Read a story.

You can read?

Don't be offended. You must admit that literacy is a rare skill, even among your people. I'm pleased to hear that you have hidden talents.

Very well, then. I've learned that you know how to read, and I've encouraged you to learn to read the language of Apollia. From time to time, I ask you to read to me at night, to help me clear my head and sleep peacefully.

I withdraw to my bed. It's hexagonal, with slim pillars that run from the floor to the ceiling at all six corners. There are veils suspended from the pillars that I can draw closed to dim the sunlight or to give privacy. I draw a veil aside now and slide into bed, still wearing my white robe. I lie back against the pillows, and point to a chair and small table nearby.

On the table, you see a small book, and a candle. The candle is lit. You sit down and pick up the book, knowing my wishes.

You start to read the story out loud. It's the tale of a handsome prince, and the beautiful assassin who arrives in the night to kill him. When the two see each other, she knows that she cannot kill him, and he knows that he cannot turn her over to his guards. They surrender to their passion, and embrace.

The story goes on to describe, in detail, all of their kisses, and their caresses, and the pleasures they bestow upon one another. You look up at me, but my eyes are closed, and I have not spoken up to say that this is the wrong book or that you should set it aside. I have commanded you to read, and read you must.

You read me the story of the prince and the assassin, reciting in the author's words how her body responds to his desire. I shift in the bed, and when you glance up, you see that I have let my robe fall open. My hand is on my breast, and my fingers are stroking my firm nipple. My eyes are still closed.

I have commanded you to read, and read you must. As you tell me about the assassin's lips on the prince's skin, my other hand moves down my stomach. I draw up one knee, and my hand disappears between my thighs. My lips part, and you hear me take a breath.

I expect that, as you sit and read, you are well aroused by this time. If you stood up, the front of your trousers would prove it. But you cannot rise. You must read, no matter what the heat of your blood tells you to do right now.

You tell me how the assassin moans, and how she cries out, and how she tears at the bed. I listen to you, and I touch myself. My fingers tease and stroke. I lift my chin. I spread my legs wider. I make a little sound, almost a groan.

You finish the last few pages, as the assassin brings the prince past his limit. Perhaps you wish that someone was doing to you just what the assassin was doing to the prince.

You hear me gasp. You look up and see how my chest rises and falls, and how my mouth opens, as if I am close to begging. The insides of my thighs are wet.

My eyes flutter open. You avert your gaze, quickly, not wanting me to see you stare. The book is done, and you're not sure what I want you to do now.