Confessions of a Sheba Queen

by Autumn Bardot

  The priests’ chants comforted me as they prepared Momma’s body with sacred oils and aromatics, arranged her limbs in the traditional pose, and wrapped her in cloth and leather. By the time they were done, I was swaying in time to death’s eternal rhythm.

  “Where will your mother be interred?” asked the priest.

  I knew the perfect place.

  I led the priests to the cave where I had hidden from the murderers. I placed several baskets and Momma’s favorite pottery near her body.

  “Are you sure you don’t want your mother interred in the royal cemetery?” asked Duvsha. “Or the mausoleum you are building next to the new temple?”

  I shook my head. “Momma loved these mountains. She loved living in obscurity and peace among the farmers and humble folk. Here, Momma’s sprit is free to race across the sands and sky.”

  After the priests and I prayed, the soldiers sealed the cave with rocks.

  “Your Excellency, are you quite certain you do not want your mother’s name engraved on a stone stela?” asked the high priest. “We brought the necessary tools.”

  “I am certain. Momma craved anonymity.” Besides, if someone discovered the headless jinni was the queen’s mother, they would sell her body and belongings to the highest bidder.

  After the final rock was wedged into place, I walked the steep narrow footpath back to the house. Nasreen padded alongside me, her low rumble giving voice to my ominous emotions.

  Momma deserved to be buried whole, her head with her body and limbs. My insides constricted and twisted each time I imagined Momma wandering the afterlife without a head.

  “Where is it?” I asked Nasreen.

  Nasreen growled her frustration.

  Who had it? And why? What value was a jinni head?

  CHAPTER 34

  “Do away with the harem?” The white-haired minister of culture wrung his claw-like hands. “I don’t understand.”

  “If simple comprehension is your problem, it would be in Saba’s best interest to replace you.” My voice sounded harsher than intended.

  The elder was able to list every king for a thousand years and recite every ancient practice, custom, and legend, but he struggled with new ideas.

  The minister of culture stiffened, his tuft of white ear hair bristling like a threatened house cat. “A harem is an ancient tradition, a home for lesser wives and concubines.”

  “Yes, but keeping women for sex is not. In Egypt, the pharaoh’s harem is an institute for the study of art, culture, and knowledge.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “My Egyptian tutor.”

  The minister of culture balked. “A foreigner,” he spat.

  “My reign has no use for outdated practices that serve no purpose.” I thrust out my arms. “Look at this beautiful large space. Can’t you see it?”

  The minister of culture stared with unseeing eyes at the empty chambers. His withered lips tightened into a disdainful frown. “I see nothing.”

  This statement sealed his fate. He knew it the moment he saw my disappointment.

  “I see art and learning and Saba’s future,” I said.

  His face crumpled with pain, as though he had stepped on a sharp rock.

  “Thank you for your service. Leave your vestments at the door.”

  “What?” The minister of culture clutched at the jeweled blue belt around his waist. “You’re dismissing me?”

  “You dismissed yourself. You cannot see past your own nose.”

  He touched his bulbous nose. “Your Excellency, do not replace ancient traditions with untested ideas. They are ancient for a reason. They serve the state and people best. People rely on them. They know what to expect.”

  “How long have you been the minister of culture?” I asked.

  “Fifty years.” Self-importance oozed from his lips.

  “You are a treasure, your wisdom vast, and so I hope you will consent to serve as a special counselor to the new minister of culture.”

  “Will I have my own chambers?”

  “Of course.” Although it would be much smaller than the one he enjoyed now.

  He tilted his head. “Shall I prepare a list of suitable candidates for you?”

  “I would appreciate that.” Not that I would give his list more than a passing glance.

  The ex-minister of culture departed, and for a brief moment I second-guessed my decision. Tradition was important, but so too was change. Stagnant water became fetid. Rushing water changed a river’s course. Or drowned a person and destroyed a village.

  I looked back at the cavernous space. I imagined it filled with the best weavers, potters, philosophers, painters, engravers, carvers, musicians, dancers, and wordsmiths. Exceptional minds and talents in one place, learning from each other, growing in their art. A river of talent would soon flow through here. It would not destroy tradition, it would nourish and refine our august culture.

  Approaching footsteps nudged me out of my reverie.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Duvsha. “One of the ministers stopped to ask me when you would choose a husband. They are compiling a list of appropriate kings.”

  Another list I had no interest in. “I don’t want a husband. I don’t need a husband.”

  “You need cock.”

  I laughed out loud. “You know me well.” As much as I enjoyed the pleasures of Shani’s cock and cunt, I limited our lovemaking to once a week. She loved me too much, tried too hard to please me. Kepha and I fucked occasionally. He brought his stone phalluses, but they no longer thrilled. I wanted more. But of what I did not know.

  “Have you thought about marrying?” asked Duvsha.

  “I’ve been a bit busy.” I proceeded down the long gallery.

  Duvsha followed behind. “You are content with leaving no legacy? With departing this world without a child to fill your place?”

  I had not thought of it. The tasks of leadership consumed my days. I stopped walking and stared across the green courtyard to my chambers.

  I needed a child, not a husband. And not just any child. I needed a child sired from a great king of a great nation.

  “It would be selfish of me to leave Saba without an heir. Begin making inquiries.” I turned to Duvsha. “But first I want to discuss another matter. I want cock, Duvsha. I need a few well-endowed men to satisfy my daily urges.”

  “Like a harem?”

  “Mmmm, no. More like a select stable of stallions.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Discretion. That’s what Duvsha’s task demanded. I must not have my court knowing the extent of my sexual appetite. I had to appear to be above the influence of the flesh. Excessive lust had always been deemed a failing, a lack of control over the body. I must show no such lack. I was too young. Too inexperienced. Too mindful of losing the people’s love and respect.

  Fortunately, creating my new institute of culture and making frequent visits to the temple construction site kept me occupied.

  It took months, but Duvsha found the first stallion while interviewing him for a position at the institute of culture.

  He was a beautiful Nubian from the land of Kush. He was as dark as the night sky and had a glowing physique that looked as if he were chiseled from polished stone. His hair was shorn short, which emphasized the shape of his high domed skull. His face was a carved masterpiece of perfection, his nose long and straight with proud round nostrils. He wore the clothes of his people, thick gold hoop earrings, bracelets, and a patterned kilt that showed off muscular thighs and delicious calves. I wanted to eat him up. I wanted him to eat me.

  “Your Excellency.” He bowed low, and when he straightened his spine and looked at me, I saw an intensity in his eyes that left me wet with desire. “I am Tamsi.”

  “Do you know why you’re here, Tamsi?” I asked, suppressing the urge to run my fingertips across his chest.

  “No, the royal cupbearer merely told me to repeat my reason for wishing admittance to your institute of culture.”

&
nbsp; “Go on.”

  His face was stoic, but the muscles in Tamsi’s chest rippled. “I am a prince in my kingdom. The firstborn son and heir to my father’s throne. But he would not have me for my grievous defect.”

  “What is that?”

  “I am twenty-five years old and have been fucking women since I was twelve. I begot not a single child. My brother is two years younger and already he has eight sons and three daughters. My father said I was cursed with sterility because, although I am a skilled warrior with bow and arrow, I prefer fighting with words. He tried to disgrace me, claimed I was less of a man. I did not let him destroy me. I left my land and decided to find my place in the world.” His pectorals rippled again. “I am a poet.”

  “Can I hear one of your poems?”

  “My pleasure.” Tamsi fixed his gaze on me, his penetrating eyes stripping me naked, and began to recite:

  “Come down sky,

  Wrap your dewy warmth around me.

  Come up earth;

  fill me with your fragrant musk.

  Unite sky and earth, unfold, unveil,

  And heed the primal cry

  That transports fevered rapture.”

  I sucked air through my teeth and my cunt pulsed. “It’s about having an orgasm.”

  Tamsi nodded, his gaze that of someone who knew exactly why he was summoned to the queen’s chambers.

  “You captured the feeling perfectly.” I could smell my cunt, fragrant with need. Did he smell it too?

  As though Tamsi knew, he inhaled deeply, his pectorals rising and lifting. “A feeling, your Excellency?” He smiled for the first time, an expansive yet solemn grin, the kind carved into marble effigies, the kind gods bestowed. “It is our essence made divine.”

  “Yes,” I whispered, molten with lust.

  “Do I have a place in your institute of culture?” Tamsi stepped forward. “Or a place in your bed?”

  “Both; however, there are rules.” I folded my hands in my lap. “The first; write all that you wish, let your spirit guide you. The second; tell no one about us.”

  Tamsi’s solemn smile flattened. “Your people cannot know that their queen likes to fuck?” He held up his hand. “I understand. You must appear venerable and virtuous. A horny queen is less praiseworthy.”

  “Yes, and sadly it’s something a king never has to worry about.”

  There was an awkward silence. I suddenly felt shy, unsure of how to proceed in this unusual interview. Did he even want me?

  Tamsi supplied the answer. He untied his kilt and let it drop to the floor. “I hope I do not disappoint.”

  His cock was as sculpted as the rest of him, his rigid desire a honed masterpiece jutting forth from a patch of tight coils. “I hope you find me suitable for your needs.”

  My mouth was as wet as my cunt, my tongue eager to taste this Nubian prince and bask in his obsidian splendor. I untied my garnet-encrusted belt and draped it over his length. His cock stiffened, rose higher.

  “My queen, you’re so beautiful you could hang a bag of rocks over my cock and it would not lower my desire for you.”

  I tugged off my tunic, my skin heating under his penetrating concentration. I pulled off my dress, now bare before him but for the jewels at my neck, wrist, and ears. I reached out my hand, took hold of my belt, and slowly slid it off his cock.

  Still sitting on the gilded chair, I made to grab hold of Tamsi’s cock but he sidestepped my touch.

  “Your Excellency, permit me a carnal indulgence.” He took hold of his hard cock. “Sometimes flesh sees what the eyes cannot.” He stepped close and guided his cock to the edge of my shoulder. He traced the smooth tip down the length of my arm, lifting away at my wrist before I grabbed hold. He moved behind the chair, his cock brushing across my shoulder blade and over my neck to cross the other shoulder blade.

  “No touching,” he whispered as his cock serpentined down my other arm.

  I wedged my hands under my thighs, delighted with this game.

  “Not all writing is done with one’s hands.” Tamsi moved to the side, his cock at my eye level. “My cock prefers inscribing desire’s poetry on your skin.”

  He guided his cock to my face, where he traced my cheekbones and whisked past my lips before I had a chance to take a nibble.

  I sighed, my bones melting into abandon. This gentle face massage was anything but soothing. His teasing aroused all my senses from my scalp to my curling toes.

  “What lyrics does your cock write?” I sighed, my head thrown back as his cock zigzagged across my exposed neck.

  “Earth’s flower,

  limbs unfurl like the softest petals,

  her heat blooms into a bouquet of desire,

  dewy blossoms ripe with the nectar of wanting follow my sun;

  for I am her nourishment, her honey-thirsty bee,

  her salty rain, and her breathless air.”

  Pleased with his erotic verse, I smiled, closed my eyes, and opened my mouth, ready to receive him.

  Tamsi teased me, frisked his warm cock across my lips. I opened wider, my tongue like an adder’s seeking him out. There is something, some primal erogenous cord, that links my thrust-out tongue to my cunt. One orifice’s connection to another. Each hungry. Each needing to be filled.

  I opened my legs and felt him move between them, his fingertips dancing across my thighs. I cupped my breasts, lifted them toward him so that he might partake. He did. His light fingers danced over my belly to brush across my eager nipples.

  I gasped, whimpered like a child begging for a treat.

  And then his cock plunged deep down into my throat. My eyes flew open, surprised to receive all of him. Tamsi caressed my breasts, then widened his eyes as I hummed into his cock.

  “Sweet Amun,” he groaned.

  I raked my nails down his throat, humming all the while.

  Tamsi’s legs quivered and tightened against my thighs. His thumb and forefinger rolled my nipples into spears of pleasure that spiked down my body into my wet pussy.

  “My poem was flawed. You are no flower but a tiger, and I your willing prey.” Panting, he pulled his shiny wet cock slowly from my throat. “Your scent, sweet Amun almighty, is heaven’s perfume.” He dropped to his knees, spread me open, and worshipped my cunt. His tongue paid homage to my clit. He sacrificed three fingers to my deep altar.

  My hips lifted off the seat as I held his head between my hands. Again, I found my head thrown back, lost to a surging pleasure. His technique was poetic, a sweet fluttering rhythm that left me gasping and teetering on the edge of release. I begged for mercy but his mouth and fingers continued their torturous tease. My bottom was ripe with want, tingling with desire.

  Tamsi pulled his fingers from my dripping shrine and, with both hands, drew two lines straight to my breasts. His fingers squeezed each taut nipple and pulled hard, while his lips acted like a suction on my clit. In this way he pulled me into a bliss so concentrated my fists pounded his shoulders.

  Tamsi pulled back, his face shiny with nectar, his eyes glossy with lust. He stood, his cock stretching forth, scooped me up, and carried me to the bed.

  “I am yours, your Excellency.” He lifted my legs over my head and sank deep.

  I cupped his balls as he sank deeper. I bucked and writhed, urging him to thrust, but he was still, his eyelids heavy, a languid smile on his face.

  I squeezed my cunt and he sucked air between his teeth.

  “Patience, my queen.”

  His control was impressive; whereas I squirmed for rhythm and movement, his cock remained still.

  My silken walls tightened and released around his girth. Each squeeze nudged me closer. Each pulse carried us higher until we were one breath, one desire, one trembling, moaning ascension to carnal joy.

  We came together, our bodies erupting into each other. Tamsi pulled out, and I threw back my head and opened my mouth. I stared into his eyes as he thrust his cock into the back of my throat and gently squeezed his balls to rele
ase every drop of cum. Then I pulled him out and licked him clean.

  Tamsi swayed a little. “I confess, nothing I write will ever capture such perfect ecstasy. Words cannot convey your raw sensual essence.” He sat down, then lay flat on his back next to me.

  “You must. I command it.” I snuggled against his body, his skin warm and aromatic with the scent of our lust.

  Tamsi began snoring softly, but I was wide-awake and brimming with vigor. I rose from the bed, wrapped a thin shawl around me, and poked my head out the door to the courtyard. “Duvsha.”

  She leapt from the bench, hurried forward, and smiled when she saw Tamsi sprawled on the bed. “Shall we add the first stallion to your stable?”

  “A very fine ride.” I took her hand and together we walked back to the bench. “Any news about Momma?”

  Besides finding brilliant and gifted people to join my institute of culture, I had renewed my pledge to find Momma’s head and her murderers.

  Frustration sank Duvsha’s smile. “None. The guards searched everyone’s chamber and each corner of the palace. If Hasan kept it as a trophy, he did not keep it here.”

  “Any new information about who poisoned me?”

  “Not so much as a whisper.”

  “What about the Old Woman Who Listens?”

  “You mean the Old Woman Who Listens With Her Nose? That’s what everyone is calling her now, since she smelled the poisoned bread.” Duvsha sighed. “Seems her new talent earns her extra silver.”

  That explained her new silver bracelets. “Why is that?”

  “Everyone knows why you keep her. And so husbands and wives pay her not to divulge their trysts to their spouses.”

  But I knew about them. The Old Woman Who Listens came to my chambers weekly to tell me who was fucking whom, who chewed too much khat or drank too much wine, who worshipped regularly, who gambled their money away, and who owed creditors. Quite often it was her nose, not her ears, that provided the best information.

  The next day I opened my throne room to all Sabaeans. I listened to their complaints and accusations against one another. The Woman Who Listens sat beside me.