After being twice spurned by his noble and esteemed father the Monarch, Dane Barbados Sr., your humble narrator strode dejectedly through the streets of his city, drenched in her cold rain, the jeweled drops cutting swaths through the caked coal, dust on his cheeks.
One of his fine country's purveyor of all things carnal had the unmitigated gall to accuse young Dane Barbados Jr. of crying. As if the perfectly honed and constructed physique of I, Dane Barbados Jr., is or ever has been capable of or constructed for tears. Tears are for women and the weak surely naught for the likes of such as I.
In an explosion of rage, raining blows and steaming streams of the urine of justice this filth-monger was but a broken and sobbing heap of shattered bones and heaping, hairy, masses of great, sodding, man-tits.
Dane Barbados Jr. had exhausted his last bit of energy commiting that act of unsavory, but massively satisfying, fisticuffs. My eyes closed and was embraced by a darkness as black as any of the coal pits that I had slaved in. In that darkness I knew nothing.
I was awoken by the sweet smell of sizzling griddle-cakes and frying sausages. I tried to open my eyes and found it a hard task, wracked by exhaustion as I was, and decided that that particular fight wasn't worth it and returned to slumber.
Some indeterminate time later I felt a soft, cool, hand upon my brow and opened my eyes to behold the most beautiful of sights. She was beautiful, nearly as beautiful as myself. Her long, jet-black hair cascaded back from her forehead in soft, silken, waves. The smile on her full, red, lips were mirrored in her pale green eyes. Eyes that radiated a depth of kindness and warmth the likes of which Dane Barbados Jr. had never seen in his life.
She was sponging the coal-dust from the chisled muscles of my body, moving with a touch that was not sensual but careful and healing. Beside her lay a platter of steaming, homemade, food. I began salivating at the sight of it.
Sensing my ravenous hunger she fed me.
For a year this angel nursed and provided for Your Humble. I learned that she was a low-level seamstress in the employ of a dressmaker. She spent her pittance upon feeding, clothing and providing for a stranger whom she had never met in her life. A radient, handsome and Godlike stranger but a stranger nontheless. With her sacrifice and efforts I had risen from the depths of the mines, dirty and stinking to the well-fed, well-clothed, image of perfection that Dane Barbados Jr. was accustomed to. Looking at me just then one could see all of the things that are good in the world encapsulated in naught but my stately image.
All throughout this year I had attempted to find my way to the wet, warm, cleft betwixt her downy thighs only to have her say "no, not now" time and time again. Dane Barbados Jr. was not upset by this and he surely was not about to give up. No, he asked and asked, keeping the thought upon her mind.
On the very anniversary of when she first found me on that street she arrived home and prepared another of her sumptuous meals. She ran me a warm bath despite the fact that her so-soft hands were nearly raw from working a needle and thread all day. When I emerged into the bedchamber to dry off I found her laying atop her hand-stitched coverlet wearing naught a stitch of clothing. One hand was upon her perfect breast, the other was betwixt her perfect thighs. This angel had offered me her care, her home, her food, her wages, and finally she was offering me her love and body. She had sacrificed everything that she had for me. I was moved.
The morning after I had taken her maidenhood and satisfied her every carnal need I turned to face her, brushed a lock of long, black, hair from her forehead and kissed her lightly.
I then emptied her purse and home of all valuables so that I may adorn myself in finery and purchase a livery ride back to the palace. I never saw her again.
Waiting at the palace gates was the Monarch himself. His first action was to deliver a kidney puch of divine accuracy and pain. His second act was to embrace me, his only heir and son. He told me that he was proud of me, that I had finally learned that which I did not formerly understand. That toiling in menial labor is not a job, it is not employment, it is not the way that we were meant to spend our lives. No, for us, enchanting a woman, abusing her feelings, taking advantage of her kindness and leaving her broken and wanting more was our job. It was not a pretty job, it was not a kind job, but it was a job that needed to be done.
I never knew that Angel's name and I never found out what became of her, though suicide seems likely, but I'm sure that the brightest time in her gray, little, life was that year that she spent with Dane Barbados Jr.
Wherever she is I'm sure she thanks me.
Don't worry angel, Dane Barbados Jr. remembers you...in short portions...between cavorting with zaftig goddesses and sipping Belvedere.
...You're welcome.
