Rajasthani Moon

by Lisabet Sarai

  A series of steps led down into a blue-tiled pool set into the middle of the floor. When she descended the first, warm water rippled against her shins, gentle, deliciously soothing. With her second step, the bath rose to her waist. A scent of jasmine drifted up from the surface. “Oh, how lovely!” she could not help exclaiming. She crouched, letting the soft, fragrant water caress her aching shoulders. The welts from Pratan’s beatings stung, but that didn’t diminish the intense sense of comfort the bath induced.

  “Just get yourself clean, spy.” Sarita tossed her a bar of soap, easily as fine as any in London, but perfumed with sandalwood rather than lavender. “The Rajah is waiting.”

  That reminder was hardly a strong motivation for Cecily to hasten her toilette. She drew out the bath as long as she dared, not merely out of concern for the future but in order to enjoy the exquisitely pleasurable present as well. When she washed her sex, it tingled with the echoes of Pratan’s ferocious invasion. She couldn’t resist circling a soap-slippery thumb around her bud, which only made it swell and pulse and demand further attention.

  She glanced up at Sarita. Her comely warder was peering through the latticework that covered the windows, pointedly ignoring her charge. Bhuni was watching the pool, but her flat, empty eyes showed little actual interest. If Cecily was careful, she might just manage…

  Two fingers slipped into her cleft to find flesh even hotter than the water buoying her up. The aromatic oils in the bath seemed to enhance rather than diminish her natural lubrication. She stroked in and out in a slow, even motion, so as not to excessively agitate the surface of the pool. Meanwhile, she strummed her clit, gentle at first but with increasing urgency.

  Her lascivious dream from the previous night filled her thoughts—her eager consumption of Pratan’s bulging cock, the jerk of his flesh against her tongue, the taste of his taut skin, salt and earth and a hint of horse. Her right hand busy between her thighs, she lathered her breasts with her left, smoothing the rich suds along the curves and over her tender nipples.

  Oh, there, that’s right, just a bit off to the side… Her hips bucked against her probing fingers. She risked a hard pinch to one nipple, closing her eyes and choking down her gasp at the resulting sensation. Pratan was taunting her, holding up her precious vibrating egg while fondling his rampant cock Frustration gnawed at her, even as she burrowed into her quim and felt herself tremble on the edge of spending.

  Now the Rajah joined his scoundrel brother, more refined, less hairy, but with the same mocking grin lighting his face and a similar huge, juicy rod jutting from his loins. Damn them, she thought. I’ll make them pay. Then, in her mental magic lantern show, Amir brandished a bullwhip, Pratan rattled a set of iron shackles, and Cecily tumbled into climax, writhing and thrashing as fierce pleasure spiralled out from her core to her extremities. Overcome with delight, she sank beneath the surface of the bath.

  Rough hands seized her hair and hauled her back up. Her eyes fluttered open to meet Bhuni’s hard gaze. “What’s going on?” Sarita’s voice sliced through Cecily’s post-orgasmic fog.

  “Ah—” Cecily sputtered and coughed, her frantic reaction not entirely feigned. “Uh… I slipped, Lady Sarita. And I can’t swim. I guess I panicked, for a minute. I’m sorry.”

  The court lady nodded to Bhuni, who released her grip on Cecily’s abundant locks. “Hmph. Well, you’ve been in there long enough. If you’re not clean now, you’ll never be.” Unsteadily, her legs still shaky after her orgasm, Cecily climbed out of the sunken tub. “Bhuni, rinse her off.”

  The guard uncoiled a flexible pipe from a rack on the ceramic-tiled wall and twisted a brass knob. A blast of cold water hit Cecily’s breasts, sluicing away the soap and the scented oils.

  “Ow!” Her exclamation was due more to shock than anything else. In fact, the sharp sting of the spray on her still-tender flesh rekindled the sensations of her recent spend.

  Sarita marched her into an adjoining room to dress. As Cecily donned the peacock blue sari laid out for her, and the matching crystal-studded kid slippers, she wondered again at the apparent prosperity of the Rajasthani realm. Everything she’d seen of the palace—the carved and gilded pillars supporting the ceiling, the intricate mosaics on the floor, the glow globes fashioned of precious metals and inlaid with gems—spoke of wealth and ample resources. Cut off from a supply of viridium, the lifeblood of the modern world economy, Rajasthan should have been desperate and impoverished, or at the very least relying on the most basic and primitive power sources—human and animal. On the contrary, it appeared that Amir and his people possessed some technologies even Her Majesty lacked.

  She had to discover how Rajasthan had managed to survive the embargo in such a handy fashion. Perhaps her apparent status as the Rajah’s prisoner might actually make that easier than it would have been had she managed to maintain her cover story.

  The dressing room did not feature a mirror. However, Cecily could tell from Sarita’s sour expression that the opulent costume suited her. The silver-embroidered silk clung to her full hips then fell in graceful folds to her trim ankles. The under blouse, a contrasting pale green, hugged her breasts. Her protruding nipples would have been easily visible if not for the loose end of the sari, which draped across her chest and trailed down her back. The gossamer fabric hid them from a casual glance—though perhaps not from someone determined to survey all her charms.

  Sarita thrust a carved cinnabar box into her hands. “My Lord Amir bade me give you these,” she said, her tone making it clear how reluctantly she obeyed. Inside Cecily discovered exquisite eardrops of lapis and silver filigree, and matching bangles.

  “Does the Rajah treat all his prisoners so generously?” she asked, inserting the wires into her pierced lobes. It was difficult not to sound smug.

  “You represent the spoils of war, Miss Harrowsmith. He decorates you to make you appear more valuable…and for his own amusement. Do not become too attached to this finery,” she added, a cruel light flashing in her eyes. “He’ll have you naked and begging for mercy soon enough, I expect.”

  Cecily shivered slightly. Given what she knew of women, Sarita might be a more formidable enemy than her master.

  “Oh, there’s one more thing we have for you.” The Rajasthani beauty held out what looked like a silvery necklace. Unlike the earrings and bracelets, it was smooth and plain.

  “That’s pretty,” Cecily commented, reaching for the gleaming circlet.

  Sarita snatched it away. “Perhaps. But practical, too. This collar will keep you here where you belong.”

  “What…?”

  “Watch.” Sarita unfastened the shutters and held the collar up to the waning light. “Within the palace walls, a simple ornament. But venture even a few inches outside…” She extended her arm through the open window, the collar in her hand. Cecily heard a snick, as though some mechanism had triggered. When Sarita showed her the silver circle again, four vicious-looking metal spines poked from the rim into the interior. Some sort of liquid dripped from the needle-like points onto the floor. “Had you been wearing the collar, poison would already be pouring into your veins through the puncture wounds. You’d be dead in minutes.”

  A shudder ran through Cecily’s frame, but her horror was not unmixed with admiration. What a fiendishly clever device! Z would sell his right arm to plumb its secrets.

  Sarita manipulated the collar in some way Cecily couldn’t discern. The spikes retracted. After wiping the thing off with a cloth, she beckoned to Cecily. The collar came apart into two half-rings. Sarita approached, clearly intending to encircle Cecily’s neck.

  Something like panic seized the secret agent. Once the collar was installed, her chances of escape would dramatically diminish. Sarita was no more than a few inches away, close enough that her jasmine perfume filled Cecily’s nostrils. A knee in the belly, a blow to the carotid, and she’d be immobilised…

  “Don’t try anything stupid, Cecily,” the other woman purred, her fingertips soft
against Cecily’s throat. “Bhuni is watching your every move. And I can activate the collar with a single touch.” The endpoints of each half-circle sealed together with a click. Cecily’s heart plummeted.

  Sarita stood back, pretending to admire her companion. “There. I think you’re finally ready to be escorted into the presence of the Rajah and his royal brother.” She nodded to Bhuni, who clamped down on Cecily’s arm like some automaton and led her towards the door.

  “It will be amusing to see how long you manage to survive.”

  Chapter Six

  Bhuni marched her along a maze of corridors, through a thousand gates and past a million doors. Cecily rapidly despaired of any attempt to remember their route through the immense fortress. I’ll find a map, she reassured herself. Or I’ll force someone to show me the way.

  When they unexpectedly stepped out into the open air, terror swept through her. Her hands flew to her throat. She waited for the prick of the needles, the agony of the toxin sweeping through her body—but the collar remained static and benign. Peering around her, she saw they had entered a vast courtyard, somewhere in the interior of the palace. It’s not being in the open air that’s the trigger, she reasoned. It must be moving beyond the outer walls.

  Turrets rose above their heads, silhouetted against the setting sun. At the eastern end of the plaza, at least a hundred yards away, stood a scarlet and green pavilion, glittering with lights and topped by dozens of pennants.

  “The Rajah celebrates the birth of the new moon this evening,” Sarita volunteered. “I suspect that you’re to be the main entertainment at the festival.”

  Cecily swallowed her sarcastic reply, merely nodding as they traversed the stone-paved space. Soon she could see the silver crescent emblazoned on each of the flags that danced in the evening breeze. The tent was far vaster than she’d realised. Four tiers of seats rose beneath the flapping fabric, each more lavishly decorated than the ones below it. Many were occupied by men and women, in bright silks and gleaming gold.

  The highest level was occupied by two heavily decorated chairs, one more elevated than the other. The lower chair was empty. In the other sat an opulently attired man whom Cecily recognised as the Rajah.

  A carpeted ramp led from the floor of the courtyard to the base of the thrones.

  “On your knees, spy,” Sarita ordered. “Pay your respects to my Lord, His Magnificence Amir Pratihar Rajput.”

  Cecily bristled at the girl’s authoritarian tone. She was inclined to resist, but the pressure of Bhuni’s ham-like hand on her shoulder, forcing her to the ground, soon banished that notion.

  “Now crawl to the feet of the Rajah and beg for his mercy. Head down! A lowly slave like you may not look upon his exalted form.”

  Cecily hesitated for an instant. The sole of Bhuni’s sandal applied to her bottom gave her the impetus to start up the slope. It was tough going. The voluminous folds of her sari kept getting tangled in her legs, impeding her progress. She knew she must look ridiculous, stumbling along with her arse in the air and her eyes on the intricately-patterned rug. As she passed the nobles assembled on the lower tiers, their whispers and snickers made her cheeks burn.

  Once again Cecily was grateful that her dusky complexion helped hide her discomfiture. She squared her shoulders, tossed her hair out of her eyes, and soldiered on, determined not to disgrace Her Majesty and the Empire.

  “Stop there, Miss Harrowsmith. I doubt I should trust you to approach me more closely.” The voice was deep and mellow, with a lazy, smoky quality that reminded her of full moons and autumn bonfires. The man’s English was practically perfect. His lilting accent only added to the charm of his utterance. She found herself almost eager to obey orders delivered in such a lush voice.

  “Kneel up. Let me look at you.”

  Cecily tried to keep her gaze averted as she complied, though she was desperately tempted to see if the ruler was as handsome in the flesh as in his portrait.

  His chuckle sent a shimmer through her, something like shame but hotter and sweeter. “Very nice indeed. If all of Queen Victoria’s minions were as delectable, we might be more willing to return to her fold.” He laughed again at his own pleasantry. “Guard—the shackles.”

  One of the male attendants flanking the throne strode forward, holding two cuffs of embossed leather. A slender, silvery chain about a foot long trailed between them. In a few breaths, the restraints encircled her ankles, leaving her hobbled.

  “Well, Miss Cecily Harrowsmith— Look at me, woman, don’t stare at your hands like some servant girl—what have you to say for yourself? Are you ready to confess? Do you admit you’ve infiltrated our realm to spy out our secrets and force us back under the thumb of your ambitious Queen?”

  The Rajah leant forward in his chair, no more than half a dozen feet from her. A welcoming smile lit his clean-shaven face, but his eyes were black as coal and sharp as obsidian. Jet curls adorned his forehead, peeking out from under his turban of gold brocade, and jewel-studded ornaments stretched his earlobes. His sensitive mouth and smooth cheeks made him seem somehow softer than his brother—younger, fresher, less jaded. However, the intelligence she read in his gaze quickly dispelled any notion that she was dealing with a callow youth.

  Cecily struggled to muster her thoughts in the face of such outrageous male beauty.

  “Sir—ah… Your Highness, I must beg your pardon and ask for your indulgence. It’s true that I came to Rajasthan to discover how your country has managed since your ill-advised refusal to share your revenues with the Crown. Her Majesty was concerned that without a steady supply of viridium, your people might well be suffering.”

  Amir burst into a merry laugh. “The Queen is concerned about us poor Rajasthanis, is she? Well, as you can see, we are not suffering in the least. You can report back that her concern is misplaced. Better she should be concerned for your well-being, my lady spy.”

  Cecily remained silent, suspecting that the clever Rajah would twist her words regardless of her excuses.

  Amir rose from his throne and stepped forward, until he loomed over her kneeling figure.

  “You may know that Rajasthanis are renowned for their ferocity. The traditional punishment for espionage or treason involves a distinctly unpleasant combination of branding, disembowelling then being left out in the desert to die.” He cupped her chin and raised her eyes to his. “It would be a pity to subject such a delicious creature to that sort of…indignity—but still, there’s no question that you deserve it, is there?”

  His smile grew broader but his eyes remained hard.

  She swallowed her rising terror, striving for a rational, conciliatory tone. “Please, Your Highness—I’m not a spy, merely the Empire’s envoy. The Queen sent me to reopen diplomatic relations. She would like to re-establish contacts with Rajasthan, a connection between equals…”

  “Really? If you’re on an official diplomatic mission, why were you travelling in disguise?”

  “As you note, sir, your countrymen are known for their violence and lawlessness. A woman openly journeying as Her Majesty’s representative would be especially vulnerable to attack by brigands and highwaymen…”Cecily stopped short, overwhelmed by memories of her time with Pratan. Her nipples knotted under the thin fabric of her bodice and moisture painted her thighs. Once again embarrassment heated her face. She tried to tear her eyes from the Rajah’s but he would not allow it.

  He shook his head. “I really don’t know what I should do with you.” He flipped the gauzy train of her sari off her shoulder, exposing the swollen nubs that strained the fabric of her top. “Though I imagine I’ll think of something.”

  For an instant she expected him to reach for her brazenly erect nips, to pinch or twist them. She knew he’d be cruel. A shudder of anticipation raced through her. She sucked in her breath, expecting—no, craving—the debasement.

  He didn’t touch her. Instead, he favoured her with an ironic grin and settled back into his chair. “Sit here, then.”
He indicated a nest of pillows piled to one side of the throne. “For now, I shall pretend that you’re telling the truth, Cecily, and treat you as the honoured representative of a foreign monarch.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” Cecily released the air she’d been holding in her lungs. A bit awkward, she crawled past Amir’s feet to curl up among the cushions, her legs tucked under her. The silver chain tangled in her sari. As she tried to remedy this, she gave it a quick tug to test its strength. The delicacy of the chain was misleading. It seemed as unyielding as the robotic bonds Pratan had employed.

  “The festival will begin as soon as the crescent moon rises above the palace walls.” He favoured her with another brilliant smile, his eyes softer now. “It’s quite a spectacle.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she answered, since he seemed to expect a reply. Leaning a bit closer, close enough that she could feel the heat emanating from his silk-clad form, she lowered her voice and loaded it with honey. “But, sir—is it really necessary that I be shackled like some common criminal? After all the effort I made to get to Rajasthan, to obtain an audience with Your Highness, do you really think it’s likely I would flee?”

  “I don’t plan to give you the opportunity, my lovely. In any case, I like seeing you in chains. They suit you.” And now he did touch her, flicking a jewelled finger across one of her still-taut nipples.

  A blade of pleasure sliced through her. She couldn’t control her gasp.

  “You’ll find that’s one of the many things my brother and I have in common—a fondness for rendering beautiful women helpless.”

  As if conjured by the Rajah’s words, a door swung open behind the thrones—Cecily could see now that, although the canopy was temporary, the tiered viewing platform was built into the wall—and Pratan stepped onto the platform.

  “Amir! I see that you’ve already made Miss Harrowsmith’s acquaintance, Your Highness.” Apparently heedless of royal protocol, the bandit prince bestowed an enthusiastic hug on his brother. “Be careful. She’s a caged tiger. Good evening, Cecily…”