by Felix Baron
How frustrating for them! To have delicate little pink toes, so mobile, offering so many erotic possibilities, within a foot of their cunnies but unable, no matter how they strained, to reach their soft wet goals.
These were the girls who had dripped their spending on me, who had toyed with my cock for endless hours and left it aching with need. Frustration suited them.
I rose and rinsed my face in cold water from a canvas bucket.
Fatima pouted and cajoled, ‘Please, English?’
Maria told me, ‘My tongue is rested, Milord.’
I undid their bonds and was about to position Fatima kneeling up on a bench when Zema arrived with a great platter of badly-cooked ox meat and a gallon jug of watery ale. My little altercation with Melku was bearing unexpected fruit. Zema ate with us. I pulled Maria’s wicker hamper into the middle of the aisle to serve us as a table. A meaningful look from me prompted Fatima to roll down the sacking curtain at the rear, granting us a degree of privacy.
‘Zema,’ I suggested, ‘we three are nude. Won’t you join us in that, that we may all be at ease?’
She looked from me to Maria to Fatima and made her decision. Her poncho flew into a far corner. She sat at our ‘table’, to my left, opposite the girls. I dropped a companionable hand on to the smooth hard flesh of her massive thigh. She edged an inch closer. I selected a choice gobbet of meat and lifted it to her lips. Maria and Fatima, sensitive to the direction I was steering the meal, fed each other.
Inevitably, juices dripped on breasts and had to be wiped away – then licked away. Soon, all pretence was dropped. Maria smeared a juicy slice of liver on Fatima’s nipple, which then had to be suckled clean. I pulled Zema’s breast down on to the platter, used it to wipe up greasy gravy, then took it to my mouth. Zema, as if not to be outdone, dribbled ale on to my cock but then just looked at it, as if unsure what to do next. It occurred to me that the oversized and dominant lovely might well have been serviced orally, frequently, but might not have performed fellatio before. Perhaps her entire love-life had consisted of her mounting and using helpless men, until that very morning, when I’d thrown her on her back and given her a good hard rogering. Even in the drunken revel that followed the death of the ox, from what I’d seen of Zema, she’d taken the active role. She’d fucked her fellow orgiasts. That is subtly different from her being fucked by them.
I laid the platter aside and lifted my legs up to rest on the hamper. My cock stood at forty-five degrees. ‘Maria,’ I said, ‘show Zema what you do with an ale-soaked cock.’
Maria had been roused but left in need and then bound, still frustrated, for the time my nap had taken. She was not about to miss any chance for an erotic romp. The slender Spaniard climbed up on to the hamper, swept her hair back, gave Zema a ‘watch this’ look, and commenced by pursing her lips over the eye of my engorged dome and slurping up the minute droplet of ale it held.
Zema knelt up on the bench and leaned forward to watch closer, which pressed her hip against my cheek.
‘Fatima,’ I said, ‘come around the other side of Zema. Frig her clit for her.’
Zema gave me a sharp look. ‘But she’s a girl, not a man!’
‘Have you never been loved by another woman, Zema?’ I asked.
She lowered her head and shook it slowly. Perhaps she’d been too deep in lust to be aware of the previous time that Fatima had fingered her. I didn’t remind her.
‘Then now is your chance.’ I stroked her flank. ‘Be my pupil and I will teach you many joys, my Sheba. The great queen who bore wise Solomon’s son was a famed lover of women as well as of men.’ Making the myth up as I went along, I told Zema, ‘Solomon had a thousand wives and was pleased to share them all with the beautiful Sheba. Many of them became more enamoured of her touch than of his.’
‘In truth?’
‘When a woman lays with a woman, it is the purest of joys. Ask Fatima. Do you not find rapture in the arms of Maria, my Egyptian dove?’
Shyly, stroking the inside of Zema’s great thigh, Fatima whispered, ‘Maria’s fingers and tongue have taken me to paradise.’
I took Fatima’s hand, guided it to the stalk of Zema’s clitoris and encouraged it to stroke gently. Zema bit her lip and turned her attention back to the things Maria was doing to my cock. She was coping with her introduction to Sapphic loving by pretending indifference to the sweet thrills Fatima’s fingers were giving her.
I was concerned that Zema might feel overwhelmed. Too many new experiences, too quickly, can panic the timid. Zema, who felled men with one blow and could decapitate an ox effortlessly, wasn’t the sort of woman that one thinks of as ‘timid’, but sexually, in some ways, she was a veritable novice.
I crooned coaxing words into her ear. My fingers stroked the under-curve of one generous breast soothingly, as I might have petted a nervous horse. Maria anointed my cock with ale and sucked it off a dozen times. From time to time she bent my shaft towards Zema and raised an enquiring eyebrow. Each time, Zema shook her head. It seemed that until then she’d lived as a passionate Puritan, eager to fuck but nervous to try new things – like sucking cock or browsing on cunny-flesh. It’d be an act of charity to broaden her horizons.
Although Zema refused Maria’s offers, what the Spanish girl was doing obviously fascinated her. She leaned closer and closer. Her broad tongue ran out over her lips. I peered down at her sex, where Fatima was frigging her. Those shapely black thighs were spread wide. They rocked to meet Fatima’s caresses.
Maria, clever girl, switched from trying to encourage Zema to fellate me. She took the Ethiopian’s hand, curled it around my shaft and urged it up and down. Not only did Zema allow herself this pleasure but she took Maria’s long hair in her free hand, wrapped it around her fist and bent the girl’s head down. Maria’s mouth opened wide. She extended her tongue. Zema, no doubt excited by Maria’s submissive display, pumped my cock vigorously. I didn’t hold back. Jism jetted from my cock’s eye, sluicing over Maria’s tongue and splattering her face.
Zema whooped with delight.
I gently but firmly pushed her back on to the bench. Maria and Fatima looked questions at me. I swung aside and nodded. The two young girls swarmed over Zema. A mouth closed over each giant nipple. Two pairs of cheeks hollowed. Delicate hands fluttered here and there, stroking the insides of ebony thighs, caressing the generous curves of a sable belly, patting rounded hips and fondling the powerful column of Zema’s neck.
Zema leaned back, submitting to the flurry of erotic attention. I took her right hand and brought it up to cup Maria’s pubes. Her left hand I steered to Fatima’s breast. Without thinking, she kneaded, compressing soft sweet flesh between her hard strong fingers.
I pushed the hamper aside. On my knees, I put my face to Zema’s cleft and stabbed into it with my tongue.
Maria and Fatima squealed with delight. They rained kisses on their willing victim, darting their tongues into her mouth, lapping at her armpits, nibbling and suckling at her teats.
Before Zema had time to fully realise that she was thoroughly enjoying the Sapphic loving of two pretty girls, I knelt up, hooked her knees over my shoulders, presented my cock’s head to her cunny’s eager lips and sank into her.
As I slowly impaled the dusky beauty, I told her, ‘You’re a bad girl, Zema. How depraved you’ve become! I do believe that no perversion is now beyond you.’
Fatima chuckled. ‘Yes, she’s a naughty girl. She loves it when I finger her like this.’
My hands took Zema’s thighs and dragged her bodily to the edge of the bench, so that she sat slumped, with her bottom projecting over the edge. I leaned back until our torsos met in a wide ‘V.’ Fatima had ample room for her vigorous manipulation of Zema’s clit. The lovely Ethiopian made an embarrassed sound and then giggled. She was learning to embrace her inner nymph. We had accepted her sensuality, which permitted her to do likewise.
The angle between Zema’s body and mine pressed the head of my cock up against the back of
her pubic bone. I held that position, moving only enough that the spongy area there was massaged by my hard dome. Zema closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. Some women are sensitive there. Some aren’t. Zema obviously was.
I touched each of my young accomplices to get their attention. ‘Slowly,’ I mouthed.
They nodded. Fatima’s frigging of Zema’s clit became gentle. Maria suckled softly at one of Zema’s nipples and tenderly rolled the other. My Sheba’s face grew intent. Her mouth worked. Lines of concentration appeared on her broad forehead. Her head lifted though her eyes remained closed. She started to make little mewing sounds that became an urgent pleading.
Her eyes shot open. ‘More!’ she demanded.
‘Be patient, my lovely,’ I told her.
Her hands lifted above her head and found an iron ring to clasp. Her hips rose at me. Zema’s head lolled from side to side. She whimpered.
‘Now!’ I announced.
Maria’s teeth sank into one of Zema’s nipples as her fingers crushed the other. Fatima’s fingers blurred on Zema’s clit. I watched Zema’s face. At the moment it screwed up as if in agony, I shot to my feet, dragging her up with me. I loomed over her folded body, holding the same ring that she clutched. My thighs cut loose, pounding straight down at her, driving my cock as deeply into her fevered flesh as I could.
The magnificent woman’s mouth opened to let out a great strangled cry. Inside her, powerful muscles contracted on my shaft. A sudden gush scalded my cock. I drew back, out of her, took myself in hand and let a great gout of foaming jism flop across her heaving belly.
Zema parted lazy eyelids and gave me a foolish grin. ‘The Child is right,’ she drawled. ‘You are a master of the bedchamber.’
‘The “Child”?’ I asked.
A frown clouded her brow. ‘I’ve said too much.’
To change the topic, I rubbed my incipient beard and told her, ‘I’d really like to shave.’ It’d been a dozen days since my face had felt a razor.
She made no promises but the next morning a Tatar arrived with a bowl of lukewarm water and a straight razor. Zema’s trust in my parole wasn’t absolute. He held a brace of flintlock pistols aimed at me while Maria made lather from a bar of scented Parisian soap and wielded the blade. The flintlocks were primitive weapons. Still, had I made the wrong move, I had no doubt they’d have discharged. Unlike modern bullets, crude balls of lead flatten, even at close range. They’d have made half-inch holes entering my body and have left four-inch ones as they exited.
Fatima dabbed my face dry and held a soft cloth to my chin. I hardly bled at all. Maria wiped and folded the razor.
‘No,’ I said before she handed it back to the Tatar.
He watched me warily as I directed the girl in cutting lengths from bolts of cloth and in slitting some to my directions. Before she handed the blade back we had a dozen crude ponchos – just pieces of cloth with slits for our heads, that could be tied with sashes to make toga-like garments. I felt we would need clothing, later, though I’d be loath to cover my companions’ lovely bodies.
For me, I also had her cut out a square of cotton from which I could devise a sort of swaddling cloth.
From then on, we always had a rear-guard, a rider who trailed our vehicle by a dozen feet, lance at the ready. Sometimes it was Zema who followed and beamed beneficently at our erotic romping. Once, she bore a pigeon on one finger. I remembered that there had been pigeons at Baghdad.
When I took advantage of my new liberty by jumping off the tailgate and retiring from the track to relieve myself, our rear-guard dropped back to linger but he didn’t interfere. My captivity was becoming less and less onerous. I was free to practise my yoga exercises and some limited callisthenics, though I missed my Indian clubs and medicine ball. I had sufficient food and water and three lovelies to make love to, though I didn’t futter all three every day. There were days I only played with two, or just one, and I do believe I spent a full twenty-four hours in total celibacy, once.
Seventeen
WE ENTERED A city. Zema ordered our sacking drapes closed and enjoined me to remain hidden. I supposed us to be in Bukhara, just by my Sufi instincts. My guess was confirmed when we trundled by the Samanides Mausoleum. I’d never visited the deceptively simple structure but I had seen it depicted in several daguerreotypes and wood-cuts.
The air was laced with the odours of camel dung, saffron and sweet curry. My mouth watered. We’d consumed the last of the boiled and salted ox-meat four days before. The bread had moulded. Apart from the delicacies Maria’s hamper provided, we’d subsisted on boiled millet.
My hopes, that we’d reprovision in the city, seemed to have been dashed. We exited Bukhara and wended our way up a verdant hillside. My disappointment was premature. Our procession turned into another giant courtyard. This one was attached to a structure that might once have been a monastery.
We stopped. Zema arrived at our tailgate. ‘Bring nothing. All will be provided.’
Fatima made to dismount but Zema stopped her. ‘Nothing, please. No clothes.’
Our belly-dancer let her skirt, all that she’d been wearing, fall, and dropped down. I tossed the sarong I’d wrapped around my hips and followed. Maria made no bones about removing her improvised toga but picked up her cross and rosary.
Kneeling as if in prayer, she cocked her head at Zema and mouthed, ‘Please?’
The Ethiopian thought for a moment before nodding.
We were ushered by Tatars, who really appreciated my companions’ nudity, into the baked brick structure. Our assigned quarters were a single, large, windowless but quite comfortable cell. It was lit by candles. A robed figure who might have been a monk showed us where more candles were stored.
The three of us were left to appreciate our luxuries – three real beds, with bedclothes, a low table, a chest of drawers and a rather incongruous heavy leather armchair. I’d enjoyed its like in my Pall Mall club. Unfortunately, there were no waiters standing by to fetch me scotch and soda. Maria hung her rosary and cross over a sconce.
Fatima squealed with delight when she discovered, in an anteroom, both a water-closet and a large copper bathing tub that was already filled with steaming water, with soaps and towels laid close at hand.
‘You found it. You shall have first turn,’ I told her.
‘The bath’s big enough for two people, if the two are small,’ Maria pointed out.
‘Very well,’ I allowed. ‘Leave me some water, please.’
Giggling, the two lovelies lowered themselves into the tub, one seated at each end. I returned to our boudoir, half hoping I’d find some fabulous treasure, such as a book to read or blank paper to write on. There was none such. I roamed the room idly inspecting the brick walls. There were chinks in some places that might have served as peepholes. No matter. If the residents wanted to spy on my girls and me at our sport, I wished them joy in it. The chest of drawers was empty, except for a single mothball.
I came to Maria’s rosary. When I inspected it closely I discovered that each large glossy bead had been cunningly carved into a depiction of a vulva. Christianity comes in many stripes but this was a form of worship more in keeping with Hinduism. If it had been of Hindu origin, the string of yonis would have been accompanied by at least one lingam. I tried the cross’s crossbar. It turned. I tugged. Like the handle of my swordstick, it pulled out to reveal, not a blade, but an intricately carved life-sized pink and white jade phallus.
I’d never seen a man’s penis so intricately gnarled and veined, but this one had been designed to please the sense of touch, not that of sight. In fact, put to its intended use, it’d be invisible.
Spain is a very Catholic country. Devout people often seem to find blasphemy erotic. Half the forbidden French literature I’d read had concerned nuns flagellating novitiates or priests buggering nuns, either in cloisters or bent over altars. I considered taking the toy to the girls, to enhance their watery play, but at that moment three little old men appeared, each
bearing a steaming dish of some sort of lumpy pease pudding.
I called to the girls that supper had been served, and quickly ate mine with the horn spoon provided. They joined me, pink-skinned from the hot water and smelling enticingly clean. I resisted their temptation. A real bath, no doubt tepid by then, awaited me.
When I returned, they’d pushed the three beds together. They were lying side by side, face up, legs apart, each idly fingering the other’s cunny.
Fatima sat up to greet me. ‘Please, English, teach us something new?’
The thirty-four fundamental positions described in the Kama Sutra were easy enough to remember and they were variations on congress alone. With two eager pupils at hand and our play by no means limited to ways cocks can join cunnies, I had no doubt I could have rung the changes nightly for a year or more. And yet – the triple bed was a siren. It seemed like forever since I’d slept on a mattress. Call me lazy or impugn my manliness, but at that moment I wanted nothing more than eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Even so, a gentleman should never leave a girl’s lust unslaked, unless it be by way of disciplining her. I thought I had the answer to my dilemma in Maria’s cross. I’d let them serve each other while I relaxed.
‘No, Fatima,’ I said. ‘Tonight, sweet little Maria will school you.’ I crossed to the sconce and fetched the perverse rosary. Tossing it on the bed, I said, ‘Show Fatima how you play with your toy, Maria.’
The girl clasped her mouth, rolled over and buried her face in a pillow. ‘Can’t.’
The fair gender never fails to amaze me. The girl had sucked me dry on many occasions. I’d gifted her with ‘pearl necklaces’ half a dozen times. She’d directed my shaft into her friend’s bottom and urged me to plumb deeper depths than was possible. Now, no doubt because of the sacrilege involved, she was turning coy on us.
Fatima blinked at me. ‘What?’