A Total-E-Bound Publication
www.total-e-bound.com
Rajasthani Moon
ISBN # 978-1-78184-333-8
©Copyright Lisabet Sarai 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright May 2013
Edited by Stacey Birkel
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-melting and a sexometer of 3.
This story contains 145 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 6 pages.
RAJASTHANI MOON
Lisabet Sarai
Neither kink nor curse can stop a woman with a mission.
Cecily Harrowsmith, secret agent extraordinaire, is a woman on a mission. When the remote Indian kingdom of Rajasthan refused to remit its taxes to the Empire, Her Majesty imposed an embargo. Deprived of the energy-rich mineral viridium, essential for modern technology and development, Rajasthan was expected to quickly give in and resume its payments. Yet after three years, the rebellious principality still has not knuckled under. Cecily undertakes the difficult journey to that rugged, arid land in order to determine just how it has managed to survive, and if possible to convince the country to return to the Empire’s embrace. Instead, she’s taken captive by a brigand, who turns out to be the ruler’s half-brother Pratan, and delivered into the hands of the sexy but sadistic Rajah Amir, who expertly mingles torture and delight in his interrogation of the voluptuous interloper.
Cursed before birth by Amir’s jealous mother, Pratan changes to a ravening wolf whenever the moon is full. Cecily uncovers the counter-spell that can reverse the effects of the former queen’s hex and tries to trade that information for her freedom. Drawn to the fierce wolf-man and sympathising with his suffering, she volunteers to serve as the sacrifice required by the ritual—offering her body to the beast. In return, the Rajah reveal Rajasthan’s amazing secret source of energy. In the face of almost impossible odds, Cecily has accomplished the task entrusted to her by the Empire. But can she really bear to leave the virile half-brothers and their colourful land behind and return to the constraints of her life in England?
Dedication
To GCS—once again
Chapter One
It would have been much faster to fly.
Alas, Cecily Harrowsmith—special agent for Her Majesty the Queen, expert in the martial arts of three continents, past mistress of princes, potentates and the occasional prime minister—was afraid of flying. She despised herself for this weakness, but not enough to board one of the Empire’s sleek, viridium-powered airships, strap herself into her seat and hope for the best.
Hence the current tedious journey. Cecily peered out of the window of her carriage at the endless expanse of russet-coloured desert stretching in all directions. The mere sight of all that sand was enough to make her throat burn. She sipped her tepid tea, wondering for the twentieth time why she’d accepted this bloody assignment.
For England, of course, and the good of the Empire. Her Majesty could scarcely afford to have her vassal states simply refuse to pay their taxes. When the Rajah of Jaipur had expelled Her Majesty’s tax collectors and declared his kingdom independent, the Queen had imposed a viridium embargo. No society these days could function without the energy-rich mineral. At least this was the theory. Yet the Rajah and his half-brother had held out for the past three years, despite being completely cut off from the Empire’s supply lines.
Cecily’s job was to discover how the isolated principality had managed to survive. She’d also been instructed to convince the errant rulers to return to the bosom of the Empire, if at all possible. If persuasion failed, she was authorised to use force. However, she doubted this would be necessary. Persuasion was after all her forte.
Once more she extracted the portraits of the twin rulers of Rajasthan from her portmanteau to study their countenances. Both had skin the colour of nicely browned toast. Amir, the official Rajah, was clean-shaven, with deep-set eyes, a prominent nose and lips as full as a girl’s. He wore his hair in European style but the rainbow-hued turban perched on his head as well as the loops piercing his well-shaped ears were more than enough to dispel any notion that he’d been anglicised. Pratan looked far less civilised, with tangled black locks reaching to his shoulders and a drooping moustache that gave him a permanent sneer. He shared his brother’s regal nose but his features were more angular, less finished-looking than his aristocratic sibling’s. Both men were strikingly handsome, each in his own way. The paintings provided little information about their figures, but, given the stark, unforgiving nature of their country, Cecily thought it unlikely that they’d be stout. With luck, their bodies would have the same masculine appeal as their faces.
With a sigh, she tucked the images away and settled back against the cushions. Cecily was a woman of action. The two-day journey from Bombay had sorely tried her patience. Miserable roads—cart tracks, really—had limited the speed of her private motorised carriage. She could have travelled many times faster on Britain’s macadam highways.
Nevertheless, she’d been glad to escape the superficial, conservative society of London—the falseness and the gossip, back-stabbing and double-dealing. Not to mention the dank weather and the horribly uncomfortable clothing. She knew how a tightly-laced corset accentuated her ample curves, but she far preferred native dress, especially in this kind of heat. She shook out the voluminous skirt of her chaniya choli, admiring the little mirrors sewn into the blue and orange print. The Rajasthani women wore nothing underneath and she followed suit. It was far more practical when one had to answer the call of nature out here in the middle of nowhere.
The quilted fabric brushed against her unprotected pubis, engendering a pleasant tickling sensation. Now there was an idea for passing the time… When she glanced outside again, she noted that the sun was lower. The land had become rougher and greener as they approached the foothills of the Aravalli range. Jaipur was located on the other side of the mountains.
She tapped one of the buttons on the polished wood control panel to her right in order to signal the driver. “How much longer before we arrive?” she asked in fluent Hindi.
“At least three hours, ma’am,” came the disembodied voice. “Not until after dark, I should think.”
After dark. That wasn’t good at all. Bandits tended to flourish in this sort of wild landscape. “Well, do your best to get us there as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Three hours. She checked the dagger strapped to her upper arm, well-hidden under her sleeve. When she made a fist, the knife shot into her hand, ready for use. Her Majesty’s engineers truly had no equal. There was a miniature pistol tucked into h
er waist as well, a marvel of workmanship no less deadly for its tiny size. These weapons would have to do. If brigands struck, she’d have no time to access the cache of armaments hidden under the clothing in her trunk.
Having satisfied herself that she was as prepared as possible for disagreeable eventualities, Cecily turned to more entertaining activities.
Digging deep into her satchel, she retrieved a leather-bound box the size of two decks of cards. Inside, embedded in red satin, lay an elongated egg of polished brass, the length of her thumb and twice the girth. She cradled the device in her palm. The viridium packed inside made it far heavier than it looked.
She pressed the button at one end. The ovoid erupted into buzzing life. After making sure the communicator circuit on the control panel was turned off, she raised her skirt and pressed the device against the plump, furred area at the top of her thighs.
The effects were immediate, and electric. Despite the indirectness of the stimulation, her quim grew instantly wet. Delicious sensation rippled away from the point of contact. She rubbed the brass egg up and down over her Venus mount, dipping a little lower each time—a little closer to the pearl of flesh peeking out more and more boldly from between her lower lips. That hungry bud screamed to be touched, but she held back, deliberately building the tension.
While her right hand teased her cunny, her left hand slipped under her midriff-length blouse to fondle her pillowy breasts. The skin there was like silk, defying the harshness of the Indian sun. She stroked her thumb along the sensitive outside curve, from near her armpit up to the taut tip. Her sex spasmed in response to that maddening, delicate touch. Aromatic juices seeped into the skirt below her bum. She drew tightening circles around her nipple. How long could she hold out before she pinched the aching nub?
Closing her eyes, Cecily summoned the visage of the Rajah. He licked his ripe lips then smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. A promising bulk distorted his satin pantaloons. His hands clenched into desperate fists by his sides. He was trying to be polite and proper, but she could read the lust in his eyes.
Take me, she urged him. I’m not some fragile virgin. You won’t damage me. He reached for her, stripping her of her clothes, grabbing handfuls of her voluptuous flesh. First he squeezed her full breasts together, massaging them with strong fingers. Then he twisted her nipple hard enough to make her gasp. Before the echoes of pleasure had died away, he sank to his knees and drove two fingers into her soaked pussy.
That’s right. That’s the way. The brass egg nestled deep between her sex lips now, directly in contact with her clitoris. Waves of sensation battered her, each more powerful than the last. She pictured the Rajah’s jet black head, buried between her thighs. Oh yes…
She wanted more, though. She needed more. Deep in her fantasy, she tugged on his hair to get his attention. He stood before her, his lean, muscular form inexplicably but delightfully naked. His erection pointed skyward like a ruddy sword. Wrapping one leg around his waist, she hoisted herself up then sheathed his cock in her hungry cunny.
Oh…! Cecily thrust four fingers into her pussy as she imagined impaling herself on the Rajah’s hard member. Meanwhile, with her other hand, she ground the vibrating orb against her centre. Her pelvis jerking, she rubbed the device against her swollen tissues, desperate for release. Her delving fingers transmitted the tremors to her depths. The vibrations reverberated through her whole sex, amplified by her lewd imaginings.
She was getting close. A climax coiled in her belly, tighter and tighter, ready to strike. The Rajah lifted her off his dripping cock and flipped her over, onto her hands and knees. Digging his fingernails into her fleshy bottom, he drove back into her with a force that shook her entire body. There was nothing left of the cultured prince. He had become an animal.
“Aye…!” Cecily screamed as the combination of extreme stimulation and obscene imagery pushed her over the edge. She came in huge, shuddering convulsions, drenching her clothes and the cushions. Limp with pleasure, she twitched in the aftershocks.
The egg dropped from her nerveless fingers and rolled into a corner.
Then the coach lurched to a sudden stop, flinging her still-quivering body to the floor as well.
Chapter Two
Cecily struggled to right herself but the damp and twisted fabric of her skirt hampered her movements. Hitting the floor scattered the last vestiges of her lascivious daydream. Instantly her mind was clear as crystal, sorting theories and weighing strategies like clockwork.
Bandits seemed the most likely explanation for their sudden halt. If they’d lost a wheel in some wretched gully, the coach would not have been level. And if the driver had been seized by some affliction, the vehicle would have slowed gradually.
A gunshot rang out, followed by a bloodcurdling yell. The door slammed against the outer wall of the carriage as it was flung open. A swarthy, black-haired scoundrel wearing a mask thrust his torso in the aperture. He released an ominous chuckle when he saw that the only passenger was an apparently defenceless woman.
“Your money and your jewels,” he growled in Hindi. “Quick now!”
Cecily lowered her gaze, feigning modesty. Meanwhile, she tightened her hand into a fist to release the knife. Nothing happened.
Her fall must have damaged the mechanism. Bloody machines…
And, in the interim, the bandit had produced his own much longer blade, which he now held to her throat. “Do you understand me, woman?” He switched to Rajasthani. When she still didn’t respond, he tried Gujarati. “Give me your valuables. Now!” Apparently losing patience, he plucked the gold hoop from her left earlobe with his other hand, while still pressing the cold steel against her skin.
“Ow!” she protested as the wire tugged at her flesh before pulling free.
“Aha! You can speak after all!” He glanced around the plush interior, no doubt noting brocaded cushions, the silver tea service, the crystal goblets secured to the wall in their polished wood racks. “You look like you’re loaded, lady. Give me your purse before I get tired of waiting and slit your lovely throat.” Despite her Indian costume and the dusky complexion she’d inherited from her Ceylonese mother, the brigand addressed her in English this time, probably cued by the obvious provenance of the artefacts that surrounded her. The clarity of his pronunciation surprised her.
Sprawled on the floor, tangled in her clothing, Cecily glared up at him. A swathe of dark cloth wrapped around his head hid everything but his deep brown eyes. Sheltering under elegantly arched eyebrows, those eyes glittered with malice and craft. He had long, lush eyelashes that any woman would envy and a high forehead that bespoke considerable intelligence. A brute, no doubt, but scarcely dumb. She’d have to move with the utmost care.
“If you will put somewhat more distance between your blade and my flesh,” she began, keeping her voice sweet and level, “I will be able to reach my money. It’s pinned into my waistband.”
The bandit’s eyes flicked to her bare midriff. She let her hand drift down towards the concealed pistol as though she were about to extricate a hidden pouch of coins.
Before she could reach her goal, he shot out his hand, catching her wrist in an iron grip. “Allow me.” He slipped his dagger into a sheath slung across his chest, then grabbed her other wrist and pinned it with the first. His hand was large enough to encircle both of hers.
“Now, then…” He trailed his fingertips across the naked gap between her blouse and her skirt. Electricity sizzled up Cecily’s spine. The next thing she knew, he slid his hand under the fabric of her skirt, rooting around for items more solid than her soft, round belly.
He groped for a moment, while she held her breath. His calloused fingers struck sparks from her flesh. Of course, he discovered her weapon almost instantly. He drew it out, chuckling once more when he saw its size. Her skin mourned the loss of his touch.
“What a surprise! A gun instead of the promised gold.” He tightened his hold on her wrists until she feared the bones would s
nap. “Who are you, my lady? Not, I think, a common traveller.”
“That’s none of your concern…sir.” Cecily decided that it might be wise to be polite.
“Oh, I think it is. Not many women travel on their own across the wastes of my country, especially in the most modern of conveyances. Those that do are wise to carry a weapon—but this one will not help you. Who sent you, madam? What is your business here?”
“I’ll not share my business with a common brigand.”
“And if I were someone else? Would you tell me then how and why you happen to cross my path?”
Cecily of course had a cover story. Her documents attested that she was the sister of a wealthy Bombay textile merchant, come to Rajasthan looking for business contacts. She was not, however, about to divulge anything to this rogue.
“I will tell you nothing.”
“Indeed? I think I may be able to change your mind.” After tucking the pistol into the folds of his garment, he drew out a length of what, aside from its strange silvery colour, looked like common rope. He dangled it near her trapped wrists. “Bind,” he said.
The rope came alive, coiling like a snake. Quick as a cobra strike, it looped itself around her forearms—once, twice, half a dozen times, pulling tighter with each cycle. Before she could devise a plan, Cecily found her crossed arms were laced together as firmly as the back of a corset.
“How dare you? Untie me at once!”
“So that you can stab me? Or shoot me? Who knows what other cunning devices you have hidden about your charming person? No, on the contrary, I think I’d be wise to bind your legs as well.”
He climbed into the carriage, bringing with him a strong odour of horse and male sweat. Although the vehicle was designed for two passengers, his considerable height and broad shoulders made it feel distinctly crowded, especially with Cecily’s non-trivial bulk occupying a significant area of the floor. He crouched down and reached for her ankle. She scooted away, kicking out at him. Her boot connected solidly with his shin.
Rajasthani Moon Page 1