The Persian Girl

by Felix Baron

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Felix Baron

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The auction catalogue read: Lot # 217. A tin trunk, circa 1860, containing a number of esoteric volumes, many with curious woodcuts, all in poor condition,

  The trunk holds the secret diaries of Sir Richard Francis Burton, soldier, spy, explorer, linguist, diplomat, master of disguise, the greatest swordsman of all time, hero, scoundrel, and rake. During the period of his life recounted in The Persian Girl, he carouses his way from London to the Himalayas.

  From the depraved ‘governess,’ Abigail, and her debauched young wards, to the quartet of nymphs he encountered in a Turkish Palace, to the Hindu odalisque, and the Ethiopian Amazon who took him prisoner, to his exotic traveling companions, Burton’s journey leads him to his greatest challenge of all – schooling a dozen lusty young wenches in the more arcane arts of the bed chamber.

  After that, saving the British Empire from a perfidious Russian plot is easy.

  About the Author

  Felix Baron lives in Canada with the Black Lace author Madeline Moore. He has written many memorable and fast selling fantasy-erotic novels as Morgana Baron, and literary erotic fiction for Eros. This is his sixth title for Nexus, after the acclaimed Dominant.

  Also by Felix Baron

  DOMINANT

  SWEET AS SIN

  THE PERSIAN

  GIRL

  Felix Baron

  THE PERSIAN GIRL

  Abigail said, ‘The girl must be disciplined. As the aggrieved party, you shall be the witness to it, Sir.’ She turned on Hope. ‘Assume the position, you naughty girl!’

  Hope bent over the little pull-down table. Abigail threw the chit’s skirts and petticoats up over her head and pulled her drawers down to her ankles.

  I blinked at a ripe, rounded and neatly divided little bottom.

  The ‘governess’ swished a schoolmaster’s cane, the kind with a curled handle. ‘A dozen, do you think, Reverend?’

  I made a noise in my throat.

  ‘Quite right, she deserves twice that for her clumsiness.’ Abigail pushed her sleeves up to her elbows and swung with a will.

  Hope emitted muffled shrieks, shook her legs and wriggled her bum as Abigail’s weapon drew line after fiery line across the pink firmness of her charming target. I, of course, reacted. By the time Abigail had counted to twenty, my staff had risen and was projecting before me, well beyond my shirt-tails.

  Abigail grinned at my wagging stalk. ‘Perhaps,’ she suggested, ‘if Hope were to assuage the need I see you suffer from, Reverend, you might be moved to forgive her transgression?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Her maidenhead must be preserved against her nuptials, but …’ She took me in hand and directed my cock’s head into the burning cleft in Hope’s bottom.

  Foreword

  Sir Richard Francis Burton; as edited by Felix Baron

  The catalogue read: Lot#217. A tin trunk, circa 1860, containing a number of esoteric volumes, many with curious woodcuts, all in poor condition.

  To me, ‘esoteric volumes, with curious woodcuts’ means only one thing – ancient erotica. ‘In poor condition’ was a fair warning but we collectors can’t help but dream of discovering a lost Cleland or something naughty that Mark Twain hadn’t dared to publish. I instructed my agent to bid up to £200 pounds. He secured it for £165.

  The first thing I saw when I opened the trunk was a mummified baby mouse. From the look of the poor creature’s bed, the trunk had been immersed at some time and it wasn’t waterproof. The copy of de Sade’s Justine, ou Les Malheurs de la Vertu might have been worth something – it was a second edition – but water had welded the pages into a solid lump.

  Adeline Greaves’ Flogging, a Treatise, had fared better. It was legible, if one wanted to read a book in which the first twenty-eight pages are devoted to the preparation of the brine in which one plans to soak one’s birch twigs.

  I’d unpacked eleven more texts in various stages of disintegration before I came to a large parcel wrapped in butcher’s paper, tied with twine and sealed with red sealing wax. Someone had taken the trouble to protect the contents, which raised my hopes of a ‘find’.

  Opening it disappointed me, at first. It contained manuscript pages, stained and tattered and in an illiterate hand. I was about to dismiss it as yet another amateur attempt at the novelist’s craft, when a line on the title page leapt out at me.

  Dictated in his declining years by Sir Richard Francis Burton, to Brigit Makepeace, his felatrice and amanuensis.

  It made sense, in a way. Burton’s wife, Isabel, was a true Victorian – prudish outside but perverse within. She was reputed to have privately condoned the sexual exploits of the translator of The Arabian Nights and The Kama Sutra, even to the extent of enthusiastically participating in his debauchery. In public, she presented herself as prim and proper. She edited many of Burton’s works, deleting the more shocking passages. When he died, she destroyed all of his unpublished manuscripts.

  Isabel might well have indulged an ageing Burton with the services of an orally adept whore. He might equally well have taken advantage of that privilege to produce and protect manuscripts he knew would burn if Isabel found them.

  I have no provenance for this work. It doesn’t bear his signature. Nevertheless, I have pieced together torn pages, examined stained ones by ultraviolet and simply made educated guesses where passages were missing. I’ve corrected and modernised Brigit Makepeace’s colloquial and phonetic language. I accept that, where Burton spoke of events at which he wasn’t present, he relied on reports that he considered accurate.

  Here, then, is my best restoration of Sir Richard Francis Burton’s recounting of The Persian Girl.

  Post Scriptum: In these chapters, Burton mentions his prowess with a sabre from time to time. He does not exaggerate his skill. Modern fencing experts have ranked him as the best swordsman of all time, with Cyrano de Bergerac coming in second.

  One

  MY WIFE, ISABEL, is publicly a prude, privately a wanton. On my previous birthday she had woken me by taking my left testicle into the wet warmth of her mouth. That delightful reveille had been followed by an extensive and intrusive tongue-bath that lasted a full two hours and climaxed with my spending copiously into the navel that indents my wife’s soft white belly. So it was that I lay abed on that nineteenth day of March, pleasantly anticipating another cleverly devised erotic treat.

  Maude, Isabel’s personal maid, threw the drapes apart and announced
, ‘Madam says to tell you your bath is ready and breakfast will be served in the morning room in half an hour, Sir.’

  I cracked an eye enough to squint at the girl’s silhouette. It was somehow different that morning; less restrained. Maude is a saucy little snip who enjoys a much more intimate relationship with her mistress than society condones. I don’t object. Isabel is lascivious by nature, else I’d never have married her. If, when I was away on my Country’s business, my wife assuaged her passions by taking a servant’s face between her thighs, I’d rather it be Maude who ‘tipped her velvet’ than that Isabel rutted with one of our footmen.

  Isabel and Maude ride a common hobby-horse. Maude is pleasantly contoured but she aspires to the unnatural shape that current fashion decrees is most feminine – the wasp waist. Isabel encourages her in this. Most days, Maude goes tightly cinched about her middle, corseted down to seventeen abnormal inches. On the anniversary of my natal day, unless I was mistaken, she was relaxed to her natural shape, perhaps twenty-two inches around her waist.

  As I bathed and shaved and trimmed my moustache, I wondered how and if this unlacing was to play a part in whatever sensual delights my wife had planned for me. I dressed in a fresh sleeping suit; a newly fashionable garb, akin to the Eastern pyjamas, that was rapidly replacing the nightshirt. I toed into Moorish slippers and belted on a Chinese-style dressing robe. How cosmopolitan society had become! I’d not yet broken my fast and yet I was already arrayed in garments inspired by three different cultures.

  Isabel was waiting in the morning room with a brocade robe over her own gauzy sleeping suit. Her lips had been touched with colour and she was perfumed, something blending lavender with vanilla. A wicked grin twitched her lips. My cock stirred in anticipation.

  She greeted me with, ‘Happy birthday, Richard!’

  My gift from her lay across the breakfast table. I made myself inspect and admire the ornate scabbard before unsheathing a prime example of the sword maker’s craft. The sabre’s blade had been forged from the finest Sheffield steel. Its full length was inlaid with silver filigree and engraved. On one side, The Lord’s Prayer had been etched and on the other, an invocation to Allah, in Arabic script. The heft and balance were perfect.

  ‘Isabel! It’s magnificent! I can hardly wait to try it.’ I folded my dear wife to my bosom.

  She murmured, ‘In sport, not in earnest, I pray.’

  As I hugged her, I felt her long fingers slide beneath my robe and explore my turgid length through the silk of my pantaloons. ‘Does the scabbard please you, my husband?’

  ‘I shall have to sheath my weapon to test its fit,’ I responded.

  ‘And so you shall, to the hilt, later.’

  Breakfast was served by Maude, a departure from our custom, further proof that she and Isabel had been scheming. I was regaled with coddled eggs, devilled kidneys and two heaped servings of kedgeree. Replete, I pushed back from the table.

  ‘After that feast, I think a nap is in order,’ I announced. ‘You’ll join me, Isabel?’

  ‘Richard, if it isn’t an imposition, young Maude has need of your expertise in Eastern medicine.’

  ‘She’s sick?’ I looked at the girl, who appeared remarkably well and, for some reason, was removing the pinafore that had protected her Jacquard blouse and bombazine skirt while she’d served us.

  Isabel grinned. ‘It’s a strange malady that has defeated the finest minds of Harley Street. She – we – hope that your experience in arcane medical practices might provide some clue as to its treatment.’

  I suppressed a chuckle and put on a playful frown. ‘Poor girl. Tell me, Maude, what are the symptoms of your unfortunate condition?’

  Maude bobbed a little curtsey. Fighting to keep a straight face, she told me, ‘An ache, Sir, a real bad throbbing ache and a fever.’

  ‘And where on your person are you afflicted?’

  She looked at the floor. ‘I’m ’shamed to say, Sir.’

  Isabel interrupted with a brusque, ‘It’s her pudenda, Richard.’

  Maude mumbled, ‘Yes, Sir, my cunny, as I calls it, me being but a simple girl.’

  ‘He’ll have to examine the affected area,’ Isabel said.

  I nodded gravely. ‘No diagnosis is possible without a detailed inspection of the afflicted parts.’

  In a mockery of modesty, Maude stepped closer, hands folded before the junction of her thighs, swaying her hips. I looked at her ankle-length black skirt and raised an eyebrow at Isabel.

  ‘Silly girl! You’ll have to remove your skirt,’ my wife told Maude.

  ‘Yes, Madam.’ She unhooked the loop at her waist and let her skirt fall. Maude was wearing no chemise, just her drawers. A lady’s drawers are made in two parts, joined at the waist with an opening from front to back, to facilitate natural functions. I could easily have parted hers to make my inspection but I signalled with a finger and said, ‘And your undergarment, Maude.’

  Her drawers fell. Maude’s cap was modestly set upon her curls. Her upper body was demurely concealed by a high-necked, leg-o’-mutton-sleeved starched blouse. From her waist down, she was nude except for the silk hose that were gartered just above her knees. The contrast of innocence with salaciousness was delicious.

  Maude’s belly was a sweet curve, deeply dimpled by her navel. Her mound was alabaster, with but a token wisp of down. Its slit was neat and tight.

  I wet a fingertip and drew it down the crease of Maude’s groin, from the point of her hip to within an inch of her pudenda. The girl shivered at my touch. A muscle in her belly twitched.

  I repeated the caress, down her other groin’s crease. Maude moaned and made tight little fists.

  ‘Part your thighs,’ I told her.

  ‘Can you tell what ails the girl?’ Isabel asked.

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’ My finger traced the line of Maude’s slit with as light a touch as I was capable of. With each slow teasing caress, the girl became more agitated. Presently, her lower lips parted a fraction. The ball of my finger became slick with her dew. When I applied the slightest pressure, she parted and I was stroking the sensitive inner edges of her outer labia.

  Maude groaned.

  ‘She’ll die of anticipation, Richard,’ Isabel complained. ‘For God’s sake, stick it in!’

  I thrust, just one finger. Inside, the girl was dripping with the liquor of her lust. My finger slid through clinging sponginess that did, indeed, seem uncommon warm.

  ‘Is she fevered?’ Isabel asked.

  ‘She’s hot, but I’m not sure that it’s an unnatural heat,’ I told her. Slyly, I added, ‘Perhaps if I had some means of making a comparison?’

  Isabel grinned wickedly. ‘The sacrifices I make for my servants,’ she sighed. Her robe was already unfastened – something she’d doubtless taken care of while my attentions had been elsewhere. She threw it aside, revealing the fine gauze of her pyjamas. The trousers of her sleeping suit fastened with a drawstring and were open at the front. My dear wife tugged the slit wide to expose her own mons veneris. She came close and thrust her hips at me. ‘There. Make your comparison, Richard.’

  I assumed a thoughtful expression and wormed a finger into Isabel’s female parts. Frowning in concentration, I explored both of the lovelies’ cunnies, rotating, rubbing, delving deeply.

  ‘Well?’ Isabel asked, with a slight hitch in her voice.

  ‘Truth be told, I do believe that you are both fevered. Could it be that the complaint is contagious and has passed from one of you to the other? Isabel, can you recall any occasions when your private parts came into close contact with those of your maid, Maude?’

  Maude coughed. Isabel was unable to suppress a giggle. ‘I believe that there might have been such an occasion,’ she confessed.

  My fingers worked a little harder, with a little more urgency, inspired by the lewd images my wife’s admission conjured up. ‘And we enjoyed connubial congress not two nights past,’ I mused. ‘I also could be afflicted. If this is the sickness I bel
ieve it to be, in the male it leads to a priapic state.’

  ‘Please, Sir, what’s that?’ Maude asked.

  ‘A stiff cock,’ my wife explained. Her use of such language betrayed her. Isabel, in the drawing room, blushes at the slightest innuendo. When aroused, though, her language becomes that of the gutter. She gives the lie to the cockney expression, ‘She’s such a lady she won’t say “cock” even if her mouth’s full of it.’

  ‘Is it, Sir?’ the cheeky maid asked. ‘Is it stiff?’

  ‘We shall see for ourselves,’ Isabel announced. She flipped my robe open, exposing my engorged condition, for it had escaped my pyjamas and stood, jutting from my loins like a lance couchant.

  Maude gasped, ‘It’s a rare big one, Madam.’

  ‘The questions were, is it hard and is it hot?’ Isabel touched me with the backs of her fingers. ‘It feels fevered to me,’ she said. ‘What do you think, Maude?’

  The maid wrapped my shaft in her cool fist. ‘I believe you’re right, Madam.’ She squirmed a little as she spoke, for I had introduced a second finger into her cunny and was testing that narrow channel for elasticity.

  Isabel, being more mature, was already accommodating three of my fingers without showing any outward sign. ‘Richard,’ she said, ‘you must prescribe for yourself. What may we do to alleviate your condition?’

  ‘It must run its course,’ I explained, ‘but the symptoms may be treated by cooling the affected area.’

  ‘Cold compresses?’ she asked.

  ‘It would not be wise for me to pause in my treatment of you and your maid while they were fetched, so perhaps you could improvise some way of dampening my distended part without leaving my side?’

  ‘Maude,’ Isabel said, ‘spit on your Master’s member.’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’ She leaned over and spat.

  ‘I doubt that will suffice,’ Isabel said. ‘More like this.’ She, in turn, leaned over my lap. Her mouth worked. Spittle appeared at her lips and drooled down in a long string, which she aimed precisely into the eye of my cock. ‘Does that help, dearest?’ she asked me.