The Empress' New Clothes Read online

  Chapter 1

  Sand City on Planet Tryston, Trek Mi Q’an Galaxy,

  Seventh Dimension, 6023 Y.Y. (Yessat Years)

  Zor Q’an Tal, High King of Tryston, Emperor of Trek Mi Q’an galaxy, Guardian of the Sacred Sands, and the most feared man in six hundred galaxies and seven dimensions, popped a cheesy doodle into his mouth. He munched thoughtfully for a moment as the cheesy concoction turned into a paste-like substance before slithering down his royal throat. ‘Twas nigh unto disgusting, he quickly decided.

  Frowning at the Chief Priestess, he telekinetically summoned a bejeweled flask of matpow from the royal high table to wash the hellish paste down with. The Chief Priestess watched His Majesty grasp the flat bottle out of the air and drink from it, the muscles in his throat working in time with his swallows. As he drank, two naked Kefa slave girls massaged his massive shoulders from behind.

  The Chief Priestess’s lips curled wryly. Were she but a few hundred years younger, she would be flat on her backside, begging the High King to her take her here and now, audience or no. She grinned at her own musings. By the goddess, the future High Queen was a lucky wench indeed! But then what female humanoid wouldn’t desire the privilege of being mounted by a warrior such as The Excellent One every day and night?

  Hair as black as the darkest swamp night on Tryston’s tenth moon.

  Eyes as blue as translucent gista stones.

  Skin as golden brown as the valuable vesha rawhide.

  Seven-feet-four inches and three-hundred-seventy pounds of thick, powerful muscle.

  Yes, the future High Queen of Tryston and Empress of Trek Mi Q’an was fortunate above all others.

  The High King finished drinking from the flask, then motioned for the bottle to take its place back at the raised table. That accomplished, a third naked slave girl wiped the remaining droplets of matpow from his mouth.

  Zor turned to the Chief Priestess. His voice was deep and rich, rumbled and dark. “What else have you brought me from this primitive, first dimension world?” He looked behind her to make certain she was alone. “You mentioned my betrothed, yet do I not see my future High Queen at your side.”

  The Chief Priestess nodded. “You know as well as I that although my visions almost always come to pass, there have been the unfortunate few times where I have been wrong, sire.”

  He grimaced, remembering that one fatal time all too well. He drew Muta, the slave girl that had just dried his face of the matpow, to his side. Kneading her blue buttocks with his large hand, he motioned toward the Chief Priestess with his other. “And your point?”

  “You must go amongst the first dimension primitives to collect her yourself, if she is indeed your Sacred Mate. Only a Trystonni warrior can perform the necessary tests to surmise if a woman is his by the law.”

  He nodded. “That is true, Holy One. And do you deem this trip to the first dimension worthy of your High King’s time?”

  The Chief Priestess met the gaze of The Excellent One. “I do.”

  Zor nodded, satisfied. He turned to his brother Dak, the King of Ti Q’won—Tryston’s fifth moon—to command him. “You will accompany me on my quest, brother.”

  Dak inclined his head. He turned to his first man and bade him to prepare the gastrolight cruiser for their departure. That accomplished, Dak scratched his head as he turned on his heel to face Zor. “I best bring Kita with me. My friend gets a mite put out when I go questing about without him.”

  Zor sighed. He would endure the pugmuff’s presence during their journey for his brother’s sake, gaseous creature or no. Besides, they would be gone no more than six moon-risings. The pugmuff’s gas passing could set his eyes to stinging only so much within six days time. “So be it.”

  Zor turned his face toward Muta’s chest and suckled on the plump blue nipple she offered him. The naked slave girl ran her fingers through the master’s thick black hair. He pulled her onto his lap, his shaft fiercely erect.

  The eager pugmuff drew Zor’s attention away from his lusty intentions. Kita jumped up and down gleefully, snorting his excitement of being included in the quest out of his uppermost arse.

  Zor buried his face in Muta’s breasts to ease the vile stench that rose up as a result of Kita’s overly zealous snorting. He glanced toward his brother and grunted. “You will allow the pugmuff nothing with beans in it whilst we are on our quest.”

  Dak nodded, his own eyes stinging. “Aye, brother. No beans a’tall.”

  Zor slapped Muta playfully on the buttocks. She was the favorite amongst his playthings. “Wait for me in your chamber. I will attend to you before I leave.”

  Muta rose from the High King’s lap to do his bidding. The remaining two Kefa slave girls followed on Muta’s heels, in case the master was feeling especially lusty this moon-rising.

  Zor turned to the Chief Priestess. “I thank you, Holy One. You may leave the Palace of the Dunes and retire to your dwelling.”

  The Chief Priestess inclined her head. “I shall return to greet the High Queen, Your Majesty. Until then, I bid peace and prosperity unto you.”

  “And I unto you as well.”

  She vanished at those parting words, fading into the mist the same as she had come.

  Zor stood up and clapped his brother on the back. “Be ready within three hours time. We depart as soon as the cruiser has been stocked and refueled.”

  Grinning, Dak raised his eyebrows. “I look forward to questing with you, brother.” He cast a meaningful glance toward Muta’s bedchamber door. “And ‘tis high time you settled down.”

  Zor grunted. Whether from agreement or disagreement none could say. He inclined his head to Dak and Kita, then made his way down the hall. His footsteps were as loud and commanding as the rest of him was.

  Upon arriving at his destination, Zor telekinetically summoned open the chamber doors with a faint flick of his wrist. He stilled, his staff growing agonizingly hard at the sight that greeted him.

  Three Kefa girls. One of blue. One of green. One of red.

  All lying on Muta’s bed.

  All with their legs spread wide apart.

  All ready for his thrusts.

  The corners of Zor’s lips curled wryly. ‘Twas good to be High King.

  Chapter 2

  Kyra Summers took a soothing sip of the herbal tea, then serenely passed the cup along to her best friend Geris Jackson. Geris accepted the cup placidly, took a calming sip, then sedately passed it along to the next person in the meditation circle.

  Once the cup had made the full round, the extremely tranquil leader of The Smiling Faces and Peaceful Hearts Meditation Retreat, Mrs. Blissful—she actually went by that name—smiled at the group. She reminded Kyra of a Stepford wife. “Is everyone feeling soothed?” Mrs. Blissful asked melodiously. “Are our faces smiling? Do we have peaceful hearts today?”

  Geris frowned. She shot an icy glance over toward Kyra and gave her an “I’m-really-gonna-kill-you-for-this” look. Kyra absently noted that nothing about Geris’s frown looked serene. She could only hope that Mrs. Blissful didn’t catch her best friend’s slip. Otherwise she’d probably make them do some sort of weird extra credit project. Like move into Mister Rogers Neighborhood indefinitely.

  Mrs. Blissful closed her eyes and breathed in through her nostrils and out of her mouth. She raised a balmy hand into the air and let it meander back and forth in a gentle swaying motion. “Let us breeeeathe. Let us find the peeeeeace.”

  The paying retreaters followed the instructor’s lead, albeit a bit skeptically. They closed their eyes, breathed, and tried like hell to find the peace.

  Kyra’s group consisted of she and Geris, plus four others. Next to Geris sat Fred, the fifty-year-old CEO extraordinair
e whose physician ordered him to The Smiling Faces and Peaceful Hearts Meditation Retreat after his last triple-bypass. Mrs. Blissful had denied him the use of his portable fax and cell phone, but Fred had already been caught breaking her rules a time or two under the guise of “making sure they still worked”. So far Fred hadn’t found the peace.

  Next to Fred sat Prue, a forty-three-year-old homemaker and mother of five who had a slight nervous breakdown after her eldest son disclosed his homosexual orientation to her last fall. Trying her best to be a supportive mother to her son and his new husband, she came here to find the peace. Since it was typical to see Prue crying at any given time you happened to glance in her direction, she probably hadn’t found it yet either.

  Next to Prue sat Lord Jameson, a thirty-year-old English aristocrat. No one knew precisely what in the hell was wrong with him, but if his relentless scowling and infinitely puckered lips didn’t give his secret away, then the negligent bags under his eyes certainly told his story—he needed to find the peace.

  In between Jameson and Mrs. Blissful sat Arthur, a monk. Who would have thought there was anything in a monk’s life that could be stressful enough to send him packing to this place? But, well, there he was. A monk who needed to find the peace. If Brother Arthur’s nervous twitches and incoherent mumbling were any indication, he too was yet to find it.

  Peace, it seemed, was an elusive thing.

  Kyra breathed in through her nostrils and out of her mouth as she listened to Mrs. Blissful’s breezy voice chime out tranquil instructions. This was her and Geris’s third day straight at the camp and so far she was no more serene than she’d been when she’d first arrived.

  Perhaps this retreat she’d talked Geris into attending with her hadn’t been one of her more lucid notions. It had seemed like a good idea when the EAP at work had first given her the pamphlet filled with information on the camp. It had seemed the perfect way to leave the stress of the past year in the city behind her as she found her peace in the Catskill Mountains for a week. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  Ah well, no matter. She and Geris were here now. Might as well make the most of it.

  Kyra closed her eyes and breathed, trying desperately to find the peace. She felt like a drowning woman going down in the currents, grabbing in desperation onto a passing twig for help, praying it would hold her afloat.

  It occurred to Kyra that finding the peace was stressful business.

  * * * * *

  “I still can’t believe I’m wasting an entire week of hard earned vacation time at this godforsaken place.” Geris scowled at Kyra from over her plate of salad greens and—oh boy!—vinegar dressing.

  Kyra looked up from her own helping of rabbit food long enough to frown. “Why must you put down all of my ideas? It’s highly annoying.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.” Geris waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I was only teasing.” She leaned in closer to the table and caught her best friend’s gaze. “You do remember what teasing is, right? You know, that thing we did before you turned into the Morticia Adams sitting before me today?”

  Kyra winced. She didn’t care to think on how appropriate that nickname was at the moment. She set her fork down on the tabletop with a sigh, then closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “I’m sorry Ger. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. I feel like I’m losing it.”

  Geris reached across the table and grasped Kyra’s hand. “Baby, you’ve got to move on,” she told her quietly. “It’s been a year.”

  Kyra opened her eyes. She bit on her bottom lip and nodded. God did she ever need to move on. Her younger sister Kara had been missing for a year as of yesterday. And it didn’t look like she would be coming back—ever. “It’s just so hard to accept, Ger. I mean, Disney World of all places! Who the hell falls off of the Pirates of Penzance ride never to be heard from again?” She groaned. “Shit like that just does not happen.”

  Geris squeezed her hand. “I’m here for ya, honey. Just like always.”

  Kyra blew out a breath, blowing a wine red curl out of her line of vision in the process. She squeezed Geris’s hand back. “I know, Ger. I know.” She sat up straighter in her chair and expelled a humorless laugh. “God I’m terrible! You’ve all but put your life on hold to care for me this past year and I thank you by criticizing every word that comes out of your mouth.” She shook her head. “How do you put up with me?”

  Geris grinned. “It ain’t easy.” Her smile faltered as she squeezed Kyra’s hand again. “But I am sorry. You know, about putting this place down. I won’t ever—”

  “No!” Kyra insisted, shaking her head vigorously in the negative. “Things need to get back to the way they were. I need some sense of normalcy again.”

  And truly, having Geris watch every word she uttered around her was not normal. They had been best friends since early childhood and because of that fact, they had always shared an easy camaraderie that some friendships, no matter how close, couldn’t claim. Most of the time they knew what the other one was thinking before they even spoke.

  Geris nodded. Nothing else had to be said on that issue. “So,” she asked, effectively changing the subject, “is this fun-filled, not to mention appetizing”—she looked to her plate and frowned—“excursion to Green Acres helping you at all?”

  “Not really.”

  She looked up from her salad. “Oh? Why not?”

  Kyra shrugged her shoulders. “The breathing is boring. I find that instead of relaxing me, it only gives me time to think about all of my problems.”

  “So think about other things.”

  “Like?”

  Geris chuckled. “You know how we have to breathe during the massage exercise?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I breathe deeply all right. And the whole time I’m breathing I pretend I’m getting rubbed down by Denzel Washington and Mel Gibson instead of those two ole bitties who massage us.”

  Kyra lifted an eyebrow. “Both of them, eh?”

  Geris grinned. “That’s right. Just one won’t work. There’s something about the Washington-Gibson combo that can make a woman breeeeeathe. Girl, in those moments I have found the peace!”

  Kyra laughed. A musical sound to Geris’s ears. “Oh Ger, you’re so bad.” Her eyes shuttered as she nibbled on her lip. “But I think I’ll try it next time. Do any other combos work or only the Washington-Gibson one?”

  Geris shook her head. “Only Mel and Denzel, baby. I call it the Mel-zel technique.”

  Kyra grinned. “Then the Mel-zel technique it is!”

  “Good.” Geris chuckled.

  Two days later, Kyra admitted to her best friend that her Mel-zel technique had worked wonders. Oddly enough, Geris been correct on that other score as well—the technique was no good in any other combination. Only Mel and Denzel worked. Mel had to massage her left side and Denzel her right. It was an amazing discovery! Not to mention a rather, well, weird one.

  Fresh from the massage room, and therefore still sporting their white spa robes, Kyra and Geris helped themselves to two china cups filled with herbal tea and found a table to sip from them at. They were joined by Prue, the housewife with the gay son, and Jameson, the forever scowling English lord.

  Geris glanced over to Jameson and quirked an elegant eyebrow. “Jamie, baby, you look almost chipper this morning.”

  Kyra looked away before she laughed. The English nobleman was forever frowning. How Geris could tell his one mood from the next was beyond her. But she could. And it was obvious that Jameson didn’t mind at all. In point of fact, he probably welcomed it, as it had become glaringly obvious to one and all that the married aristocrat had developed a minor crush on her best friend.

  But then who could blame him. Geris Jackson was exquisitely beautiful. She was long and sleek and sported flawless mahogany skin. Just as Kyra imagined that the Egyptian Queen Nefertiti had probably looked in her heyday.

  Geris’s jet black
hair hung down to the center of her back in micro-braids, surrounding the face of a woman who could give a super model a run for her money. Light brown almond-shaped eyes. Full red lips. The woman was exquisite.

  But out of all of her attributes, it wasn’t her face that Ger cared about. She took pride in her hair instead. She hadn’t cut it once in her entire life and swore she never would.

  Kyra had never cut her curly wine-colored tresses either. Long hair and above-average height was the only thing she and Geris shared in common from a physical standpoint. In every other way, their looks ran along opposite ends of the spectrum.

  Where Geris was dark skinned, Kyra sported the pale, creamy complexion that all women in her family possessed. Thankfully, her ivory coloring went well with the wine red hair and silver-blue eyes that were the stock and trade of the females of the Summers clan.

  Their shapes were different too. Where Geris was perfectly, fashionably toned with her pert C-cup and regally sculpted body, Kyra was fuller and more lush of hip and breasts.

  They were two women, two best friends, who society labeled “beautiful”. Different, but beautiful. And the miracle of miracles to all outsiders was the fact that neither woman felt it or really even believed it. But that was ever the way of American women. The grass is always greener in someone else’s pasture, and the mirror always casts a better reflection in someone else’s bathroom.

  Kyra brought her humor under control and turned back around to face Jameson and Geris. She inclined her head to the British gent solemnly. “Indeed Jameson, you look as though you are finally finding your peace.”

  Jameson scowled—nothing out of the ordinary there. “All this bloody nonsense about finding one’s peace has been a waste of precious pounds.” His scowl deepened. “I declare, I feel no more at peace than I did when first I arrived.”

  Geris clucked her tongue. “Jamie, you need to relax, baby. You need to breeeeathe. You need to find the peeeeeace.”

  Kyra would have laughed, but Prue picked that particular moment to burst into a bout of tears. She pulled a hankie from out of the pocket of her robe and swiped at her eyes. “I’m so sorry. But I think Jameson is right. I can’t find the peace either. And I’ve only got two days left to find it!” She burst into tears again.