The king has been murdered, and Macbeth will soon wear his crown. The night before, Lord and Lady Macbeth take time to revel in their victory, and possibly create an heir. Their eyes, though, are deviled and deceived by wicked dreams of what has been and what may yet be. (F/M)
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“Tomorrow the crown will be set on your head and you will be the king of Scotland!” his wife went on. She was shivering on the wolf pelt, arms crossed over her bare breasts. “Thou canst sit at the royal table feasting and talking to dead Duncan!”
“Murdered Duncan,” he reminded her slamming closed the shutters. He wandered back to the heat of the fire. He should have been trembling. The courtyard’s cold vapor clung to his skin. But he felt numb instead, armored from all feelings and sensations.
“Aye, murdered.” His wife’s tone had that edge. “Will it please you to remember it? He is dead and buried.”
He hated that edge, the one that questioned his manhood and made him want to strangle her. He’d never told anyone, but sometimes, when he was swinging a sword, he brought that voice to mind. He could mow down opponents like grass when he let it crawl up his spine.
“Or will you use a phantom dagger to cut your meat at supper?” she sneered.
That broke him. He grabbed her by her hair, threatening. She answered that by raising her pert chin in challenge, her avaricious eyes gleaming red in the firelight.
At last! thought Lady Macbeth. This was the way she wanted her husband. With his fingers knotted in her hair, the angles of his face a hard warrior mask. Merciless. This was how she imagined he was on the battlefield, reeking of blood and masculinity. Only when she saw him like this did she feel that they were truly equals, combating the enemy together and vaulting, as one, to the heights of their ambition.
“Now,” she said, coming up onto her knees as if he’d pulled her there and taking his flagging cock in hand. “Now here is a man.”
He had a very red cock, did her husband. Its brave head grew alert as she unsheathed it from its foreskin. Dutifully, it stiffened and she rewarded its courage with a wet, lingering kiss. Her own flavor covered its taut crown; like gray salt mixed with deep lake waters. For a moment she savored that; it was as if she’d marked Macbeth as her own. Then, cat-like, she lapped at his cock, attending to its rough rim, smooth dome, the temptation of that slit already beginning to leak out its sticky excitement. She loved how it pulsed and twitched in her hand, as easily directed as the man, himself.
Her husband’s fingers relaxed and gentled on her hair as she gave his manhood a thorough cleaning. She slicked the velvety underside, causing his breath to quicken. Then she glided down until her cheeks rubbed up against his hairy thighs and her nose buried itself in the crinkling skin of his furry testicles. A groan of desire vibrated through him. His cock, darkening in color, hardened to its full length and, spear-like, came on guard against his muscled belly.
Just like her man, she thought, his cock wanted to be powerful. Wanted to be great. Wanted to thrust and fight. There were times, however, when the man, like his cock, needed encouragement, even to be teased and taunted. That was her task, not just as woman and wife, but as his other self and his soon-to-be Queen.