He watched her eyeing him hard mouth tipped in a taunting grin as if he reveled in the heat her gaze generated. She stood still as a statue at the foot of the couch. When his muscles bunched, signaling his intent to move, to take control, she dropped to her knees. Her breasts jiggled and bounced with her movements.
Lowering her head, she delicately took the smallest toe of his right foot into her mouth. Her hands remained at her sides. She didn't suck it, just held it liquidly still in the womb behind her lips. Then her tongue touched the crease beneath the toe, where grass was wont to cut. Beneath her, she felt Jamal react to the erotic power of her actions. His body pulsed, throbbed.
She introduced the second toe into her mouth without releasing the first, her tongue a little more active now swiping over the third, then the fourth.
He groaned, asked if she would engulf his whole foot, if she could accommodate his big toe as well, but then she was slowly releasing each toe, giving them a slow lap with her tongue. She moved in slow-motion, languid and unhurried. With that same pace, she approached the biggest toe, but there the similarities ended. She bit at the tip, sucked it hard, nibbled at the ball of the toe, and at the meaty base where it attached to his foot. Made juicy, slurping sounds that had Jamal's muscles tightening all over his body. Then she stopped.
"This slave,” she whispered, “though unworthy, desires to please you. Will you permit it?"
Jamal nodded, probably too aroused to speak.
The slave girl eased up onto the foot of the sleeping couch. She lightly caressed him, running her hands up both legs, applying an asking pressure, just enough to indicate what she wished, to the insides of his thighs. He cooperated, lying back on his forearms, widening the space between his legs as he watched her crawl up on her belly, like a sensuous snake. Her tongue emerged from between her lips to lap at his testicles. They drew up, tightening with the pleasure she instigated.
She drew a wet, hot line up the center of the sacs, took them into her mouth, moving her head from side-to-side so that her mouth caressed his balls while her nose and eyelashes brushed the base of his jerking penis.
She spent a long time moving up to the tip of his throbbing rod. When she took him fully into her mouth, he came up off his arms, groaning, and grabbed her head, bringing her closer. The powerful muscles of his arms contracted, forcing her head forward and back on his length, and she worked with him, driving him to the point of madness.
He used the same strong muscles to pry her off and position her under him. Elma spread her legs wide, and with no hint of reservation, thrust her hips up to meet Jamal's descending shaft, crying out at the tearing pain of his entering.
The encounter was fast and turbulent; Elma's head thrashed on the pillows, her hair tangling wildly as she fought for control of the situation. Her legs locked about his hips, she held him with a passionate grip that belied her small stature while Jamal plunged blindly between her legs, his mouth frantic at her breasts, feasting from one to the other until both were rosy pink and swollen from his rough attentions.
When he felt himself reaching his peak, Jamal reached down between their heaving bodies to manipulate the small bud hidden inside her lower lips. The woman exploded against him with a warbling cry, her body convulsing mindlessly yet powerfully, forcing him to bear down on her to avoid being bucked off. When he was sure she had gained her pleasure, Jamal thrust a few more times before withdrawing from the hot pulsating sheath. With a lusty cry, he let go, spraying Elma's belly with his seed in a long climactic stream that left him drained and numb.
He came to himself to find Elma nestled against him, purring in her sleep like a contented kitten. His weak moral fiber disgusted him. He should have been stronger. How could he have given in to the woman's lures? He was infuriated that he had fallen into his father's trap. Under all the disgust and fury, another emotion rose to choke him.
Now that passion had receded, guilt inundated Jamal.. The face he had visualized at the moment of climax had not been the exotic one of the woman sleeping beside him, but that of an innocent, gray-eyed face framed with inky-black curls.
He rose from the mussed bed, the rich, heavy scent of sex wafting about him as he flung on his shirt and trousers. Marching to the door, he summoned Seuliman, steeling himself against the knowing look on his servant's face. In a voice more growl than words, he commanded the removal of Elma to his women's quarters. “Seuliman, see she receives the coins tradition demands as she pleased me well."
He ignored her sultry pleas that he send for her soon and, feeling drained and weary, made his way back to his room. The mingled smells of his and Elma's secretions slapped at him, and he ripped the soiled bedding off, before throwing himself down on the bare mattress.
He closed his eyes and immediately she was there. He visualized her as she had been at his trial, saw the way she used her hands in speaking gestures, the sparkle in her fine gray eyes. In his mind's eye he traced the curve of her breasts, defined by the bodice of her pink day dress. He saw her rosy, slightly pouty lips with their perfect cupid's bow and despite the fact that he had just been sexually satisfied, his manhood stirred at the sweet memories.
He groaned and flopped over onto his stomach, pressing his wayward member into the surface beneath him. He wanted her with a desire that went beyond lust. His memories were two years new, and had never dimmed. He laughed at himself, shaking his head over the pathetic fact of being in love with a woman whose name he had never heard. A woman he had never met, would never have a chance to woo. He cursed himself for a fool.
Chapter Twelve
Oh, my son, of course I forgive you. You do not know how happy you have made me. I confess I was worried you would resent my past when you learned of it. Please bear in mind I had no choice in what happened to me. I thanked God daily that your father loved me as he did, and was able to accept you despite your being the actual son of some other man. You do understand that by Turkish law and tradition, being his slave, I was married to Selim in a way. Randolph always told me I had nothing to be ashamed of. He loved you as if you were truly his. He was quite happy to adopt you, to make sure you would inherit, even though people always thought you were his natural child (Randolph and I were married on board ship before reaching England). The years went by and we found we could not have children together. Randolph said you were God's way of giving him a child. As you grew, we could see the likeness of Selim in you, but as Selim was a worthy man in his own way, we felt no alarm. We never envisioned that you would ever come face-to-face with your real sire, and so we put off speaking to you about it. Randolph was going to talk with you before you became seriously interested in matrimony, just so you would be aware of your bloodlines. By blood and name, you are related to royalty, and have much to be proud of. Through blood, you are part of the Ottoman family which has ruled the majority of Europe for over five hundred years. And through your Wyndmere name—which you are legally entitled to—you are connected to the Royal house of Stuart.—Mum
Chapter Thirteen
The House of Tears
Ankara, Turkey December 1800
In the Old Palace—often called the Palace of the Unwanted Ones, but best known as the House of Tears—Mihrima Sultana was busy plotting the downfall of her old rival, Nakshedil Sultana, favored wife of the late Sultan, and once known as Aimée DeBucq de Rivery. A foul curse falling from her lips, Mihrima Sultana contemplated with relish, the difficult task of bringing about the destruction of the hated French witch.
Unlike herself and Nükhet Seza Sultana—another widow of the late Sultan Abdülhamid—the third Kadin, whose harem name meant Embroidered on the Heart, had not been banished to the House of Tears. No. She had, along with her son, Mahmud, been asked to remain in the main Seraglio. The new Sultan, Selim, nephew to her late husband, had asked this. It was unheard of unseemly.
Mihrima's fine stable of spies had informed her of the many sexual meetings between Selim and Nakshedil. Mihrima seethed. Not content with having st
olen away the affections of their late husband, the loose woman was now attempting to ensnare the present Sultan in her coils, though the Koran strictly forbade their sexual congress. Long years ago, Nakshedil had pretended to convert to the true faith, yet consequent events were proving her conversion false. For if she was truly devout, she would have insisted that she, along with the rest of the late Sultan's entourage, also be sent to the House of Tears.
Mihrima Sultana was not fooled. She knew what the French woman was planning. Royal sons died easily in the harem, and Mihrima had always known that her own son would ascend to the Peacock Throne only if she were diligent in preventing any harm to befall him while another occupied the seat of power.
With both of the other wives having sons, she had known the competition and danger to be doubled. Just before the late Sultan's death, Mihrima had taken care of Nükhet Seza's son, arranging his death with no one the wiser; having been careful to also eliminate the boy's murderer. Now the only remaining threat to her son was that brat of Nakshedil's. Mahmud must die, in order that Mustapha's way to the throne remain clear.
Mihrima had lately, of course, heard rumors of the gavür son who had appeared so suddenly to claim unheard of privileges from the soft-hearted Selim. She did not, however, count him as a threat.
Selim might be a doting father, but he would never leave his Empire to an infidel who knew not the Koran, nor followed its sacred teachings. No. This son might be feted and pampered, but he would not ascend to the greatest throne in the world. She, alone, would be the Valide Sultana; the most powerful woman in the most powerful Empire. And she was willing to do anything towards that end. With that thought in mind, she clapped her hands sharply, summoning her personal eunuch, who was never out of earshot.
Kubota hurried gladly into the presence of his mistress. He had been with Mihrima Sultana for many, many years. Long-ago, at the age of thirteen, his wish to enter her service had led to him becoming one of the hairless—the true translation of the word: eunuch. Now, standing in his mistress’ doorway, his memories swept him back to that fateful time...
He had willingly undergone the castrati procedure. For weeks before the operation, he had questioned many eunuchs. How painful was it? What was the success rate? Did one lose all desire for women? There had been as many answers as there had been eunuchs. His passionate love for Mihrima had driven him forward.
No amount of preparation could have lessened his shock and pain during the operation. The physicians had tightly bound his belly and the upper parts of his thighs with white strips of cloth to prevent excessive bleeding. He had reclined on a stone slab while his penis, testicles, and the surrounding areas were washed with hot water that had been boiled with peppercorns. When this cleansing procedure was complete, both organs were sliced off with a knife curved in the shape of a sickle, removed as close to the body as possible.
They'd used n, and the pain had been intense. During the last phase of the operation, a small pewter tube or spigot was inserted into the main orifice at the base of the penis, and the wound covered with paper soaked in cold water. Then the whole was bound up. Immediately, he was made to walk about the room for three hours, his pain-weakened body supported by two assistants.
The following three days he was denied all liquids. He suffered greatly from the pain of the operation, as well as from unbearable thirst. The need to urinate was excessive, overwhelming, yet the inserted pewter tube allowed no passage of water from his swollen bladder. At times, he thought he would burst from the pressure inexorably building within his pain-racked body. At the end of the third day, the bandages were unwrapped and the spigot removed.
No urine flow issued forth, and Kubota trembled, for he knew the horror stories; knew that the eunuch who was unable to void was doomed to a miserable and hideous death. Panic blossomed, and he wailed loud and long. His cries came to an abrupt halt and he gasped with surprise as the physician placed a hand on his swollen abdomen, pressing hard against the bladder.
A stream of urine shot away from his body, fountaining out in vast amounts. So great was his relief, Kubota's legs gave way beneath him. The assistants held him while his body joyfully emptied itself of the enforced build-up. Tears welled up in his eyes. The intense force of the jetting stream sparked a sexual climax. Whimpering and shaking as the storm rolled over him, too caught up to care that the physician and assistants watched him in his ecstasy, Kubota rode the never-ending ejaculation. Ever after, he would associate sexual pleasure with the relieving functions of the bladder...
Kubota was of average height, about five feet, eight inches. His muscles were still fairly well-defined, for before the operation, he had already been producing testosterone. Lately though, with both scrotum and penis removed, and his body no longer manufacturing the needed hormone, his muscles had begun to turn flabby. He was now putting on the fat bulk normally associated with eunuchs created before puberty.
His dark eyes intent on the woman old enough to be his mother, yet loved in a very different way, Kubota stoically awaited her wishes. For this woman he had given up a “normal” life, and to this day he would change nothing. He never regretted his irreversible steps. He was exclusively hers. Being the Sultana's personal eunuch prohibited him having recourse to any other female in the harem. He was never apart from her long enough to engage a male lover. He even slept before his Lady's chamber. A deep codependency had developed between the mistress and slave-lover.
It was from the Sultana Kubota received his most intensely felt pleasure. It was in servicing her sexual needs that his life took on its true meaning. He knew he was good at it. It had once been said that he was among the most skillful of eunuchs experienced in giving pleasure to women.
The Sultana had once loaned him to a high-born lady, and it was later rumored the Lady had been divorced by her Lord because she ever after complained he could not please her as well as a certain eunuch. Kubota had always felt there was much pride to be taken in that.
The Sultana finally deigned to beckon him, her eyes holding a certain sultry gleam so that, even before she touched him, his body began to tremble in anticipation. Oh, he recognized the signs. They would take pleasure of each other before she informed him of whatever business she required of him. He advanced to her couch, going down on his knees before her.
Her scent washed over him, a mixture of sandalwood and the exotic remnant of the gelincik pills she habitually chewed. He quivered, his nostrils flaring as he caught the mustier scent of her sex. Her soft hand came to stroke down his dark cheek, and he closed his eyes, pressing closer against her palm, happy to be where he was.
A finger under his chin lifted his face until his eyes meshed with his mistress'. Unspoken communication arced between them. In silent reverence, Kubota moved to the end of the narrow divan occupied by the Sultana. In a voluptuous move, she shifted onto her back, allowing her legs to fall gracefully to either side of the couch, baring herself to her slave. She sighed softly as the sheer material draping her drifted with her movements, sliding deliciously over her exposed flesh.
It was a languid dance, one well-rehearsed. Each partner intimately familiar with their steps, moving in a choreographed ritual perfected over the years with much practice. Being a slave, Kubota approached his love from her feet, kissing the balls of each foot and progressing upward. Her toes arched upward, away from his mouth, and a fierce excitement welled in him.
So, she would play the reluctant lover today. She would resist, forcing him to wrest each response from her unwilling body.
He smiled.
Oh, the power that would be his. Kubota exalted within, knowing his mistress would soon be writhing beneath him, helpless to deny the ecstasy he would force upon her. And then she would reward him. She would stroke and caress him, finally taking the hollow tube, and with her own hand, insert it into his urethra. His urine would spurt from him in ecstatic bursts, fountaining hot and foamy like heady beer into the vessel waiting beside the mistress’ divan. His bladd
er tightened in anticipation; his signal of sexual excitement. Mouth watering, he bent his head, his tongue coming forth to gently tease the sensitive cleft that already throbbed and wept, begging for his attention. Carefully, he gathered a pearl of moisture from her open petals and meticulously spread it over the aching spot just within her woman's portal. Then, with long, lush swipes he laved the lushly fragrant groove till it dripped with a mixture of her juices and his own.
Mihrima Sultana danced upon her couch, her body abandoned to pulsing pleasure, thoughts of murder and revenge giving way to the elemental satisfaction that, though not all she craved, was all she would avail herself of. She was faithful to the teachings of the Koran. As the wife of a Sultan, no other male could penetrate her.
Alas. She was forgotten. There was no Sultan to call her to his bed, no man to ease her need. She had only this hairless one, this non-man with tongue and hands of fire that scorched her even as they cooled her ever-raging inner heat.
* * * *
There were voices calling her, tugging at her, worrying her until she could find no rest. She twisted on hot coals and dreamed of ice-laden rivers chilling her flesh. Her parched lips cracked and bled, were soothed, and cracked again. She would have pleaded for water but she had no voice, no mouth, only the lips that cracked and bled. She stumbled through a dense darkness, lost and frightened and alone. Her tears fell but could not cool her heat-flushed cheeks. And always there were voices pleading, begging and demanding something of her. Something she fought against, something beyond her strength...
Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets Page 10