The Persian Girl

by Felix Baron

‘The cross and rosary – inspect them.’

  She turned the blasphemous toy in her hands. ‘Oh! The beads are …’

  ‘And the shaft.’

  She twisted and tugged and soon found out how to unsheathe the phallus. ‘What fun!’ she exclaimed, and slid it between her lush lips for a long lascivious suck.

  ‘Show us how you use it, Maria,’ I prompted.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then we shall find the way of it by trial and error, won’t we, Fatima?’

  The voluptuous Egyptian nodded so vigorously that her lovely titties bounced.

  Maria’s demeanour said that she was deeply ashamed to have been caught in possession of her profane toy. Perhaps she was. There are, however, many people of both sexes who find their own embarrassment exciting. The way her slender form shivered hinted that she was such a person.

  I took up her rosary and trailed it down the length of her spine. She shuddered but her bottom dimpled as if she were pressing her pubes down on the bed.

  I whispered, ‘Sacrilege.’

  Her shoulders hunched up to her ears.

  ‘Let me guess how you desecrate your body with this obscene tool,’ I said. ‘Here, Fatima.’ I pressed Maria’s buttocks apart. ‘Make her wet, first.’

  Fatima arched over Maria, worked her mouth and drooled, aiming the string of spittle at Maria’s pucker and scoring a perfect bull’s eye.

  ‘Well done,’ I said. The rosary fastened with a loop around a bead, so there was nothing rough or sharp at its end. I put a bead to Maria’s sphincter and pressed on it. She tensed. I was insistent. The first bead sank out of sight. Her bum’s hole closed behind it.

  ‘How holy you must be by now, Maria! How many hours have you spent, telling your beads in this manner?’ I pressed another bead into her. ‘What do you pray for, may I ask?’ The third and fourth bead met little resistance. I followed the fifth with my finger, prodding as deeply as I could. ‘Do you ask that you be given into the charge of some salacious priest, one with a cock like a donkey, and sodomised by him as you kneel before the holy altar?’

  By then Maria was quivering and her back was hollowed. I pushed a sixth bead into her, and the seventh and eighth.

  ‘Or do you seek damnation?’ I asked. ‘Is it devils with red-hot iron pizzles that you crave?’

  At that, she gasped and shook her head so vehemently that I knew I’d struck home. I’d seen Honey embrace her own degradation. It seemed that Maria had similar inclinations. Fatima, on the other hand, seemed to be more sanely candid about her sensual nature. Perhaps I hadn’t probed her murkier depths, yet.

  When the tiny mouth of her bottom had swallowed a baker’s dozen of the beads, I deemed Maria sufficiently distended. I put my arms beneath her and turned her over. There was still a length of beads loose that sufficed for me to lift the phallus to her mouth.

  ‘This is Satan’s insatiable member,’ I hissed. ‘Suck it!’

  Eyes clouded in erotic reverie, Maria took the obscene thing between her lovely young lips and gobbled voraciously on it.

  ‘What a perverse little witch she is!’ Fatima exclaimed, admiringly.

  ‘Kneel astride her face,’ I commanded. ‘Maria, share! Plunge it up into Fatima’s cunny, then suck it.’

  Maria obeyed, with a will. The phallus went from her mouth and into Fatima for half a dozen strokes, then back to be orally worshipped again. Fatima helped by making a fan of her fingers and frigging it to and fro across the exposed head of her own clit. In no time, the Egyptian was dripping her sweetness on to Maria’s welcoming face.

  I half-turned Maria from her narrow waist down. Sitting astride her left thigh, I raised her right leg and hooked her ankle behind my neck in a variation on the Pestle position that is described in the Kama Sutra. It is a pose in which a man can easily control the depth he penetrates. I moved forward, butting the crown of my staff against Maria’s soft portal. With gentle fingers, I parted her delicate petals. My cock eased into her and found her vestibule to be no tighter and no looser than on the dozen or more times I’d fucked her before. When I pushed deeper, however, the bulk of beads, pressing up from below the muscular membrane, halted me.

  ‘Am I hurting you?’ I asked.

  ‘Do it!’ she barked.

  Despite her invitation, I eased into her, working my way firmly but gently. The beads moved under my cock. When the obstruction became less and I felt free to push harder, it was as if they rippled along the underside of my shaft.

  With Maria fully impaled, I paused.

  She growled, ‘Fuck me hard, English. I can take it.’ She returned to pistoning jade into Fatima, her mouth stretched wide open so as to catch as much of the Egyptian’s splattering liquors as possible.

  I rocked. Beads moved beside and beneath my shaft. Once I was sure I’d do Maria no damage, I stroked into her, neither fast nor slow but with that steady rhythm that I can maintain for hours, if need be.

  It was Fatima who changed our pace. She leaned towards me, still astride the other girl, so that Maria could continue to dildo-fuck her and lap at her clit. Her tongue laved Maria’s heaving belly, down to the little pink button that protruded from between my victim’s lower lips. The extra attention moved Maria to writhe beneath me. I could have restrained her but I remembered my first intent – to let the lascivious wenches sate themselves and leave me to get some sleep – so I accelerated.

  Maria’s face was hidden beneath Fatima and the only sounds she made were wet gobbling noises so I had to judge how imminent her climax might be. When her lower abdomen flushed and knotted, I took hold of the string of beads. A convulsion creased her belly. Something like a muffled sob alerted me. I tugged. The beads emerged, one at a time, plopping from Maria’s anus. Her prolonged gurgling confirmed the accuracy of my timing. Her orgasm was not just massive, but prolonged to last for a good dozen heartbeats.

  I finished in Fatima’s mouth. Sure that Maria would take care of Fatima’s need, I let blessed sleep overcome me.

  Eighteen

  I AWOKE AS the middle of three human ‘spoons’. Fatima felt me stir and wriggled her warm little bottom back at me. Maria felt the movement and put an arm over me to take hold of my shaft, no doubt to facilitate its introduction into Fatima’s back passage. Before any such progress could be made, the three wizened pease pudding bearers returned. We rose to break our fast.

  Somehow, the tub was full again. I let the girls have first turn. I’ve seen the sun set behind the Taj Mahal. I’ve watched the white stallions of Lipizza dancing. Of all the beautiful sights I’ve been privileged to witness, none compares to the living and moving tableau of those two girls at sport in their tub, seen by the rosy flickering light of a dozen tall candles. Yes, it aroused me, but it transcended the merely erotic. I was moved to compose a hymn to Aphrodite. Unfortunately, I’ve since forgotten most of the words, but it was a fine composition as I recall.

  Fatima stood up to rinse off. Maria slapped her neat little bottom for her. Fatima fled, squealing. Maria followed, flicking a wet towel. I took over the tub, thankful that they’d surrendered it before it cooled to tepid.

  I didn’t linger in the water. I would have but the yelps and giggles from the next chamber piqued my curiosity. With a towel knotted about my hips, I joined my girls.

  It seemed that the tables had turned, which was a revelation. Fatima had frequently flaunted her bum at me, wordlessly asking for a spanking. Maria had never done that and yet it was she who was kneeling up on the seat of the armchair, arms embracing its broad back, and it was Fatima who was wielding the wet towel so vigorously. Maria’s lean flanks were already scarlet. Her face was flushed and wet with tears.

  Fatima grinned at me. ‘I was punishing her for her blasphemous toy,’ she explained. ‘But when she’d accepted the prescribed twenty strokes, the little sharmutta begged for more.’

  I crossed to Maria and cupped her pubes in my palm. ‘Her yoni is drooling like a beggar at a banquet, Fatima. She’s enjoyi
ng her beating. You, of all people, must understand that.’

  Fatima simpered. ‘Me, English?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘Then her punishment has been no punishment at all.’

  ‘No, but perhaps we can make it so.’

  Her face lit up. ‘How?’

  ‘First, she must be made a little less comfortable.’ I lifted Maria and set her down kneeling on the arms of the chair with her thighs spread wide.

  Fatima flicked her towel upwards, making it snap. ‘Shall I beat her on her cunny?’ she suggested.

  ‘Later, perhaps. I think that inflicting another sort of distress might be more amusing.’ I fetched the jade dildo from the beds. Crouching beside Maria, I worked the phallus up into her cunny at an angle, so that its base pressed against the back of the chair. I’d have to hold it in place but that was no chore.

  ‘Try a good hard slap,’ I told Fatima.

  The towel cracked across the backs of Maria’s thighs. In reflex, she jerked forward, impaling herself.

  ‘There,’ I explained, ‘the more you punish her, the more she’ll sin. How will she resolve this dilemma, I wonder?’

  ‘Tricky,’ Fatima agreed. Her arm drew back. She took careful aim. The towel’s wet end landed.

  Maria’s jerk sank three more inches of jade into her cunny. She yelped, ‘Peccavi,’ retreating to a Latin confession in her extreme distress – or in her ecstatic bliss. The two are easily confused.

  ‘Yes,’ I told her, ‘you have sinned. That is your nature.’

  Fatima struck again.

  ‘Then I must be punished,’ Maria sobbed.

  ‘You are being punished.’

  ‘More! Worse!’

  ‘In what way?’ I asked, amused to allow a girl who craved pain to prescribe for herself. I thought it would be most illuminating.

  ‘Like this!’ Maria plucked the dildo from my loose grip. She swung round to face Fatima, still kneeling up on the chair’s arms. With both hands behind her, she worked half the phallus up into her rear passage and arched herself backwards to rest her neck on the back of the chair. Pushing her belly at Fatima, she demanded, ‘Be merciless!’

  The Egyptian had her own ideas. First, she went to the bathing room and returned with three fresh towels, each one dripping wet at one end. She took a carefully measured position to one side of her victim, took a deep breath and lashed out. The stinging end cracked precisely on the lean mound of Maria’s pubis. The girl yelped and jerked but although in no way restrained, made no move to defend herself. This was what she wanted. This was how she reconciled her salacious nature with her religious guilt.

  I was learning more about both of my young companions. Maria craved more pain than I’d have guessed. Fatima, such a sweet and roguish girl, who considered being spanked as jolly good fun, was revealing a streak of cruelty worthy of – no – not worthy of the Inquisition, as I was about to say. Her delight in inflicting pain was limited to subjecting eager victims to it. It was akin to the pleasure I take in spanking willing subjects. I’d never lay a hand on a woman who didn’t crave it, and nor, I guessed, would Fatima.

  Fatima was taking her time, perhaps giving Maria every chance to plead for mercy. The Egyptian paced from side to side, eyeing her victim, selecting her next target. Standing directly in front of Maria, Fatima set her shoulders and swung. On the front-hand swing, the towel slapped the inside of Maria’s left thigh, just above her knee. On the return, it hit the same spot on her right thigh. Back and forth the towel swung, each time landing a few inches higher. Between each blow, Maria pumped the dildo up into her own rectum.

  The Spanish girl, her hair sodden and her eyes wild, turned her face to me. ‘Help me, please?’

  I knew she wasn’t asking me to come to her rescue. She wanted me to help her endure. I took her hair in my right hand and pulled it down behind the back of the chair, forcing her to arch even further. My left hand held her slender throat in a grip that was gentle enough not to impair her breathing but firm enough that she’d know her life was in my hands.

  When the towel struck high, almost at her groin, her mouth gaped wide in a silent scream. I covered it with mine and invaded her lax wet mouth with my thrusting tongue. From the corner of my eye I watched as Fatima drew back her towel again. Both I and Maria anticipated it would fall directly on her sex but Fatima fooled us. It slapped across Maria’s delicate young breasts, precisely on her nipples, hard enough to rock her body left and then right.

  Maria sobbed around my tongue – and then sucked on it. The pleasure her pain was giving her seemed to have rendered the girl delirious. She strained like a bow, her body demanding more torment.

  Fatima gave her what she wanted. A dozen blows across her breasts left them streaked with crimson and transformed her nipples into hard brown nuts. Once more, the slaps progressed, moving down Maria’s body, each overlapping the one before as if Fatima was painting Maria with pain and taking care not to miss a single spot.

  Maria’s mouth slobbered under mine. Her face was as flushed as if it had been included in the beating. The wet flicking slaps reached her navel, and lower, but at a slower pace, as if Fatima wanted to prolong Maria’s ecstasy of agony for as long as possible.

  At last a blow landed directly on Maria’s mound. The girl forced her knees even further apart, off the arms of the chair, so that she rested on her shins. She wanted to present her most tender flesh as unprotected as possible.

  Fatima stepped back. She tossed the towel she’d been wielding aside and selected a fresh one. Her arm reached out, flicking the end of the towel at its target. She was gauging the distance so that when she swung, only the ‘cracking’ end of her weapon would strike the parted oozing lips of Maria’s cunny.

  When she struck, it was hard and fast. The towel blurred, up and down, up and down, beating a rapid tattoo. Maria twisted and shuddered in my hands.

  I asked her, ‘Enough?’

  She shook her head. Despite my hold on her, she convulsed like an acrobat, flinging herself upwards from her kneeling position to get her feet flat on the arms of the chair. Arched backwards in a wrestler’s bridge, she fucked up at each descending blow.

  My cock had become iron. No one had touched it but I was witnessing the most incredible demonstration of unbridled raging lust I’d ever been privy to. I’ve seen and performed some rare feats in my life but at that moment I was in awe.

  I didn’t count but Maria’s cunny must have taken a score or more direct slaps before she screamed and collapsed into the chair. I lifted her with great reverence and carried her towards the beds. Halfway there, the dildo fell from her bottom and was ignored.

  When I straightened, Fatima eyed my engorged wagging stem. ‘Shall I?’ she asked, extending a hand.

  ‘Thank you, but no. Do you need to …?’ I raised an eyebrow.

  ‘After that, no, but thank you.’

  It was strange, but we both spoke in hushed tones, as one might in a cathedral. Perhaps we were. Perhaps Maria’s bravura performance had transformed our simple cell into a temple of lust.

  Nineteen

  WE SPENT FOUR nights and three days in that windowless cell, judging by the eleven identical meals of pease pudding we were served – one on our arrival, three a day and one on the morning of our departure. Maria, understandably, slept on her back for the last two days.

  When we were taken outside, changes had been made to our caravan.

  Half the Tatars had left us, to be replaced by a dozen imposing Cossacks in scarlet felt coats and tall astrakhan hats. They were armed with a sabre and a brace of pistols apiece, plus an assortment of daggers tucked into belts and boot tops. One, I noticed, carried an ancient blunderbuss across his pommel.

  The oxen were gone. Teams of extremely large horses of a breed I didn’t recognise had taken their place. The smallest of the magnificent beasts was a good twenty hands tall, I swear. They were built like Shire horses but without the feathered fetlocks and they were as shaggy as Shetl
and ponies about their bodies. The air smelled of burned horn so I guessed that the horses had recently been shod.

  There was a water-cart hitched behind the lead carriage. It was nothing more than an enormous barrel mounted on wheels. The tops of both carriages had been covered with lengths of oilcloth.

  There were changes inside our carriage, as well. Our clothes, from Maria’s modest dress and three immodest chemises; Fatima’s skimpy jacket and gauzy skirt, to the last of the items that we’d improvised for play or utility, were all laid out on one of the benches, pristine clean, flat-ironed and folded neatly. The cloths that had served us as bed clothes had also been laundered.

  There was a faint smell of carbolic in the air that, with a small damp patch of floor, suggested our travelling home had been scrubbed clean. In addition to our abundance of fabrics and hides, there was now a great heap of precious furs. I recognised sable and ermine and ocelot and lynx but many of them were outside my experience. Isabel, I’m sure, would have recognised every last one – and priced it within a pound.

  Three large earthenware pitchers had been lashed to a wall, standing on a bench. A ladle hanging close by told me they were full of water.

  A water cart and now three pitchers? I surmised we were heading into dry country, although the oilcloth suggested the opposite.

  Maria’s hamper had been topped up with dried figs and dates. Someone had added pomegranates and limes to Fatima’s hatbox, which had been down to a single jar of crystallised ginger. Most foreigners think that Englishmen are addicted to limes, so I took their inclusion as an act of kindness. I resolved to set a couple of fruits aside, in case Fatima took a fancy to repeating her ‘puckered cunny’ game. I was also thinking of protecting her from scurvy, of course.

  The girls fussed around, storing their clothes and inspecting the furs. As is the way with the fair sex, they could not resist trying the luxuries on.

  Two burly Cossacks heaved a huge leather-bound trunk over the tailgate and followed it with a bag in the style made popular by Prime Minister Gladstone. Their third delivery was a girl, who remained stiffly upright as they lifted her bodily and set her down on her feet. The three of us stopped what we’d been doing and turned to face our guest.