Rajasthani Moon

by Lisabet Sarai

  Her companion was quick to take advantage of her lassitude. When he tugged at the loop piercing her earlobe, then sucked the morsel into his mouth, her clit pulsed as though it was directly connected to that node of flesh. He licked and nipped his way down the side of her neck to her collarbone, gathering the nervous sweat from her skin and leaving tiny bite marks. Upon reaching her generous breasts, he tongued the stiff nipples like some giant cat. Each touch sent bolts of bliss racing to her quim, which grew wetter by the instant.

  She reached for him, wanting to feel his solid strength against her softness. He caught her wrists and held them above her head, pressed into the cushions. His black eyes glittered like polished jet. I’m in charge here, was the message she read in their depths. Cecily decided that was fine with her.

  He continued to suckle her, bathing her nipples in exquisite heat. When she thought she couldn’t bear another touch on those sensitised nubs, he slid lower, tracing a wet, gradual path across her round belly and down to her cunny. He paused to circle her navel, making her squirm. Reaching her mons, he buried his nose in the damp tangle of her fur and she almost came, just from the indirect pressure on her clit. When he parted her slick folds and swept his tongue over that swollen nub in a long, flat stroke, she did come, wailing and shaking as he continued to lap at her trembling flesh.

  A strong breeze rifled her hair. The basket jerked upward, then fell sharply. Cecily’s stomach flipped and her eyes flew open. Forgetting her willingness to surrender, she clutched Pratan’s sleeves.

  “Sorry about that,” Amir called from the prow. “Sudden updraft. I’ll try to be more careful.”

  The diabolical Rajah was watching their every move, she remembered. At this point, she was beyond embarrassment, but anger mingled with her terror. I’ll wager that was deliberate. She didn’t voice her complaint for fear he’d do worse.

  “Never mind,” Pratan added, planting a sticky kiss on the inside of her thigh and brushing his palm across her pubic curls. “I told you I’d take of you, and I will. Just lie back and enjoy the ride.”

  He bent his head to her pussy once more, adding his fingers to mix. With several digits thrust into her channel and his teeth worrying her clit, she came again, in a roar of heat that blotted out the last traces of anxiety.

  Still he dabbled his fingers in her hungry cleft. She needed more. The pleasure stripped her bare of pretence. “I want you inside me, Pratan,” she demanded, writhing and bucking against his hand.

  “Gladly, lady.”

  He settled back into the tumbled pillows and pulled her on top of him. His luscious scent billowed around her. Although he was still dressed, at some point he’d released his cock from his trousers. It prodded her pubis as she straddled him, as hard and unyielding as the rest of him. On her hands and knees, she lowered herself down onto his shaft. The sweet sensation of him sliding into her depths brought her close to another climax.

  Memory flashed through her—the monster’s impossible organ, tearing into her, battering her sex, drawing blood. In his human form, Pratan was far less of a challenge for her to accommodate. Nevertheless, as she started to ride him, she imagined she felt his cock swell, larger and still larger, and knew the beast still lurked inside him somewhere.

  He let her lead for a while. Before too long, though, he took over, seizing her hips and lifting her as easily as if she weighed nothing, then slamming her down to impale her on his dick. His nails bit into her tender flesh—she’d have marks afterward. The realisation aroused her even more. He gritted his teeth, his features contorted in hunger, and fucked her almost as hard as he had as wolf.

  Cecily loved it. She let him grind into her, content simply to be used as the vehicle for his lust. With every thrust, his cock dragged against her clit and pleasure arced through her like lightning. Yet another orgasm hovered in the wings, ready to overwhelm her. She allowed Pratan to decide just when that would happen.

  Sensations assaulted her. Slickness, fullness, hardness, heat—the tingling vibrations in her clit—the needy ache in her nipples—the weight of her breasts bobbing as he manipulated her like some doll. His sweat and her tidal aroma. The mint and coriander taste of his kisses lingering on her tongue.

  All at once a new voice joined this symphony of the senses. A wet pressure against her rear hole made her gasp. At first she thought Pratan was teasing her. However, the prince still clutched her with both hands, just below the waist, guiding her progress up and down his cock.

  “No…ooh…” Her cry of indignation dissolved into a moan as Amir wriggled his tongue into her back channel. She wanted to protest, to resist, but she couldn’t escape the conditioning acquired during those long mornings by the lake. Liquid gushed from her pussy. Her clit throbbed, ready to burst. When Amir pushed his rod into her loosened anus, the world flew apart into a million bright pieces. It was glorious but scary to feel herself flying off into space that way, totally out of control. Through it all, though, she still felt Pratan’s grip, steadying her, calling her back.

  She returned to full consciousness to find herself pinned between the brothers, invaded front and rear by their urgent cocks. Never had she felt so full, not even when Amir had forced her to ride his evil saddle. The Rajah and his sibling were fatter and longer than the protrusions on that device. They pulsed with blood and sexual energy. They burnt inside her like candles, illumining the space around their conjoined bodies.

  Pratan and Amir had found a shared rhythm. They thrust in unison, plunging into her body then drawing back to leave her hungry and empty. At the deepest point, she knew they could feel one another’s hardness. The notion thrilled her.

  The dirigible lurched and shuddered, toppling them onto their sides, still joined. Cecily scarcely noticed the alarming movements. She was engrossed in the feel of the men entering her from new angles.

  Pratan drew her close, his tongue mimicking the movements of his cock as he kissed her deeply. “Cecily,” he murmured. “Ah, sweet…”

  Behind her, Amir rooted between her rear cheeks, triggering waves of shameful bliss. He combed his fingers through her knotted hair and pressed his lips to the back of her neck. Although he was silent, Cecily sensed the tenderness in his touch.

  They arched and grunted with Cecily sandwiched between their straining bodies. Under her persistent arousal she felt an odd serenity. She’d climaxed so many times that, despite the pleasure of their intrusion, she doubted she’d come again. She was wrong, however.

  Pratan roared and ground his cock into her pussy, flooding her with his seed. Amir’s crisis came an instant afterward, triggered by his sibling’s. The feel of him spurting in her rear hole, while Pratan still jerked and shuddered against her, drove her to the brink and over one last time. As she tumbled into bliss, she felt wonderfully safe. Both of them held her, tight.

  A brisk wind sang through the dirigible cables. Cecily’s eyes fluttered open. Pratan and Amir had collapsed on either side of her. They appeared to be dozing.

  “Hey! Wake up! Damn it, wake up!” She shook the Rajah’s limp body.

  “Um…” Amir met her anxious gaze with a typically insouciant grin. “What’s wrong, pet?”

  “What the—? Who was steering the airship, Amir, while you were down here rutting in my ass?”

  “Autopilot. One of my recent inventions. I set the course, and the ship adjusts its altitude and speed depending on the information it receives from the altimeter, anemometer, and other instruments. Relax, Miss Harrowsmith. We should be at our destination shortly.”

  “What? Already?” She turned to Pratan, who was stirring and stretching his lanky body. “I thought you said the trip would take three hours.”

  The Rajah pulled out his chronometer. “We’ve been travelling for two and a half so far.”

  “That’s not possible…”

  “Time flies when your attention is otherwise engaged.” Pratan grinned and tried to rearrange her clothing, which currently bared more than it hid. “I told you we
’d take care of you.”

  “Pratan and I decided that we should, um, distract you, to help you get past your fear of flying.”

  “You told Amir I was scared to fly?” She wheeled on the prince so fiercely that he actually cringed backward into the pillows. “That was supposed to be a private confidence.”

  “It was for your own good. I knew we could help you.” He leaned in to nibble her ear. She brushed him away. “Do you really mind? It seems that our intervention was a rousing success.”

  “I— Well, as far as you’re concerned, Pratan, I don’t mind—much—but you…!”

  “Consider it a farewell gift, pet.” The Rajah shook his head. His voice was rueful. “Sarita has made me promise that after the wedding I’ll be faithful. No more fun and games. I figured this might be my last chance to enjoy your considerable charms, Miss Harrowsmith.”

  “Hmph!” Would Amir really honour his vow to his new bride? And, if he did, would Cecily mind at all? She surveyed the Rajah’s lithe body. His spent penis still dangled outside his pants. His fancy robe was wrinkled and stained with sex-juice. His hair was tousled. His lips looked as red as ripe strawberries. His hypnotic eyes sparkled with energy and intelligence. A most desirable man, even if he was something of a snake.

  He grinned. “Also I decided it would be a true shame to waste all those hours of training…”

  “You… You…!” Cecily looked from one brother to the other. Both wore expressions of amusement and affection. “Well…at least it won’t happen again.”

  “Probably not,” Pratan agreed, smothering a laugh. “You’re not a virgin any longer.”

  With a snort of indignation, Cecily turned her back on the pair and made a valiant effort to comb the tangles from her hair with her fingers.

  A high-pitched chime sounded from the control panel.

  “Ah, we’ve arrived.” Amir cut the engine and let the craft drift. “Come here, Cecily. Look upon the secret wealth of Rajasthan.”

  He beckoned her to the wall, which was easily low enough to allow a clear view of the ground below. A brass handrail ran around the top. A spark of fear flickered through her. It was a very long way down.

  Pratan was at her side, his arm around her waist. “Don’t be concerned. Trust me, sweet—I won’t allow you to fall.”

  Lacing her fingers with Pratan’s, holding her breath, Cecily approached the rail and peered over the edge.

  It was like gazing into the sun.

  Undulating fields of brilliant yellow stretched in all directions. At first that was all she could discern—a lemony brightness that glowed with some inner light. She squinted against the glare and realised that the land was actually carpeted with a dense growth of flowers. Given the height from which they observed the ground, the blooms must be immense, a foot or more in diameter. They bore some resemblance to sunflowers, but they grew far more densely, and closer to the earth. Furthermore, they had an odd luminescence, as though they captured the sun’s rays then released that radiance back into the air.

  “What…?”

  “Oilflowers.” Amir gestured towards the horizon. “We cultivate thousands of acres. One bloom can power an airship like this for several days. Looked at another way, one oilflower provides as much energy as an ounce of viridium. ”

  “But how…? Are they natural?”

  “Mostly. We found the original species in a few valleys here in the north, twenty years ago. The local villagers had already discovered that the flowers give off light, even at night, and that the oil you get from crushing them could be used to power a lantern or even a plough. They’re incredibly rich in energy. We crossed the original oilflowers with plants that grow well in this climate, and developed techniques for raising them in bulk. My father began the project, but didn’t really have the expertise to figure out how to store and distribute the power. Now, though, we’ve pretty much overcome those obstacles.”

  “Are they difficult to grow? I don’t see any farmers or anything down there.”

  “At harvest season, these fields will be teeming with people. I’m also working on automatic harvesting machines. But getting the flowers to produce is a bit tricky. Also, they’re customised for our environment. I doubt, for instance, that you could grow them in England.”

  Cecily surveyed the vast expanse of gleaming yellow. The land fairly pulsed with power. “Amazing! Absolutely incredible. This is worth a fortune. Her Majesty would trade the crown jewels for this much energy.”

  She realised that the Rajah and the prince were both staring at her with suspicion. “Calm down! I’m not going to betray you. However, I think this gives you significant bargaining power. A carefully designed licence agreement—limited technology transfer—if you’re willing to share some of this, you can probably name your price.”

  “All we want is our independence,” said Pratan. “And actually, we have that already. I’m really not sure what the Empire can offer us.”

  “At this point, we don’t need, or want, viridium,” Amir added. “Really, we’d just prefer that your Queen left us alone.”

  “What if your neighbours were to invade? Wouldn’t you appreciate military support from the Empire?”

  “Our neighbours, for the most part, mind their own business. Furthermore, our technology is more highly developed than theirs.” Amir turned to the control panel. “If you don’t have any more questions, why don’t we return to Jaipur? Sarita will be concerned if we don’t get back before dark.”

  The name of the soon-to-be-queen of Rajasthan triggered a brief pang of guilt. On the other hand, Cecily’s recent interactions with Amir had been his idea, not hers. And he’d sworn fidelity to his bride after the wedding.

  The engine sprang to life. The airship shuddered as Amir manipulated the rudder to modify the direction of flight. Caught in a cross-current, the ship swung sharply to the left, throwing her off balance and against Pratan. The prince steadied her, taking the opportunity to caress one breast in the process. Cecily realised her fear of flying had vanished completely.

  She gazed out at the retreating sea of shimmering yellow. What would she tell the Queen? If she returned empty-handed, she’d be branded as a failure—or possibly even a traitor. In truth, some of her actions over the past weeks had not been in the Empire’s best interests. She should have stolen what information she could and made her way back to England, as soon as she was able. Instead she’d lingered and dallied with men who would most certainly be considered Her Majesty’s enemies, if they were unwilling to share their secrets. The Rajah appeared confident that he could repel any military threat from the surrounding countries, but did he really believe he could oppose the Empire’s war machine?

  Pratan took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

  “You don’t have to go back, you know.”

  “They know I’m here. It will arouse suspicion if I don’t send some report of my activities and my findings. I can’t simply disappear.”

  “Why not? We haven’t replied to that enquiry yet. We could tell them you suffered an unfortunate accident. That you succumbed to one of the awful diseases that afflict our poor, undeveloped country. That you were devoured by wild beasts. A ravening wolf.” He brushed his lips over hers and something inside her began to melt. “A whole pack of them.”

  “The Empire will simply send someone else.”

  “We’ll deal with that when it happens.” He drew her away from the rail and into an embrace as tight as any of his bonds. “England is a long way from Rajasthan, Cecily. We have plenty of time to consider a strategy for handling your successor.”

  I can’t, she wanted to object. My career is my life. I’m Cecily Harrowsmith, Her Majesty’s agent. How will I live with myself if I betray my country and my Queen?

  Pratan took possession of her mouth, probing deep, the way she loved. Like lizards interrupted while sunning on a wall, all her questions skittered away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Ghirat khandara jeemun jimayun
r />   Soney mai chonch mandayun kagaa

  Jad mehara peevji ghar aavey…”

  The veiled singer’s voice, crystalline and brimming with emotion, rose into the night sky. Seated with the dignitaries along one side of the elevated pavilion, Cecily watched Amir and Sarita perform the phera ceremony. They circled the sacred fire seven times, hands clasped tight, while the song celebrated their love. The orbits complete, they performed satapadi, seven steps to the east, towards the sun, symbolising their first journey in their new life together.

  Individually and together, they were magnificent. Sarita wore a crimson ghahgra with dozens of gem-encrusted pleats, a matching choli, and a gold-embroidered sari so diaphanous and light it floated like mist behind her as she moved. Rows of tiny diamonds had been affixed above her eyes, their sparkling arches like a second set of brows, and a teardrop-shaped ruby shone in the centre of her forehead. Gold dripped from her earlobes and draped her breasts. Gold bangles encased her arms from the wrist to the elbow and clasped her dainty ankles. A tiny gold loop set with rubies pierced one nostril. Even from across the spacious wedding platform, Cecily could see the intricate curlicues of henna and turmeric patterning her hands and feet, which were also decorated with gold and jewels.

  Meanwhile, her face was luminous with joy. Sarita had finally achieved her heart’s desire. According to custom, Cecily had joined the other palace women in helping the bride to don her jewels and other finery. Under the intricate necklaces adorning her throat, the new queen wore a simple golden collar, bestowed upon her by her Lord and master, symbolising her recommitted devotion.

  Amir’s costume was less gaudy, but no less regal. His fitted sherwani of cream-coloured silk brocade showed off his broad chest and narrow waist. Gold buttons marched down the front, matching the dangles in his ears. His loose crimson trousers and the duppatta slung over his shoulder were the same hue as Sarita’s gown. Sarita was barefoot, but Amir wore red silk slippers with curling toes. A gold and red turban perched on his raven locks, decorated with a pure white ostrich feather so tall it brushed the draped silk that canopied the pavilion.