Tam Lin stood up and his cock slid in to her sopping-wet joy. Janet climaxed again as he entered, his length and girth filling her beyond capacity. Tam Lin hoisted her legs over his shoulders and plunged deep, her ass lifting off the well with each fevered thrust. Again her pleasure mounted, tightening around him, her walls pulsing to his rhythm. Tam Lin pushed deeper and deeper, slower and slower, until his mind was gone and his ravenous cock took over. Together they crested the heights, their dual pleasure a single cry of ecstasy.
He stayed inside but lowered her legs around his waist. “I’ll be fucking you like that for the rest of our lives.”
“Oh my,” said Janet.
The legendary romantic ballad of Tam Lin comes from Scotland. The first known printed version is found in 1549 in The Complaynt of Scotland, a collection of folk legends, bible stories, and political tales published during the time of Mary, Queen of Scots.
DIPLOMATIC NECESSITIES
The landscape shimmers with the intense heat, hill upon hill of desert sands shifting and blurring beneath a cloudless sapphire sky. My caravan, loaded with gifts and goods, plods onward toward Israel, to Jerusalem, and to the wise king whose shrewd letter has bid me to pay him homage. I, Bilqis, Queen of Sheba, ruler of over fifty thousand people, agreed to King Solomon’s summons in hopes of negotiating a trade deal benefiting both our nations.
Above me, the howdah’s awning shades me from the searing sun. Below, the saddle cushions my ride atop the camel’s swaying gait. No queen has ever taken this six-month long and fifteen-hundred-mile journey over such parched and hostile terrain. My camels are loaded down with gold, precious gems, rare wood, myrrh, and the most valuable commodity of all, frankincense. The caravan takes a timeworn trade route, over wadi, dry riverbeds, and following the Red Sea north until we cross the Jordan River.
My serdar assures me we are near. He is an intel
ligent general whose courage, tenacity, and humanity I admire and value.
Duvsha, my servant and treasured friend, rides with me. She knows when I need conversation and when I require silence.
“Do you think King Solomon is as wise as everyone says?” asks Duvsha.
“Perhaps,” I say, although I have my doubts.
“What about the gossip that he controls jinn and makes them sit behind his throne to do his bidding?”
“That I would like to see.” I wonder if King Solomon knows my parentage. “Although I’m more interested in how he built such a powerful and prosperous nation.”
“All this,” says Duvsha, indicating with a sweeping gesture the long line of camels ahead of and behind us. “Because of a hoopoe.”
The bird—tan except for its white-and-black-striped wings and spiky-plumed crown—had flown all the way to Jerusalem just to tell King Solomon about my beauty and wealth. Or so he claimed in his letter. More likely, traveling merchants told King Solomon of my prosperous nation in a far off land.
“One small bird will be responsible for great changes,” I say.
When we enter Jerusalem a few days later, our large caravan causes every inhabitant to leave their mud brick dwellings to watch our procession. They know wealth and power when they see it, and all but the most feeble follow us to the palace. But it’s not the people I study from behind the beaded, tasseled, and gold-threaded drapes of the howdah. My gaze is fixed on the enormous stone structure looming like a mountain over the city. Solomon’s Temple. I am alone today, Duvsha riding with other handmaids, and have no one to share my amazement with.
“Magnificent,” I say aloud, unable to contain my awe.
The palace is huge, its walls made of large axe-cut stones that rise three stories tall and are capped by a flat cedar roof. Slim rows of windows are squared, uniform, and in a logical arrangement. I have never see its like. My Temple of Almaqah, with its thirty-foot bull-andibex frieze, is grand but nothing like this.
I arrive at the palace and steady myself as the much-decorated camel lowers to its knees. I make a final adjustment to my head covering to make sure the long strands of jewels are draped becomingly and cover my face. King Solomon must be the first to see me.
“My queen, are you ready?” my serdar whispers from the other side of the drapery.
“I am.”
Solomon’s welcoming party issues a collective gasp when the drapery parts. I take Duvsha’s outstretched hand and place my foot on the first wide step of the palace. The other handmaids take their positions around me and together we slowly ascend the steps and pass the hordes of dignitaries, inhabitants, and guards flanking our way. The crowd ripples with whispered conjectures, my appearance and magnificent entourage piquing their curiosity. Ordinarily, I would not submit myself to walking amongst a crowd—preferring to be carried in my royal litter by slaves—but not today. A more submissive entrance is required.
The palace’s interior is much grander than the outside. Each wall is cedar-lined, and the vast chambers are adorned with stone statues and friezes depicting all types of beasts, trees, and cherubim.
As we enter a dazzling gold-painted reception hall, my gaze sweeps back and forth beneath the veil. My head never moves—it’s best not to appear too impressed.
King Solomon waits on the other side of a shallow, crystal-blue pond. How odd I must cross over it. Perhaps it is some ritual ablution that must be performed before meeting him.
I study the king. He is a handsome man, tall and robust, with a thick dark beard. His eyes are deep set and glimmer with knowing and pride. His nose is well shaped and strong, and, I suspect, flares when angry.
I lift my long red skirt, displaying my shapely, sugar-waxed calves, and hear one hundred gasps. I’m glad they can’t see my eyes roll. I know the gossip. Some of Solomon’s advisors claim I am a demon with hairy legs and cloven feet. This is a test, and I passed. I step into the glistening pond, surprised to discover it is not water but countless tiny crystals.
I cross this crystal pond alone, leaving my attendants on their knees behind me. At the other side I kneel down, my head to the floor.
“Welcome to Jerusalem. Arise,” says King Solomon with a deep smoky voice that seems to nestle at the base of my neck.
I rise and lift the veil. I am beautiful. This is not vanity or conceit but a fact based on many experiences and opinions. Even before I was queen, men were enamored by my appearance, envious women sneered, and babies cooed. Although beauty is a benefit for a woman, it is a disadvantage for a queen. Beauty is not equated with intelligent leadership, but with carnal desires. Beauty is like a thick mist—it hides a woman’s other traits, good or bad. What a mistake mankind makes when they value beauty over all else.
Today, however, I will use my beauty to my advantage, and have even applied makeup to enhance my features. My amber eyes are lined with black kohl, the lids shimmering purple and dusted with crushed amethyst. My lips are reddened with berries, my brows groomed and shaped to enhance my almond-shaped eyes. Between my brows and to the bridge of my nose hang multiple strands of rubies and other gems.
I look into the eyes of the king and find him staring, agape and transfixed.
“It is a privilege, King Solomon,” I say. “And an honor to be summoned to your palace.”
His mouth opens but no words come out.
I smile then, revealing my straight teeth, polished white with crushed pumice and vinegar. “Your palace is magnificent.”
“I find it pleasing.” Solomon finds his voice. “I’ve prepared a feast in your honor.”
Our eyes meet, the flecks of russet in his dark brown eyes holding me captive. In them I see truth, wisdom, and righteousness. And desire. His gaze drops to my lips, then travels downward as though he could see beneath my mantle and tunic.
I stifle a laugh. We are two powerful, wealthy rulers and yet we act like shy servants. An odd sensation quivers between us like an archer’s bow. Or rather it feels like a sling—the kind shepherds use to launch rocks at their prey—spinning faster and faster, the rock in th
e leather pouch awaiting its explosive release. I look at Solomon and see the man, not the king. He looks at me in the same way. Imperial obligations and artifices dissipate like the first drop of rain in the desert. We are man and woman with desires that smolder beneath our opulent clothes and jeweled crowns.
I am not prepared for this, had not expected he would exude such raw masculinity. The man practically smoldered.
“Once again,” I incline my head. “I am honored by your hospitality.”
Solomon smiles, not the practiced, formal smile of a ruler but a genuine smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes. It’s a wide, endearing grin that warms my heart and heats my loins.
“This way,” Solomon says escorting me through the chambers. “After the meal, you will be shown to your quarters.”
Following a good distance behind, our retinue of dignitaries and attendants are unusually silent. They prefer eavesdropping to idle chatter.
“Your palace is beyond compare,” I whisper, mindful of a hundred curious ears.
“As is your beauty.” Solomon steps so close our mantles brush together. “I must confess, I am already smitten.”
I arch an eyebrow. “So soon? Such swift emotion explains the thousand wives and concubines you keep.”
Solomon winces as though he had stepped on a sharp rock. “Diplomatic necessities. Nothing more.”
“You must have a broader definition of diplomacy than we.”
Solomon laughs, its deep tones like a caress at the back of my neck.
“How does the Queen of Sheba define it?” His side-ways glance contains the perfect blend of humor and respect.
“The art of making people feel respected and valued.” I struggle to stay serious. His charm quite sweeps me away. “Of finding satisfying ways to mend relationships, and establishing amity and partnerships.”
“I achieved all this by acquiring wives and concubines. How do you? Are you married?”
“You know I am not.”
“Does the high priestess of Almaqah foreswear men?”
I have had men. I keep several for my pleasure, each one chosen not only for his muscular physique and untiring persistence but for his inability to sire children. My child, when and if I decide to have one, will be the progeny of a great ruler.
I am not the chaste woman I present to my people— it’s a necessary lie—a diplomatic necessity to appear beyond the desires of the flesh. I look into Solomon’s eyes. What would he think if he knew I have had a man sucking on each tit, one eating my cunt, and one’s cock down my throat at the same time? What would he think if he knew I was often like a bitch in heat, my cunt so aromatic that my men claim they can smell my desires from their chambers? What would he think if he knew I could take two cocks inside me and fuck for hours?
“What do you think?” I answer cagily.
Solomon’s head dips down to my ear. “I think you like to fuck.” He straightens up and sniffs the air. “I smell cunt.”
My eyes widen. It’s true. I’m wet, my mind already wondering what he looks like naked, what his skin tastes like, and how large his cock is. “You’re a very naughty king. Why, the smell could be coming from your own harem.”
“I’ve been called many things—a prophet, a magician, a sinner, an exorcist, a tyrant—but never naughty. Do you like naughty men?”
“Only those willing to negotiate a favorable trade agreement.”
Solomon inclined his head. “Ah, so the Queen of Sheba is a shrewd negotiator as well as a beautiful diplomat.”
“Call me Bilqis,” I say as we enter the vast hall where row upon row of low tables are heaped with food.
There is fish, chickpeas, lamb, almonds, olives, bread, honey-dipped pastries, and herbed labneh.
“My friends call me Sol.” He sits on a tasseled pillow.
“You have friends?”
Solomon laughs again. “As many as you.” He indicates the pillow next to him. The table provides us with the ability to have a private conversation as well as an elevated view of the chambers.
“Friendship is a luxury.” I watch as our retinues take their seats according to their ranks. “I have many trusted advisors and faithful handmaids, yet consider only Duvsha my friend.”
“What is your definition of a friend?”
I press my hand to my heart. “Friendship is felt, not defined.”
“Like love.”
I lift one shoulder and smile coyly.
After my plate is heaped with food and my goblet full of wine, Solomon turns to me, his expression one of respectful curiosity. “Tell me about your parents and how you came to be the Queen of Sheba.”
“My mother’s name was Ismenie. She was a good jinni—”
Although Solomon’s eyebrows lift with surprise, he refrains from commenting. He demonstrates an impressive amount of self-control considering I just admitted to being a daughter of fire and smoke.
“She fell in love with the king’s advisor,” I say. “They had a torrid affair for months. Her beauty and exotic lovemaking caused him to neglect his duties.”
“Exotic lovemaking?”
“It is the way of female jinn.” I pluck an olive from a golden bowl. “Jinn know the secrets to making a man....” I slurp in an olive and smile.
Solomon is spellbound, his eyes focused on my mouth, his quick exhalation audible when I lick my lips.
“A man . . .” he encourages me to continue.
“Experience a pleasure so extraordinary they . . .” I pause again, select another olive.
“They . . .”
“Are taken from this earthly world and into one of exquisite decadence and desperate sensuality.”
Solomon swallows. “And does a half jinni possess the same . . . skill?”
“It is a quality, an essence, part of a jinn’s magic.
Not a learned skill.” I take a sip of wine. “When I was born, my mother decided I should grow up in the desert, away from the evils of court. When I was much older, I learned from a passing caravan that the new king was a wicked greedy man who killed for pleasure and demanded exorbitant taxes. My people were being crushed by his vicious rule.”
Solomon grimaces at such senseless leadership.
“I snuck into the palace one night—”
“How?”
“Like this.” I show him my most seductive smile. “And I slipped into his chamber, disrobing before he had a chance to protest. Perhaps he thought I was a temple prostitute sent as a gift by an advisor.”
“My advisors never send gifts like that,” he grinned. “One look at my naked body was all it took. I stretched out my arms and he came to me without hesitation. After stroking and sucking my breasts, he threw me over his shoulders and flung me onto the bed. I spread my thighs so he could see my readiness.”
Solomon leans on the table, his chin resting on his cupped hand.
“I took wine from the nearby table and spilled it over my body. ‘Drink,’ I said and he lowered his head.”
“Did this evil king marry you? Is this how you became queen?”
“Indeed not. That night he ate at my pleasure gate, my loud moans so exuberant he was lost in pleasure. I held my hand tight against his head, and he did not see me take the dagger at his bedside and plunge it into his back.” I point to the spot on my lower back. “Not the quickest death but my best option at the time.”
Solomon inhales and stares. “Beautiful and deadly.” He pours more wine into my golden goblet. “Then what?”
“I chopped off his head—easy enough with the sword he kept in his room. I took his head, dripping with blood, to the great chambers and proclaimed myself queen.”
Solomon studies my face as though reading a text, facial muscles shifting under his skin in thought. “You’re fearless and violent and sexy and . . .” He leans close. “I don’t remember my cock ever becoming so hard just listening to a woman.”
“I imagine you don’t ever listen to women.” One corner of my mouth curls up.
<
br /> “Just their sighs and moans. But you are...” He exhales and grins. “Unique.” He turns away and claps his hands. “The gifts,” he calls to the crowd.
The gifts I brought King Solomon are carried in. Coffers of gold, precious jewels, and strands of rare gems. Large chests of spices, myrrh, and frankincense. Crates of the finest linen, woven thin as a mist, and vibrant with colors. Boxes filled with pelts from wild beasts. Large sacks of brillianthued plumage from exotic birds.
Solomon is impressed; I see it in his eyes.
“The goods,” he says next.
My bookkeeper steps forward and reads from a lengthy list the quantity of merchandise I have to trade. Of course, Solomon’s own auditors will evaluate and confirm the products over the next few weeks.
“We will discuss a trade agreement,” Solomon says afterward. “There is only one problem.”
“What is that?”
“You have brought things. I have another trade in mind that involves services.” He looks at me from under thick dark brows.
“I will never relinquish my masseuse.” I cross my arms in mock indignation.
Solomon laughs again, its hearty sound penetrating into the nape of my neck, my body delighted by the soothing timbre and depth of his voice. I’ve never found a man’s voice so compelling.
After a public exchanging of riddles—a favorite pastime of his that I had prepared for—and watching a troupe of talented dancers, Solomon shows me to my quarters. It is a grand building not far from his palace with all the necessary appointments and refinements required for a queen with a large retinue.
“You will join me later for light refreshments?” he asks. “We can discuss trade.”
His emphasis on trade does not go unnoticed by Duvsha, who presses her lips to suppress a giggle.
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