Of the worried servants assigned to the royal person, Tubal, alone, felt relatively safe, though even he recognized the dangers of allowing the Sultan's rage to continue. Soon, his Ottoman temperament would escalate, driving him to action—something that needed to be avoided at all costs—for when driven by unreasoning anger, the Sultan was capable of any atrocity.
Tubal searched his mind for some way to draw his master's thoughts away from the debacle of the night past, but as it turned out, he saw Selim had supplied his own distraction. Two eunuchs were now entering the room, hauling a frightened, struggling Susan between them. They came to a halt before Selim, who was reclining on his day-bed, and threw the woman to her knees, one of them holding her down with one strong, muscular hand. A buzzing noise filled the chamber as the servants engaged in whispered conversations of wild conjecture.
A sharp hand-clap thundered over her head, causing a sudden silence to fall over the room, and Susan reared up as far as she could under the restraining palm, twisting her neck to gain a glimpse of the one responsible for her being brought from her cousin's bedside. Try as she might, she could only see the sharp angle of a swarthy, clean-shaven chin, part of a slim shoulder covered with expensive, heavily embroidered cloth that looked like a brocade, and the outline of long legs, their exact shape hidden by the drape of wide-legged baggy trousers fashioned out of a buttery-colored linen material.
His feet, high-arched, lean and definitely masculine, were bare. The toes were long and square with a light sprinkling of fine black hairs dusting their backs. They fascinated her. Susan had never seen a man's naked feet before, and she stared at the ones in front of her with a blank, uncomprehending gaze. In all her childhood years, she could not recall seeing her father without his shirt and points. He had never exposed his chest or arms, let alone his lower extremities. Even while living in the wilds of the American Colonies, her parents had maintained a genteel modesty that had protected and shielded their small daughter. Now this one glimpse of masculine toes brought home to her the alienness of her position—those ignominiously bare toes told Susan how far away from home she was, and how far from any hope of safety....
"Get up!” The voice crackled with power and authority, and drew Susan's wandering attention like a gun-shot.
Susan scrambled to stand. Fear made her legs weak, tangled her feet in her long, voluminous robes. With a startled cry, she caught at the arm of one of the towering eunuchs beside her, trying to abort her fall. To her dismay, he jerked away from her, a look of pure terror crossing his face. She pin wheeled frantically making a futile attempt to regain her balance. Failing, she clumsily sank back to the ground, eyes closing in deep embarrassment, cringing at the soft sounds of sadistic laughter.
Her second attempt was more successful, and she gained her feet to stand resolutely upright, her light green eyes glittering with suppressed emotions as she boldly met the hooded gaze of the man seated in nonchalant splendor before her. She ignored the audible gasps of the servers and eunuchs at her audacity, taking this opportunity to examine the one responsible for all her present troubles.
"Do you know who I am?” The man questioned, appearing mildly amused at her daring scrutiny.
She was fairly certain of his identity, having recently seen it faithfully reproduced in the visage of his son. While both the Sultan and the Duke had eyes of the same burnished, tawny gold, the Duke's facial features were more civilized, Susan thought, harking back to her instinctual feminine reaction to Wyndemere. Yet, the man before her was also impressive in facial feature and bearing.
Despite her lack of knowledge in these matters, Susan couldn't help recognizing the sheer maleness of the specimen seated so regally, examining her with a disturbing thoroughness. This man radiates masculinity!
"You are the Sultan, I presume.” Susan gulped, gave a nervous toss of her head, unused to such boldness. Merri was the fire-eater, yet, while she had rarely spoken up, Susan was not a coward. She had no intentions of allowing this man to reduce her to a cowering lump! She did some scrutinizing of her own.
The Sultan did not appear overly tall; though she realized she might be mistaken about that—height being difficult to judge while a person is seated. His skin was pale, almost sickly so. Ink-black hair fell back from his wide forehead in deep waves, contrasting dramatically with the matte pall of his coloring. His physique, though slight, was muscular and his taste in clothes was impeccable. He was dressed in more jewels and ornaments than Susan had ever seen gathered together in one place and time on one body.
She stood close enough to catch the occasional whiff of his breath, and she found it pleasant. Minty, with a crisp under-tone of ... bell peppers? Cucumbers? She could not place the scent, and could not think why it should be so important, nevertheless, her mind worried over it until she identified the smell as celery. For some reason, she found it hilarious that the Sultan's breath should smell of celery. She giggled.
"You are correct. I am Selim, third of the name ... your master, girl.” He stopped, frowning. “I find your behavior, your levity, unseemly."
Susan jumped at his voice, eyes huge and startled, the pupils dilated widely. “My father is my master,” she said, shaking inwardly. “My King is my master. You are merely my ... abductor.” She silently congratulated herself on the steadiness of her voice even though she hadn't managed to keep her knees from knocking.
Selim raised one thin finger, and with that small gesture, a eunuch moved with quiet dispatch, his powerful fist sweeping across Susan's unsuspecting face. A flash of blinding pain knocked Susan to her knees, where she huddled in shocked horror, cradling her throbbing cheek with a shaking hand.
"By my will, you live,” the Sultan informed her coldly. “It is by my will you are cared for and pampered. Your continued well-being is also subject to my will. Take care you do not cause me to demonstrate my ill-will further.” His chilly warning fell on receptive ears.
With a tilt of his head, Selim regarded her, perhaps seeking to see the level of her distress. Susan wisely remained silent. When the Sultan gestured for her to rise, she did so with fearful alacrity. It wasn't as easy to meet his eyes this time, still Susan brought her gaze up to clash with the golden predatory stare that seemed to pin her in place.
There was something inimical in the eyes that burned into her. Though she had never seen such a look focused on her before, Susan shivered, realizing she stared into the heart of uncontrolled lust. Even as she came to that conclusion, Selim's tongue slid out to damp his lips, and he brought his hand up to wipe at the corners of his mouth where excess moisture had gathered.
Fear coiled through Susan, leeching courage from her knees. Her milky complexion turned pasty white. “Why have you sent for me?” she questioned, afraid of the answer.
Selim slid back, leaning sideways and lifting his right leg over the arm of his throne, where he allowed his foot to dangle nonchalantly. His eyes roamed over her body, seeming to miss nothing. His greedy gaze latched onto the high, round curves of her breasts that were heaving in an attempt to draw air through fear-constricted lungs. Eyes clung to the round pink flesh of the arms visible through the sheer drape of the traditional harem garb, to the flair of womanly hips that flowed gracefully into long slim legs.
His manhood stirred and rose, tenting his robes, calling attention to its expanding dimensions. He did nothing to conceal his aroused state. Rather, he watched as Susan's eyes were unwillingly drawn to his lap, where the pillar of his penis was a bold shape beneath his thin robes, and smiled a shark's enjoyment as pink flowed in a hot tide up over her face before she lowered her face and gaze, hiding her shocked reaction.
"Why else would I send for you? What other need of you could I possibly have save that most elemental one?"
As he taunted her slyly, Selim dropped a hand to his lap, unashamedly caressing his growing arousal. Watching, watching while Susan jerked dismayed eyes away from the graphic motions, only to have her gaze inch back again and again in horr
ified fascination.
He watched her delicate tongue dart out to lick dry lips, all the while allowing his lean, long-fingered hand to delineate the shape of his aching shaft, making the fall of his robes work for him. Brazenly, wanting to shock the composure from the calm-looking woman standing rigidly before him, Selim threw up his robes and opened the fastening of his pants to reveal his hard, pulsating member.
The woman stared transfixed, hardly seeming to breathe as the red, bulbous head of his cock weaved and bobbed at her—a cobra with flared head that moved to the seductive, beckoning music of the magic flute of lust. Her knees shook, and she glanced about, pitifully seeking help. Every gaze except one was stony with indifference, or rapt with lechery.
"Does The Master of Earth and Sky wish to record this joining in the Book of Nights before retiring to his bed-chamber?” Tubal's voice shattered the brooding silence in the room, disrupting the building sexual tension.
Frustrated, Selim loosed his anger at Tubal, roaring, “Only you would have the balls to interfere—if you had any balls!” Selim knew his old retainer well, knew Tubal had used the innocuous question to call a halt to his pleasurable torture of the English woman. He was not accustomed to reigning in his desires. He rose from the wide chair, rearranging his clothing. His voice hoarse, he snarled, “You over-step your bounds, old man!"
"I only wished to know if I should record your joining, as the woman might well become with child from this ... encounter,” Tubal returned sharply. “You seem to be very fertile where English women are concerned."
Every person in attendance knew Selim had fathered only one child: Jamal, from his English mother.
"Horse shit!” Selim's glare dared any of the eunuchs to react by so much as a blink. “Always too tender hearted, you don't like my taunting of the wench,” he sneered.
"I am sure you will gain immense pleasure reducing the female to a shivering wretch, incapable of responding to your amorous overtures.” Tubal sniffed. “I merely felt it beneath your dignity to be conducting your affairs before the eunuchs.” His cold gaze and elevated eyebrows indicated the engrossed look on the servants’ faces; each and every one busy storing up this juicy event for later gossip.
"I would think the eunuchs all remember my displeasure in the form of a whipping a short time ago,” the Sultan reminded, the threat clear in his voice, “I doubt they would like to forego their tongues as well as their man hoods.” His words wiped the avid looks off the faces of the “hairless". He smiled.
Standing ignored in the middle of the room, Susan felt near to fainting. She was innocent, not ignorant, and she knew the fate awaiting her. The Sultan meant to ravish her, to impale her with that enormous ... jade stem ... pillar of power ... ivory tower ... Whichever one of the hundred-and-one names used for the male organ, his looked to be a battering ram. He would split her in two with that monstrous thing! She quaked in her flimsy slippers at the thought, newly ashamed that she had so blithely sent Merri off the night before, to contend with this self-same thing. Fearsome!
She vowed to throw herself at Merri's feet in abject apology, the first chance she got. Of course, she probably would never have that opportunity for she would surely die at the Sultan's hands should he continue with his obvious plans. Well, not at his hands, per se...
Selim, his tirade brought to a halt by the impeccable reasoning of his long-time servant, was not best pleased at having been shown his error. The frown distorting his face was fierce, and his temper flared anew. It was the woman's fault, he reasoned petulantly. Her beauty had bewitched him, her innocent guile overpowering his senses.
He turned to her, observing her trembling with a satisfied smirk. He walked up to her, around her, one hand coming up to trail a line across her shoulders, back, and breasts as he completed his circle. She shook mightily, but did not move to protest. Wise of her! His intent cruel, his hands strong, his movement unexpected, Selim ripped all three layers of the flimsy robes from Susan, exposing her to the waist. She shrieked, bending over and bringing her hands up, desperate to conceal her sudden nakedness.
Selim glanced at Tubal, gestured back toward Susan. “I trust it is all right to reveal my slave before the eunuchs?” he asked Tubal. “Surely I can allow them to at least see this beauty and bounty they may never touch."
Tubal refused to answer, letting his eloquent eyes speak for him.
Displeased, Selim turned back to Susan, slapping at her frantic hands. “Stop that!” he ordered sharply. “Stand up straight, and push those luscious breasts out at me!” When she continued to cover her blushing flesh, he warned, “I will have you taken to the city square and publicly stripped and whipped!"
With a smothered sob, Susan dropped her arms. Face hot with shame, she stood still as a statue, eyes trained on a blank spot on the wall. She told herself the men watching her so avidly were not men, that they were used to seeing naked women that this meant nothing...
It didn't work. She could not delude herself about the lustful intent of their stares. Merri had told her about Laihla's eunuch. They had also heard how some of the eunuchs tied fake instruments about their waists and serviced the women thusly. She felt the weight of their panting interest, and continued to stand still, hands half curled into fists at her side. It was the hardest thing she had ever done.
"Better!” Selim crooned, the tip of a finger rubbing at her lips, across the tops of her breasts, pushing in a nipple, then circling it. He walked behind her, sliding his hands around to curl about her swelling curves. She overflowed between his splayed fingers, and he caught her nipples between the scissors of two fingers, squeezing them into prominence. His hands were hot against her pebbled skin, sending electric shocks through her as he plumped and hefted the small weight of her breasts.
Susan felt her nipple hardening under his ministrations, her body out of control, and a tear joined the rebellion, slipping down her cheek. He saw it ... brought the drop to his lips. “The tears of the vanquished—” he sighed, closing his eyes as he savored the salty moisture “—nectar of the gods!"
His hands slid down her ribcage, grabbing and bunching the material that rode low on her hips, tugging until Susan stood exposed before the salivating servants and their master, her pink and white flesh shrinking under their concentrated scrutiny.
Selim's hooded gaze traveled her trembling form, sought out the apex of her thighs. His rod jerked into a longer length, his scrotum tightened and drew up in delicious anticipation.
By Allah! But the woman excited him! The dainty tufts of reddish-blonde hair partially hiding the jewel peeking from between the woman's thighs looked soft and inviting. The pouty lips were little hillocks covered with whispy fronds. At long last, he understood his son's strange addiction to feminine hair! How he longed to delve into that forest, to plant his stone tower among her sweet grasses!
Susan, standing cold and humiliated in the midst of slavering beasts, watched with trepidation as the Sultan circled her once more. He placed his hands where they were not welcomed, making her squirm in discomfort and disgust when he slid a questing finger down the sensitive crease of her bottom. Through it all, she stood still—at least she tried—until the tip of one long masculine finger parted the hair guarding her mound, burrowing its marauding way up inside the portal of her femininity, testing, probing its narrow channel.
Fear, and some other nameless emotion, uncoiled in her belly, pushing out caution. Driven beyond care, beyond reason, her open hand landed a telling blow against the Sultan's sculpted cheekbone. I will die now, she mused uncaring, sure the Turkish potentate would kill her for her unthinking assault.
Selim gingerly felt his cheek. The area where her blow had landed was hot to the touch, sore. He said nothing ... just stood there touching one finger to his hurt, his eyes burning.
"Sire! She is untrained, unused to the ways of the harem and court—"
"Tubal ... I love you, but leave me. Take all but my personal guard and go from my presence now!” Selim poi
nted to the door, eyes narrowing in earnestness “—before I have to kill you. I will not, even from you, tolerate another interruption!"
When Selim turned his face back to Susan, the indulgent look he had worn while watching his loyal servants leave had evaporated. Capturing her gaze and imprisoning it, he began revealing the powerful lines of his strangely beautiful body. Inch by slow inch, forcing Susan to watch by the sheer strength of his will, he methodically removed his robes and pants. When he stood naked before her, he lifted his gaze to his guard, gesturing with his eyes.
Obeying a silent order, three eunuchs moved to the side of the wary woman. Two taking an arm, they lifted her from the floor, and with a hand under each knee, spread wide her thighs. Behind her, facing in the opposite direction, the other guard bent over so her bottom rested on his back. Susan struggled, sobbing raggedly, but couldn't break free from their hold. Tears streaking down her face, she lost all control and bucked in the eunuchs’ grasp, desperate to get away. To close herself to Selim's lascivious attentions became her life's goal.
Selim moved into the space between her spread legs, bringing her struggles to naught, while the two “hairless” immediately adjusted Susan to his height. He leaned into her, letting her feel him there, at the door of her quivering womanhood. Catching her jaw in his grasp, he brought her face around to gaze into her eyes. He was so close; his breath stroked her face, his rasping words frightening her with their intensity.
"To strike me is a capital offense. By doing so, you have earned a slow, painful death,” he whispered against her lips. His eyes narrowed as he continued, “I would have taken you on a soft bed, in privacy—regardless of what I chose to do as preliminaries—but your rash action has changed that. Now I will take you as a punishment ... in public, against the back of a slave!"
Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets Page 27