struggled to keep up. This, he had also not thought possible. Her scent penetrated every fiber of his body. Her hands on him, his hands on her seemed a celestial storm. Her moans, though infrequent, dived to the depths of his soul.
He wanted more. He wanted all.
His breathing grew ragged. Speed and pressure increased. The effort of constraint reddened his face. Had she climaxed? In reverie, he was unable to detect the signs.
Her lips fluttered to his ear. Her whisper was gospel. “I grant you release.”
The chosen one grunted fiercely and felt himself explode.
Moments later, she unsheathed a machete and lopped off his head.
Dash Ip probably would’ve gone with the water droplets.
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