The Persian Girl

by Felix Baron

  Benim sat up and frowned. ‘Is this true, Ayhan?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘This is a very serious matter.’ Echoing parents since Adam and Eve, Benim added, ‘There are starving children in China who would crawl naked through thorns for a single mouthful of delicious nourishing couscous. You must learn to like couscous, Ayhan. Perhaps if it is forbidden to you …? My sentence is that you be denied the sweet taste of couscous for a full month. No stealing it from other children’s dishes! Do you promise?’

  Ayhan nodded eagerly and was led away grinning.

  The next case was of a pot-washer who was accused of slovenly work. Benim demoted the man from washing the ‘above the salt’ pots to scouring those in which servants’ food had been prepared. The miscreant backed out weeping as he salaamed.

  And so the morning passed. Benim passed judgment on those who had committed petty crimes and adjudicated minor disputes. At midday, slaves brought platters laden with vine-wrapped packages of steaming herbed rice and shredded lamb – the Turkish equivalent of sandwiches.

  Selin moved closer and dared rest a hennaed palm on the silk that covered my thigh. I stroked the nape of her neck with the backs of my fingers. She arched and sighed.

  With the informal meal done, the concubines, odalisques and servants started to leave, except for Selin and Benim’s personal attendants.

  I asked Benim, ‘Is your court done?’

  ‘By no means, Richard. In the morning, I try petty crimes. Now is the time for me to consider the fates of more serious offenders. My justice is sure and swift, my friend. It is better not witnessed by those of tender sensibilities.’ He paused. ‘Richard, I told you that I needed your advice. I have but two serious cases to judge, today. I want you to help me decide the second offender’s punishment, if you would.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, puzzled, for my friend was much more versed in the infliction of corporal discipline than I.

  Benim clapped. His Major Domo led in a woman of about twenty, with swaying pear-shaped breasts and lean haunches. Her wrists and ankles were tethered by silken ropes so I judged her rank to be that of concubine. An odalisque would have been in chains.

  The charge was read – that she, Onur, had stolen two golden bangles from a chest in the seraglio. I shuddered. The prescribed penalty for theft is to lose a hand. For a girl like this, that would amount to a death sentence. Her beauty marred, she’d be cast out and would be forced to turn to prostitution to feed herself. A one-handed whore would have to sell herself cheaply and indiscriminately. One might last as little as a year, or perhaps as long as five, but certainly no longer.

  She pleaded guilty. I braced myself, expecting an executioner to draw a scimitar. It came as a considerable relief when I heard Benim pronounce, ‘Twenty strokes with the cane.’

  Selin’s fingers dug into my leg. She licked her lips. Her body moved with languorous grace as she rearranged the way she was kneeling so that one hard heel dug into the softness of her sex. I scooped a blob of cream from the fig dish and smeared it on Selin’s right nipple. Looking into my eyes, she raised her breast in her fist, craned her neck down, and sucked at her own teat so hard that it was drawn deeply into her mouth.

  The Major Domo led his prisoner, Onur, to the raised saddle and heaved her up on to it, on to her lower belly. As the Major secured the poor woman’s wrists and ankles to rings set in the post, Benim left his divan and went to make a selection from the rack of instruments. So, my salacious friend meted out his own sentences, and doubtless enjoyed doing so. Perhaps that was the real reason the crafty beggar’d ‘cleared the court’. With the less debauched members of his household out of the way, the afternoon session looked likely to turn into an orgy. I gazed down at the sumptuousness of Selin’s dusky breasts, one indented by her own teeth, and their strawberry-shaped, chocolate-coloured nipples. She caught my eye and husked, ‘Hum ho gaye aap ke’, – Hindi for ‘I am yours’.

  Benim slashed at the air with a five-foot length of thin rattan. I pulled Selin to me by her hair, so that my erection pressed against the back of her neck. She rocked her head from side to side.

  Onur’s bottom was uppermost. Her body was stretched taut, immobile. Benim brought his cane down across the fleshiest part of her cheeks. My fingers found Selin’s nipple and rolled it, testing its resilience.

  The rattan cracked again.

  Selin wriggled, moving up towards my head but turning her face towards my feet so that I had to reach under her arm to continue toying with her rigid peak. When her cheek squirmed on my abdomen the reason for her movement became apparent. It put her mouth not more than an inch from where silk strained over my staff’s bulbous head. Each breath she exhaled was a humid caress.

  Onur whimpered. Her bottom had blossomed bright pink, with livid stripes. Selin lapped at my dome through the silk. I realised that I’d been seeping and she now had the savour of my essence on her thick tongue. She must have approved of the flavour because I felt her teeth grip my dome, gently, and her tongue slither over it. When I reached down to touch the corner of her mouth, she was drooling.

  Without putting his rattan aside, Benim fondled the burning skin of Onur’s slender bottom. His caresses became rougher, more forceful, until he was crushing handfuls of her inflamed flesh between his fingers. The woman writhed and sobbed but he was merciless. At last, his fist released her and he delivered the final two strokes of her prescribed punishment.

  I realised that watching Benim’s cruelty had tightened my fingers on Selin’s nipple. I was squeezing it almost flat. She hadn’t protested. Her lips were still mumbling on my silk-covered cock’s head, pumping it in and out of her mouth with hard little sucks.

  Benim stood back as his Major Domo released Onur and helped her limp away.

  The next miscreant sauntered in unescorted and stark naked, hips swaying, belly undulating, licking her lips salaciously. She was just a girl but the look on her face was as old as Lilith, the first seductress. She strode up to Benim, her Lord and Master, the man who controlled her destiny, he who could inundate her with riches or with torments at his whim, stuck her tongue out at him and ‘blew him a raspberry’.

  Benim looked at me, shrugging. ‘You see, my friend? What am I to do with her? In the bedchamber, she begs me to do things to her that any of my wives would weep to contemplate. I call her “python” but not because of her shape. She has the tongue and throat of a snake, if you understand me.’

  I nodded. The girl, his ‘python’, preened.

  ‘She is my favourite,’ Benim continued, ‘when she’s in my bed. Out of it …’ He threw up both arms in despair. ‘… she’s impossible.’

  Without being commanded, the girl took two quick strides and launched herself like a prima ballerina to land face down on the saddle. She stretched down to grasp the rings. Her toes pointed as she spread her legs wide. In Persian, she announced, ‘I’m ready!’

  Benim appealed to me. ‘I’ve used the strap, the cane, the taws and the birch, Richard. I wouldn’t wish to spoil her beauty but she’s taken fifty hard strokes with an English riding crop and had to sleep on her stomach for two full weeks after, and still she doesn’t learn. Is she untameable? Richard, if you know of some punishment I might impose that would humble this minx without damaging her, tell me of it, I beg you.’

  The girl on the saddle wriggled her bottom at Benim, as if impatient for her chastisement to begin.

  I suppressed a chuckle. The girl’s nature was obvious to me, but then I wasn’t enamoured of her, as Benim seemed to be. Lust can blind the cleverest men. With some reluctance, I lifted Selin’s face from my lap and descended the steps to join Benim. Drawing him aside, I whispered, ‘Friend, do you remember that fag, Arnold-something, at prep school? The one who was always so clumsy and always getting beaten for it?’

  Benim nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘We decided, later, that he actually liked to get slippered on his fat little bum, right?’

  ‘So?’ I prompted.


  His eyebrows lifted. ‘You mean?’

  ‘The girl vexes you deliberately, to provoke punishment. Pain excites her, as does attention. Bound and naked, having her bottom whipped in front of a dozen people – she’s in her idea of paradise.’

  ‘Then how do I discipline a girl who dotes on pain and humiliation?’

  ‘Simple. Deny them to her.’

  ‘Deny her?’

  ‘She’s been disrespectful. For her punishment, condemn her to wear a burqa at all times. Deny her your couch and command her to spend four hours a day standing, facing into a corner, totally ignored.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Ten days?’

  ‘That would be a great sacrifice for me, Richard. She knows tricks …’

  ‘Be strong, Benim. Think of the passionate reunion, once her sentence has been served.’

  ‘But what if she disobeys? What if she throws off her burqa?’

  ‘Any infraction should result in a extension of her sentence. If, however, she accepts her lot, meekly and with due diligence, you should reward her.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘A trinket, perhaps, or a pair of silk stockings from Paris, but mainly, with a public beating. For her, the cane is a reward, so use it as one. If she is good, she gets beaten. If she is bad, she is denied all that she craves; pain, being allowed to display herself in public, and the delights of your bed.’

  I left my friend to explain her punishment to his favourite. My wisdom, I felt, had earned me a reward, and Selin awaited, writhing with impatience. No sooner had I stretched my length on the divan than she rose with voluptuous elegance and bestrode my shins. I doubt any other woman of Benim’s court would have been so bold but once a ‘simmering woman’ is aroused, she knows no caution. Her eyes burned my shaft through the silk of my pantaloons. The look on her face proclaimed her determination. Selin would not be denied, not that I intended to thwart her. Her trembling fingers loosened my sash. An inch at a time, she drew my pantaloons lower, until the purple head of my weapon was exposed, then she snatched the silk down to my thighs as if the sight of my dome had made her desperate to view its shaft.

  Her eyes lifted to meet mine, beseeching. I nodded. Reverently, she raised my rigid column in both hands and planted a delicate kiss on the eye of its head. Without lifting her head, she pressed, using my hard knob to force her own lips apart. Her mouth widened but never relaxed its warm wet pressure. Her strong tongue pressed upwards, squeezing me against the roof of her mouth. Arching her back over my loins, Selin pushed down, forcing my cock deeper and deeper until its helmet butted the back of her throat. Not content, she reared up, as if about to perform a head-stand, and thrust down hard. I felt her throat close on my cock’s head. She made a little gargling noise that mutated into a deep purr. The warm liquor of her mouth drooled and trickled down over my scrotum.

  For once, I was at a loss. I certainly didn’t want her to choke on my bulb but neither did I wish to reject her astounding performance. For want of another reaction, I stroked her hair and made approving sounds. That seemed to content her. She raised her head and gave me a triumphant grin. When I smiled back, she inspected my cock and, seeming satisfied that it was as engorged as it was likely to get, in one swift move lifted her feet up to bracket my hips, raised herself and squatted down until my weapon’s head was but an inch from her spread thighs’ juncture.

  Selin’s dense black bush was gashed by livid pink. A deeper pink nubbin, the size and shape of an acorn, protruded from where her lips met. She cocked her head at me, questioningly. I nodded. Her mouth widened in glee as she lowered herself far enough to engulf my dome between flaccid lips, then simply dropped.

  Suddenly, I was deep inside her. She’d made no pretence of her passage being too narrow to accommodate my girth. She was a woman, not a girl. Nevertheless, I felt clinging walls of what felt like molten silk close upon me. Inside, she seethed and pulsated. Selin’s hips churned, then ground down, then undulated at me. After a few thrusts, she leaned far to her left, folding her vagina, or trying to. My shaft kept it straight but the sensations were exquisite.

  She bent right, and gyrated. She leaned back and raised herself so that just half of my shaft still impaled her and its head was pressed hard against the spongy mass behind her pubic bone. In Egypt, I had learned to please a woman by massaging her there. Selin was taking care of her own pleasure in such a manner as to also delight me. I reached down and inserted my thumb, ball up, between us. Selin swivelled and pressed. My thumb crushed her pink acorn while my dome rubbed against the sensitive area deep inside her. Selin began to pant. Her insides milked at me. I sensed that her petite mort was close and wondered what I might do to hasten her release.

  As if reading my mind, Selin took my free wrist and lifted my hands to the swaying mass of one lovely breast. ‘Pinch!’ she demanded.

  I compressed her rubbery nipple, palpitating it in an accelerating rhythm. With each squeeze, Selin sucked a breath. By instinct, my fingers crushed, unrelenting, inexorable. Her head stretched back. There was a pulse in the side of her neck. She swallowed hard. Tendons stood out along the length of her throat. I felt, rather than heard, a deep grunt forming low in her belly. As the growl erupted, her insides convulsed. Nectar scalded my cock.

  Selin toppled forward on to my chest and lay there, inert.

  Several long minutes later, during which I’d amused myself by listening to the squeals and giggles that came from Benim’s divan, I felt Selin stir. Her cunny gave my cock an exploratory little squeeze and discovered it was still as stiff as ever. She pushed up on to her hands and gave me a quizzical look. Coming to a decision, she swung her leg from over me to dismount, turned her back to me and swung her other leg over me. Once more, she impaled herself, this time leaning forward and grasping my ankles. As she worked, the glorious globes of her buttocks parted. Selin’s anus, I saw, was a tiny pierced cone. The way it opened and closed with her gyrations, I knew it was no more virginal than her cunny. I wet a finger and worked it into the tight sleeve of her rectum.

  The lascivious odalisque laughed aloud, let forth a ‘whoop’, and redoubled her efforts. I felt a warm rush of affection for her. I appreciate the unbridled sexuality of a ‘simmering woman’. I dote on women who are fierce in their love-making. Best of all, though, is a woman who, although consumed by urgent desire, can take joy in its expression.

  I’ve been told that the natives of the Arctic call the act of love, ‘laughing’ with a woman. I find that description an apt one, if the coupling is done right.

  Selin and I ‘laughed’ until the moon was high so I slept most of the next day, conserving myself for more sport, but it wasn’t making love that occupied my time that night.

  Eight

  ASAL – ‘HONEY’ IN English – asked her uncle’s widow, ‘Will it be terrible, Auntie?’

  Mahbanov nodded and slapped a handful of cold lotion on to her niece’s warm smooth belly.

  ‘In what way – terrible?’

  Mahbanov’s fingers spread the creamy preparation in widening circles. ‘I’ve told you,’ she teased.

  ‘Tell me again!’

  ‘Your innocence, what there is left of it, will be violated in ways that even your evil little mind can’t imagine.’ She looked at the expression on her niece’s face and added, ‘Or perhaps you can.’ Almost reciting, for she was repeating what Honey’d demanded she retell a hundred times before, she said, ‘You are to be the thirteenth, the last and least in the wolf-pack. As the newest bitch, you will be powerless. Any dog-wolf or bitch-wolf who wants you will take you, by your leave or not. You will do for any of them as they demand, no matter how degrading or painful it might be. In the pack, you will be less than a slave. You will have no rights. They will be cruel and you will thank them for it. The least of them may abuse and debase you, with absolute impunity.’ Mahbanov, who was massaging the lotion into Honey’s mons, slapped that shapely mound for emphasis. ‘They won’t damage you permanently, of
course, but short of that …’

  ‘They’re going to rape me,’ Honey said, savouring the words.

  ‘Hardly. You can’t be raped when you are eager for the coupling, but don’t forget, a wolf-bitch won’t allow herself to be mounted until she’s been mastered. You must struggle until you feel his teeth on your throat or nape.’

  ‘But they will abuse me, debase me, debauch me, won’t they?’

  ‘To your vile little heart’s content, I promise.’

  ‘There will be marks left on my body?’

  ‘Of course, but none that won’t swiftly heal. It’s your soul that will never recover from the ordeal. After tonight, you will be damned forever.’ Mahbanov cupped Honey’s pubes in front and her bottom from the rear, an ointment-covered finger slithering in and out of each of her sharmgah – her private forbidden parts.

  ‘More, my Aunt, please? Harder and faster?’

  Mahbanov wiped her fingers on her own naked thighs. ‘You’ll get enough of that before morning. My Honey’s honey pot will be filled to overflowing, as will her culo and boca.’ She dried her fingers on a scrap of silk and reached for the two coarse black cotton burqas that hung on the wall. ‘We must make haste, lest the salve transport you before the appointed time, Honey.’

  Mahbanov led her charge into the palace gardens and through a dense privet maze until they came to a narrow door set in the outer wall. Honey’s lover, Bora, had left the exit barred but unlocked. Beyond the walls, coarse cobblestones bruised Honey’s delicate toes through her thin slippers but she didn’t feel the pain. The salve was working. It felt as if her flesh was numb to a depth of about an inch, but even as it was immune to being hurt, it tingled, like powerfully erotic ‘pins and needles’. Honey’s nipples, her vulva and especially her clitoris, throbbed in a demanding rhythm. Each breath of air that penetrated her burqa stroked her skin with exciting caresses.

  Honey was totally aware but she felt somehow detached and incredibly powerful. Nothing could harm her. Her invulnerability demanded to be tested. She craved to feel the bite of the cane. She yearned to feel cruel teeth sinking into her flesh. Any pain that could penetrate her numbness would surely bring ecstasy.