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The Earth's Turning

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"I have no more patience to chase after this wench, and it's likely I won't leave this town until I die. So when I die, order so that I may be buried inside her pussy!"

-Al-Farazdaq, quoted in The Book of Songs by al-Isfahani


Samarkand, some days before Mehregan


"Tell me something," Fadl mumbles from bed, stirring from his blissfully sated torpor by the sounds of Zainab washing herself.

"Tell you what?" Zainab asks. She does not look up at him, balanced awkwardly as she is over a washbowl, pulling out the mint-filled wad of cotton she had been using as a pessary.

She proceeds to rinse herself with vinegar, Fadl himself wincing more than she does at how much it must sting her; the mint had felt and smelled unpleasant enough for him. But that's the price they have to pay for him wanting to have her cunny from time to time, not having the kind of contraceptive magic Jaffar and Yassamin do at their disposal. It's not as if Fadl can simply appear in Jaffar's magic crystal, calling for help with prick in hand: "Brother, I wish to fuck! Lend me a spell to keep her belly from swelling!"

"What are you laughing at?" Zainab now asks when Fadl chuckles from bed, he never having finished his first question.

"Only that I should not have asked Jaffar for a magic crystal after all," he says, for Jaffar had indeed given him one to contact him with, a red pendant the size of a chicken's egg: this so that Fadl might always carry it upon his person, Jaffar knowing full well that the time Fadl had needed the Dakini's amulet to transport himself away from battle might not have been his last. "I should've asked him for a womb-sealing spell instead," he groans, his voice straining as he reaches for Zainab with both arms. "Seeing as I can't get enough of you, woman."

With a great sigh of delight, he guides her to lie down on top of himself, the way she knows he loves to be embraced, enveloping him within the sea of her wonderful, soft and heavy flesh. His human pillow, he always calls her; she humours him with a smile, crossing her arms over his chest and tucking her little chin into their plushness, playing with his leg hair with her toes.

"Come, warrior mine. What was it that you wanted me to tell you?"

"Mmm. It's only that you never told me your real name."

"My real name?"

"Yes. Whatever your people called you. When you were a child," he says, the skin on his neck wrinkling as he pulls back his chin to be able to look her in the eye properly.

For to him, 'Zainab' is the strangest of names to call a woman of her kind: even slave girls rarely change their names upon their manumission, often having become well-known and well-loved by those names. And slave girls are rarely given respectable Arabic names, Zainab being among the most respectable of all: such girls are often named after flowers and gems, not the Prophet's wives.

"Do you know, I cannot remember," she says, but Fadl can tell she is not telling him the truth--or at least the whole truth.

"Nonsense," he says. "You cannot have been that young, surely?"

She but searches his eyes. "What does it matter now? I have been called Zainab for as long as I can remember. It is the name I answer to," she says firmly.

He starts, but now knows better than to challenge Zainab when she is giving him that look. Perhaps she truly does not remember. Or then, she is keeping the name from him for some other, more important reason--he knows enough about the Northmen to know how much magic, how much superstition they attach to their names for things, to their runes. Even the merchant Northman keeps talismans engraved with magic runes underneath his shirt; the berserkers go one step further and tattoo blue snakes and ribands of magical words permanently onto their arms. They fear only their women, for they are said to be the ones who possess the greatest of magics; and their women, particularly the shield-maidens Fadl has met on the battlefield, fear nothing. Who knows, then, what sorts of magics this seemingly vain and frivolous woman hides from him, the way she has so bested him in the mettle of love, so vanquished him on the battlefield of the bed?

Once, when Fadl had been a youth, one particularly mad witch-doctor of theirs had been invited to one of his father's symposiums, those famous gatherings to which Yahya had invited the wise men of all faiths and nations to debate philosophy and the nature of the world. This strange Northern fakir, his wild head of hair so pale a yellow you could see the sunlight through it, had leaned over Jaffar and Fadl at the end of his speech, as if the boys had been requesting his personal advice. He had been invited to the gathering to discuss geography, to expound upon his native lands, but now he changed the subject entirely, as if having heard Jaffar voice a silent question. The madman had held the boys in his pale blue gaze and told them that once you knew the true name of a thing, you could control that thing forever, whether it was a person or an animal, or even a force of nature. He had left an indelible impression on the young Jaffar, Jaffar having afterwards told Fadl that this witch had confirmed what he, Jaffar, had known all along; as consequence, Jaffar had resumed his magical pursuits with even greater passion from that day on, whereas Fadl himself had but scoffed at the madman.

But now Fadl knows better, having seen Jaffar use the same rune-magic himself, and does not press the matter: however much he would like to control Zainab's heart, she would never give him the means to do so. As much as it wounds his manhood, he has come to accept that in order to keep her love, he must let her have her freedom, must let her be the one ruling him: who knows what sorts of spells she has woven in secret from the syllables of his name, to wield such tremendous power over him?

But she is right: his asking her such questions is futile. In any case, it is said that gentlemen should not probe women for their secrets, for a woman is entitled to them, them forming a part of her mystique and allure, whatever that might mean. Now, Fadl is no good at being a gentleman, but for Zainab's sake, he is willing to try: in fact, he knows from experience that the less he knows about his women's lives, the happier he is. Therefore, there must be some truth to this mystique malarkey after all--perhaps ignorance is, indeed, bliss.

"I am sorry," Fadl now mumbles.

Zainab bursts into laughter, and however warm she is atop him, there is still an ugly, cold, sharp edge of triumph to her voice. "Look at you," she says and measures him. "You would never have apologised to me before."

For that, he decides to smack her arse with both hands. "Do you miss Fadl the bastard? Is that what you mean to say?" and even if he makes light of it, a part of him is profoundly irritated: is this not what she wants? First, she would have him submit himself to her a slave, and then mock him for being weak? "Come, my lady! Which Fadl is it that you want in your bed? The lion or the lamb?"

"The eagle," she says and kisses his mighty beak.

She slides off him to lie by his side, her fat having made them both sticky with sweat by now; however, she remains pressed close to him, affectionate enough to soothe his wounded pride. "You are not the first of my lovers to wonder about my birth name," she says. "All I can say is that I remember having been called something that sounded like the sea, and battles. If I were to pick a new name, now, I would rather choose something to do with love instead."

"Freyja," Fadl says, recalling the name of the heathen Venus he has so often heard her speak of. "No, that does not suit you either. It sounds like bronze or brass, a sound that carries within itself a sense of ripe brownness; the colour of rye and barley, whereas you," and he lifts her locks with admiring fingers, "are golden wheat."

"What about yourself, then?" she asks, smiling, stroking the long, firm muscles of his arm. "If you were to become Caliph today, what would you choose as your regnal name? Surely you must've thought of one, with your ambition?"

"You got me there," Fadl laughs, a little abashed. "As a matter of fact, I have thought of so many I could never decide on just one! Akbar, perhaps," he murmurs, that having been one of his prime candidates because of its immediate connection with divine might.

"What's Persian for 'horse?'" Zainab asks with a grin, nudging his prick to drive home her meaning.

"Why, you little--!"

"Mmm," Zainab but replies, incapable of more articulation, seeing as she has just filled her mouth with said prick, impressive even in its laxened state.

"Woman!" Fadl groans, throwing his arm over his eyes. "You are insatiable."

"It's why you love me," she mumbles against his glans as she pulls back for breath, curling her plump little hand around the shaft.

It's why I hate you, Fadl thinks, now, rather; he resents nothing more than to be reminded of his limitations, unable to bear the thought of being somehow unable to do whatever it was he had set his mind upon to do. He cannot abide defeat, but now, his body admits it loudly and clearly, even if his mind refuses to do so: despite Zainab's extraordinary skill, his prick remains only half-hard in her hand.

When, as a last resort, she brings her fingers between his buttocks, he finally grabs her by the wrist. "Stop. It's of no use. You have well and truly exhausted me for the moment, I'm afraid."

"And you didn't even sodomise me yet!" Zainab groans, rolls her eyes and throws herself beside him with such a dramatic crash that the entire bed creaks; even the nymphs carved into the bedposts seem to be laughing at Fadl's impotence. "Next time, we'll skip the cunny, if you don't mind. Much less trouble, and much easier for me to get satisfaction."

"You screamed my ear off just now!" Fadl huffs, not removing his arm from his face.

"Women make noises because it feels good, you fool; she might just as well be moaning because she's finding it difficult to come," she now tells him in a matter-of-fact voice he thinks she must have been using when teaching young men the art of love. "A woman's release is all ripples, waves," she now says and makes a wavelike motion with her hand, "the waves of the moans help trigger the waves of orgasm. And it's much harder to come when the cunny isn't allowed to ripple and convulse;" she says with the expertise of a woman who takes pride in pleasuring other women.

When Fadl looks at her askance, she sits up and makes a little beaklike shape of her hand, tapping her fingers rapidly against her thumb as people do when they imitate a duck's beak wagging. "These are the cunny's walls," she says and points to the top and bottom halves of the 'beak.' "When a woman comes, they pulse and squeeze together like this," she says, making rippling movements with her fingers. But then, suddenly, she thrusts another hand's fingers inside of this beak, moving them in and out, showing how these thrusts now prevent the beak's top and bottom halves from squeezing together. "But once you put something inside of her, it interrupts the natural rhythm of the orgasm. It feels good to have something inside, of course, but it's the movements of that something that can ruin or perfect her release: you would have to be thrusting exactly in time with her ripples, so that you would not interrupt the squeezes but thrust inside between them. You would have to be almost telepathic to know when to remain still, letting her cunny squeeze around you--and without that squeeze, there is no orgasm. I've found it's almost impossible to time the thrusts right," and much to Fadl's chagrin, she now gestures using a toy on another woman, "to pull out or stay still as she squeezes, and then thrust back in when she loosens, to set the next set of ripples in motion. She would have to be the one deciding the rhythm."

The audacity of the bitch, telling him how to fuck, like he was some adolescent brat! But she is right: this is exactly the sort of thing Jaffar always goes on about. Leaving spaces between his strokes to let the woman come... but it's easy for him to say, Fadl having experienced the kind of telepathic contact he and Yassamin enjoy first hand.

"Forgive me, then, my lady," he grumbles, "for not being telepathic!"

"Ah, but you don't need telepathy with sodomy, my proud stallion. The cunny is free to ripple out its pleasure as much as it likes, then. That's why I and all my girls have grown to prefer it. I, too, abhor the idea of not being able to sate my woman!" And now, smiling, she places her hand on his chest, wrapping herself around the left half of his body. "Besides, are you telling me you don't prefer the tightness of the arse?"

"I do," he says, now finally removing his hand from his eyes and slipping it between her legs, her mound so magnificently plump it spills out of his hand on either side. He squeezes it possessively, hissing in his delight. "But I love this little--well, not-so-little--cunny too much to give it up entirely. Never have I met its like," he sighs, deriving some satisfaction at least from Zainab now responding to his caress with an eager rut. Greedily, he kisses her moan from her lips and begins to stroke her with intent, squeezing her clitoris between the fat lips, massaging the entirety of that soft mountain of flesh with his palm. "So soft on the outside, like a silk cushion; so plush, so delicious, so fat," he whispers onto her lips, knowing her weakness for dirty talk, her vanity a sexual organ in and of itself.

"Ah!" she cries, holding on to his still-soft prick for dear life, hurting him a little, now, but he doesn't care. If he can't fuck her senseless with his prick the way he wants to, now, he is determined to do so with his hands and his voice at least: therefore, he now adopts his most commanding tone, exacting from her strict obedience.

"Take your hand off my cock," he says, now rubbing her cunny with a rough violence, relishing the way her clitoris hardens beneath his hand. "Wet it in your cunny and push it in your arse. Do it!"

Her only answer to that is surprise; her eyes snap open, she clearly impressed by his taking the reins in this manner. Wide and blue, her eyes stare into his as she does as she is told, seemingly aroused by this change in their usual roles, or perhaps because she is flattered by his effort. After all, is he not serving her even as he commands her? Fadl thinks, even that thought frustrating him a little: now, he is glad they are not telepathic, for he couldn't bear Zainab's smirk were she to realise how completely and utterly he was enslaved to her even now.

But it is now that Zainab struggles a little: her ample hips make it difficult for her to reach her anus with just her fingers, so now she has to lift up her left leg and reach for her arse from behind. But this is exactly the view Fadl had been hoping for: with great relish, he takes her leg and helps hold it up, chuckling in delight as he looks between her thighs.

"Delicious," he purrs again as Zainab scoops up slickness from her cunny--always so quick to wet, always so quick to heat up from genuine lust, always so ready for him--and begins to work two fingers into her arse. "Can you get all of it inside?" he now asks, looking up at her.

"Greedy," she huffs against his cheek, biting her lip as she begins to stretch herself with two fingers, then three. "Don't count on it."

"Let's see, shall we?" he just says and keeps on rubbing her, staring into her eyes in challenge, fucking her with his gaze. Even if his prick cannot take its satisfaction from her, the prick of his spirit--his mind the hardest of erections this very moment, demanding conquest--now pleasures itself with the clenchings of her cunny underneath his hand, the little winces upon her face, the way she puffs with exertion, her hair flying from her face as she takes herself with her hand.

Soon, she is shaking, not only from strain but from the violence of an anal orgasm beginning to rattle her bones, he can tell; she stares at him with her mouth open, her pink tongue trembling, her nostrils wide, unable to form words. She has three fingers inside of her arse, now, hooking so hard her knuckles are white; cruel, he pulls his hand away from her cunny and delivers it a hard slap, two, three, then returns to stroke it with bruising force.

Soon, her eyes close and she screams so loudly he has to turn aside his head, closing his eyes as her spittle flies into them: her entire body jiggles against him as she bellows there, her cunny gushing so that her wetness sprays all over her thighs with his strokes. She howls through her nostrils, her head pressed into the crook of his neck, and still, she keeps on jerking: he daren't remove his hand from her cunny, knowing how tremendously long her release can be; he wishes to milk out and drink each and every drop of it.

Now, there's a thought. Fadl knows Zainab the Harlot is never satisfied with just the one release, whatever the hole she's being fucked in: even from his own sparse experiences from being taken, Fadl knows the second bout of sodomy to always be even more pleasurable, once the first orgasm has truly opened and relaxed the body for deeper entry, exposing new pleasure-spots in the body's depths. Therefore, as Zainab pulls out her trembling hand and lowers her trembling leg, Fadl decides to take charge: as he buries his face in her cunny and replaces her fingers with three of his, she can but howl, her cunny signalling its assent with another little spray.

Besides, earlier tonight, he hadn't got to do nearly enough of this for his liking: he had barely got her sap flowing before she'd jumped on his cock, demanding penetration. Now, he can truly indulge in this perversion, loving as he does to bask in the sinfulness of this act, considered filthier and lower than even passive sodomy: he always feels as if the actual, true deliciousness of a clean, shaven, washed woman's cunny is a secret he had been lied to about, and it makes him feel superior in his sin, an initiate into a mystery other men are not party to. Another perversion only a Barmakid would be brave enough to explore without fear: out of all the men he's known, only Jaffar has dared admit--nay, even boast of--his relishing of it the way Fadl does.

And now, while there's still the tiniest hint of mint and vinegar left upon Zainab's sex from her contraceptive efforts, their taste is negligible: her arousal, always so profuse from anal stimulation, has now drenched her cunny in that sweet, sugary nectar he seeks for his drink.

No, not merely drink: by God, he wishes to swim in this sea of sweetness, wants to bottle it to make of it a potent wine; he wants to drown in it, be buried in it like those ancient kings who were in honey mummified. Here at its source does he now feast, stroking deftly the insides of her guts, seeking those spots that produce more of this sweet sap, more, more.

And as his fingers are longer, he can reach deeper inside of her than she had herself been able to, now seeking that part where the womb presses upon the gut, where the passage tightens upon both women and men; the moment his fingertips brush against it, Zainab stiffens and begins to shiver, her eyes snapping open wide.

"Here, my little wanton?" Fadl drawls, very satisfied with himself indeed.

She puffs through her lips, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. "Be worthy of your name," she groans, Fadl having been named after generosity itself; "or I am going to have to steal it from you," she mutters and makes to bring her hand to her neglected clitoris.

Fadl--never having liked his name in the first place exactly because of what it makes people expect of him, as if the lavish favours expected from a Barmakid were not enough--simply raises his eyebrow and curls his fingertips, curls them until Zainab's cunny trickles into his palm: but his hands are getting tired, so he has mercy upon her and replaces her hand with his mouth. Enough of tricks; let her have her release, he thinks as he takes her clitoris into his mouth and begins to suck upon it rhythmically, in time with his fingers' curling thrusts. Soon enough, she unravels, completely drenching his beard and moustache; so voluminously does she gush this time that it trickles down onto Fadl's neck, and Fadl fancies himself decorated a hero, garlanded a champion by this necklace of her sweetness.

It is only when Zainab takes her hand to his wrist that he pulls out, his jaw and his hand aching from exertion. But it was worth it, absolutely: now she can never say he could not satisfy her.

"Victory!" he cries as he now crashes dramatically beside her in turn; the nymphs at the bedposts now seem to be regarding him with a little more respect, too.

Zainab is still catching her breath, her heavy breasts quivering upon her chest, the rolls of her belly rising and falling with her breathing. Fadl loves watching this, too, the waves of this pink and white sea, the marvellous abundance of her soft, loose, fat flesh jiggling like--

"You're like a dessert," he mumbles, poking at her right breast with a fingertip, marvelling at how deep it sinks into her plushness. "Like a sweet aspic."

Zainab but lets out a laugh, jiggling even more now so that her heavy jewellery tinkles with her movements. "I shall choose to take that as a compliment."

"It is," he says and kisses one flattened pink nipple, now sunken into her breast like a little rosebud gone to sleep. "My father was a magnificent chef, you know. They always had cooking contests at Harun's court, and he--or my mother--won every time. I never got the hang of a good jelly myself. But now I don't need to," he says and beams, pillowing his head upon the plumpness of her arm. "This is much better than boiling hooves for days on end."

She ruffles his hair. "You are a fool. But I'm starting to grow used to that with you Barmakids. Speaking of whom, have you visited your brothers yet?"

"No," Fadl shakes his head. "I came straight to you, as always."

With a delighted groan, Zainab wraps her arms about him. "Good. Because I'm going to keep you here for a while."

And even as Fadl rests in Zainab's soft embrace, he thinks of what Jaffar must be doing right now. Tinkering with those monstrous machines of his? Playing with his children? Or probably fucking his delicious wife's delicious arse, Fadl now grumbles within his mind, with some magical aphrodisiac or another to keep him going for hours. Whereas he has to spend days with Zainab to even get to that part!



"Hold it in! You can do it!"

"I can't! I--"

The heavy turquoise sphere falls out of Yassamin's arse and right onto Jaffar's face: he tries to dodge it, but it hits him square on the cheek.

"Woman, you nearly gave me a black eye!" he cries, holding his jaw. "N'd neawly diflofghed a molaw," he mumbles, feeling for his teeth with his tongue.

Yassamin, perched as she is on all fours, tries to look at him, but cannot crane her head enough. "I'm sorry," she says, but she is laughing as she says it, and as that laughter now expels noisy gusts of air from her well-slickened orifices, Jaffar bursts out into laughter, too.

But it was she who had inspired their current experiment in the first place, of seeing how sizeable and how many spheres she could hold inside of herself: another one of Jaffar's complex hybrids of scientific study and erotic play.

For there are times for Yassamin when the need for sodomy so possesses her that it becomes a fever: despite Jaffar reassuring her otherwise, at times she has wondered whether there was, in fact, truth to those tales of sodomites being sufferers of an addictive disease. That there were men--as ever, the medical books, written by male doctors, rarely discussed female bodies and their experiences--with dispositions that made them more susceptible to these cravings. That once such men had experienced passive sodomy, something inside of their bodies would begin to respond to the sensation, awakening in them a need violent, desperate, insatiable.

The usual explanation for this, seemingly accurate in the cases of men as twin-sexed as Jaffar, was that such men carried within themselves physical characteristics that were somehow more feminine than those of other men. And thus, their need to be taken was something that corresponded to the female reproductive organs' natural need to be penetrated, filled in order to procreate. Some would even postulate that were you to treat certain male organs, tissues like female ones, they would begin to behave as if they were female: this would explain, for instance, why Jaffar produced as much sap upon arousal as a woman, certain parts of his innards having become womb-like from a love of passive sodomy.

However, this entire theory falls apart when the body in question is that of a female, and one whose cunny gets a healthy amount of sex at that, a female whose womb is ardently massaged by her male's prick several times a week! Yassamin has already done her share of procreation, too, having brought two children into the world: neither her soul or her body feel a burning desire to bring forth any more. And there is nothing truly masculine to her nature, either, in comparison to women like Halima or Zainab; even at her most Sapphic, she has preferred the receptive role.

"Perhaps you're doubly female in that sense," Jaffar had told her with a gentle smile, when she had rested in his arms after one very thorough bout of sodomy, when it had seemed to her as if she could never get enough of his prick in her guts. "If the male sodomite has a spirit-womb inside of his guts, perhaps you have two wombs instead of one," he had cackled. "One of flesh and one of spirit."

"God forbid!" she had rolled her eyes. "It cannot be that."

"Mmm. I am inclined to think this 'addiction' is simply a result of the act being so pleasurable, once you get used to it," he had said and laced his fingers with hers. "There are so many nerves down there to begin with. But it's only that it's one of those desires that people daren't talk about, or write about, except as an illness. Only the brave few souls such as you and I have ever truly dared experiment with it, study it with a neutral, scientist's approach, freed of its associations of sin."

Yet in her youth, she would've thought it a sin: even during the first few years of their marriage, a major part of the pleasure she'd derived from his taking her like a boy had been the knowledge of their committing an unlawful act. But the older she gets, the more she is inclined to agree with Jaffar's point of view: in that she cannot see anything sinful in what two--or more!--grown people, sound of minds and sound of hearts, do out of pleasure, if it harms none. There is no crime if there is no victim, Jaffar always tells her; and whereas some would wring their hands and say unborn children were the victims of such practices, Yassamin is in no rush to become like those women who are sent to an early grave by too many pregnancies. There are plenty enough babes born each day, too many for the earth to bear, even, it seems; she has seen enough of the slums of Basra and Baghdad to know the disastrousness of fertility left unchecked, undammed.

And is not the very definition of sin an act that breaks the divine harmony, the equilibrium God would want human beings to aspire to? Jaffar, having been preyed upon by older men as a youth, had even speculated that the destruction of Sodom had been because of the way its men had abused its children, not because of acts of genuine love between lovers of whatever sex. And as Yassamin herself had heard from a religious scholar, it was only when men imposed sodomy on unwilling women, to prevent them from having the children they genuinely wanted that it became a harmful act. Why, Jaffar himself had even gone so far as to say that in his reasoning, sodomy would, in fact, be even commendable if it allowed people--whether married couples or grown men--to act out their sexual urges without overburdening women with too many babes.

"But you fear your desire at times," Jaffar had said to her, having read her thoughts. "That you overburden me, an old man; that you are causing damage to your body. When you are doing no such thing," he says, he always having been delighted to watch her play with toys, always having loved pleasuring her with his hand whenever his prick had grown too soft to sate her. "Nay, my love: methinks we should try and fulfill these desires to the utmost, to quell that fever inside your body. Too much heat will go into your head and drive you mad."

"As if it wasn't doing that already!" she'd groaned. "But it's not there all the time, the fever. It's only the autumn that awakens it in me, for some strange reason. Always around Mehregan I become a madwoman! Mad!" she says; perhaps that orgy they'd had the previous year with Fadl and Zainab had been the beginning of a repeating pattern. For on and on, like the repeating curls and coils of arabesques does her desire rise and climb, seeking higher stations just as the engraved vines upon the walls of God's houses seek the heavens, up, up, high, high.

"It's good that you married a madman, then," he had but grinned. "And a scientist. And the scientist now proposes that you throw needless modesty and shame to the four winds, and instead, allow us to try and see where your body's limits lie: I'll wager that once we reach them, the desire itself will finally be fully sated. For what's the use of ten bouts of sodomy, if my prick isn't wide enough, long enough? The itch, if you will, will remain partially unscratched."

"If you keep on talking about my desire as 'an itch,' soon you'll have no prick at all, husband!"

"Yet you know what I mean, my love. I would that we but experimented more boldly, to feed your body with the nervous sensations it's clearly malnourished of. The body requires certain types of stimulation to stay healthy, just as the mind does, and one's needs change with age: perhaps you have but developed a need in you for more stimulation in the lower parts of the spinal nerves, and we are upon the cusp of finding its natural cure. I'll call on Zainab to get for us some more toys," he had said, and launched into a list of everything he wanted to try, so excited that Yassamin had known that from that moment on, there would be no turning back.

And this is where they find themselves: in the middle of one long experiment erotic and medical. Already Jaffar has tried on her different spheres, wands, phalli of each and every kind; he has even studied the effects of various different textures upon the surfaces of her guts--whether a more rippled toy would sate her faster than one as smooth as glass. But they'd found out soon enough that her guts were as human as they ever were, in that they could not be stimulated with rough ridges for too long without rendering her unable to even sit properly, let alone be sodomised again for half a week; any surfaces coarser than human skin would soon become needlessly painful for her as well.

But what had astonished Yassamin--even if she'd observed this before--was that Jaffar, upon finding out that it was one of his plant-gum pricks that suited her the best, was not at all jealous of the toy, the way it sated her better than even his own prick.

"But, my sweet, I am still the one using it upon you!" he had but laughed after she had sprayed his face earlier during today's bout. "Besides, I have tried this one myself. I know how good it feels. Absolutely marvellous," he had sighed and smacked his lips, taken her cunny with his mouth even if it had sent her yelping; "absolutely marvellous."

What she'd also found curious about all this was that even if Jaffar had always approached lovemaking with an engineer's eye, the experimentation itself had now become the main focus of his loving of her, finally surpassing even his own need to sate himself. Perhaps it was his age making him a little mad, a little too focused on the science of things, instead of the most important thing--their love? This, she had wondered about, a little disappointed, even.

And as that sphere--he had started to fill her with the most outrageous things, now, after having given her two or three orgasms with the dildo--falls out, she, too, falls upon the bed, a little sadness mixed into even her laughter.

I can hear what you are thinking, my sweet, Jaffar thinks at her, without blame. Yet I hope you do not think I love you any less, he whispers into her mind, like a cat brushing against her, his eyes filled with a sudden sadness; he had heard that fear in her mind, but now wants her to fight it, wants to prove her and himself wrong.

Come here, she asks him, her face pressed into the pillows; she feels so fragile, now, that she cannot look at him. Please, she asks, feeling guilty for this aching need inside of her, always so aware of his age and his declining stamina.

Yet it is an ache no toy can fill, a desire no mere plant gum or beautifully coloured stone could sate; he knows this, too, and her need spills into the cup of his heart a wine, making him glow inside.

"Oh, my love," he says, his voice soft and breaking from tenderness as he comes to cover her. "As you can see, I am not lacking in anything this very moment," he murmurs with a little wistful smile as he slides his erection between her buttocks, gently seeking permission with his touch. "Except for Love to envelop me, the most perfect love I know of upon this earth," he whispers into her ear as he laces his fingers with hers. "The love of my lady Yassamin. Would you let me?"

"Please," she but says again, hating the way it comes out a whimper; she thinks she will die if he doesn't take her now. "Please, husband," she sighs, biting her lip.

And he slides inside of her guts so easily, now, like silk; she is so open wide, now, so relaxed, that his very first stroke makes lights dance in her eyes. All of her made a prism, he turning her slowly with his thrusts, she reflecting and refracting and scattering the piercing hot white beam of his love. Her teeth chatter, only his weight holding her down--oh, but she loves the way he holds her down, this so much better than any toys now that she can enjoy his full weight atop her body. That she is being loved not by some small object, but the entirety of another human being, and the human being she loves the most in the world at that. The bones of his hips pressed into the softness of her buttocks, that sensation she has never not loved and will continue to love until her dying day; the firm, strong beats of his heart against her back as he lies there, only moving his hips in the shortestmost of strokes while he's inside of her.

She is weighed down by his love, immersed into it, now set free from this terrible weightlessness she has had to suffer with the toys; it is the little, heartbroken noise he makes in her ear as he hears her thoughts that makes her cunny now clench far more violently than the toys had made it do, makes her womb lift with such force that her entire body is now lifted off the bed against his weight. She clutches his hands and tosses herself up into him, now trying to take him with her hips in turn. Her desperation rises fast, swift, quick; words gallop out of her mouth, stumbling over one another as she ruts back against him in her need.

"This is what I need, husband, this, this; this is what I want. Only you can cure this fever--please--"

"Mm-hmm?" he purrs in challenge, now letting go of her hands, lifting her so that she is now balanced on her knees, her face and shoulders against the bed. The bed creaks as he shifts position, too, finding the right one from which to thrust; he has not taken her with his prick like this in a week and now has plenty of energy to spare. For a brief moment, he toys with the idea of teasing her, of stirring her further with dirty words; yet she is past such games, he can tell, so he only brushes this idea against her mind, another caress upon the skin of her self, making her shiver in delight at what he has planned for her the next time they play. He sends to her flashes of flickering tongues, of costumes, of the whip's sweet and sharp sting; of toys of ever-increasing sizes, his entire hand nestled inside of her.

But on and on through all these acts, through all his perversions runs the blazing core of his love, his love taking her just as he is now taking her with his prick; him making of her pleasure his ornament, them so entwined no one would know where he ends and Yassamin begins.

"Would you like that, my sweet?" he now purrs in her ear as he leans over and cups her breasts in his hands, rolling his hips in a slow circle. "Perhaps I shall make you write me love letters, like those early days," he says, with a great fondness even as he begins to thrust into her in earnest; "make you give up all--your--dirty--little--wishes," he now stutters as his own blows break up his words. "As tribute from a queen conquered," he snarls, taking her by the hair, sliding another hand to her cunny; "exacting from you what is my due."

It is at that that she screams so hard she hurts her head; the very idea thrills her beyond measure. For even this physical need in her is but a part of her neverending need for him, for him to master her; but a part of her neverending journey towards his feet, where her ultimate satisfaction lies. No one, but no one could ever sate her body and her soul the way he does, and now all of her becomes one happy cry, glad: "Yes!" she shouts into the pillows, tears springing into her eyes as he tears up her head to better hear her; "Yes!" she shouts until the walls echo with her giving up of herself, her bones ringing with her submission, every atom of her flesh singing with her joyous freedom in surrender.

Surrender, surrender; her body pulses, ripples, her arse loosening and then tightening and then loosening again in a tremendous orgasm, far more fulfilling than the ones that had preceded it. And he takes it, takes her in that way he has always taken her, fulfilling her so completely and utterly there is no part of her that is not permeated by Jaffar, surrounded by him, embraced by him. For is there not a sweetness in being crushed, too, as grapes are crushed into wine, resin powdered into incense, like sugar cone is ground against sugar cone above the heads of newlyweds to become a rain of sweetness, of blessing? So completely is she exhausted, wrung dry, that now her cunny spasms without spraying underneath his hand; it is he who now floods them both with his wetness, filling her guts with the wonderful, soothing, blessing milk of his semen.

For it is as milk, as cream, as a soothing elixir that she thinks of it as, now; none of the ointments he has engineered has ever had quite the same effect upon her. Delirious, he laughs into her mind the concept of that second womb once more--that perhaps her guts wish to drink sperm just as much as a womb does, he wonders? he thinks and cackles against her neck, that cackle turning into a great groan as he pushes both of them down onto the bed in a sweaty, trembling and thoroughly sated heap.

"Thank you," she murmurs after finally having regained her voice; she kisses his hand.

Jaffar turns around to take her in his arms, smiling at her, even the wrinkles around his eyes filled to the brim with happiness. "I take it that that sated your fever, for the time being."

"It did," she nods. They both know they won't have time for much experimentation from tomorrow on: for tomorrow, Fadl and Zainab will be arriving for the Mehregan celebrations. "And before you say it," she hastens to add, hearing his thoughts, "I don't think my body could bear another orgy!"

Jaffar raises his eyebrow at her, in an uncanny imitation of Fadl's signature eyebrow quirks. "We'll see," he purrs, smirking like a devil.

She rolls her eyes. "You have got something planned."

"As a matter of fact, I haven't. But you know how these things happen," he says and kisses her forehead. "We will just have to see what the Almighty has planned for us this time. But know that I, too, find family reunions difficult, particularly whenever Fadl is involved. He is always a handful, always--"

"Always a piece of work," she says, her eyes turned inwards as she rests her head against his chest. "I feel as if we are performing some manner of... upbringing, of child-rearing every time he visits us; as if we were to him some kinds of parents, teachers. That's why it always feels like such hard work."

"Precisely. Latifa and Mohammad don't need minding. But Fadl is, in many ways, a child."

"A child of fifty-nine!" Yassamin groans. "But do not think I hate him, even if there is much in him that one--especially a woman--might find worth hating. I do not mean that--"

"I know," he says and kisses her hand. "Like you said, it's only that it's hard work."

"The price I pay for you pampering me so, I suppose," she says, pulling the sheets tighter over them. "You have made it good for me," she murmurs. "Never think I am not grateful, for this same minding and healing you have extended in even greater a measure over me, my foolish girl-self."

"Oh, my sweet," he laugh-groans and hugs her. "Now, that, is a pleasure beyond all pleasures; every single moment of it, every single act of it. I never feel exhausted by my loving of you, rather rejuvenated. But, come. There might be no debaucheries whatsoever expected of us tomorrow; only God knows what tomorrow will bring. And God knows best."

"God knows best," she sighs against his heart, giving up her worrying as it is of no use: taking Jaffar's advice, she rests the matter into the Almighty's hands.