The Love Slave

by Bertrice Small

  Reaching out to the gold basket by the bedside, Zaynab drew the velvet pouch forth and handed it to the caliph. Opening it, he spilled the little silver orbs into his hand, rolling them about his palm, smiling with satisfaction.

  “They are nicely weighted,” he noted. “Open yourself to me now.” She spread herself before his avid gaze, and he slowly inserted the balls, one by one, pushing them deep into her love canal with a long, expert finger. Bending forward, he then spread her nether lips, staring with delight at the moist coral flesh beneath his gaze. His tongue snaked out to touch her little jewel.

  “Ummmmm,” she murmured, squirming edgily at the contact. Within her the silver balls hit together at the slight movement. Zaynab gasped. The sensation was incredibly intense, almost painful. Karim had demonstrated the balls once. She had forgotten the sweet torture that they could inflict upon a woman.

  The caliph’s tongue began to probe her in earnest. It lapped over the interior of her soft, silky nether lips; it worried at the sentient little badge of her sex until she thought she would die of the pure pleasure he was provoking. She was half sobbing as again and again the silver balls butted against one another, sending the painfully sweet sensation thrilling through her writhing body.

  Finally she could take no more. “Please!” she pleaded to him.

  Without a word he withdrew the wicked little instruments of torture from her body. Then holding her legs apart, he leaned forward once more, his tongue pushing into her passage, withdrawing, pushing forward again. She cried out with pleasure. Her love juices were flowing generously when he pulled himself up and over her and kissed her deeply, his tongue transferring the taste of her own musk into her mouth. His lips were everywhere on her body: the hollow of her throat, her belly, her lips again. She was wet with the waves of heat he was creating in her.

  Zaynab was suffocating with her desire. She clung to Abd-al Rahman, feeling the hardness of his masculine body against the yielding softness of her female body. They had somehow in their love battle managed to gain the full area of the bed. Now the caliph positioned himself between his eager lover’s outstretched thighs. He smiled as the girl beneath him whimpered her hunger, rubbing the tip of his manhood against her little jewel.

  “Look at me,” he growled low. “I would capture your soul when I mate with you. Look at me, Zaynab!”

  She was half mad with passion, but if she let him overwhelm her now, she would fail with him. She would be just another concubine. Opening her eyes, she gazed meltingly at him. “What a lover you are, my lord!” she murmured huskily at him. “Do not keep me waiting any longer. Sheathe yourself within me! Make me ache with the pleasure that I know only you can give me!’ ”

  Her words sent a thrill of excitement down his spine, and he thrust deep into her. She was hot, and tight. He groaned. “Ahh, Zaynab, you will surely kill me with delight!” He began to move upon her. She was wonderful, wrapping her legs about him, taking his face between her two little hands, clinging to him desperately as if she would perish if she let go.

  “You are a stallion, my lord,” she half sobbed. “Take me! Punish me with pleasure! I am yours!”

  His lust was inexhaustible. It had not happened to him in years. Again and again and again he pushed into her eager body, but he could not find his release, though she certainly found hers, not once but twice. Finally he withdrew from her, saying, “Turn your body and assume the opposite stance, my lovely. I need your other maidenhead.”

  Her compliance was immediate. He saw no reluctance in her at all, but she dreaded what was to come. She hated this form of lovemaking. She had hated it when Karim had slowly pushed the ivory dildo into her. She hated it now. She had hoped never to be used in this fashion. In the future, she would try to find a way to avoid it if at all possible. Pulling her knees up beneath her, she arched her back, elevating her bottom for him.

  He was at her in a moment, his hands pulling the cheeks of her posterior apart, his manhood pushing against the tight little rosebud of her fundament. Pushing. Pushing. And then it gave way. The head of his weapon gained a slight entry. His hands tightened about her hips, holding her steady as he thrust hard, ignoring her cry of pain, groaning with his own pleasure. She was incredibly tight. Tighter than any he had ever known. He pressed on, withdrawing slightly, pressing steadily forward again and yet again until finally he was fully engaged within her. She felt him throbbing, and at that very moment his crisis came.

  Though his seed fell on barren ground, he sighed with relief at his release. “Ahhhh,” he groaned, and slowly withdrew from her.

  After taking a few minutes to recover herself, Zaynab arose from the bed. Going to the door, she opened it and gave swift orders to her two servants outside. She returned to the caliph’s side with a silver ewer of scented water and several love cloths. He lay sprawled, utterly exhausted, before her. Tenderly, she bathed him, and then herself, clean of any evidence of their passion. Removing the basin, she crept back into the bed next to him.

  His arms tightened about her, drawing her back into his embrace. His hand caressed her golden hair. “I will try never to use you in that fashion again. I could sense you did not like it, but tonight there was no other way for me, my lovely Zaynab. I cannot remember having ever been so aroused in my entire life by any woman as I was aroused by you a few moments ago. You are magic. You have brought me back my youth, and I quite enjoy it.”

  “I am your slave, my lord Abd-al Rahman. Your Love Slave. I will never refuse your passion no matter the form it takes,” she told him proudly. “I am not some weak little concubine. I have been trained to both give and to receive the ultimate in pleasure.” She would never admit to him that she had hated his perverse way of passion. It would only shame Karim. A Love Slave feared none of passion’s roads. She willingly traveled them all.

  “Fetch me some wine, my lovely,” he ordered her.

  She left the cradle of his arms, and went to the single small table she had allowed to be placed in the room. On it were several decanters. Two were of wine, but the third was filled with the restorative that Karim had given her. Pouring a few drops of it into a silver cup, she filled the rest of the vessel with sweet red wine and brought it to the caliph. “There, my lord, drink, and be revived.” He quaffed the cup quickly down, shaking his head at her offer of more.

  “I know I am to obey you in everything, but will you let me relax you now in my own special way?” she asked him with a small smile.

  The edge had been taken off his lust. The wine was helping to mellow him. He nodded his permission, lying back amid the pillows of the bed.

  Zaynab reached into her gold basket and drew out an alabaster jar. Setting it among the bedclothes where she could reach it, she straddled him, and opening the jar, scooped a handful of pink cream from within. Rubbing her two hands together, she then smoothed them over the caliph’s torso with a delicate, sensuous touch.

  “It has your scent,” he noted, amused.

  “Do you mind?” she replied, making teasing little circles upon his chest. “You were very masterful before, my lord. I but wish to soothe you.” Her slender fingers ran seductively over his skin yet again.

  “I think you seek to arouse me again, little houri,” he teased her with twinkling eyes. Taking the jar, he scooped out some cream, which he then began to rub over her pretty bosom. “You have adorable breasts, Zaynab. It is impossible to see them and not seek to touch them.” He fondled her with his fingers, pulling her nipples out and pinching them.

  “Why do you not wear a beard?” she asked him innocently. “So many Moors are bearded, but you are not, my lord. Why is that?” She could feel his arousal beneath her. The restorative was obviously most potent.

  “I am fair-haired,” he explained. “When my ancestors came to al-Andalus two centuries ago, we were Arabs from Baghdad and Damascus. All of us were dark-haired and dark-eyed, but we have a weakness for fair-haired women. Over the centuries my family has intermarried with light-haired, lig
ht-eyed slave girls. Both my mother and my grandmother were Galacians from the northwest. My coloring is more theirs. When I grow a beard it is red-blond, and I look like a foreigner. It is better that I remain clean-shaven, for my features are those of an Arab.”

  Reaching out, she caressed his face provocatively. “I like your face, my lord,” she purred at him truthfully. He had an elegant head with high cheekbones, a strong nose, and a narrow sensuous mouth.

  “You are a little witch, Zaynab,” he told her, playfully tweaking her nipples. Then, with a swift motion, he reached up, rolled her beneath him, and laid his body atop hers. “And you are a very naughty tease, my lovely one. You must learn who is master here. I fear I must chastise you,” he told her, his mouth coming down hard on hers. He kissed her slowly, completely, his lips moving from her lips to her face to her neck. His mouth scorched her skin as it followed the line of her throat. Gently, he nipped at her ear, murmuring in it, “I do not think I shall ever tire of you, Zaynab.” Then he entered her slowly, tenderly. “You are meant only for love, and I mean to love you. You will pleasure me as no other woman ever has, and I will pleasure you as no youth possibly can.”

  She had not expected such strength from him. To her surprise, she found him a wonderful lover. Perhaps it would not be so terrible to belong to him after all. He was not unkind. He had promised to try not to use her again in that way she disliked. She tightened the muscles of her sheath about his manhood, and he groaned with delight. “Does that please you, my lord?” she asked him, knowing his answer already.

  He responded by increasing his rhythm, and she gasped. “Does this please you?” he countered.

  Together they taunted and challenged each other with one erotic game after another until both collapsed, satisfied for the moment. Abd-al Rahman held Zaynab in his embrace, chuckling. She was wonderful! This morning he had welcomed spring, and longed for a new adventure, a new love. Well, he had certainly found it with Zaynab.

  “Why do you laugh, my lord?” she asked him.

  “Because, my lovely, I am happy,” he answered her. “Happy for the first time in a long while. Do not let anyone tell you you have not found favor with me, Zaynab, because you have. Tomorrow I shall have you moved to a larger apartment that suits your status.”

  “No, my lord, let me stay here,” she begged him. “These little rooms suit me. If you will but let me have the services of a gardener, I shall soon have my little garden blooming.”

  “You like these rooms?” He was surprised.

  “The lady Walladah gave them to me because I demanded my own apartment, my lord, but she chose a place at the farthest end of the harem to punish what she considered my arrogance. However, I like it here. It is private, and few can spy on me,” she told him. “If you move me to a suite of rooms amid the rest of the harem, I shall never have any privacy, nor will you. Each time we cry with pleasure, it will be heard, and it will be noted by the gossips. If you cry out fewer times one night than the evening before, it will be said that I am losing your favor. No, my lord. I prefer these rooms to any others you would offer me.”

  He was amazed by her reasoning. She had been in his possession but a few hours, but had already analyzed her entire situation. “You are very clever,” he told her. “Very well, you may have these rooms, and I shall give you a gardener of your very own.”

  Leaning over, she kissed his mouth lingeringly. “I have no time for the politics of the harem, my lord. My duty is to please you. If I am to do that properly, I cannot be distracted by the foolishness of jealous, silly women.”

  Abd-al Rahman laughed aloud, and his laughter was heard beyond the walls of Zaynab’s rooms. The women still awake and gossiping looked meaningfully at one another, nodding sagely. They would have been mortally insulted had they but known the reason for his amusement.

  By morning the whole harem was aware that the caliph had stayed the entire night with the new woman. The early risers saw him leave her apartments, and eagerly reported it to any and all who would listen. The caliph looked as many had not seen him look in years. He looked as many had never seen him look. He looked happy. There had been a spring to his step, a smile on his lips. He had whistled!

  When Zaynab and Oma appeared in the baths later that morning, escorted by a preening Naja, the voices ceased in mid-chatter. All eyes were upon her. She walked proudly among them, smiling, as Obana hurried up to her, greeting the new favorite effusively. Everyone already knew that the caliph’s first gifts to his beloved had consisted of the furs and jewels that Donal Righ had sent. It was an astounding first-night gift for Abd-al Rahman to have made. The women were more than impressed.

  “Good morning, my lady Zahra,” Zaynab boldly saluted the older woman.

  “Good morning to you, my lady Zaynab,” the caliph’s wife responded. “I understand that you have found favor with our lord.”

  “I am fortunate beyond belief,” Zaynab answered her modestly. “Allah has smiled upon me. I am grateful, lady, but I am also greedy.”

  “Greedy?” Zahra cocked an eyebrow. “How are you greedy?”

  “I shall not be content until I have found your favor also, lady,” Zaynab said cleverly, looking directly at the other woman.

  “In time perhaps,” Zahra replied, half laughing. What a little devil this girl was: beautiful and seductive enough to have caught the jaded Abd-al Rahman’s favor and kept it for an entire night—yet possibly she was dangerous as well. Zahra could not decide, and until she did, Zaynab would not have her acknowledged favor. “If you continue to please our lord and master, my lady Zaynab, if you do not sow seeds of discontent in the caliph’s garden; then and only then will you have my favor too. Time will tell, my dear.” Zahra suddenly realized that this girl could be her daughter. It was an uncomfortable thought.

  If only Abd-al Rahman had not been so taken with her, Zahra considered. Perhaps she could have convinced him to give the girl to Hakam. She would be a good mate for their son. She looked like a girl who could breed strong sons. It really was time Hakam paid more attention to women. The damage was done, however. Abd-al Rahman had slept with the Love Slave and obviously been pleased. It was unlikely he would ever part with her. What a shame.

  “She says she will not give you her favor yet,” Obana gloated to Zaynab privately, “but, she has spoken at length with you before all the others. Many will consider that you already have her favor. You are an amazing girl, my lady Zaynab. In one day you have accomplished what it takes most years to accomplish. The majority of the women here have never attained the heights you have already scaled. You have made many enemies here today, I fear.”

  Zaynab laughed. “Not intentionally, my lady Obana, I assure you,” she said. “I am the caliph’s Love Slave. I seek but one thing: his pleasure. Nothing else matters to me. I will not become embroiled in female foolishness. It can only distract me from my duty.”

  “You are right, of course,” Obana agreed, “but nonetheless you must be vigilant, my child. There are women here who have tried for years to attract our master’s attention and never have suceeded.”

  “And never will, even if I am gone from this place,” Zaynab said in practical tones.

  “True,” Obana nodded, “but still you must have a care for your safety.”

  “I will,” Zaynab promised, patting the older woman’s hand. She knew Obana was being kind, but she also knew that that kindness stemmed from her own success with the caliph. I have no illusions left to me, she thought, sad for a moment. Will the rest of my life be like this? Will I always have to be on my guard, to question everyone’s motives? She sighed. If the truth be known, she wanted only to be a simple woman with a man and a houseful of children. That, however, would never be.

  “Let us get you bathed properly,” Obana said, breaking into her reverie. “I will tend to you myself.”

  When he left Zaynab, Abd-al Rahman had gone directly to his own private bath to sit amid the steam and revive himself. It had not been a night in which
he obtained much rest. He had not had a night like that in twenty years. Yet he had enjoyed himself greatly. Zaynab was not simply the most sexually advanced woman he had ever made love to, she was also intelligent. Learning about her was going to be an absolutely fascinating experience. He exited his bath to dress.

  “Do not forget, my lord, that you promised to speak with Karim al Malina this morning,” his personal body slave, Ali, reminded him.

  “Send someone for him,” the caliph said. “I have but to give him a personal message for Donal Righ.”

  “The lady Zaynab pleasured you?” Ali ventured.

  Abd-al Rahman laughed heartily. “Never, Ali, in all my born days have I enjoyed a woman as I enjoy my new Love Slave. If Donal Righ thought he owed me a debt, he has repaid it a thousand times over.”

  Karim al Malina was sent for, and came immediately. He had not slept well. Even the lovely girl given to him for his pleasure had been unable to distract him, although she had left him declaring never to have known such a lover as he. Zaynab was lost to him, and all he wanted to do was leave Madinat al-Zahra as quickly as possible.

  The caliph looked up from his simple breakfast when his visitor entered. Karim bowed low, saying as he did, “Good morning, my lord.”

  Abd-al Rahman looked up with a friendly smile at the serious young man. “And a very good morning it is, Karim al Malina. I have spent a night such as I never thought to spend again at my age. What an excellent job you have done with Zaynab. She is perfection! You may tell Donal Righ it is I who am now in his debt.”

  “I will tell him, my lord,” Karim said in a lifeless voice, but the caliph did not notice.

  “Besides her schooling in the erotic arts,” Abd-al Rahman said, “has she had other education? She seems a clever and intelligent woman.”

  “She is,” Karim said. “Her tutors were most satisfied with her. Among other things, you will find she has a beautiful voice and sings like a bird. My mother said it was quite the finest voice she had heard in some time. Zaynab also plays three instruments. You will not find her lacking. I assure you, my lord.”