Losing my arms felt natural, like shuffling off dead skin. I do most things with my mouth anyway. If need to I can open doors. With minor discomfort I could turn a door’s handle with my mouth. The next person who wishes to enter the room may recoil at the damp handle, but I’ve made my entrance and exits in life with regard to no one. Since losing my arms I prefer not to stand. My sisters joke that I’ve spent most of my short life on my knees anyway, so I should find it quite natural. The act of standing requires too much balance, so I recline most of the day. I walk only when necessary. Someone is always near to prepare my opium and light my pipe.
I did not have my arms buried. The idea was too morbid for me to entertain. They were burned by the gardeners of the court, raked into the refuse of the kitchen. The Assistant Sub-Chamberlain, as fussy as all eunuchs, had a burial site prepared the minute he learned I had ceded the unnecessary ligaments, but I saw through his charitable efficiency; to have a portion of myself buried was to further shorten the link between death and myself. He would have pieces of me in storage for whatever spell he may wish to cast in some unfathomable future plot. I refused and when he left sent for the gardeners. As the Emperor’s Catamite I receive no respect, but I am obeyed.
The Emperor, being Emperor, did not even notice I was without arms. My unique supplication before him does not require the use of a single finger. I expected no remark and would have dreaded any utterance other than the concise praise he occasionally expresses as I complete my task. An observation on the part of the Emperor would mean my services no longer held the singular, hypnotic sway which elevated (lowered, my sly sisters would correct) my position in life. His Highness strokes my hair while I work him in my mouth.
My father taught me the thirty-three techniques of pleasure within our discipline when I lost my front teeth. At that youthful age catamites are prized possessions among wealthy merchants and senior monks and I was to be auctioned off the moment I had mastered the appropriate methods of oral pleasure. Thankfully my father recognized talent and I was not sold. After lending me to his favorite brothers, he and my uncles agreed I was indeed gifted. Though I was not a particularly remarkable purveyor of the ancient techniques, when I opened my mouth an uncanny, enchanting sense of surrender issued forth, which, my uncles all commented, made me feel as if I were a necessary appendage to their cocks, a mouth born uniquely to them and them alone. I was a lock that shrunk or expanded to their individual keys. My family recognized the value of such a treasure and allowed my adult teeth to emerge, shortened and rounded, ever so slightly, by a minute amount of filing. Nor was I castrated on my thirteenth birthday. I was not to be made a common eunuch. I was groomed for royal service. At thirteen I was prostituted out at an exorbitant fee. This insured a magnitude of curiosity and a minimum of customers; only the richest would act on their curiosity and I would not be overly used by the time word of my powers reached the Emperor.
The Emperor had recently ascended the throne and was only a few years my senior. The Royal Mother was acting regent. She had rid our empire of her tyrannical husband and though relieved, the world watched wearily as this new monarch matured. We rejoiced as signs of benevolence and wisdom graced his initial rule. Soon I was sent for.
My father brought me from our village to the palace, and for once father rowed us up the Yangtze River himself; he did not want me overtaxed upon my presentation to the Emperor. At night water snakes menaced our boat and would strike futilely at the bow. The monkeys in trees applauded and laughed at our trip. I could smell the city before I saw it: shit and incense. Occasionally father would use his pole to push away a corpse that would bump our skiff like a tender log. I asked him why bodies always floated face down. He said it was because they were embarrassed to be poor and unburied.
I was brought before the Emperor in a simple, private ceremony after one of his sumptuous banquets. Led in by the Chamberlain himself I knelt on a silk pillow embroidered with soft gold, mouth open. I knelt there in complete surrender, much like the entire world the Queen Mother had placed at His Excellency’s feet. The only difference being that, given the chance, I would not bite. With His virginity insured for the arranged marriage some months off, the Royal Catamite was a font of pleasure until His Highness wed and could accrue a harem. I quivered at the thought of the luxury and riches awaiting me if I were so chosen. The Emperor circled me the way a reluctant owner might assay a new horse, wary of being thrown. Eventually he lifted his robes and mounted my face. My jaw went slack, more so than was necessary for my uncles; my Lord was big but his thrusts were without experience but of willful energy. I had never had a youthful man and liked the newness of his musk, fermented from an afternoon on horseback, was of obvious royal vintage; the divine strength barreled in the hard belly pushing against my nose both humbled and excited me. This joy did not show, however. I am a professional. My tongue became his muscle. I knew for his every thrust when to parry, when to suck. He emptied voluptuous milk into my mouth, which I had been coached to spit into the cloth proffered by the Assistant Sub-Chamberlain. This fluid was rushed to the Royal Falconry where it is fed to His Highness’ favored hunting birds, forming a powerful bond between Emperor and Falcon.
It is forbidden to swallow the Royal fluid. It drives Empresses mad, poisons lowly catamites like myself. The Emperor offered me a slight pat on the head. The Chamberlain tugged on the back of my collar and I was removed from the room. The young Emperor had approved; my future was assured.
That night I was not returned to my father’s care. I was given a large suite of rooms near the Emperor’s quarters; my father was paid a huge sum while soldiers fetched my sisters. Thus my father was doubly blessed with a bag of gold while his household was relieved of three burdensome dowries.
Younger than even I, I fear palace life has spoiled my sisters. They quickly learned the court dialect and gossip like witches, tease the Assistant Sub-Chamberlain charged with our care, and generally cause enough mischief among the palace staff to bring unwarranted attention on my choice, most private office. I love them dearly. Little Sister combs my long, dark lifeless hair every night. Big Sister braids. Young Sister holds my mirror for me while Little Sister draws the bath. I bring them all into the hot waters with me and we laugh and chase bubbles among the floating perfumed petals until the black water cools. Our bath is larger than the house in which we were raised. The furniture is luxurious, fine, exact replicas of the Emperor’s drawing room. Should he ever have the desire to take me in my own quarters, everything is as he should find it in his own room. He has never visited me in my own quarters, which is fine—I prefer to go to him. The ritual of crossing the hall readies me; I feel as if I am being pulled by an invisible fishing line tied to my tongue, reeled by his impatient, wagging pole. He never meets my mouth soft. At first I considered this a sign of his youthfulness, but now that he is married, I know it is a sign of appreciation. As the burdens of kingship weigh on him more and more, I, and I alone, can alleviate that weight. He rises when I enter, robe open, cock buoyed on certain ecstasy. Dependant solely upon me.
Historically, among Royal Catamites, only I have performed my services eyes open. This initially caused consternation among the Chamberlain, the Assistant Sub-Chamberlain, and various staff, as no one is to view His Highness in the throes of ecstasy. I was dully warned to keep my eyes closed.
Why are your eyes, then, open? I countered.
We gaze down at the floor at all times, Catamite. Down, that is, toward you.The
Assistant Sub-Chamberlain angrily replied.
The Chamberlain himself, so used to addressing Royalty, never deigned talk to me. This answer did not faze me, nor did I change my habit. Early on I realized that my role fell under the exclusive provenance of the Emperor. I keep my eyes open but unfixed. I offer mirrors, not approbation or appreciation. I am a conduit and nothing more.
So well adapted to his needs, I have become indispensable. The Emperor, in his youthfulness, uses me several times a day, making my sisters a swirl of activity, keeping fresh silk robes ready, steeping green tea always on hand to revive me. I know of the other catamites he purchased, but they wither (for lack of a vine) on their dusty divans. I refuse their company. The Emperor takes me most afternoons and nearly every night. Positions change as well. In the evening he prefers to recline. I cling to him until his seed in its entirety fills my mouth. The Assistant Sub-Chamberlain is no longer required to empty my mouth for me; I spit out his treasure into the golden cloth to pass the Assistant Sub-Chamberlain after my exit. Even in marriage, the young Empress (the Empress!) is dismissed so I can dutifully perform my task. Occasionally he looks into my eyes. I refuse to focus. When he looks into me I do not want him to see fear or love, only his own power. His eyes, though, are often closed. My tongue swabs the head of his cock in lubricating saliva during the initial kiss; on being summoned I cease to swallow, to better provide His Highness with the immediate bath of my willing orifice.
I never take his considerable length entirely into my mouth upon arrival. That action keeps until my Lord is closer to climax. To better give him a sense of completion, that my use has reached conclusion, only then do I take him to the root and his pleasure issues forth.
I enjoy my quarters and have no complaints. Over these many months, however, I secretly began to feel his pleasure should be mine as well. A catamite knows not to pleasure himself while providing service, indeed, not to even experience arousal. Fine, but what of afterwards? I am a servant. But how could I sup for so long only to feel starved? I wanted to keep his pleasure inside me. No longer satisfied with being the lock, I wanted to be the actual treasure chest as well. The opportunity had come once before, had taken me by such surprise I did not know it was to my benefit. One night, before dismissing me, and much to my astonishment, the Emperor used me twice. Before his youth passed or his passions turned toward his growing harem, I would make use of this situation. I did not have to wait long. One night, as I withdrew and deposited his fluid into the golden cloth, the Emperor kept his hand on my braid, playfully coiling it around his strong palm, drawing me back to his rising cock. This was my chance. I slowly lowered my open mouth, using my tongue as a guide I went to the root and he gasped. With newfound precision, I turned my head to engulf his strength and methodically pumped him back to full size. He bucked; my braid now wrapped tightly in his hand, to better control my movement. I felt release mounting within him and was ready.
I swallowed the heat in my mouth. Swallowed? I deliriously coveted.
Task complete, I rose and left the Emperor’s chambers. Spent, he was asleep across his bed before the door closed. I carelessly tossed the gold cloth, full from our previous encounter, toward the Assistant Sub-Chamberlain, who leapt to catch it as if it were a fragile gem that would burst upon hitting the floor. Well, he is a eunuch. What would he know of such matters?
I was not exhausted but elated. The membranous cream in my mouth slid slowly down my throat, luxuriantly downward, lining my stomach with Royal yolk. I felt as if a heavenly blacksmith had lifted me by the heel to dunk me in a warm, frothy potion, giving me a visible coat of milky gold. And the promise of immortality. My sisters offered me a relaxing bath and I refused, choosing, instead, to recline on my favorite divan, alone, savoring the thickness which coated my tongue: I had eaten the rarest delicacy on earth, the wet spark around which the world turns.
Later, relenting to my increasingly concerned sisters, I took my bath. Darkly, I sank up to my chin, worried if the rumors of death and madness were true. I refused to let superstition ruin my coup. That night I slept as if on clouds, elevated on the very breath of powerful dragons!
A few weeks later a slight itch commenced at my shoulders. My arms felt tired. It was easier to call Little Sister to peel my fruit or light my pipe than to do it myself so I wasn’t much concerned. Still, the ever-observant Assistant Sub-Chamberlain summoned the Royal Physician. Without examination, he sent unguents and creams. Young Sister dutifully applied these as Little Sister and Big Sister plied court intrigue from the Royal Physician’s sheepish page. The irritation and lethargy increased, spreading, ever so slightly, to my legs. One evening in the bath my toenails slid off, little brown rafts floating across the bubbles. This time the Royal Physician came. He questioned my activities. He asked if I partook in the Royal fluid. I looked at him with all of the anger I could pretend to muster yet remained silent. The Assistant Sub-Chamberlain stepped forward to volunteer that he had received the appropriate deposit each and every time my use had been required by His Highness. This was done less in my favor and more to assure that his assignment was consistently and correctly completed.
The physician and Assistant Sub-Chamberlain talked amongst themselves. I overheard the Physician whisper that he supposed some amount of Royal fluid would seep into my bile, but not enough to cause concern. They agreed that the Emperor should not be told. It was imperative to the Empire that His Highness was well served. I was to continue my duties until the Royal Physician could further assess my condition.
A week later, due to an unrelated matter, the Royal Physician was beheaded, along with half the court. When word reached us the Assistant Sub-Chamberlain looked at me, I at him, as Little Sister combed my hair, Big Sister patiently waited to braid. That night, in what I assume was a fitful sleep, my arms fell off. I awoke feeling, not panic, but simply, inexplicably, lighter. There was no pain. Standing felt alien, as if I had been spun blindfolded and then told to walk a straight line. I laughed at this novelty and my sisters, rushing in, commenced to cry at the wilted limbs lying at the foot of my tousled bed. I calmed them. I told them that the Emperor had told me to rid myself of my limbs as they were unnecessary to my task. I scolded them. Really, what need have I of hands with three busy sisters to keep after me? Why, if I were good with my hands would I even need you here? Now get busy, Little Sister, prepare my morning meal! Big Sister, I’m cold without my robe!
They shed suspicious tears but eventually their sorrow faded and they happily went about preparing for the day.
I continue serving the Emperor. I am a funnel of consistency. However, of late my knees have begun to itch more and more. And my knees are my fulcrum. Without legs the Emperor might find my appearance too disturbing to keep me. Surely the now slight tail growing from my backside points toward my imminent destruction. I know what has brought about my transformation, and, ultimately, will deliver my end. The Emperor, too, will soon know when my tiny fangs, pulsing with milky gold venom, more fully emerge.
Purchase your copy of Pumpkin Teeth by Tom Cardamone
© 2009 Tom Cardamone
Tom Cardamone is the author of the short story collection, Pumpkin Teeth, as well as the erotic fantasy novel, The Werewolves of Central Park. He has recently edited The Lost Library: Gay Fiction Rediscovered. You can read more about him and his fiction at www.pumpkinteeth.net.
"Royal Catamite" also appears in Wired Hard 4 (Circlet Press)
