Even as she stood outside her door and waited for Brother Qutaybah to escort her to the training room, she was lost in a world that seemed to hold only bleakness for her. There was no longer any expectant joy in being turned over to Dagan for the daily training, in being allowed to see his wondrously handsome face and hear his seductive voice. Now, she only feared she would be the cause of something terrible happening to him and that she could not stand.
Boot heels thudding purposefully down the corridor toward her signaled the arrival of the odious man Jameela had grown to detest. His strident, sarcastic voice never failed to grate upon her nerves.
“At least you are dressed appropriately and on time for once,” Brother Qutaybah snarled as he came to stand in front of her.
Not once had the Master’s chancellor had to wait for her. Not once had she been dressed inappropriately. She had behaved as was expected, kept her thoughts to herself and never had she spoken back to the hateful man. But this morning was different; she was different and the implied insults struck her harder than usual and she lifted her head to glare into Brother Qutaybah’s ugly face.
Brother Qutaybah arched a thin brow, his upper lip twitched and he looked down his long, beaklike nose. “You wish to make a comment, woman?”
“You will call me ‘milady’,” Jameela said, stressing the title, “for I am the Master’s Consort and as such, you will afford me the respect that is my due.”
The Brother’s mouth dropped open and he sputtered, his beady eyes blinking rapidly. “You…you…”
“Come along, Brother Qutaybah,” she said, cutting him off. “I do not wish to be late for my session.” That said she headed down the corridor. It was a moment or two before she felt him brush past her, his wobbling walk almost comical as he took the lead, glancing back at her with vengeance stamped upon his cadaverous face before turning his back on her.
The training room was empty when the Master’s chancellor ushered her inside. Normally bright with sunlight, the room was cast in shadows for rain lashed the row of tiny windows that overlooked the sea. A flash of lightning lit the windowpanes and a moment later thunder boomed overhead.
“Sit,” Brother Qutaybah ordered, pointing a rigid finger at the stool upon which Jameela sat each day.
Ignoring the command, Jameela moved to the windows to look out upon the wildly tossing waves. Bad weather had always seemed to invigorate her and she liked to watch the play of lightning stitching across the heavens.
“You may leave now, Brother Qutaybah,” she said over her shoulder.
The Master’s chancellor was quivering with outrage. His mouth opened and closed but he seemed unable to voice the words upon which he was choking. When Jameela turned and gave him an inquiring look, he snapped his jaws closed, his teeth clicking together loudly. With a sniff, he spun around and slammed the door behind him as he left.
Jameela giggled. For the first time she did not fear the hideous man and knew a moment of victory she savored as she turned back to the window. The savage display of nature beyond the panes thrilled her and she gloried in watching the spectacle. When the door opened behind her, she did not turn, expecting Dagan to join her at the windows for he, too, enjoyed the fiery display of a good sea storm.
“It is unwise to stand by a window during a storm, milady,” a strange voice warned.
Jameela turned around, shocked to see a woman standing in the doorway. This was the first female she had seen at Lalssu Keep. “Who are you?” she asked, taking in the beauty of the stranger.
“I am called Astrid,” the woman replied. “I am here to continue your training.”
Despair drove a sharp spike through Jameela’s heart and she put up a hand to clutch at her throat. “Where is Dagan?”
Astrid cocked her head to one side. “I do not know the name,” she said.
“He wasn’t your trainer?” Jameela asked; one part of her thankful if such was the case.
The beautiful woman’s head cocked in the opposite direction—the movement reminding Jameela of a pet dog she had had as a child.
“No, I belong to the Master,” Astrid replied. “It was he who trained me, as you say.”
Despite the fact that she would rather be with Dagan than the one who had taken her maidenhead, Jameela knew a brief moment of jealousy that she would be sharing the Master with this lovely vision.
And vision the woman was with long blonde hair to her waist, the thick tresses falling in waves to a slender waist Jameela knew she could span with her two hands. Looking at those velvet blue eyes framed with long, spiky lashes, pouting coral lips, high cheekbones, a swanlike neck and a shapely figure made Jameela feel almost masculine in comparison. Even the woman’s voice was pretty with a lilting accent that spoke of the highlands.
“I have been assigned to teach you the art of self-pleasure,” Astrid informed her.
Jameela blinked. “But what about Dagan?” she asked, alarm building in her chest.
“A male can not teach a female how to pleasure herself,” Astrid replied. “I will be your trainer for this session.”
Somewhat relieved that the woman would not be her trainer permanently, Jameela let out a long breath. “I did not know such a thing was possible,” she said.
“The Master is often away for prolonged periods of time,” Astrid explained in her soft voice. “When he is gone, he does not wish for you to grow overripe with passion.”
“I doubt that will happen,” Jameela said under her breath.
“Beg pardon?”
“Nothing,” Jameela said. She glanced at the stool. “Do I need to sit or can you lecture me while I watch the storm?”
Astrid frowned but even the frown looked attractive on her beautiful face. “I would prefer you move away from the window, milady,” she replied. “It is dangerous when the heavens are in such turmoil.”
Sighing, Jameela abandoned her position at the windows and walked to the loathsome stool she had grown to hate. Seating herself, she crossed her arms and looked up at Astrid.
Astrid shook her head. “You will need to disrobe, milady.”
Jameela flinched. “Why?” she countered.
“You can not experience the intensity of what I will teach you through the constriction of your clothing. You must disrobe.”
A heated blush tinted Jameela’s cheeks. “I’ve no desire to stand naked before you,” she stated. “I would not feel comfortable doing so.”
Astrid’s lovely head cocked from one side to the other as she contemplated Jameela’s statement. Her pretty features tensed for a moment then relaxed as though she was receiving a message only she could hear. She nodded slightly then turned her attention to the door.
The portal opened and Jameela was relieved to see Dagan entering the room. His hair was wet; the dark locks glistened as they clung to the collar of his black shirt. His clothing was not wet so Jameela assumed he had either come fresh from his morning bath or had been out in the turbulent weather. “I am happy to see you, milord,” she said, standing.
Dagan glanced at her then looked to Astrid. “I will attend this session, Wench. Be about your instructions.”
Jameela drew in a harsh breath. “No!” she gasped.
The black-clad warrior turned his attention to Jameela. “You object to me being here?” he asked, his tone sharp.
Shaking her head, Jameela held out her hand. “No, milord, but as nice as Astrid appears to be, she is a stranger to me and I am…” Her face turned redder. “I would not feel…I would…I don’t…”
Dagan waved away her objections. “So noted,” he said.
Astrid bowed her head to the look Dagan sent her way and left quietly without a backward glance, closing the door softly behind her departure.
“Thank you,” Jameela said.
“It is a good thing you weren’t won by one of the Brothers who would share you with his fellow warriors,” Dagan told her.
Jameela lifted her chin. “I am not sure I could have survived under
such conditions.”
“Survived?” Dagan repeated. “Aye, you would have survived, Wench. Thrived?” He shook his head. “Most likely not.” He pointed to the stool and waited until Jameela sat down. “I take it the lesson had not started.”
“No, milord.”
“Then we will start with the basics,” he said. His amber eyes moved over her from head to toe then settled on her expectant face. “I want you to put your hands in your hair and drag your fingers through the curls from scalp to the nape of your neck.”
Jameela did as he bid, slowing down the movement at his quick command.
“Again,” he ordered, “and much slower this time. Close your eyes and continue until I tell you to stop.”
The motion was soothing to Jameela and she was relaxing. In her mind, it was Dagan’s hands moving so sensuously through her heavy tresses.
“Once more and stop with your hands clasped around the base of your neck,” he instructed. “Lean your head back and imagine the gentle kiss of rainwater falling on your face.”
Outside, thunder rolled across the firmament so it was easy to fantasize soft raindrops peppering her flesh.
“Do you feel the drops sliding down your chin?” he asked.
“Aye,” Jameela agreed on a sigh.
“Can you feel one raindrop making its way along your neck?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
“Take the first and second fingers of your right hand and follow that raindrop as it slides down your neck and to the hollow of your throat.”
Unconsciously, Jameela ran her tongue across her upper lip as she slowly traced the path of the phantom raindrop.
“Let your fingers rest in that soft hollow,” Dagan said. “Can you feel the pulse beating there?”
“Aye.”
“Open your fingers and spread them across your breastbone. No! Do not open your eyes!”
Jameela quickly closed her eyes but not before seeing Dagan standing right in front of her. So silently had he moved, so soft and low was his voice, it was almost as though his words had been coming from inside her head.
“Now I want you to very slowly, very lightly lower your hand to your left breast.”
A tiny frown marred the perfection of Jameela’s pretty face. Her forehead puckered with the command but she nevertheless obeyed, her cheeks reddening as she touched herself.
“You have been told,” Dagan said, “that touching yourself is wrong, but that is not true. The gods gave us our bodies and the instinct for finding things that will bring us pleasure. Pleasuring ourselves is not wrong; it is our right.”
Heat was forming beneath her open palm and transmitting itself to the tender globe beneath the covering of the muslin shift she wore. Her nipple was resting under her palm and was growing hard.
“Move your hand so that you are cupping the mound of your breast. Now, gently lift your breast upward and hold it there until I tell you to release it.”
Jameela’s breath had quickened. She could feel the acceleration of her heartbeat as she sensed Dagan walking behind her.
“Bring your other hand down from your neck and cross it over your chest to cup your other breast. Good, now squeeze your breasts very gently. Again. Once more.”
She felt his hands slide down her arms until he was lightly gripping her forearms. With firm pressure, he pulled her arms against her.
“Ah,” Jameela sighed. The pressure was doing strange things to her body.
He lifted her to her feet, careful not to put too much pressure on her constricted breasts, and pulled her against him. Lowering his lips to her right ear, he ran his tongue along the sensitive outer spiral.
Jameela shuddered, a sudden heavy weight forming between her thighs. Her breathing was quicker, shallower.
“Now,” he whispered in her ear, “I want you to keep your eyes closed, while you undress.” He released her arms and stepped back.
Denied the strength of his strong arms, the heat of his hard body, Jameela felt bereft as he moved away from her. The clean scent of him, the warmth of his breath, combined to send pulsations of desire rippling through her body. The heaviness between her legs increased.
“Take off your gown, Wench,” he commanded in a husky voice.
Jameela crossed her hands and gripped the sides of her muslin shift. With one quick motion she pulled it over her head, feeling a cool draft play over her flesh. She stood with the shift clutched in one hand, her last bastion of safety until Dagan plucked it from her grip.
“Imagine the rain falling upon you,” he said and beneath her closed eyelids, Jameela sensed a burst of light as lightning speared the heavens. A moment later, thunder rolled as she experienced the make-believe cascade of rain sliding down her naked body.
“The rain is gentle. It is soft against your skin. It is warm and wet.”
She could feel the rain upon her and smiled.
“There is a single drop falling slowly down your left shoulder and onto your nipple,” he whispered. “I want you to take your middle finger and follow that drop as it falls.”
When she touched the sensitive flesh of her nipple, Jameela groaned.
“Circle that aching bud with you fingertip,” he coaxed. “No, go slowly, Wench. Very, very slowly.”
Sensations like electrical shocks were traveling down Jameela’s ribcage and through the lower part of her belly. Her breathing had become more erratic; tiny dots of sweat had formed on her upper lip.
“Now,” he whispered, his mouth against her ear. “Flick the tip of your fingernail across the nipple, back and forth.”
“Oh!” she gasped, the feeling one of pure intensity as she felt a wetness oozing from her core.
“Another raindrop is making its way down your right breast. Take your other hand and followed it to the nipple.”
Jameela’s head fell back against Dagan’s belly as she obeyed his directions. His hands went to her head, his fingers threading through her thick hair.
“Remove your left hand and place it palm up in your lap.”
She moaned, not wanting to escape the dual pleasure invading her chest but she did as she was told, laying her hand on the juncture of her thighs, feeling the wiry crispness of her nether curls along the base of her palm.
“Now, listen very carefully and do exactly as I say,” he ordered. His lips were hot against her ear and his warm breath sent shivers down her spine. “Take your right hand and move it to your left breast. I want you to use the nails of your thumb and middle finger to pluck gently but quickly at the nipple.”
A prolonged whimper of pleasure erupted from Jameela’s arched throat and she squirmed on the stool, grinding her rump against the wood.
“Aye,” Dagan whispered in his throaty voice. “Now turn your left hand over and slip it between your legs.”
Jameela hesitated, the thought of touching herself there, in that forbidden place, where she was never supposed to venture, giving her a moment’s pause. But the mesmerizing voice of her Trainer, the seductive growl of his encouraging voice overcame any prim reservations she had and she slipped her hand between her thighs.
“Stroke the heat of your womanhood, Wench,” Dagan commanded. “Feel the silk of the hair, the softness of your flesh, the wetness forming between the hidden folds.”
By the time her hand had traversed its course the fourth time, Jameela began to pant. Her entire body was alive with pinpricks of energy rippling over the flesh of her arms. There was a delicious aching between her thighs and heaviness deep in her belly.
“Let your middle finger slip between the folds and discover the wetness lurking there then quickly remove it. Venture no further until I order it.”
“Um,” Jameela sighed.
“Remove your right hand from your breast and slide it down your chest and belly to the crease of your right thigh.”
There was an itch building in Jameela’s depths, a need that felt like a rosebud about to burst into bloom. She shifted against the wooden seat, her hips
lifting, searching, seeking.
“Very gently, I want you to take the index and middle finger of your left hand and slide them up to straddle your clitoris. Do you remember me explaining where that is on your body?” At her slow nod, his voice grew huskier still. “Then place your fingers there and spread them apart and a little upward so the hood will pull back and the Pearl of Passion can be exposed.”
“Dagan, I…” she began but he shushed her.
“Don’t speak; don’t think, Wench! Experience! Keep your eyes closed and do as I command.”
Jameela’s fingers spread the hot moistness of her nether lips and she felt the slick head of her clitoris slide free of its hood.
“Put the middle finger of your right hand in your mouth and wet it,” he said and his voice was only a breath of sound against the side of her face.
Doing as she was told, she was then instructed to place the tip of her wet finger against the sensitive bud of her clitoris.
The moment she touched herself in that responsive spot, she shuddered with pleasure.
“Stroke it, Wench,” Dagan ordered, his own breathing harsh and fast in her head. “Circle it. Dip your finger into your core then stroke the Pearl of Passion until you…”
“Argh!” Jameela shrieked, climaxing so fiercely her body turned rigid from spread toes to up thrust breasts. She squeezed her legs closed and shuddered.
“Aye,” Dagan whispered, encircling her in his arms. He crushed her to him. “Aye, my Wench. My beautiful, vibrant Wench.”
She went limp against him, every fiber of her being alive. She panted with the violence of release and knew a moment of transcending pleasure unlike any she had experience the night before.
“Did you enjoy that?” he whispered.
“Aye,” she groaned and shivered again, bringing her hands up to grasp his strong arms that were crossed around her.
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