Rajasthani Moon

by Lisabet Sarai

  Pratan crouched in front of Cecily and, without the slightest warning, took possession of her breasts, fondling and squeezing them like ripe melons.

  “I— You—Release me this instant, you—” Cecily sputtered, fighting the arousal that flooded her. “How dare you?” she added when he didn’t obey, only too aware of the contradictions between her words and her reactions. She gripped his arms, trying to tear his hands from her hungry flesh and noticing despite herself the way his biceps flexed under his satin tunic. He simply ignored her, crushing her aching nipples in his palms. One hand traced the line of her hips then wandered across her belly, finally coming to rest near the juncture of her thighs. All the while, he held her eyes—challenging her to deny her irrepressible lust.

  Amir could scarcely contain his laughter. “Ah, brother, clearly you know our guest far more intimately than I do. But I plan to remedy that soon.”

  Pratan cupped Cecily’s pubis for a moment longer. He teased a finger back and forth along the damp fabric covering her cleft before he rose to seat himself beside his brother. Cecily choked down her cry of frustration. “You’ll find it well worth your while, Amir-ji, but don’t let down your guard.”

  A blast of trumpets rang out from the plaza below. During the course of her interactions with the royal brothers, the space had filled with a milling crowd, which ceased to move in response to the call of the horn. In an archway halfway up the right-hand wall, an aged, mahogany-skinned man wearing nothing but a white loincloth extended his arms towards the darkening sky. A delicate sliver of light glimmered there, as though balanced on one of the palace turrets.

  “Hail the holy moon!” he cried in Rajasthani.

  “Hail the holy moon!” echoed the crowd. The brothers joined in the refrain.

  The brassy blare came again. The mass of people below parted, making way for a trio of fantastically-adorned elephants to approach the viewing stand. The animals’ faces were painted white, with black curlicues swirling around their eyes. Bright scarves fluttered from their ears and strings of bells circled their enormous feet.

  A white-clad child led each beast. Halting at the centre of the arena, each knelt beside his charge. Music rose from somewhere below, urgent drums, pipes, strings, a rousing song with an infectious beat that made it almost impossible to sit still. The elephants moved in unison to the rousing melody, stepping delicately around the children as they wove back and forth across the courtyard.

  “Aiya, aiya! Heya arh!” A lone singer began the chant, but soon everyone in the place joined in, the sound of hundreds of voices rising like thunder in the enclosed courtyard.

  A troupe of acrobats flew into the space, cartwheeling around the dancing animals and tumbling under their bellies. Three of the performers vaulted onto the elephants’ backs to ride them out of the arena while the children clapped and sang.

  Before Cecily could catch her breath, the music changed, flutes weaving a rapid, driving melody spun on a foundation of drums and cymbals. A dozen women skipped into the amphitheatre, twirling and stamping their belled feet, while their circle skirts and gossamer veils swirled around them. The bangles on their wrists flashed with each pirouette like slivers of moonlight.

  The male dancers came next—the drums more insistent, a vocalist wailing along with the something that sounded like a clarinet to Cecily’s Western-influenced ears. The men jerked and capered, their angular movements a sharp contrast to the fluid gestures of the women.

  There was swordplay and trained horses. A girl of incomparable grace danced with a burning lamp balanced on her head. Two near-naked youths executed athletic capers while holding flaming torches in both hands. Next came a mock battle between two automatons. Their metallic armour reflected the glow globes embedded in the stone walls.

  Cecily stole a glance at her captors. Both Amir and Pratan appeared focused on the spectacle. Even as she admired their elegant profiles and pondered her possible fate, however, Amir turned to catch her watching.

  He brushed his fingertips over her hair, before reaching down to stroke the side of her breast through the bodice. The casual touch sent a bolt of pleasure straight to her pussy. “Are you bored, Miss Harrowsmith?”

  “Oh, no, not at all… It’s all extremely impressive. I’m just wondering how you manage everything—where you’re getting the viridium to power the lights and the machines…”

  “You’ll have to do more than just ask if you want to ferret out my secrets.” One finger traced the line of her neckline, idly it seemed, barely grazing her bare skin. Her clit pulsed, all out of proportion to his minimalist caress.

  “I’m willing to do whatever is necessary, Your Highness, to repair the diplomatic breach between your country and my own.” Cecily bit back her groan of frustration as the Rajah withdrew his hand.

  His luscious voice held a mocking edge. “Believe me, Cecily, I intend to test your willingness most fully.”

  She honestly couldn’t decide whether her shiver was owing to fear or anticipation.

  “But look—here’s the final dance.”

  The silver arc of the new moon rode high above the courtyard now. The musicians took up a new song, with a pounding beat Cecily felt deep in her belly. The crowd clustered around the edges of the amphitheatre poured in the centre, churning and writhing to the insistent drums. The brothers stood, swaying with the rhythm, clapping in time.

  Cecily couldn’t bear to sit still. Hampered by the chain and her loose-draped clothing, she clambered to her feet. Everyone was whirling, stomping, wailing along with the singer. The courtyard below was a kaleidoscope, coloured patterns forming and dissolving, shifting before her eyes.

  Pratan was doing a sort of jig that would have been ludicrous if he’d been a less graceful, well-made man. Amir dipped and turned as though entranced by the music. The beat was infectious, impossible to deny.

  The song was a drug—everyone was intoxicated. It flowed through Cecily’s body like molten energy. She had to answer its call, had to move, but her fetters made that impossible. “Please,” she begged. “Unfasten the cuffs.” She seized a handful of Amir’s tunic, trying to make him pay attention. “Free me—let me dance! Please!”

  The Rajah stared at her, still swaying, his eyes unfocused. Gradually he came to his senses. “Oh—you. I’d almost forgotten. The music does that.”

  He leaned in to brush his lips across hers. It was the barest touch, just enough to give her an impression of soft flesh and a whiff of anise. She wanted to scream at his smug grin. Instead, she moaned, as he gave her breast a rude squeeze.

  “Free you? A luscious, sensitive, devious creature like you? Not bloody likely, my dear. Oh no, if you think you’re bound now—just wait for later.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cecily strained against the ropes that held her fast. Loops of rough hemp bit into her flesh, preventing anything but the most miniscule movements. Her nude body had been draped over one of the red-leather-covered ottomans scattered around the opulent apartment. The low stool was broad enough to support her chest and belly but left her arse jutting out into space. Her legs had been spread wide. Then her wrists and ankles had been secured to iron loops embedded in the floor.

  The ungainly arrangement exposed her most delicate parts to anyone who cared to look. A cool evening breeze filtered in through the latticed windows, raising the tiny hairs on her arms and tickling her moist quim like invisible fingers. I must not allow myself to become aroused, Cecily reminded herself. I must remain lucid, rational, alert to any information that might bring me advantage. Alas, the dampness painting her inner thighs suggested she was already losing that battle.

  The indignity of her position enraged her—that they should treat Her Majesty’s envoy in such a way! Still, it couldn’t help but focus her own attention upon her sex. Her lower lips fluttered and her clit pulsed as she imagined, despite herself, the lewd picture she must present.

  To add insult to injury, it had been Sarita who had bound her thus—at th
e Rajah’s instruction, presumably. The lady had not been gentle as she’d stripped away the finery she’d so recently bestowed, forced Cecily’s legs apart, and circled her limbs with the scratchy cord. Her roughness had made Cecily suspect that Sarita was anything but pleased by her assignment.

  It had required every ounce of Cecily’s self-control to resist temptation and not fight back. A well-placed silat melayu punch or a ninjitsu kick would have rendered the haughty young woman helpless for long enough that Cecily might have slipped out of the room. Where could she go, though, naked and constrained as she was by the fiendish collar? Besides, Bhuni and an equally massive colleague stood guard outside the Rajah’s quarters.

  Now Sarita lounged on a carved ebony settee across the room, reading and pointedly ignoring Cecily’s squirming and sighs. Apparently she’d been ordered to remain with the captive, at least until the Rajah arrived.

  He seemed to be taking his time. Cecily’s nose itched. Her over-extended muscles were starting to cramp. Her arousal faded, vanquished by boredom and physical discomfort. Still, there was no sign of the elegant ruler.

  At long last, the door rattled and then swung open. Sarita leapt from her seat, crossed the richly-patterned carpet, and sank to her knees in front of the entering Rajah.

  “My Lord, I have done as you commanded. The spy awaits you.”

  Amir took in Cecily’s shameful state in one astute glance. Amusement was evident in both his voice and his expression. “Excellent work, Sarita. I could hardly have done better myself.” He raised his favourite to her feet and bestowed a kiss upon her lips. She pressed her lithe body against his in an attempt to prolong the embrace, but he gently put her aside and strolled over to confront Cecily.

  “She looks extremely fetching in bondage, just as I’d expected.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Cecily glimpsed the other woman’s deepening scowl.

  “How are you feeling, Miss Harrowsmith?”

  The mockery in his tone was not enough to prevent a surge of renewed lust, which she struggled to suppress. “I presume that’s a rhetorical question, Your Highness,” she replied after a moment. God, but his eyes are hypnotic! “Given that I’m stark naked and trussed up like a turkey about to be roasted.”

  “Not entirely rhetorical.” The handsome Rajah circled around to inspect her from the rear. “It seems to me that you’re distinctly damp.” With a chuckle, he swept a finger down the length of her cleft, gathering her moisture. Her inner muscles clenched as sparks struck her clit. When he smeared her juices across her bum, she wanted to sink through the floor. “Based on the available evidence, I’d say that being bound excites you.”

  “Nonsense—” she began. Her attempts at a cool, sarcastic response were interrupted by the ferocious slap he landed on her arse. “Ow! Oh…” The sting from his spank vanished, overwhelmed by the delicious sensation of his fingers playing in her cunny. “Oh…ah…”

  “And it’s clear that, like many of your compatriots, you find corporal punishment arousing.”

  “No—ow! That’s ridiculous… Ow! Ah! Ow!”

  He alternated sharp blows to her buttocks with exquisite explorations of her cunt.

  “Fondness for punishment is one of the many intriguing cultural phenomena I encountered during my sojourn in your dank country.” He circled her back hole with a slick finger, then probed gently. “I suppose that being exposed to those notions at a tender age might have shaped my own predilections in that regard.”

  She tightened her sphincter, trying to keep him out, without success. Guilty pleasure rushed through her as he wiggled his digit just inside the entrance. “Oh—you…uh—you spent time in England? Ah…” Though he pulled out, the effects of his lewd touch continued to ripple through her body. Her sex gaped, hungry, dripping with excitement she couldn’t hide. If only he’d stop chattering and simply take her…

  “I was schooled there. Pratan as well. My father believed in the value of knowing one’s enemy.”

  “I’m not— We’re not—oh!—your enemy, Your Highness. Ow!”

  The Rajah had pinched one of the welts raised by his brother’s whipping. “Hmm. We’ll see. Speaking of Pratan, it looks as though he did quite a job on you yesterday. Perhaps I should refrain from inflicting any further damage on your delectable bottom at present.”

  Cecily bit back a moan of disappointment. She hung her head, appalled by her reaction. Her hair tumbled around her face, hiding her shame.

  “Fear not, sweet Cecily. I have other ideas about what to do with you—equally nasty and painful, I guarantee.” He gave both her butt cheeks a solid squeeze, waking echoes of her previous beatings, then moved away.

  She heard a lock click on some chest or cabinet behind her. He must be seeking some new instrument of punishment or humiliation. She shuddered, from fear or anticipation, or perhaps both at once.

  “Where is Pratan?” she ventured as the noise of his rummaging continued. At the moment, she would have felt safer in the company of the bandit.

  “He’s—um—indisposed at the moment. That is why I was delayed. Ah, here we are! Don’t worry. I fully intend to share you with my brother.”

  Share? Each man was fearsome in his own right. But together…

  She pushed the thought away. Focus. Be strong.

  “My Lord, may I leave?”

  Heavens! Cecily had completely forgotten that Sarita was present, watching the entire scene. Her cheeks burnt anew.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I thought that perhaps you’d like to participate in our little games.”

  “No, sir—truly…”

  Let her go, Cecily begged silently. Please just let her go.

  “You don’t want to put these clamps on her labia? Or work this wooden phallus into her rear hole?”

  This was almost too much for Cecily’s all-too-vivid imagination. Her swollen clit throbbed. Her sex muscles clenched around hungry emptiness. If either of them touches me, she thought, I’ll explode.

  “My Lord, please…” Sarita sounded desperate.

  “I thought I might make Miss Harrowsmith lick your cunny. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  Oh my God, no! And yet a sidelong glance at the lovely courtesan almost sent Cecily over the edge.

  “I am your obedient servant, sir…” the girl began.

  Amir laughed and swept Sarita into his arms once more, mollifying her with an energetic kiss. “Never mind. I won’t force you do something that so clearly displeases you. Not tonight, at least!”

  “Thank you, my Lord…” Sarita pressed her lips to the back of his hand in obvious relief. “I am very grateful…”

  “Go then! Off to the women’s quarters with you!” He swatted her diminutive rear on her way out. “I’ll call if I want you.”

  She turned upon the threshold to give him a deep bow. “As you command, my Lord. Thank you again.” The door closed behind her.

  “Thank you,” murmured Cecily, her raging heartbeat starting to slow down.

  “You don’t find my Sarita desirable?” Amir faced her, drawing back the curtain of her hair and fixing her with his compelling gaze.

  “She’s lovely but…” Cecily was uncertain how to continue. She didn’t want to offend him unnecessarily. Her future depended on his goodwill.

  “But she doesn’t seem very fond of you, does she? Well, who could blame her? All she wants is to give herself to me, body and soul, but I’ve chosen you as my companion for tonight instead.”

  He lifted Cecily’s tangled locks to drape them over her shoulders. When his fingers grazed her back, tiny shivers of delight raced along her skin. His half-smile told her that he’d noticed.

  “Shall we continue, then?” That question, at least, seemed rhetorical, since he disappeared without waiting for an answer.

  When he returned to her field of view, he carried a cylindrical device as long as his forearm, fashioned of the same greyish metal as the robotic shackles. An oval of glass adorned one end of the tube. The other fit
comfortably in his hand.

  Amir brought the glass close to her bare shoulder. Something sizzled like water falling on a heated skillet, then a burning needle pierced her flesh.

  Cecily jerked in her bonds, as much from surprise as from the sudden sting. “Ow!”

  The air smelt sharp, metallic. Grinning, Amir let the globe hover near her upper arm. This time, she saw the spark that leapt from the glass to her tingling skin.

  “What in heaven…?”

  “A little invention of mine, adapting the principles of our stun guns, which I believe you’ve seen, to more pleasurable purposes.” Another bolt crackled across the gap between the device and her naked flesh. Yes, the shock hurt, but now that she’d got over her surprise, she found the prickling sensation that followed quite enjoyable.

  “Of course, the effects are more dramatic when my electrostimulator is applied to more, um, sensitive areas. And if you know anything about electricity, you’ll understand that moisture enhances conductivity, intensifying the sensations considerably.”

  “You can’t mean…?” Cecily shuddered at what he was implying, even as her juices welled up and trickled down her thighs.

  “I’ve been told that agents of the Empire are trained to endure almost any level of pain. I’m quite curious to evaluate that story myself.”

  He vanished, busying himself behind her. “First, though, we need the clamps.”

  “No, please…!” A surge of pleasure stopped her. Amir had plunged his fingers deep into her hungry channel. He stroked her inner walls, generating pulsing waves of delight. Something brushed across her clit, a touch so light it was barely there, yet enough to make her whole being knot into pre-climactic tension. There it was again, the faintest trace of his finger or thumb, not quite enough to send her into release, but almost, almost…

  Cecily arched back, trying without success to rub herself against those teasing fingers. Her bonds forbade even this slight movement. Amir was in complete control of her body. He could do whatever he wanted.