Courtship ~ Medieval Erotica
Page 3
“And what?” I challenge him with wet eyes. “There’s nothing more that he can take from me.”
His thumb traces my lower lip, my cheek. “You would be surprised.” As quickly as it came, his intimacy fades. He wraps his arm around my waist and resumes escorting me past the apartments of the favorite concubines.
I should live with the other women the sultan favors, but Murad put me in the apartments meant for the Valide Sultan, his mother. He had her moved to another palace across the bay. She rarely visits now, and I don’t blame her. Murad had his five brothers strangled to secure his position as sultan.
There’s another reason Murad keeps me here. He takes pride in my loneliness. With the kadins, I may find a sister who shares in my experience. The slaves assigned to me were happy to do so, and would never speak ill of the sultan. They all hope to be concubines themselves, one day.
We reach the entrance to the Valide apartments and Kasigo pauses. Without looking down to me he states, “Tonight you will shine, like the first star in the dusk sky.”
As he opens the door, I see why he was being poetic. Inside the lounge are at least twenty young women, preparing a bath, arranging flowers and candles, folding clothes and linens, and setting out hot tea and orderves on the tables. I freeze, resisting Kasigo when he tries to force me inside.
“You had this planned... even before you caught me in the hallway.”
“Yes, mistress.” Kasigo grabs both my wrists and with his whole body, pushes me inside.
The odalisques gather to receive me. They are pleased to have an assignment, as I never ask anything of them, and Kasigo only commands them when the sultan is planning a visit. They are all dressed the same; their slim bodies wrapped with the plain dress of the slaves and their faces veiled by thin, beaded silk. Still, their diverse backgrounds are apparent in their differed colors of skin and hair and different types of physique.
Five sets of hands wrap around my arms and take me from Kasigo. There’s no use fighting, there’s too many of them. They sense my tension and start massaging my shoulders before we even reach the steaming, scented pool in the center of the room.
“Tonight is for you, Gözde,” a balkan woman speaks from beside me.
The smooth, synchronized movements of the women ease my stiffness like a hot iron on cloth. It is hypnotic. They are well trained, in preparation for their one chance to sleep with the sultan. If he is pleased with them, they will become a concubine in the harem. If not, he will sell them or give them away to his generals.
I can barely feel them remove my clothes. The pool smells of citrus and sandalwood as they lower me in. Pain rises to the surface, pain of the past, sharp and blinding. But the steamy water washes it away. The women dip the water and pour it over me, a gentle titillation of silky rivulets cascading down my body. I relax, overcome with the sensation.
The asian woman washing my feet starts to sing. She is young, sold to the sultan from the far east. I can’t understand the words, but her voice is eloquent and the melody is pleasing. I stare at the blue tile architecture and wonder what the lyrics mean.
The intricate stain glass windows stretch three stories. Various designs of tile were added to over regimes. It is beautiful, but shameful that Murad is the palace’s protectorate. Any beauty here was added by his father, by his grandfather, or by his ancestors. Murad has done nothing to compliment the palace’s appearance, aside from adding pieces of foreign furniture.
Kasigo catches my eye, standing guard beside the door. He is reposed leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. It is apparent I’m not going to try to escape, but he still watches with half-open eyes. Soon he fades from my mind and heavy eyelids block the vision.
I forget about this palace that imprisons me, about the sultan and my captors. The sweet motions across my body turn sensual. The pleasure sinks deeper, lapping at my core like ocean waves against the sand.
I try not to think of that night. I try to recall what happened after, to hold on to the pain that gives me strength. I try to hold on to my anger. But his eyes... his dark, shining eyes...
His strong arms wrapped around me, protecting me from the desert chill that settled after dusk. After I accepted the ring, next he offered me a woven blanket. We spread it out and laid at the crest of the dune, our bodies molding into the sand beneath.
He kissed me gently, each touch of his lips soft and stimulating like flower petals. I pressed myself against the length of his warm body. Though I hadn’t seen them, I had every curve and dip of his muscles memorized. He ran his hands under my shirt and the touch of his skin against mine made me melt into him.
“Qayyum,” I whispered his name, nuzzling his neck.
“Ochranca.”
He spoke my name with such love I would have let him take me right then, if he had tried. But he didn’t. We just laid there, enjoying each other’s bodies, mouths, warmth. It felt like the moment would last forever. I was so set at ease by his loving touch across my body that I fell asleep in his arms.
There’s not a day that goes by that I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had given into my carnal desires. It wouldn’t have stopped what happened next, but at least he would have been the first man to take me. We would have joined, mind and soul, and I could have brought him with me through this lonely captivity.
Instead all I have is the memory of his body wrapped around me. The caress of the women spreading oil over my skin reminds me of him. They dress me in sheer gossamer, a thin fabric that tints my dark brown skin maroon, but does not conceal my private areas. I don’t mind. My body is transfixed from the pleasure, and my mind dwells on the moment in the past I felt most safe, protected in my secret love’s arms.
The odalisques paint my skin with symbols of fertility. The cool ink on the soft brushes makes my skin shiver, but not with displeasure. They braid my hair and inlay it with gems and chains of gold.
I stare at my finger, imagining the golden band around it again. I let myself imagine the women prepare me for Qayyum, for our wedding when we will be joined forever. I imagine him holding my hand; I picture his eyes that look like dark oasis water.
I can almost feel him lifting me into his arms, carrying me to our wedding room. He undresses me, and we stare at each other’s naked bodies. He lays me back on the bed and leans over me, ready to fill a deep, growing need I’ve felt since that night in the desert.
But there’s a chill, whisping away these warm dreams like winter’s first breeze. It takes a few moments for me to come to my senses. With cold despair I realize they are not preparing me for my lost love, that he is dead and gone from me forever, that I am a prisoner here, and they are preparing me for my master.
The servant women gasp and go rigid. It’s not just a chill through my mind, it’s an actual breeze. The door to the lounge is open.
As I turn around the odalisques bow to the floor, quickly lowering their gazes. I already know who has entered before I see him. Even though he isn’t supposed to come here, there’s only one who would elicit such a reaction from the slaves.
Murad. He stands in the doorway with Muhteşem on his arm. He’s dressed in his fine robes and turban, in stark contrast to the thin, young concubine Muhteşem, wearing nothing but a slitted silk skirt, jewelry, and a crown of flowers.
Murad smirks at me. He knows I’m furious with him. Not only for bringing another woman into my apartments, but for coming unannounced and allowing the virgin odalisques to see him. All these things are against tradition.
It takes effort for me to stand. I glare at the sultan, but do not reprimand him for this insult. That’s exactly what he wants, for me to accept my position of Gözde, prized concubine, and to bare him a son and become the Sultana.
Murad is amused by my anger. He would be handsome, despite his down-pointed nose, bushy beard and pudgy gut, except for his cruelty and a constant expression of disdain. He pulls Muhteşem close to him as his eyes assault every inch of my body.
Muhteşem stares at
me as well. I can’t help but look over her. Tan skin stretches over a straight, petite form. Her black hair cascades down her back in waves. I glance over her melon-shaped breasts, smaller than mine but perky. She tilts her head to the side with a smile and I try not to blush.
E
ND OF SAMPLE
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Table of Contents
Courtship ~ Medieval Erotica
Midpoint