"The days of the Barmakids' rule
were a perpetual wedding feast,
filled with unending happiness and joy."
--Masudi, The Meadows of Gold
"Fadl is coming."
Yassamin looks up from the eggs she has been painting. As if Jaffar's distress hadn't been clear from the noise which had accompanied his announcement, he now falls theatrically onto the cushions and groans once more. She has barely seen him over these past few days--so many guests have arrived for the Nowruz celebrations that he has been exhausted granting them audiences, listening to the woes of diplomats and commoners who have travelled far and wide to meet him.
Yet, this is a guest most unexpected. Fadl is the only one of Jaffar's siblings Yassamin has not met yet; Mohammad, Musa and Dunya had all arrived to honour their wedding, but Fadl himself had declined, insisting he had an insurgency on his hands, or something of the sort. Jaffar, however, had had his doubts--according to him, Fadl loathed the court of Baghdad and would make any excuse not to leave the provinces.
"I thought you said he would never leave Khurasan."
"I thought so, too, until a messenger arrived this morning." Jaffar pulls his hand from his face and sighs wearily. "I don't like this, Yassamin; I don't like it at all. There must be some reason."
A sudden cold fear clutches at her stomach. "Has he brought troops?"
Jaffar shakes his head. "I doubt he is after the throne. I know him; he loves power, but hates responsibility. In Balkh, he can pretend he is king and let his viziers handle his affairs, but he wouldn't be able to do that in Baghdad."
It's as Jaffar had told her: before she was born, Fadl had held the position of Grand Vizier but had handed it over to Jaffar, wanting to devote himself to pursuits amorous and military instead. Jaffar had painted his elder brother as a man of conflicting desires: one consumed by a lust for blood and flesh, yet given to violent bouts of self-mortification and piety. His mood swings had been almost as bad as Harun's, and it was Harun's influence Jaffar had blamed for having made Fadl so.
"Did he send you a message?"
"None. Only that he would arrive soon--probably tomorrow or the day after. The messenger told me he was travelling in disguise, as usual, and that we were to receive him as a merchant, with no ceremony." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I cannot remember owing him a favour, and it's not as if he is short of money."
She washes her hands and joins him upon the cushions, embracing him. "I wish there was something I could do."
He pats her hand. "You are doing it right now."
But he is still nervous, still agitated even as she undoes his turban, his thoughts still wandering even as they retreat to the bed. It pains her to see him like this, and gladly she serves him, just as he has served her on her worst days, reminding him of what's important, reminding him of her love for him. She has to love him wildly, violently, pinch him, scratch him, clutch him with her legs to bring him back to where he belongs: to the present, focused on but love and love alone. Yet even after he has spent himself inside her, he is a little restless: it is not until she has taken him with her fingers and her mouth that he has poured out all his anxiety, all his fear.
Finally, he curls up in her arms, exhausted, still trembling in aftershocks. "Thank you."
"I am not letting you out of my sight, Jaffar," she says, kissing his hand. "When Fadl arrives, I shall be standing there beside you. I promise that."
And it is the strangest thing to promise: usually, Jaffar has been the stronger of them--rarely has she seen him like this, the most charismatic and powerful man she has ever met so overwhelmed by nerves. A queen is the support of her king, it is said, but it is love rather than duty that now steels her determination.
"He is but a man, is he not?"
"Indeed," Jaffar murmurs against her breast, as if trying to convince himself of this; "he is but a man."
When she first encounters Fadl, she has to wonder what on earth Jaffar had been worrying about. They are introduced but briefly before Fadl and his entourage are escorted to their own chambers; yet the figure who now greets her seems a most perfect gentleman. Just like his brother, he is tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and handsome besides. Yet his handsomeness is but pleasant to her eyes--it doesn't frighten her the same way Jaffar's appearance had frightened her when she had first gazed upon him.
Oh, no; whereas Jaffar's beauty is distinctly of a two-sexed, even feminine sort, Fadl's is a little more masculine: his nose more aggressive and prominent, his muscles slim but well-defined and his movements athletic, those of an expert swordsman. And whereas Jaffar's eyes are the piercing witchcraft hue of the zenith, Fadl's are a calm, placid sea-blue in comparison. Despite his small beard, he seems much more youthful than Jaffar, too: it's hard to believe he is a year older when he seems a decade younger instead. Yassamin had never asked whether they were born from two different mothers, but now she wonders.
No, Fadl doesn't frighten her at all: whereas she could tell Jaffar was a sorcerer and a libertine simply by looking at him, Fadl seems normal in comparison, the very picture of the refined, cultured prince. The only thing that makes her a little uneasy is the way Fadl looks at her, boldly, a little longer than is proper for a brother-in-law; his eyes linger upon her unveiled face as he bows to her.
"I look forward to deepening our friendship, my lady," Fadl says, then straightens himself out with a grin: he even glances at Jaffar to see his reaction, but Yassamin need not even look at Jaffar to feel him tensing.
Jaffar bows to his brother in turn, but as soon as he is out of the room, he takes Yassamin by the arm possessively. "I am going to kill him."
"I found him quite charming."
"And that's the problem," Jaffar spits as they walk towards her quarters. "No woman is safe around him."
"What kind of a helpless little gazelle do you think I am, Jaffar?" she snaps back at him, appalled, now. "Would you truly believe I would let myself be seduced by your brother?"
Jaffar looks around himself, then pulls her into a window alcove. "You mistake me. Fadl is not the sort of man who asks permission. Trust me. More than once have I turned my back to find his hand was in my women's under-drawers, or tugging on my pageboys' pricks."
She slaps his hand. "I can take care of my own under-drawers."
Jaffar shakes his head. "Perhaps it would be for the best if you remained in the harem. Feigned an illness or something."
"Jaffar, what's come over you?" She is truly astounded, now. Is this the man who had so eagerly shared her with other men, women, relished it? Why, he had been the one to suggest it, every time, yet now he is the one jealous, when there is little reason for it, either?
"I am sorry," he says, and now he moans and gathers her into his arms, holding her tight. "But you have to trust me, Yassamin. I have seen what he's like, and it would be exactly like him to try and humiliate me in such a fashion. Would you want to become but an instrument of his petty, cruel amusements?"
"You frighten me, Jaffar," she whispers against his chest. "Do you truly believe him capable of such a thing?"
"It wouldn't be the first time," he murmurs as he pulls back.
And it's exactly because Jaffar doesn't elaborate that her head is now filled with the most horrid of visions: had Fadl seduced Jaffar's first wife, perhaps, the one who had died before Yassamin was even born? Or were the foulest of rumours she had heard of the Barmakids--the ones that had made her so reluctant to marry Jaffar in the first place--true after all? That they indulged not only in sodomy, but incest, too? She imagines Fadl kissing Dunya, of him bending her to the sheets, her kicking and screaming as he takes her by force; oh, her stomach reels.
She swallows and does not look at Jaffar. "Is it your command, then? That I remain in the harem?"
He lifts her chin, smiling a little. "You know I cannot force you to do anything, my demoness; your will is your own." But now, he draws in a deep breath and his eyes are full of hurt, his voice wavering. "However, I would request it, just this once--not for my sake, but for the sake of your own safety."
"Oh, Jaffar." She pulls him into a kiss, a kiss deep, long, pressing her body against his to soothe him, to reassure him. "Very well, then. I shall join you for the festivities, but will tell the eunuchs not to let Fadl into the harem, unless he is in your company. Does that satisfy you?"
He kisses her hair. "It does."
"If the worst should happen--" she plays with the buttons of his jacket. "Remember who it is that my heart belongs to, will you?"
"Oh, my poor child!" he hugs her close. "For what it's worth, I have never doubted that," he murmurs. "And I promise to repay you that love once Nowruz is over."
"I look forward to it," she says, forcing herself to smile.
And her smile is not a lie: as she has sworn to return Jaffar to love, so she must focus upon it herself. Thus, she bids him goodnight with another kiss and retreats to bed, so tired her sleep is bereft of dreams.
"Defend yourself, infidel!"
Fadl's cry rings in the courtyard, stopping Yassamin in her tracks. She and her handmaidens had been decorating the gallery above the square, but now she sends the girls on their way and moves closer to the window lattice, peering through it.
It was as she had suspected: it's Jaffar Fadl is practicing with, both men armed with the new type of thin, curved Eastern sword only princes can afford. Lion's claws, they call them, and like two big cats the brothers now prowl around the courtyard and around each other. Both men are barefoot, dressed only in their shalwars; it's a hot day, sweltering, as if summer had usurped spring, the air rippling with heat.
But it is not the heat of the sun that now makes Yassamin's throat dry, oh no; it is the strange, extraordinary beauty of the sight below her. For from this distance, she cannot tell the brothers apart from one another, and thus it is as if she were watching her husband, her lover doubled: not one, but two Jaffars dancing in the sun. With equal grace, the two men leap and twirl, their blades flashing bright, and her body cannot help but respond; she curses underneath her breath as she feels her cunny tightening a little. She is so near her bleeding that even a gust of wind would quicken her lust, now, but to have her senses flooded with a vision like this is sheer torture: two long, brown, sinewed backs shining with sweat, four long, graceful arms sweeping in perfect arcs as the brothers slash at each other.
And when she closes her eyes--oh. The noises the men make, gasping, groaning, huffing--it is not unlike the sound of lovemaking, as if the grunting of two rutting beasts, and she has to open her eyes again to try and control herself. She curls her fingers around the lattice so tightly it hurts, burning from her sin, trying desperately to make out which one of the men is her Jaffar, the one her heart should be beating for, the one her sex should be stirring for.
Yet both men have cut their hair to a similar length, only just long enough to be tied up at the back--but there, there, the man in the blue shalwars has to be Jaffar: his hair has receded more at the front, and when he pauses to breathe, to wipe sweat from his face, she can see he is a little thinner. Her heart leaps, then skips a beat from terror as Fadl comes at Jaffar once more, Jaffar barely managing to parry his thrust as he ducks from underneath the blow. Brothers or not, their fighting is vicious; even from this distance, she can see there is a long, red cut upon Fadl's back.
Jaffar is panting already, clearly tired of the game: the moment Fadl takes a stride too long and falters, he leaps behind Fadl, twisting his arms behind his back. He tucks his chin over Fadl's shoulder, murmuring against his cheek, but Yassamin cannot make out the words; perversely, the sight reminds her of a lover whispering filth into his beloved's ear. Why, it is exactly the same manner in which Jaffar holds her when he takes her from behind; Fadl's trembling, too, mimicking the convulsions of desire as he tries to writhe free from his brother's grip. And oh, the cry he makes as he springs free, one of orgasmic delight! Yassamin should be ashamed, she knows this, yet she presses her body tight against the lattice, barely able to breathe.
Swiftly, Fadl twirls around, then comes at Jaffar like a whirlwind, slashing this way and that. Calmly, Jaffar deflects his blows, conserving his energy while Fadl is wasting his. But now, Fadl leaps around a pillar, distracting Jaffar long enough so that with a well-aimed slash, he is able to slice Jaffar's sash in half, leaving him with his shalwars around his ankles.
Jaffar swears, hacking at Fadl as he tries to cover himself, but it is no use: Fadl trips him up easily and pushes him face down into the dust, sitting astride him with his sword at Jaffar's throat.
Even the guards stir, now, but Jaffar does not command them to stop Fadl: even as Fadl yanks his head up by the hair, he remains quiet.
"Do you surrender, brother?" Fadl shouts, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Yassamin cannot make out Jaffar's answer, if he even gives one. Fadl remains on top of Jaffar, rolling his hips as if he is riding him, taking him, the way a stag mounts another to display its dominance. It's vile, disgusting and she wants to look away, wants to murder Fadl for humiliating her husband so. Why, she is this close to storming out into the courtyard and ripping Fadl's heart out with her bare hands.
Yet it is then that Fadl cries out and clutches at his chest, convulsing in such sudden pain that he falls off Jaffar, curling up into a ball upon the ground.
"Brother!" he croaks.
Jaffar pays him no heed as he ties up his tattered shalwars and dusts himself off, deliberately ignoring his brother's agony. Finally, he lifts up his hand and flicks it, and the moment he does, Fadl falls slack, panting upon the ground.
Magic, then--Yassamin lets out the breath she had been holding for long moments. Thank God, thank God.
Fadl is hissing, spitting, and Yassamin is only glad she cannot make out his insults as Jaffar picks up his sword and leaves the courtyard.
The maids look at her askance as she storms into her bedroom. "I am not feeling well," she mumbles. "Zahra, you take over the decorations. I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon. Is that understood?"
"Yes, madam," the girls respond in unison, but she is no longer listening; her blood runs so hot it overwhelms her with a cacophony of lust. Her silks stick to her skin, her fingers fumble upon the buttons of her jacket as she undresses herself, sprays herself with fresh rosewater and throws herself into bed. Groaning, she stretches out upon the cool sheets, her every limb burning; and if Jaffar has stolen the jade cock again she will never forgive him, never.
"There you are, my little friend," she smiles as she finds it at the bottom of her bedside cabinet, kissing its head reverently.
She could have summoned Jaffar to her chambers, but he must be fatigued from the fight; besides, her fever cannot wait a moment longer, twisting her limbs into movement. She slides her hand to her cunny and it's a peach swollen, wet, so sensitised even her own touch makes her tingle, spark all over and writhe upon the bed. Immediately, she starts to rub her clitoris, to nudge at her entrance with the toy, recalling the vision of Jaffar triumphant, majestic in the sun. She imagines herself in Fadl's position, as she has so often herself lain at Jaffar's feet, panting; the knife-sharp moment of stillness before he stirs into action, kicks her legs apart and ravishes her.
Yet now, she cannot erase her double-Jaffar, twinned with Fadl from her mind, no matter how hard she tries: the man that now slides inside of her, ruts above her is at once masculine and feminine, the thighs between hers both muscled and thin, oh, God have mercy upon her. But she cannot stop; the jade is far too smooth in comparison to a real man, and she pulls her legs closer together, squeezes the toy with the muscles of her cunny, desperate for more friction. If only Jaffar were sucking upon her clitoris, now, she thinks, feverishly imagining the scratch of his moustache upon her swollen mound, and now, there, that's done it: she has reached just the right spot, assaults it with the toy so that it strikes heatwaves through her hips. Within but moments, she is rushing headlong into release, Jaffar's nose pressed into her slit--no, that is a nose more prominent she now sees--oh, but how much harder would Fadl's press against her clitoris? Merciful God, what's possessed her?
"Forgive me, Jaffar, forgive me!" she cries, even as she falls into orgasm.
And yet she cannot stop thrusting, the man above her transforming into her beloved husband once more, a Jaffar now taking her with slower thrusts, deeper. "Jaffar," she moans, thinking of his beautiful hands and his beautiful prick inside of her, his crooked smile as he finds those secret parts of her only he can reach, making her his once more, rescuing her from her own depravity. She turns the toy around inside of herself, desperately reaching for those spots, turning onto her stomach, imagining him taking her roughly, punishing her.
He has not whipped her in months, but it's what she now needs to imagine to atone for her sins: his lash sings upon her back, the white-hot strokes of it landing between each of his thrusts until both cock and whip become but the one force, the one pleasure-pain taking her, ripping through her until she is filled with nothing but Jaffar, Jaffar, Jaffar. She howls into the pillows, howls as she rides her hands, the jade, the Jaffar who is not there. Oh, how she needs him, now more than ever; even as she is still coming, her teeth chattering, her despair bursts forth from her eyes as tears.
"Jaffar!" she sobs, turns onto her back and without even pausing for breath, she continues to punish herself, pressing the stone cock against the muscles of her arse, forcing it in with but her own slickness. And oh, she is a whore, to open this way even if she has not been sodomised for days: she wails into her arm as the toy slips inside of her easily, making all her limbs jerk and tremble upon the bed. "Please, husband, please," she begs, nuzzling the tears from her temples onto the pillows, "Please."
There is a chuckle from behind the bedcurtains. "But whatever is it that you want from me, my sweet?"
"Jaffar!" she groans and lets her head fall upon the pillows. "You nearly scared my soul out of me."
He parts the bedcurtains and pushes his erection through them, chuckling once more. "Was it this fellow you were looking for, perhaps?" He waves his cock playfully.
"You are impossible!" she moans, covering her face with her arm.
"My, my," he croons as he crawls into bed, naked; he must have been in the room for a while. "No, don't take it out. But your cunny is burning! What brought this on, my child?"
"I saw you in the courtyard," she mumbles into her arm.
"And did you like what you saw?" he asks, blowing upon her mound. When she doesn't answer, he takes her hand from the toy and starts to move it inside of her, slowly.
She glances down at him and whimpers, his mouth so close to her cunny, now, his smile making her trickle onto the jade. "What is it between you two?" she slurs.
"You know the games brothers play," he says, arching his eyebrow.
"You are avoiding the question."
"I am rather distracted, as it happens," he laughs, then begins to lap at her cunny.
And how could she protest? It's exactly what she had dreamt of: how on earth Jaffar can suck her into his mouth this way, pleasure her more perfectly than even another woman could, she will never know. She is so swollen it's as if her clitoris has turned into a little prick--and she should not have thought of that, should not have thought of Jaffar sucking a man. Because now, from nowhere, she feels as if she is riding Fadl's cock in her arse, Jaffar's mouth sucking upon her cunny, then upon his brother's cock with a terrible, forbidden greed, tasting incest and sodomy at once--
His mouth smacks off her cunny. "Stop looking into my mind, wife!" he barks, outraged.
"You enjoyed it," he snaps. "I saw." He lifts himself up on his knees and hangs his head. "Which makes both of us sinners, I suppose."
Now, the toy slips out of her, her desire struck dead. Neither of them speaks for a while: neither dares dip inside the other's mind for fear of what they might discover. It's unbearable, it's awful; she pulls him to lie down beside herself and holds him. Yet even now, his body feels stiff, cold.
"Is this witchcraft?" she whispers. "Is he sending us these visions? But moments ago, I would have torn out his heart."
"As you saw, I am the one of us more skilled at that art. Although I would not put it past him to try and have his revenge this way."
And by revenge, she knows he means more than today's duel; he must. "Jaffar, tell me. You yourself have said you would want no secrets to come between us. What is the power he holds over you?"
He sighs and stares at the canopies. "We were both taken from the harem at a young age, younger than most. He was eleven, I ten--he had already got a girl pregnant, can you imagine that?" he laughs a little and takes her hand. "When he had no girls to sate his lust upon, well. You know the games brothers play," he winces.
"My God," she whispers. "Jaffar, I--"
"No, you mistake me," he says, caressing her cheek with his fingers. "The greater sin was mine, in that I enjoyed it, rather. For six whole years, he kept me as his catamite and his concubine, his accomplice in all his love-adventures: those years were what made the Jaffar you see before you today. Remember what I told you of that lover I had had, the one who took me with his hands? The one who had wanted to turn my--" but now even Jaffar, the king of all libertines grows quiet, his words cut short by the knife of shame.
The man who wanted to turn your arse into a cunt, Yassamin thinks, shivering now from both fear and arousal. "That was Fadl?" she whispers. The times she had taken Jaffar that way, had used that word to bring him to orgasm, knowing what it did to him--and now the intensity with which he had always come makes sense, this having been his greatest shame, the greatest perversion he had ever known. "Why did you never tell me?"
"How could I have, when I--" he groans into her shoulder. "I wanted to forget him. You, Theo--you took those acts and gave them new meaning, poured them full of pleasure and delight. Why should I have, then, let him tarnish them again with his memory?"
Yet she is not satisfied with this answer, and she knows Jaffar knows this; he has always demanded honesty from her, and now she wonders how many secrets he is still keeping from her, how many other ghosts still hide within the darkest catacombs of his mind. Is it because he had enjoyed their incest that he had seen it fit to hide it? If it had been but a wound in his memory, a tragedy, would it have been easier for him to tell her about it?
"You are right," he murmurs, hovering upon the edges of her consciousness. And now that he has stepped into her mind, so he lets her step into his: he closes his eyes and shivers as she sits inside of him, feeling Fadl's skilled, firm hands glorious upon his cock, Fadl's kisses opening his arse until it unfolds and aches with need, Fadl's fingers sublime inside Jaffar's body, milking him, making Yassamin's own cunny drip in turn--
With a horrified cry, she tears herself free, her cunny pulsing, pulsing; the ghost of Fadl's knuckles turning within her body still, and on and on, her cunny flutters.
There are tears in Jaffar's eyes, and he has never stopped squeezing her hand, his arm trembling from the strain. "I suppose you will want to divorce me, now," he whispers.
"No," she moans, burying her face in his shoulder. "I..." I understand, she wants to tell him, but the very phrase horrifies her--what does that make her into? What has he made her into? For a few, brief seconds, he has made her enjoy incest, relish it, and she hates him for it. But that thought is immediately followed by a stab of guilt: had she herself not imagined Fadl before Jaffar had arrived?
She is no better than Jaffar; she is as damned as he is.
"No," she finally whispers. "And may God cast me into Hell for saying so, but I would not hold it against you."
He searches her eyes for a long while, taking in her answer, his entire face trembling with emotion. "My God, Yassamin. I do not know whether I should throw myself upon the ground to praise the Almighty, or throw myself upon you until I forget my name."
His vulnerability breaks her heart; therefore, she makes the choice for him, climbing on top of him and rubbing her cunny against his half-hard cock. "I would have you forget, my love," she murmurs, kissing him softly.
"But I am not finished," he says even as he feasts upon her kisses, entwining his fingers in her hair. "You must know that there has been nothing between Fadl and I since I was sixteen. And that's the problem," he groans even as Yassamin tries to guide him inside herself. "He has never forgiven me. His jealousy, Yassamin--it's his monstrous jealousy--"
And suddenly, he is weeping, tears running down his temples, his breath hitching in his chest. "Even as Fatima lay dying, he--do you know what he said? He said 'good riddance.'" And now he cannot speak for his tears, weeping pitifully underneath her.
"Jaffar." Ashamed, now, she stops trying to take him, covering his face in kisses instead. She is terrified, never having seen Jaffar like this. He has rarely spoken to her of his family--all she knew of Fatima was that Yahya had chosen her for Jaffar and that he had loved her well, but had lost her to an illness when they had both been but seventeen. And now Jaffar must be thinking of Fadl gloating over Yassamin's grave--this chills her to the bone.
Jaffar wipes his nose on the back of his hand. "I cast him out. I blasted him with every pain-spell I knew of until he took back what he had said, and told him to never show his face at court again. And now--" he shakes his head. "He says he has come here to apologise, would you believe it? To make amends."
She shudders. "It looked more like revenge to me."
"He has hated me for thirty years; an apology does not come easily to a man of his temperament. The fool I am, I am willing to give him time; but only because he is my brother. Otherwise, I would have driven him out already. And you know how people would talk. Yassamin, I want this to remain between us--I don't want you to speak of this to anyone. Not even a serving maid, do you understand?"
"Of course not." She kisses his forehead. "My love, if there is anything I can do to help you, tell me."
He casts his eyelashes down, playing with her hair. "What worries me the most is that perhaps he does mean what he says. What you saw was nothing compared to the Fadl I used to know--he is still a bastard, but far less of a bastard than he was in Harun's day. Perhaps it's the time he has spent with the Sufis; it's too early to tell."
"Yet you are still terrified of him."
He winces. "And other things besides, as you saw. And that's my curse. You know what they say about our souls being tarnished mirrors; he is the greatest smear on mine." He sighs into her hair. "And what if he is now offering to wash that smear off? Would I not be the monster, then, if I didn't let him?"
"We shall find a way," she says, squeezing his hand, kissing it, thinking, thinking. "Invite him to drink with us tomorrow, in private. Perhaps we can ply him with enough wine, enough magic..."
He nods. "I had been thinking about that." He looks up at her, now smiling a little. "Wear that red jacket. The indecent one."
"I can't believe what I'm hearing!" she says, rolling her eyes, but a perverse thrill now stirs within her womb. Perhaps it's exactly because this is dangerous; deliciously, suicidally dangerous. "Are you saying we should seduce him?"
Jaffar closes his eyes, and she can feel him reaching inside of her, feeling for that perversity still swirling warm and bittersweet within her hips, pomegranate-dark at the back of her mind. He opens his eyes and quirks his eyebrow. "Somehow I do not think you would find it all that unpleasant, my Babylonian."
She buries her face in his chest and groans. "Stop doing that, husband."
"I will, once you stop trying to pretend you are indifferent to him," he laughs, a little bitterly. "At least we will burn in Hell side by side."
It is then that she silences him with a hand on his cock and her mouth upon his. "No more talk of Fadl tonight. Save it for tomorrow."
"As a matter of fact, I came here to forget him," he sighs into her kiss, hardening a little against her palm, slipping his hand between her buttocks. "Was there something in here you needed me to take care of?" he murmurs, dipping his fingertips into her still-wet arse.
"Yes," she moans against his cheek, spreading her legs, her moan turning into a howl as he twists his fingers deeper, so easily it shocks her.
"Well, then, my little harlot," he says, pushing his cock into her cunny, never taking his fingers from her arse. "Show me."
And they make love wildly, bruising each other, so noisily the entire harem must hear, but neither of them cares. Desperately, they cling to each other, he taking all of his fury out on her, she crying out all her fear as she throws herself upon his cock, his mouth, his fingers. He twists her hands behind her back and sodomises her until she screams, each one of his thrusts a blessing, each one a refrain of forget, forget, forget. And she does, her cunny streaking sugar down his sack, he swirling into her as a fury volcanic, incandescent, all of him a flood of sweat and sperm; he takes her over and over until he is wrung dry.
Yet even then, he has not had enough: when his cock has spent itself entirely, he keeps on taking her with his hands. Thus, he claims her in the most intimate way he knows how, his soul nestled within hers as his hand lies buried within her arse up to his palm. He has never been able to insert his hand fully, and she knows he resents this, resents Gol for having been the first to give her that pleasure, and he has never stopped trying to achieve full penetration since. His hands are twice the size of hers, monstrous even in their long-fingered elegance, the very sight of them making her lightheaded as she watches him dip them inside of her one after another, gleaming from her arousal and cream. And never has he been able to enter her as deeply as he does tonight: as he manages to slide four fingers into her cunny and half his fist inside her arse she weeps, howls.
And his face, his face! It's full of youthful delight, his cry of surprise ecstatic, his laughter delirious as she sprays his crooked teeth with the force of her release. It's unbelievable, as if she is watching herself in a dream, and this must be a dream as the endless wetness, the endless pressure and weight like that of a sea swallows her in its darkness.
And it is as this salt-black marine darkness that she swallows Jaffar, too, as he lies in her arms; she draws him into her arms like a sylph, pulling him to sleep within her depths, drowning out all other thoughts from his mind. And gladly he sinks into her vast calm and remains there, submerged; finally sated, finally silent, finally still.
"Did you know, our lord Fadl is enormous! I thought he would split me in half," Aixa titters when she thinks Yassamin cannot hear. The younger girls are all packed into the neighbouring alcove at the baths, and by the sounds of it, the little Andalusian is giving them a full demonstration. Yassamin gestures for Zahra to stop braiding her hair and listens.
"It really is true what they say about men with big noses; endowed like a donkey, he was! He had mercy on me when I told him he was hurting my cunny. But then, he had my behind instead--look, it's red, isn't it? Did he tear me at all? It still hurts a little."
The other girls murmur as they inspect her, but going by Aixa's giggles, she cannot have been truly damaged. "It felt wonderful, I must say. He bounced me up and down on his prick until I thought I would die! I must have fainted from pleasure at least twice," she boasts. "He said he preferred tiny girls and sodomy exactly because he was big, the old pervert; said he liked it extremely tight. Why, even as he took my hands and my mouth, he wanted me to squeeze him and suck him so hard I was afraid I'd snap it off!"
The girls make sounds of jealousy, of disgust, of bafflement; some leave the alcove, having had enough. "Rather you than me!" Nilofar shoots over her shoulder.
Aixa lowers her voice. "He asked me about the mistress, too. Would you believe it?" She inserts a dramatic pause. "'What manner of a cunny does your queen have, then?' he asked, just like that! Well. I told him I'd shaven it, once, and that the rumours were true: just like a peach, it was, all plump and delicious, her folds so tiny you can only see them if you hold her open, like so. It was hard not to lick her a little, to taste her, I told him, so sweet was her scent. And none of it was artifice, no ambergris or honey; it was as if the whole thing was made of sugared rose petals and marzipan itself."
Yassamin covers her face with her hands and groans as quietly as she can; Zahra herself stills in shock.
"And do you know what he said?" Aixa's voice is now shrill from excitement. "He said he'd like to go and have a bite himself!"
And as the girls erupt into giggles, Yassamin moans louder. "I am going to have them all drowned in the Tigris," she fumes, gathering her towel around herself. "I am going to--"
"Mistress." Zahra's hand is soothing on her arm. "It is but talk. Your brother-in-law tried to come into the harem last night, but the eunuchs threw him out. Your virtue is safe."
She wonders if Fadl, too, looks like a furious cat when he is thwarted, and that gives her some pleasure at least. "I suppose so," she murmurs.
"You have to get rid of Aixa. I refuse to be so humiliated," Yassamin huffs as she wrestles with her clothes. The red jacket Jaffar had wanted her to wear is so small it reveals more than it hides, but she is not ready to flash Fadl her nipples yet.
Jaffar peers at her reflection in the mirror, kissing her hair from behind. "She is my best scribe; few of my translators have as extensive a knowledge of the old languages as she does. I only sent her to Fadl because he had asked for the smallest woman in the harem. The only other option would've been to send him a child."
"Then lock her up in the House of Wisdom," Yassamin grumbles, tucking a stray lock back into her hair ornament. "I will not have my privates be the subject of public discussion."
"They are exceptionally beautiful privates," he purrs, sliding his arms around her, hissing as he cups her cunny through the thin, diaphanous fabric of her shalwars. "I can almost see them through these."
"Knowing your eyesight, that means others can see them all the way from Samarkand," she mumbles.
"Come; it will only be the three of us. I've told the guards to wait outside, and have dismissed the minstrel-girls, too. Fadl has heard legends of your voice and wants to hear you sing."
"And pray, who was it that narrated him these legends?" she turns around in his arms, sighing. "I apologise. I do not mean to nag, it's only that..."
He holds her close. "There is no need to apologise. Know that I, too, am nervous." He laughs incredulously. "It's not often that a man has to pimp himself and his wife to his own brother."
"Is that what we are doing?" she whispers. "Do you think it prostitution, brotherly love or diplomacy?"
"All three, perhaps," he murmurs, taking a step back and holding her hands, admiring her. "Let us hope for the best."
And even if she is afraid, she knows Jaffar has his magic; he would not take this risk if he wasn't sure of winning. And perhaps there is nothing to worry about: perhaps this evening will turn out pleasurable indeed. The very thought of it, the audacity of it makes her cunny tighten sweetly, makes her cheeks flush with heat. Now, far more so than with Theo, she is allowed to play the harlot, must become the harlot to quench Fadl's desire for revenge through his--hopefully--stronger desire for flesh. It's with their flesh that they are to disarm him, to suffocate his violence, to neutralise whatever threats he poses to their happiness and the happiness of the land. It is only pious of them, is it not, to conquer with love and not the sword?
She looks into Jaffar's eyes and squeezes his hands. "Help me."
He nods. "Is it the magic you want?"
"Yes," she says, her voice now but a dry croak of a whisper.
He brings his hands to her head, massaging her scalp and drawing her into his perfume, wrapping his love around her a pair of warm, soft wings. With a quiet moan, she sinks into him and floats in him, lets herself be carried by him; once more, he divests her of her fears and her inhibitions as if they were but garments, making love to her with his hands and his mouth.
Is it a ravishment that you want, my sweet? he asks her, his words echoing gentle, yet heavy, firm within her mind. So that I would be the one to carry your guilt for you; so that you might experience but the pleasure? Is that what you want?
Yes, she sighs, yes, sinking the word into him like a stone into a pond, rippling through him. And with it, she surrenders all her fear, all her worry unto him, rippling on and on and he takes all of this, absorbs all of this, holds her until she is but smoothness, stillness, the waters of her mind undisturbed.
He opens his eyes and sways a little, lust-drunk. Just as he has washed away her anxieties, so he has sloughed his; he is the very picture of the lecherous tyrant once more. "Remember that you are a queen, my love," he murmurs against her lips. "If it is pleasure that you seek, it should be given to you without question; without hesitation. And should he hurt you in any way, I will burn him," he says, with such ferocity she should fear him, yet now that he has made fear a stranger, it but knocks upon the door of her mind before turning away.
She remains in his arms, gliding high in the sky of his eyes, weightless, soaring. "It is your queen's wish that you should savage her," she murmurs with her fingertip upon his lips, tracing the sharp, cruel curve of his smile.
He brings his hand to her cunny, stroking her slit softly through her silks, his breath hot upon her open mouth. "We shall."
They receive Fadl in Jaffar's grand entertaining-chamber; Yassamin cannot help but feel it's too large for an occasion so intimate, but she supposes this is but one more way for Jaffar to remind Fadl of his place. Fadl has made himself at home before they arrive, sprawling turbanless upon the cushions a challenger, spreading as much of himself across Jaffar's territory as he can. If Yassamin had thought she had been dressed in a manner indecent, Fadl is no better: his trousers are as skin-tight as those of the Northmen, his equally close-fitting coat slit up to his hips to display his slim, muscular thighs. And all his silks and velvets glimmer a bright, vibrant green, a colour reserved only for the descendants of the Prophet. Why, the audacity of the man knows no bounds!
She cannot keep silent at this; for Fadl to have usurped the privilege of her own clan must be a calculated insult, she is sure of this. "Were you born of a mother Arabic, my lord?" she asks sharply, pointedly as she takes her seat beside Jaffar. It's just as well that Jaffar is sitting between them: she has a good mind to tear Fadl's eyes out, those beautiful yet mocking eyes, full of the cockiness of an arrogant youth.
"We were born of the same mother, peace be upon her soul," Fadl smirks, glancing at Jaffar. "Although you are not the first to have wondered how the same woman could have borne both lions and cheetahs."
Jaffar flashes his eyes at Fadl as he passes him the drinking-bowl. "I would you did not bring Mother into this."
"He was her favourite, perhaps because she felt sorry for the scrawny little thing," Fadl says as he accepts the bowl, swirling it underneath his nose. "Still drinking yours with camphor, I see," he murmurs, turning to Yassamin. "Did he ever tell you it was because of his weak heart?"
She gifts Fadl with a carefully measured dismissive glance, clasping Jaffar's hand in hers. "It is the most loving, most passionate of hearts. And I would not have you speak of my possessions in such a manner, my lord."
"Have a care, brother mine," Jaffar adds, reclaiming the bowl. "This is not a slave girl you are talking to, but a Babylonian demoness. I suggest you apologise, lest she turn you into a newt."
"My lady!" Fadl cries out theatrically; he takes her hand and kisses it. His mouth lingers upon her skin, his tongue flicking out to steal a taste, and of course, he makes sure Jaffar notices this. Yet, she cannot focus on Jaffar, Fadl's touch sending a chain of sparks up her arm, hardening her nipples. This is absurd--she hates him, yet her flesh responds to him, and again she wonders if he is not using magic.
But she must remain calm. "I am inclined to forgive you, my lord, as I, too, carry a weakness in my heart: an unreasonable affection for the sons of Barmak," she says, making her voice as soft and as pleasant as she can: she, too, has bewitched people with her charm, and now she casts out her nets to capture Fadl. "Shall we try again, from the start? My name is Yassamin, daughter of Mahmoud, of Basra. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Fadl, son of Yahya, governor of Khurasan, amir of Balkh," Fadl replies smoothly, stroking her hand with his thumb. "It is indeed a great pleasure to finally meet the woman I have heard so much about."
And the wicked glimmer in his eyes reminds her of this morning: she shivers, not entirely from fear as she knows he must be thinking of her cunny right now. Already she has seen him glancing between her legs, as if to measure whether the truth matched Aixa's description.
Jaffar smiles. "Would you sing for us, my love?"
Glad for an excuse to slip free from Fadl's grip, she stands up before the men, yet in doing so, she exposes herself even more. Even as she gets up, she has to clasp her jacket so that her breasts will not fall out of it, and as she straightens herself, Fadl's eyes return to her sex, shameless as he devours the sight. But it's the sight of Jaffar, sprawling and eyeing her with equal delight that now makes her heart judder in shock: now the men look like accomplices, but amusing themselves with all these courtly rituals before gorging themselves upon her flesh. Again, she sees her lover doubled: two pairs of blue eyes, two ruthless minds contemplating her with desire.
She clears her throat, forcing herself to focus. For an entire hour, she sings to them, songs Arabic and Persian, all on the topic of love. By the time she is finished, her throat is dry, sore; the glimmer in the brothers' eyes now a little softer from wine. They seem more relaxed in each other's company, now, as if all their battles had been but ordinary sibling rivalry--and what if it has indeed been that, the way the big cat draws blood from his brother, even maims him in his sport? Perhaps this is but natural for princes of such distinction; she has seen enough family feuds to know that if Jaffar and Fadl truly did hate each other, they would have slain each other long before she was even born.
"Come, my sweet," Jaffar gestures to her, offering her water and then wine; grateful, she rests her head in his lap. Just as she had in front of Theo, just as they had set out to seduce him: the hair on her arms stands on end. This is the moment, now, this the turning of the tide: Jaffar strokes her hair and at each caress, a tremor goes through her entire body.
"Spellbinding, is she not?" Jaffar asks.
"Exquisite," Fadl murmurs to her and not Jaffar. "I am starting to see why my brother keeps no other wives."
"I have my work cut out disciplining this one," Jaffar laughs, smacking her playfully on the rump, making her laugh drunkenly into his lap. Oh, but Jaffar is hardening underneath his silks, too; greedily, she inhales the scent of his arousal, his perfumes. He smells of the rose cream he had used upon her last night, and he must have prepared himself the way she has, must have; the very thought of Fadl sodomising Jaffar is a jolt of heat to her cunny, and she cannot help but moan into his thigh a little.
But it is then that Fadl gets up, swaying his hips, taking a seat opposite Jaffar so that he may see her better. Oh, now, this is it, this is the moment--she expects Fadl to caress her, but he only leans forwards and smirks at her. "And pray, brother, how is it that you discipline her?"
"Well, for a start, I am not as cruel a man as you, Fadl. I enjoy torturing my women with love rather than brutalities. Although I must admit that sometimes it's hard for me to tell the difference; that's how much she enjoys her punishments." He slaps her buttock again, now with enough force to make her moan louder; even from underneath his magic, shame stirs enough to pull her eyes shut, enough to make her flush and bury her face into his silks.
"Don't listen to him, my lord Fadl; he is a beast."
"It is a family curse, I am afraid," Fadl grins at her, his teeth flashing white. "I envy him, I truly do; such little gazelles are rare, and any true beast would relish sinking his fangs into one." Shamelessly, he runs his gaze from her head to her toes, lingering upon her hips, Jaffar's hand still caressing her buttocks. "But, my dear, I must ask--how hasn't he made me an uncle, yet? Because if he is impotent--"
Jaffar snaps his teeth. "Have a care, brother. You are treading on thin ice."
Fadl purses his lips in a mocking pout. "I was but curious. If I had a wife this sensual, this voluptuous--yes, my dear, it radiates from you--I would chain her up in my bed and never let her go."
"You of all people should be familiar with the ways in which to love a woman without making her belly swell," Jaffar says, now pressing upon her hip; he gestures for her to turn around so that she is lying face down upon the cushions, her head still upon his lap. She daren't say a word, and couldn't, no; not with the way Jaffar now loosens the drawstring of her shalwars and pulls them down low enough to expose her arse. "Does this refresh your memory at all?"
Fadl tilts his head like a cat measuring its prey, so much like his brother it makes Yassamin jerk involuntarily in Jaffar's lap.
"I see what you mean," Fadl chuckles, stroking his beard.
Jaffar licks his finger, then slides it between Yassamin's buttocks, pressing it against her anus, rubbing there softly. "Do you, now?"
She suffocates a shriek, her cunny pulsing and pulsing, the lips of it sticky with her honey as Jaffar pushes his finger inside of her arse. Oh, God, what if she comes undone and sprays him right here, right now? What if Fadl were to think her incontinent?
"Have you ever done it in the Byzantine manner?" Jaffar asks Fadl, conversationally, as if Yassamin wasn't there.
Now, even Fadl swallows a little, even his refined voice somewhat unsteady. "I must confess I am unfamiliar with the practice."
And as Jaffar curls his finger inside of Yassamin, brutally, she can no longer hold back. With a desperate cry, she lifts her head and looks up at Jaffar, only to find he is holding his finger out to her, slick and gleaming from her arse.
"Show him, my dear."
She clutches at Jaffar's thighs, shivering, shivering, and she is glad his prick isn't in her cunny right now, because she is tightening so violently she would surely snap it in two. That he would begin his seduction with this act, this unholy act, offering it to his brother at the very start? She feels faint. For if this is but the beginning, what sensual horrors await her as the evening progresses? She flashes her eyes at Jaffar, and he but smiles, smiles in that calm, sadistic manner she so loves and hates.
"Go on, then, my love," he croons, beckoning with his glistening finger.
Out of spite, she moves slowly, teasing his finger in the same manner she teases his cock: she brings her mouth so close he can feel her breath upon his skin, yet she but nuzzles his finger at first. At the first lick, both men jerk visibly and her cunny swells with power; at the second, Jaffar's mouth snaps open. And as she finally, finally closes her mouth around Jaffar's finger and sucks, he lets out a true, adoring, helpless moan. She fellates his finger, the salt of her own arse so intoxicating she has to moan herself, has to slip her hand between her legs. She has to come now or die, has to, the way she always does when he offers her this sin, she must--
But at that, Jaffar yanks her hands behind her back. "Not just yet, my sweet." He turns to Fadl, leering. "At times, she has come simply from the taste. Now, tell me, has a single slave girl ever performed such a service upon you, not out of duty but because she's enjoyed it?"
Fadl shakes his head, brushing his hand across the swell of his groin. "This is entirely new to me, I must admit."
"A little bird tells me you were quite curious about a certain part of her anatomy. Would you like to see it?"
"Please," Fadl grins, leaning back upon his cushions.
Now Fadl is staring at her blatantly, still stroking himself as she gets to her feet, her shalwars falling in a tangled heap around her ankles. It's a warm evening, yet she shivers; this is not unlike the day she had first stood in front of her husband naked, when he had inspected her as if she were a freshly purchased slave girl. And this should not arouse her so much, oh no; yet, as silent as a slave, she pulls off her jacket, too, nudges off her slippers so that she stands in front of the two brothers naked, naked.
Good girl, good girl, such a good girl, Jaffar purrs within her mind, making her bite down on a moan. There is a rustle of cloth and softly, gently, Jaffar takes her hands and ties them behind her back with her sash. So that you will lose the last of your fear, my dear, he whispers as he kisses her back, then takes his seat beside Fadl. He sits so close to his brother they are touching hips, now; Fadl starts as Jaffar puts his arm around him.
"Come, now, brother. Wouldn't you like to have a closer look?" Jaffar says, softly, with the exact voice he uses when he is trying to enspell someone.
Fadl almost, almost says 'may I?' and she can tell, yet he swallows this as he lays his hands upon Yassamin's thighs and stares at her sex.
She cannot help but smile, even if she is shivering still. "Does it live up to Aixa's description?"
"More than that," Fadl laughs, and as rakish as his laughter is, she can still sense he is nervous underneath it. Yet he disguises that nervousness with brashness: shamelessly, he leans in close and sniffs her, repeatedly, inhaling her as if judging the quality of a perfume. And that nose of his, oh, that nose, hovering at her slit, almost touching her, almost.
But now, he glances up at her and grins, deliberately touching her only with his breath. "Exquisite," he murmurs.
She clenches her hands into fists. "Is that all?" she tries to smile. "You said the same thing before."
"Come, look closer," Jaffar says, warmly. "She is even prettier on the inside."
And she staggers as Fadl spreads the lips of her cunny with both thumbs; she can't not cry out as she tries to regain her balance. Fadl's fingers are firm, massaging her a little as he inspects her, pulling her open, sliding his thumbs across her inner folds. He even peeks between her legs, so close to her, now--and oh, his cry as a bead of her wetness falls upon his lips!
"My lady!" he laughs and licks his lips. "You seem to be enjoying yourself," he tuts, then brings his thumbs to the top of her slit, pinching her clitoris until she squirms. "Do you play these kinds of games often, then? Hmm? Your husband offering you to other men?"
He presses and presses with his thumbs; Jaffar has never done anything like this to her, and she cannot help but whimper from the unusual sensation. At each and every one of Fadl's pinches, a jolt like lightning shoots through her hips, making her stagger like a drunkard, yet Fadl never lets go, only keeps staring into her eyes. Damn all Barmakids and damn their wickedness, their cruelty--
"Answer me, my sweet," Fadl croons.
Yet Jaffar answers him for her, leaning over to pull Fadl's hands away from her. "I only share her with those who are worthy of her," he says, pointedly. "And there aren't many." He glances up at her. "Do you think him worthy, my dear?"
She bites her lip. "Perhaps."
Jaffar laughs, then adopts a mock-stern voice as he addresses Fadl. "You must prove yourself to her, I am afraid. And I think I know just the thing."
Fadl yanks himself free from Jaffar's grip, his eyes flashing. "And what's that?"
Jaffar nods to her. "Would you bend over for us, my dear?" He turns back to Fadl. "She looks even prettier from behind, you see."
She is only glad she doesn't have to see the men's faces as she turns around. It's not easy to try and balance with her hands so tied, but somehow she manages to arrange herself into the position she knows Jaffar loves: her head and shoulders upon the cushions, her hips in the air. The position of the female animal desiring to mate; she presses her thighs together, knowing the way they purse the lips of her cunny together, making it even plumper, rounder, redder. Oh, she is a harlot, yet she loves this, loves this; her cunny pulses as she remains still, surrendering herself to the men's gazes.
But oh, Jaffar is reading her mind: he sends her the vision of herself so bent, so offered; she whimpers into the brocade as he and Fadl move closer, sitting either side of her.
"She is beautiful indeed," Fadl murmurs, and through Jaffar's eyes, she can see he is stroking his cock through his clothes once more, now shameless about it. "Now I understand why they called it a peach," he says, his voice thick from want.
"Mmm," Jaffar says, stroking her buttocks, squeezing them with loving delight. Her arse clenches at this, and he but chuckles, spreading her buttocks wide. "And look at this," he sighs proudly. "That little bud is all my doing; a flower cultivated by my own hands."
Fadl's reaction is that of a genuine surprise. "Why, it's like a catamite's!"
"This is her specialty," Jaffar purrs, stroking her anus with his thumbs. Briefly, he slips from her mind and all Yassamin can hear are a few soft, slick sounds--and without warning, Jaffar plunges a wet finger from each hand straight into her arse.
"Jaffar!" She twists, mewls upon the floor.
With a wicked little laugh, Jaffar ignores her, then turns to Fadl. "See how easily she opens?" he says, tugging painfully upon her arse, sliding into her mind once more just to feel how her cunny pulses at this, wets at this; oh, he knows her too well. He expands this vision in her mind, showing her the little black gap now forming between his fingers as he spreads her and spreads her. "Once you have teased her long enough, you will be able to take her with but her own slickness and a little spit, like so."
And at that, Jaffar spits, no, dribbles inside of her, gifting her with the sight of the whiteness of his spit sliding past the redness of her flesh, deep into the darkness of her body, her arse gaping, gaping. She howls, screams, trembling underneath him, her cunny so wet it stains her thighs.
"Impressive," Fadl says with exaggerated calm as he leans closer.
"You try it, brother," Jaffar hisses, and she can feel his cock is so hard it aches. "Slicken her a little."
Crudely, violently, Fadl spits upon her arse, pushing two fingers of his own inside of her, making her wail in shock, yet Jaffar's cock grows all the harder as he watches her so tortured. How many times must he have shared women with Fadl? How many boys? For it's as if from old custom that they now violate her, smear her arse with spit, Fadl reaching so deep inside of her she feels nauseous.
"She is as sweet as she smells," Jaffar pants, twisting her open still, playing at the wetness of her slit with his other fingers. "Would you like to taste her?" And each tug of his, each word is a rush of blood to his cock, his urge to take her coiled tight within him, barely restrained.
"Sweet?" Fadl but laughs, laughs; through Jaffar's eyes, Fadl's now meet his, challenging him. "Prove it," Fadl says lightly, takes his fingers from Yassamin's arse and pushes them straight into Jaffar's mouth.
Jaffar shouts in rage around Fadl's fingers, but behind that rage vibrates something old, something terrible, a desire twisted; a desire only Fadl can make him feel. Helpless, he sucks upon his brother's fingers, sobs around Yassamin's taste even as Yassamin herself screams, Jaffar's cock pulsing out a drop of arousal, his arse clenching in its need to be filled. He spits out Fadl's fingers and smears his own upon his brother's lips and beard instead; Fadl pulls him into a kiss so furious their teeth clash.
And in that clash, Yassamin snaps free, falling upon the cushions. Panting, she watches as Fadl devours Jaffar's mouth, Jaffar's hand clutching Fadl's erection through his clothes, Jaffar's knuckles white as he groans into Fadl's mouth.
Finally, Jaffar pulls himself free, panting; blood beads upon his lip. "No more games," he says, his voice high, thin, that of a she-cat in heat. "We shall continue this in bed."
They begin with Yassamin lying upon the bed, her hands now tied above her head. Jaffar and Fadl remain standing, still fully clothed, smirking at her from the foot of the bed.
Fadl strokes his beard, measuring her lazily. "Now. What shall we do with her?"
Yassamin can barely hear him; all she can see is Jaffar's smile. He is enjoying this all too much and she swears to strangle him after--secret corridor or no, she had not expected to be dragged through it naked. Yet each time her shame rears its head, Jaffar looks at her, just like this, flashing his crooked teeth at her, and it is as if his hand comes to rest upon her head, pressing upon that shame, submerging it once more.
She adores this, ripples with this, stretching upon the bed, so grateful, so grateful.
"I think we should let her decide," Jaffar says, softly, running his hand across the bulge in his silks. "What is your pleasure, my lady? We hear and obey."
"To see you both beheaded," she groans, twisting in her bonds, her frustration breaking to the surface once more.
Fadl bursts into laughter, sits upon the bed and caresses her foot. "Anything else her Majesty would enjoy before that?" He turns his touch into a tickle.
She yelps and kicks, but it's of no use: Jaffar has fixed her wrists to the bed with a spell. Perhaps if she can break his concentration, she can break free; she spreads her legs, pretending to struggle, yet uses this movement to thrust her cunny upwards, to display it to Jaffar in challenge.
Jaffar but shakes his head. Sweet of you to try. And you know what the sight of your struggling does to me, my sweet. When he speaks, his voice is infuriatingly calm, his hand still slow upon his cock. "Speak, my dear. Your desires are as criminal as ours; there is no turning back now. Come, indulge while you have the chance."
She looks at Fadl, at the playful gleam in his eyes, at the fierceness of his profile, that of a man who will not be denied. So like his brother, so much like Jaffar, yet... she casts her eyes down and sighs. She is no better than Aixa: she, too, has been mesmerised by that bold nose and she knows exactly where she wants it. But the pleasures of the mouth are the filthiest, filthier than even sodomy, and she is not sure if even a rake such as Fadl would agree to perform such acts upon a woman.
Therefore, it is to Jaffar she looks for her guidance, searching his eyes. And before she can even speak, Jaffar is upon the bed with her, kissing her, murmuring softly as he cups her mound. "Would you like him to kiss you here, my sweet?"
She nods, unable to look at Fadl.
Fadl's laughter is as warm as wine, his breath warmer as he lifts her legs upon his shoulders and kisses her inner thigh. "It would be my pleasure, my lady." He inhales her once more, savouring her scent, his lashes as sharp and as black as Jaffar's as he closes his eyes, trembling from pleasure. But then he is upon her, attacking her cunny with his mouth so that she shouts, her feet drumming upon his back as he takes her clitoris into his mouth and sucks, sucks. Jaffar has to gather her into his arms to hold her as she spasms, pants, never having realised how sensitised her cunny had been, the way the men had been ignoring it all night.
"It's rude not to look into your lover's eyes as he so serves you, my dear," Jaffar tuts, massaging her mound with his fingers, making her wail into his shoulder. "Look at what my brother is doing to you, my sweet Yassamin, look."
And she does: theatrically, Fadl pulls back, strings of her fluids dangling between his lips and her cunny. "You taste delicious, my dear," he chuckles, then dives in once more, sucking her far more violently than Jaffar ever has, so that she can feel his teeth. She whimpers, wondering if he will bruise her, but the pressure feels wonderful, wonderful. And that nose, that magnificent nose now presses into her mound as Fadl drinks from her, slurps from her, making loud, shameless, disgusting noises: oh, she flows rich onto his tongue a dew, so close now, so close.
Yet, Fadl pulls back and licks his lips, nuzzling her mound with his nose. "Do you enjoy that, my lady?"
She can't see Jaffar's face, but she knows he is rolling his eyes. "Not the nose again. I am sure women appreciate a good suck much more."
"You're just jealous."
"Mine's prettier, for a start," Jaffar grumbles.
Yassamin bursts into laughter. "Look at you two!"
Jaffar gets to his knees. "She is right. Enough talk; I don't think we have brought her release yet."
"I would have if it weren't for your nose envy," Fadl snaps.
But at that, Yassamin pulls at Fadl with her thighs, urging him to continue. And he does, with renewed vigour, to prove himself in front of his brother: and who is she to complain, if it means more pleasure for her? Especially as Jaffar now turns her onto her side so that he can lap at her arse as Fadl sucks at her cunny--oh, this is heaven, heaven. She would purr if she weren't so close, twisting and turning between the two mouths, sinking her hand into Fadl's hair, clutching at Jaffar's shoulder.
"Don't stop, oh, merciful God, please, don't stop."
And now Fadl assaults her, sucking her so hard he is biting her clitoris a little, pinching it with his teeth, tugging on it mercilessly. She shrieks in her terror, never having felt anything like this before, the heat of her orgasm blossoming from her hips in wide, vast waves, so unlike the fast, sharp ripples she is used to. Oh, but he is eating her alive, his beard scratching her slit, and now she is wetting it, pulsing and pulsing upon his chin, jerking back from his face. Still shouting, her hips bucking out of their own volition, she falls into Jaffar's embrace, he hugging her from behind, his face pressed into her buttocks.
"Shh, shh," he soothes her, but how can she calm down, now, Fadl clutching at her head and kissing her, offering her the taste of her cunny from his tongue? And oh, she did it, she did spray him, and he must have got the wrong idea--
"I never believed those stories of women who ejaculated," Fadl chuckles, rubbing his wet beard over her cheeks, holding her close.
"I'm sorry, I--"
Jaffar smacks her arse. "Don't apologise."
"Mm-mm," Fadl shakes his head, nuzzling her nose with his. "That was delicious, my dear. Is there any more?" But before she can answer, he whispers loudly over her shoulder at Jaffar. "Do you think we could bottle that?"
"You are both impossible," she groans, still catching her breath. "Two infidel swine."
"Thank you, my dear," Fadl says as he begins to undress.
Jaffar follows suit, kissing the sweaty hair behind her ear. "But a moment, my little sow."
And as both men step off the bed to pull off their clothes, the air grows heavy with tension: both glance at the other from underneath their brows, yet they refrain from touching each other. She can see the muscles on Jaffar's arms tensing, in fact; as he leans down to pull off a clinging sock, his face nearly brushes against Fadl's cock.
And what a cock! Her cunny clenches at the sight, and not entirely from arousal. She had thought Jaffar well-endowed, but Fadl must have at least an inch, if not two on him. Oh, but Fadl's is a prick Priapic, monstrous at--what? Is that ten inches? Feverishly, she measures him with her eyes, with not so much greed as alarm; now she knows why Aixa had said Fadl had hurt her. Suddenly unsure, she glances at Jaffar, but Jaffar is staring at Fadl instead: Fadl has noticed the scars crisscrossing Jaffar's back, but has chosen not to remark on them.
Raising his eyebrow, Fadl turns to Yassamin instead, kneeling upon the bed. "Now, then, little one. Would you--"
Jaffar tuts as he comes to embrace Yassamin from behind once more. "It's rude to ask a lady if she would care to return a favour. Have you not learned anything yet?"
"Silence," Yassamin says, glowering at Jaffar. "I was going to offer him my mouth myself, in fact."
"Go on, then," Jaffar murmurs, kissing her shoulder.
"And stay there," she shoots over her shoulder as she struggles to her knees, helped up by Fadl. "I apologise," she murmurs as she rests her bound hands on Fadl's chest, his erection brushing her belly, her breasts.
"There is no need, my dear," Fadl chuckles and combs her hair from her face. "Would you allow me the pleasure of kissing you again?"
"Please," she says and opens her mouth to his kiss, clasping his cock as she does. Just as she had hoped, Fadl staggers a little at that, moaning into her mouth. It's not easy to stroke him the way she usually strokes Jaffar, not when her hands are so bound, so she is content to make but a nest of them for him to thrust into, squeezing and pressing around his length.
Fadl pulls back for breath and groans against her cheek, and she is sure he is smirking at Jaffar over her shoulder. "How do you find me, then, my lady?"
She laughs a little nervously. "Daunting, I must admit." And she has to do something about her fear, to relax herself more: thus, she slides down Fadl's body and gifts herself with the pleasure of his taste. Thankfully, Fadl is no thicker than Jaffar, so she can wrap her mouth around him easily; he tastes clean, wonderful, and as he spurts a little on her tongue, her cunny flushes with blood once more. Merciful God, but he is as delicious as Jaffar, or then it's merely her wanton nature that makes her enjoy this so much; she could spend an eternity supping on pre-ejaculate alone. She prefers its taste to that of sperm, free of its soapy slickness, this wetness being more akin to a woman's, salty-sweet as it swirls into her mouth.
For long moments, she savours Fadl's sap, but finally pulls back to nuzzle his cock, the head gleaming against her cheek. "You taste wonderful, my lord."
And in Fadl's eyes, she spies a tenderness she has so often seen in Jaffar's: Jaffar must have been right when he told her lovemaking would be the key to taming Fadl's heart. He caresses her cheek with the backs of his fingers and huffs a little, rutting softly against her face. "I would take you."
"I would have you take me, too," she murmurs, kissing his cock, sucking it once more, bringing her hands to cup his sack. And never would she have expected it, but she wants him in her cunny, wants to be filled by this magnificent prick. But in her heart, she wonders if this is not true adultery: she has never given her cunny to another man. Jaffar must have intended to share her arse only, but her cunny pulses and pulses in some perverse desire to be split by this veritable spear of flesh she is now holding; Jaffar has always pushed her to the limits of her body's endurance with his own ministrations, and has thus awoken in her a desire for the erotic extreme. And if they are indulging in a sin as extreme as incest, where does this place their other taboos, now? Are there some that matter, still?
She is so close to her bleeding it's unlikely Fadl would get her with child, yet now, shame rises within her once more, radiating out of her, and she is sure Jaffar must sense it. She turns to look at Jaffar over her shoulder, and he is quiet, but stroking the small of her back and her buttocks, looking a little wistful. And she does not even love Fadl, oh--this twists in her chest, her lustful curiosity, the ache in her cunny demanding that Fadl take her, while the loving wife still resists. She sends Jaffar her intent, reassures him of her love for him, but he tells her he knows all of this already; still, he remains quiet.
"May I?" she asks Jaffar out loud, her voice on the verge of tears.
And it's Jaffar's voice that now trembles as he looks at her. "I could never deny you anything, beloved." But when he lifts his eyes to Fadl, they brim with tears, the veins on his temples filling from strain. His voice is low, cold, terrible to hear. "If you hurt her in any way, any way whatsoever, brother, I will have you cut to pieces, refuse you burial and have your ashes scattered among the privies. Is that understood?"
Even Fadl swallows his arrogance, now, literally swallows deep in his throat, his erection softening a little in her hands. "I would never hurt her," he says, defensively, and in that voice she can hear guilt: how many women he must have hurt, even torn in his desire for conquest? Fadl's lip jerks a little in what seems like a wry smile, and he caresses Yassamin's hair once more, not only to reassure her but to reassure himself, it seems. "I desire what you desire, I presume; only pleasure. But give me the word, my lady, and I shall stop."
She nuzzles his hand, kisses it. "'Mercy' is the word Jaffar and I have agreed upon."
Fadl nods. "Then I shall listen out for it. I promise."
She laughs nervously, shaking her head. "This is absurd. It's as if we are speaking of torture, not love."
"Here," Jaffar says, pulling her into his arms and kissing her softly, hugging her against himself. "Let us give you that pleasure which you seek."
A tiny needle of guilt still pricks her heart. "But what about yours?" she murmurs as Jaffar makes her lie down upon the sheets once more.
He licks his fingertips and brings them down to the top of her slit, rubbing at her softly. "This is it," he chuckles, then raises his eyebrow mischievously. "For now." He kisses her and with that kiss, he slides his mind into hers, surging into her veins as the opium of desire, forcing her limbs to relax. Let me see your pleasure, beloved. As you offer your body to his, so you are offering it to me. You must think of us as but the one man, now; but the one husband.
If you say so, she replies, but even that answer of hers is a drunken, staggering giggle as she swoons into his kiss, as her legs glide over Fadl's shoulders, her very spine soft, supple from want. Supple like willow, willow, and like willow she wraps her limbs around Fadl; catkin-soft, she welcomes him into her body with her kisses, the plush warmth of her cunny, enveloping his cock in the sweetness of her sap.
"Oh, God!" Fadl groans, balancing on his hands, laughing in disbelief. He shakes his head, his hair falling into her eyes. "You're so wet," he pants, rolling his hips lightly, only halfway inside of her.
Jaffar nuzzles her face, stealing a kiss of his own, groaning drunkenly as she sighs into his mouth at Fadl's strokes. "One more reason to love her," he murmurs; "it's as if she were made for love and love alone."
She laughs, locking her ankles around Fadl's back. "It's only that I have been lucky in my share of lovers," she says, urging Fadl deeper inside. "You feel wonderful. Please, more."
Fadl answers her only with a groan, and a few bolder thrusts; oh, but he slides into her with such ease, the practiced ease of a lover skilled, and greedily, she beckons him deeper, deeper. At first, she is so wet she can barely feel him, but his length alone soon wears off the excess slickness from her. And there, there: as she squeezes her cunny, just a little, he gives her that friction that turns her flesh golden, flickering, shimmering; she moans so loudly she hurts her throat, her head tossing in Jaffar's lap.
"Do you like that, my sweet?" and she does not know if this voice belongs to Jaffar or Fadl, not any longer.
"Oh, but that is wonderful, wonderful," she slurs, and from the corner of her eye, she can see her hair has tangled around Jaffar's erection, beads of his arousal dangling from her curls, sparkling bright. She has to clasp him, has to stroke him, to invite him deeper into this ecstasy she now feels, has to push up with her hips as much as she can, because she can sense Fadl is still holding back. "Take me," she moans, "take me."
And it is at that that Fadl swears loudly, clutching at her thighs as he lets go. He drives deep into her cunny, now so deep he is hitting the root of her womb and it hurts a little, but it feels so good at the same time she can but sob. And oh, the way Jaffar now spreads her cunny's lips and watches, just as she does, watches that brutal, red, gleaming length sinking inside of her, oh--
"God, your cunny--" Fadl moans, tossing his head back, trying to throw damp hair from his eyes. Rivulets of sweat run down his neck, now, a neck strong, a neck beautiful, his pulse fluttering along its tendons. When he looks down once more, he cries out, shivering within her. "Your cunny's so fat, so fat, the way those lips cling to me, oh, as if you didn't want me to leave, oh, Yassamin, Yassamin--"
But as he thrusts faster, the friction becomes painful, and he must be feeling it too, each one of his strokes now burning a little, no matter how pleasurable. "It hurts, Fadl, it hurts--" but she does not cry 'mercy,' yet, cannot.
"Do you want him to stop?" Jaffar asks, never ceasing in his stroking of her.
"I don't know--oh, it feels too good, but it's too big, I am so sorry, Fadl, you are a horse and I wish I was a mare, I wish--" she groans and buries her face in Jaffar's lap, hating herself for this. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Shh," Jaffar says, nodding to Fadl, who now withdraws. "Should we take your behind instead?"
"I don't know, I--" and she is this close to hysteria. She had been so close to orgasm, now furious at herself. Her body has let her down, and she cannot look either man in the eye. "I was almost there," she blurts.
But now, Fadl spoons her and kisses her. "We have time, yet."
"Stop being so kind!" she snaps.
And at that, Jaffar has had enough. He grabs her by the jaw and stares into her eyes. "It looks like you need a little discipline."
"I don't, I--" she says, knowing she is lying.
Jaffar keeps on staring at her. "Yes, you do, my love. You need to be reminded of why you are here. You are here for pleasure. And it is pleasure we would give you, if you but let us."
"I--" she hates him, hates herself for having forgotten, oh--but it is then that Fadl joins Jaffar, taking her by the arms.
"Punish her, Fadl," Jaffar says, smiling.
Her eyes snap wide open, but before she can even contemplate what he might mean, Fadl has thrown her face down upon the bed and is smacking her arse, mercilessly. And Jaffar joins him in this: she shrieks, twists and turns as both men slap her buttocks, thighs, breasts, both tugging and twisting at her nipples, swallowing her screams from her mouth with their kisses. And thus, Jaffar returns her to her centre, to the centre of pleasure and love, always with the sting of pain, a tenderness cruel, crushing. And she loves this, needs this, has never loved Jaffar more: "You bastards, you bastards, you utter bastards," she cries onto their lips as they so beat her, loving, playful, perfect.
And before she has even made it out of her haze of pain, her trance, Fadl spoons her once more, his cock pushing into her arse, making her scream into Jaffar's face.
Jaffar but cups her face, mock-innocent. "What's the matter? I thought I prepared you myself before we arrived."
But now she cannot even scream: her vision swims with white as Fadl purrs against her back, purrs, pushing in, pulling out, stretching the muscles of her arse with the ease of an old sodomite. "Exquisite," he churrs, nipping her shoulder.
"Stop--oh--stop saying that," she croaks, her arms covered in goosebumps.
But it is then that Fadl slides fully inside of her, and her eyes roll back in her head. She can feel the men moving, hear the clink of glass, feel more cream being smeared between her buttocks, yet Fadl seems endless, endless. She barely breathes as he so takes her, much deeper than Jaffar ever has, and much faster, the pain having opened her flesh for him so utterly. And as Fadl turns her onto her stomach and presses so deep into her his sack nestles against her cunny, her consciousness leaves her entirely: for but a few, glorious, white-black seconds, she is no more.
For now Fadl has reached that spot within her that turns her inside out, and just as swiftly, he has gone past it: he is past her womb, past that curve in her guts and oh, the head of his cock must be nestling in her colon, now. If she were fully conscious, she would be sick, but now all she can do is lie there, her fingers twitching upon the sheets, her cunny trickling, trickling a puddle underneath her as Fadl takes his pleasure of her. If she has orgasmed, she wouldn't know; she is well beyond it now, floating, insensate.
She only lifts out of her trance as she is herself lifted: she is now on all fours, Jaffar lapping at her cunny as Fadl takes her arse, and the noises, oh, God, the noises. She howls in her shame as her arse and cunny slurp from the force of Fadl's thrusts, her entire flesh now so loose and wet. She wants to tell him she is not passing wind, even if it sounds like it, but still cannot speak; the only noises that leave her throat are but little sobs, even as Jaffar sucks her clitoris into his mouth. And she knows Jaffar is but selfish in this, seeking the pleasure she had caught a glimpse of earlier: the sight of his brother's cock sinking into her arse as he feasts upon her cunny.
And violently, Fadl responds, ramming into her so that she gushes once more, so that her cunny is pushed into Jaffar's face, against his teeth until Jaffar growls. This time, she can feel the tremors of a true orgasm leaping through her, perfectly in time with Fadl's thrusts; as Fadl fucks her, so he fucks his brother's face, brutally, Yassamin screaming against Jaffar's belly. She couldn't tell them to stop, now, even if she wanted to, tossed between them as a piece of bark upon a river rushing wide.
Yet, as soon as that thought emerges from her mind, Fadl's cock slips out of her arse. She looks underneath herself, wondering if Fadl has come, but no, no; Fadl's cry sounds shrill in her ears as Jaffar swallows his brother's cock, so deep his throat bobs. It is a sight that should shock her, but Jaffar's face, his face, twisted from joy and despair twists her heart in turn, makes her ache as she watches him fulfill his forbidden, illicit desire. Groaning, Jaffar milks his own cock furiously, trembling underneath her, I have never tasted you so deep, Yassamin, oh, forgive me, forgive me this sin--
But at that, Fadl cries out and yanks her up, as if she were but a doll. He lies down, pulling Yassamin to sit on top of his cock once more, sliding into her arse so swiftly she wails. Yet even as she is still shouting, still trembling on top of him, Jaffar covers them with his shadow, unstoppable, roiling with a new fever, a madness. His eyes blaze as he enters her cunny, wordlessly, crushing both of them with his weight, not seeking permission, but taking, taking, taking what is rightfully his.
And now she is so wet, so swollen she no longer hurts, even if she should, oh, she should: she remembers how difficult this act had been with Theo, how they'd had to stop because she had been hurting too much, because she had been so stretched that she couldn't orgasm. She is a harlot, oh, a terrible harlot to be able to take two men so easily, now: yet this very moment, here and now they ride her, but a thin film of flesh separating their cocks as they slide back and forth inside of her, filling her as completely as a woman can be filled. It is a dream of madness, her being thrown from one man's cock onto another's, then thrust into simultaneously; the very air blown out of her lungs, her womb pounded, her internal organs battered and yet she loves this, all of this. She is taken, she is fucked, consumed in her every cell, all of her flesh a willing, yielding sacrifice.
Jaffar grunts on top of her, slamming into her, fucking his brother as he fucks her, Fadl groaning into her ear every time Jaffar's balls slap against his. Yet, even in his madness, Jaffar groans, forcing himself to slow down.
"Tell me I am not hurting you, Yassamin, tell me," he stutters from between clenched teeth, his sweat dripping upon her face.
"You are not," she whimpers, stirring out of her fury-trance a little, a woman intoxicated. She shakes her head. "I love you, oh--"
And she wraps her bound hands around Jaffar's neck, kissing him, stroking his hair, and she wishes she could squeeze him with her cunny to reassure him. But no, no; she is too full, too full. And now that he knows they aren't hurting her, Fadl begins to thrust with more force, too, his hands clutching at her hips, pushing up so hard he makes both Yassamin and Jaffar toss on top of himself. He must be desperate to come, now, the noises he makes in his throat so similar to Jaffar's when he is near climax, spiralling into broken little stutters.
"Hold her still," Jaffar hisses and spits on his cock. "I want to see her face." And even in Jaffar's fatigue, even in his trembling, she sees that pale flash in his eyes that has always terrified her. It is a flash wicked, his grin that of the sorcerer, the man who would defy God and Nature to fulfill his desires. Again, he spits on his cock and slides it down, down, starting to push it into her arse, beside Fadl's cock.
She would shriek if she could, but her throat is dry: she stares at Jaffar, wide-eyed, stiff. "You are not serious--"
"Yes, I am," Jaffar laughs, his eyes wide, nipping at her lip. "Breathe."
"You took Gol's entire hand, my love," he murmurs upon her lips, and her cunny pulses at the truth of it, the sick perversity of it swirling out of her hips, curling, surging through her entire body. Yes, Jaffar is right: she knows she can do this, knows it. Her body has betrayed her, denied her her desire once already, and she will not allow it to do so again. No, no; she is not a demoness for nothing.
"Would you lie underneath me?" she asks Jaffar.
"Oh, so I will have to do all the work?" Fadl laughs as he climbs out from underneath them, stealing a kiss from Yassamin as Jaffar undoes the sash at her wrists.
She lifts her hips and rocks them playfully as she goes down on all fours once more. "Are you complaining?"
"Not at all," Fadl says and licks at her cunny, pushing large dollops of cream inside her arse with his fingers. "God, never have I seen the like. What does he take you with?"
"This," Jaffar says as he guides her to sit on top of his cock and sinks inside her arse, making her mewl a little as her buttocks touch his thighs. "Are you ready, my sweet?"
Will I ever be? she thinks, for how could she tell? Yet, nothing in this world could ever fill her with as much determination, as much courage as that witchcraft-hue in his eyes, the kingly beat of his heart underneath her hands, the utter, firm tenderness in the way he now holds her. Therefore, she rocks her hips, wills her body to relax and kisses his lips.
And as soon as she says this, Fadl mounts her, begins to ease himself into her arse with little nudges. The stretch hurts her at first, terribly, but by now she has had lessons in this, countless lessons in how to open her body: she breathes deep and waits for the pain to pass, pushes outwards with her muscles, helping Fadl inside. They aren't tearing her, and the cream is of the thickest sort, the same Jaffar had used on her last night. She breathes and she breathes, calling for Jaffar to hold her tight, and he does, he does. With each breath, she pushes tension out of her body; with each breath, she beckons the men deeper inside of her, she now the crucible of their reconciliation, the magic vessel in which years of hurt and pain shall be dissolved.
Finally, Fadl is so deep inside of her that he no longer slips out, and he rests on top of them both, embracing them tight. He rests upon them with his full weight, his muscles shaking from the strain, only a soft sigh escaping his lips.
Jaffar caresses Fadl's sides, now, lightly, gently. "How does that feel?" he asks.
"Wonderful," Fadl murmurs, reaching past Yassamin's shoulder so that he can kiss Jaffar's mouth, his eyes closed in ecstasy.
"How's this for a truce, then?" Jaffar laughs a little against his brother's mouth, his eyes now wet with fresh tears.
"Oh, excellent," Fadl laughs, so much like a youth, again trembling upon her. "But what about you, my love?" he asks Yassamin.
"I would you took me," she whispers, knowing she couldn't move even if she tried to, now, so overwhelmed by the penetration she is barely conscious. Blue flames flicker behind her eyelids, as blue as Jaffar's eyes, blue sparks up her spine.
"You'd best do as she says," Jaffar chuckles, "or there will be hell to pay."
"I don't doubt it," Fadl says, then rolls his hips a little. "Is this better?"
"Yes," both Jaffar and Yassamin laugh in unison.
And slowly, they make love: it is not the easiest of positions, cramped and difficult as it is to maintain, but most wonderful, wonderful, and she is sure she must be the one enjoying it the most. For now, her cunny can clench, tighten, and she thinks she might even be able to orgasm; she brings her hand to her clitoris, and thinks this might be true, yes. Oh, but it has to be--she pushes back into Fadl's thrusts a little, and soon enough, she is writhing between them, howling, sliding slickly up and down on both men's cocks.
"Would you look at that?" Jaffar laughs, kissing her breasts. "I take it you are enjoying yourself, my love?"
Her only answer is but an incoherent moan, and that encourages Fadl: he thrusts in even harder, and now she is so close, oh, God, the way both cocks now slip in and out of her, one pushing into that spot that undoes her, one thrusting gloriously into her front. The blue flames crackle within her, expand into her limbs as if she were made of but oil, each thrust a lightning bolt up her spine, flashing, and she is losing consciousness once more--
Jaffar captures her face in his hands. "Look at me."
"I am trying, oh, God, Jaffar--"
"Keep your eyes open," he snarls, staying absolutely still. "Come for us. Fadl, that exact rhythm, keep going, keep going."
And now Fadl takes her hair from behind with both hands and twists, twists until she cries out his name, too: shrieking, howling, she falls apart, spraying and shivering and impaling herself on their cocks. She is burning inside, hurting, but she doesn't care; she has to ride this, ride this fever-dream until its end. And within her flesh, here are no pulses, no ripples now, no: these waves that now go through her are seismic, and it's as if the entire bedroom shakes as she comes and she comes, blue and white and black and blue once more.
Jaffar and Fadl keep shouting, keep pounding into her as if they mean to go on forever, too, but now she feels a slickness in her arse and knows at least one of them must be coming, both cocks slippery, the thick, alkaline smell of sperm filling her nostrils. And underneath her, Jaffar stares up at her, his eyes wide, his mouth open, his tongue trembling in his mouth; yet Fadl cries out louder, and it has to be both of them, has to be. Both brothers coming inside of her at the same time, bound together by her flesh, pulled into release by her body: oh, she radiates with pride, ripples between them, her cunny squeezing once more in delight. The queen uniting her kingdom with love, with pleasure, and she tells them this, crowns both her princes with kisses, murmurs adoration onto both their lips.
"My champions, my champions," she whispers, delirious, covering their bodies with kisses, sucking the taste of herself from their softening cocks, gathering both of them into her embrace. Again, she thinks of how Jaffar had summoned forth the Ishtar within her, the goddess within her to crown him king; and like the Queen of the Night, she now spreads her wings around both men, as if with her love she could stop the sons of Barmak from ever harming one another again.
The night is but young: they do not abandon the bed or each other's warmth except for washing and wine. Fadl is far from sated and Yassamin knows this, as does Jaffar: she can see Fadl following the movements of her hands as she washes Jaffar's cock, kisses it. Yassamin herself has been but a means, a channel, a catalyst for the true reunion that still awaits them, and she can feel Jaffar tensing underneath her hands.
Fadl sifts himself a cup of wine and sips it, lost in thought. "Never have I seen a married couple so in love."
"They all say that," Jaffar smiles, stroking Yassamin's hair. He pauses for a while, his voice more serious, now. "And as you can see, there is enough of this love to go around; you remember how Father told us the name 'Barmak' was a byword for generosity."
Fadl laughs into his wine. "He never let us forget," himself having been named after graciousness itself. "But what of my lady Yassamin? What do you think of this arrangement? Surely it is scandalous?"
"Only to the ignorant," she says, taking the cup from Fadl with a kiss and passing it to Jaffar. "I count myself the luckiest woman in all the land," she says, proceeding to wash Fadl's genitals in turn. "Other women have to compete with co-wives; I enjoy the occasional co-husband."
"Indeed?" Fadl says, quietly, looking into her eyes, playing with her curls. "I thought myself but your pleasure-slave." And in his eyes, decades of hurt burn quietly still; his voice remains tinged with the bitterness of regret.
Yassamin's chest tightens; she can feel Jaffar's unease at the back of her mind. But she will not let bitterness win tonight: she pulls Fadl into a kiss soft, lingering, reassuring him with her body. "My husband tells me you have felt banished, removed from love's warmth," she whispers, her hands upon Fadl's heart. "To me, it seems you have each wronged the other, yet I would see you reconcile. He still carries a love for you in his heart, and what he loves, I love also. Thus, my lord, I would not have you break both our hearts by rejecting what we are now offering you."
Fadl pulls back, a little drunken from her words; his eyes flicker, questioning her. "And what is it that you are now offering me, my lady?" he asks, but his eyes glide to Jaffar instead.
Jaffar but sets down his cup and comes to embrace them both. "This, brother," he says, and as he gathers Fadl into his arms and takes his mouth with a kiss, it is as if something in Fadl breaks; it is a sight terrible to behold. Like a man dying, Fadl lets out a moan hopeless, his entire body shaking as he devours Jaffar's mouth. Yet he hates this, hates exposing himself like this from the way that moan now dies, from the way he now stiffens against Yassamin's body.
Fadl rests his forehead against Jaffar's, laughs bitterly as he witnesses both their pricks now stirring. "You mean to entrap me," he says.
"Only in affection," Jaffar says, his smile warm as he glides down Fadl's body and takes his cock into his mouth.
And Fadl's cry--oh, it chills Yassamin, so twisted it is with rage and need, his fingers trembling as he sinks them into Jaffar's hair. "If you try to trick me, brother, I will slay you, slay you a hundred times; I swear this in the name of the Almighty."
Yassamin embraces Fadl from behind, firm, capturing him against herself. "If we wanted to be rid of you, Fadl, we would have done so long ago." In awe, she watches Jaffar pleasuring Fadl, the eagerness, the need in him so great it tears at her chest. Tenderly, she traces Jaffar's cheek, the redness of his lips now stretched around his brother's shaft. "Does this not prove he is sincere?"
And Fadl's head lolls back onto Yassamin's shoulder, a choked cry expiring in his chest as Jaffar takes him with his mouth, makes him hard, red, shining. Taut, Fadl hangs between them, trapped between his desire and his pride: now, he is no longer the rake enjoying a woman together with his companion, but is himself the one being taken.
And of all men, only Jaffar could so take as he serves another, performs an act so demeaning, so degrading, sucking upon Fadl with ravenous greed. He fills himself with Fadl so completely he gags in his throat, his face red, his lashes heavy upon his cheeks, tears glittering upon them; she knows they are not merely from the way he now chokes upon Fadl's cock. Even in his appeasement, he devours, groans in lust and strokes his own cock; when he opens his eyes and draws back for breath, his mouth is smeared from spittle, his voice reedy from desire.
"A truce, brother," he demands, smearing his face with Fadl's cock, "now or never."
And when Fadl tarries with his response, Yassamin takes charge: as shameless as Jaffar himself, she slides down and takes Fadl's arse with her mouth. Fadl yelps, jerks within their embrace; she but chuckles into his arse, delighting in the salt of it, the deep, dark dankness of it. That she would do this, without hesitation! Now, she laughs at herself as much as she does at Fadl's reaction, laughs more as Fadl trembles from the vibrations upon her tongue.
"Answer my husband," she says, curling her tongue a little, slapping it against the pursed muscles of Fadl's anus.
And by the sound Jaffar now makes, Fadl must be clutching his head to his groin the way he now clutches Yassamin's head to his arse, sinking his fingers into her hair, groaning in his torture. "I relent, but under pressure!" he cries, grinding his arse into her face, his prick against Jaffar's mouth. "You are two devils, two satanic fiends!"
But it is then that Jaffar chuckles and pulls both of them down with himself, hugging Fadl close, kissing his mouth. "That took long enough."
"I will get you for this," Fadl keens, kissing Jaffar viciously, violently, thrusting against his body. "Take you so hard, ram you so hard you'll feel it in your teeth--"
"By all means," Jaffar purrs lasciviously, rocking his hips. "After all, it's been a while."
And yet underneath his whorishness, underneath that eunuch-lisp, she can feel Jaffar is still a little afraid. And why shouldn't he be? Fadl is brutal in his caresses, and now she knows whom Jaffar learned all his cruelty from; knows it from the way Fadl bites Jaffar's lips as he pins his arms to the mattress and fucks his belly, threatening him with his prick, reminding him of its size.
"All of this you shall take, my brother," Fadl hisses. "All these years you have teased me, kept me waiting. Is this why? Hmm? Because I was too big? Because it hurt?"
"Oh, no," Jaffar but laughs and turns Fadl around, pinning him down, rutting against his belly in turn. "It's because you are a bastard."
And at the sight of what is to be Fadl's prize, of Jaffar's pink hole peeking from between his buttocks, Yassamin can no longer remain still. With a greedy moan, she buries her face in Jaffar's arse, not having had enough of this forbidden taste yet, this dark metallic must that makes her cunny flow sweet upon her fingers. Already she can hear Jaffar's sodomy-cries, knowing how loud they will get once he is penetrated: she feasts herself upon those cries, slaps his buttocks, pushes him against Fadl's body. This beautiful opening, she will prepare for Fadl; this, she will anoint for him, knowing that in turn, she will be rewarding Jaffar by fulfilling his most outrageous, most secret perversity. That stretch which he so cherishes, that unmanning he so craves: that word, that vision that turns him molten.
"Show me, Fadl," she says, grinning wickedly as she spreads Jaffar's arse. "Show me how you make this into a cunt."
And oh, the way they both cry out now, Jaffar howling, jerking atop Fadl! Jaffar but blinks in his haze, gasping for breath, so much like an indignant cat as they turn him onto his back.
"What's the matter?" Yassamin says as she lifts Jaffar's leg, Fadl lifting another.
Jaffar but shakes his head. You cannot be real, his soul-voice vibrates inside her mind, vibrates through her body, echoing sweetly within the chambers of her heart. Yet with his lips, he but hisses "And I will get you for this, wife," whimpering through his teeth as they spread his arse wide.
"My, my," Fadl grins as he examines Jaffar, pulling his buttocks apart, revealing the pink, raised rim of Jaffar's anus. "Who's kept you in training, then?" he says, with not a little jealousy.
"I have," Yassamin says, kissing Fadl's cheek, relishing his surprise. "All throughout our marriage, he has maintained a taste for such play."
Fadl raises his eyebrow. "You missed me that much, then, brother?"
Jaffar rolls his eyes. "No, believe it or not," he huffs. "One can enjoy sodomy without--oh--"
And now Fadl has pushed a finger inside of him, slicked only with what little spit Yassamin had left upon him. "You were saying?" Fadl grins and hooks his finger a little, glancing at Yassamin. "Still an insatiable little tart, is he?"
Adoring the helplessness on Jaffar's face, she licks the tip of her index finger and pushes it inside of Jaffar, beside Fadl's. How does it feel to be the one so displayed, now, husband? she purrs to him with her mind. For now he is gaping a little, just as she had done when he had presented her to Fadl: oh, her own audacity takes her breath away. If you think me cruel, it is because I have learned from the best, she whispers, her cunny tightening in delight.
Jaffar but spits and twists, his hips lifting off the bed. As he chooses not to dignify her with a response, she addresses Fadl instead. "Quite the tart indeed," she says. "Why, he keeps stealing my toys from me, even," she grins and hooks her finger, too, stretching him. "At times, it seems as if this little hole could never have its fill."
Fadl gives his cock a little caress. "I have something here that can remedy that."
Yassamin tilts her head, so aroused now she has to bring her other hand to her cunny once more and stroke it, stroke it. "Oh, but I would see him made a woman first," she says, tugging on Jaffar's hole so that his cock jerks upon his belly. Ignoring Jaffar's cry, she but smiles at him beatifically. "Do show me, Fadl."
She leaves the bed briefly to fetch the cream; when she returns, Jaffar looks practically murderous, wincing as Fadl works two fingers inside of him with but spit, deliberately hurting him a little.
"Hurry," Jaffar barks.
"What's the rush?" Fadl says, pleasantly.
And for a moment, Yassamin, too, feasts upon the sight: the way the muscles of Jaffar's arse stretch and twist around Fadl's fingers, the way Jaffar's hips twitch at this sweet torture. She knows Jaffar enjoys this too much, even as he bites his lip and whimpers--it is clear from the way his cock is now dripping, the way it always drips whenever he is stimulated in this fashion.
Fadl leans down, now, smiling with a sudden tenderness as he kisses the wetness from the tip of Jaffar's cock. "My little wellspring, I used to call him. If Father had only known it when he named him thus. Remember when he nearly caught us, and we had to pretend we were wrestling?"
"Don't bring Father into this!" Jaffar groans, but from the flush on his cheeks, the way his arse now squeezes around their fingers, he relishes being reminded of the gravity of the sin they are now indulging in.
"I have but called him my fountain of sweetness," Yassamin murmurs, tasting Jaffar herself, nuzzling Fadl's nose as she does. "Albeit for the love he gives me. But now I shall never not think of his name in this sense," she laughs.
Jaffar throws his arm over his face and groans. "I wish you would take me and be done with it!"
"Who asked you, Trickle?" Fadl says and twists his fingers once more, making Jaffar yelp.
Yassamin opens the jar of cream, looking at them both pointedly. "My cunt, gentlemen."
"It is that Sapphic streak she has," Jaffar spits from underneath his arm, gasping as Fadl now pushes three cream-slick fingers into his arse. "Has to be. She is such a little cunny-sucker--"
"As much as you are a cock-sucker, husband?" she says, slicking two of her fingers and pushing them in beside Fadl's.
And now Jaffar cannot even respond: he but trembles, taut, arching off the bed, not even breathing as Yassamin and Fadl take him in this manner, pulling him open. Breathe, beloved husband, breathe, Yassamin speaks to his mind; never have you looked as divine. And she means this: as Jaffar breathes out and stares at her, his eyes wide as his body opens for them, she has never seen him as vulnerable, as beautiful. She has to take his hand, squeeze it, forgetting even her own cunny as her heart now swells from pride, from joy.
"Now," Fadl says, gesturing for her to take her fingers out. "Does this please my lady?"
Without being told to do so, Jaffar lifts his legs, spreads them for Yassamin, closing his eyes. As he breathes, his swollen anus pulses, moves in time with the little sighs now escaping from his mouth, his entire body glowing from the aphrodisiac of his shame.
Yassamin leans down between Jaffar's legs, framing the sight with her hands. "It is sublime," she murmurs, so full of love, her heart fluttering in delight. His folds are now full, the muscles so stretched, flushed with blood, his little slit become a gleaming, raised furrow. She cannot help but taste it, flick her tongue inside to taste his salt, seeking it from underneath the cream.
And she knows how to open him further, knows how to undo his flesh with not fingers, not tongue, but her words alone: "Such a beautiful, beautiful little cunt," she murmurs, sinking her tongue inside of him once more.
Jaffar wails, his muscles spasming around her tongue, yet still she presses deep inside of him, drunk with his taste, her husband made a wife. She drinks in the blood-salt taste of his flesh, his must, his pulse, whimpers into his arse until her tongue aches, until her cheeks ache from pressing into the bones of his pelvis thus. Her husband's cunny, the most beautiful cunny of all, and she never wants to stop, but she knows she must.
It is time.
With great regret, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and moves aside, without a word. And just as silently, Fadl now takes his place between Jaffar's legs, stroking cream onto his cock, and he must be aching: his cock is now more purple than red, his balls lifted high against its root. He lifts Jaffar's legs over his shoulders, presses the tip of his cock to Jaffar's entrance and waits, waits.
Jaffar's eyes flicker; they are glimmering with tears. "Please."
And with a brutal thrust, Fadl pushes inside of him, still wishing to wound his brother; some sadistic frisson of delight now rippling in the muscles of his back as Jaffar shouts and curls up in pain underneath him.
"Thirty years you've kept this little cunny from me," Fadl groans as he begins to thrust; "I am going to make you regret it."
"I am doing so already," Jaffar hisses, pulling Fadl closer with his legs, sinking his hands into his hair. "Welcome home, brother," he laughs, delirious as Fadl speeds up his thrusts; the tears that had welled up in his eyes now streak kohl down his temples, his erection softening a little from the pain. "Welcome home."
Fadl's noise is animal, animal as he takes Jaffar's mouth, clutching his head, beating into him with his hips; now Yassamin cannot tell one man's sobs from another's. It's as if thirty years were nothing, nothing as they settle into a fierce, perfect rhythm, Jaffar clawing at Fadl's back, his mouth smacking off Fadl's as he is taken, claimed, possessed anew.
"Please, please, please," Jaffar hacks out, but then his words scatter into pieces as Fadl pulls back his hips and lengthens his thrusts. Jaffar howls and twists underneath him, his cock hard once more, painting salt-sweet calligraphy upon his stomach.
"Please," Jaffar cries again. "Please, Fadl. Deeper."
Fadl pants, his hair dragging wet over Jaffar's face; he cannot stop moving, still undulating within Jaffar, supping kisses from his lips. "You'll have to turn around," he says with a little laugh, as he must have said a hundred, a thousand times before.
And at that, Jaffar glances at Yassamin, beckons to her; she can read guilt in his eyes for having so neglected her. "Come. You will make it easier for me," he says, and there is a little bashfulness to his voice as he admits this, a strange youthfulness she has never seen on his face before. "Come."
"Show me," she says, lets herself be guided to lie underneath Jaffar, stiffening at first as he enters her cunny far too swiftly. "Easy--oh--" and she is a little ashamed, feeling Fadl tense, coiled from need beside them, eager to enter Jaffar once more. Yet she breathes, breathes, gathers Jaffar into her arms, accepts him inside of her body. Again, this is so unlike their night with Theo: in her heart of hearts, she had felt somewhat excluded, pushed to the side as the men had satisfied their sodomitic lusts upon each other. She knows Jaffar knows this, is now making up for it, and the tender, concerned look upon his face breaks her heart.
You shouldn't do this merely for my sake, she tells him, tears now brimming in her own eyes.
But I want to, he whispers within her, I would not do it without you. No, no; it wouldn't be complete without you, he breathes into her, gasping against her ear as Fadl mounts him and begins to fill him from behind. I want you to feel this, Yassamin, oh, feel this--
But then neither of them can speak any longer: Fadl rests his thighs on either side of Jaffar's hips and remains inside of him, penetrating him to the hilt. A little panic flutters inside of Yassamin as the weight of two men now crushes her, as she feels not only herself but Jaffar impaled, yes, impaled: Jaffar is wide open above her, swallowing her in his experience, Fadl's cock sinking deep, impossibly deep into his guts. The chaos in Jaffar's mind is submerged in the nauseating delight of this, a little panicked thought of he is killing me; he is so deep inside of me he is killing me only a perverse dash of spice stirred into the overwhelming din of pleasure.
She has to move, has to: she squeezes her cunny around Jaffar, caresses Fadl's hair. "Please."
Fadl smiles at her, seeming lightheaded himself, and she wonders if he can hear them, feel the psychic glow radiating off them. "My pleasure," Fadl says, then begins to take them with slow, long, luxurious thrusts, grinning as he so fucks both of them at the same time, himself the one to decide the rhythm. "I have both of you where I want you, now," he laughs, lapping up sweat from Jaffar's back, and each time he pulls back, Jaffar moans and thrusts into Yassamin in turn, as if seeking to escape Fadl's blows, seeking shelter in her cunny.
Gladly, she lies underneath Jaffar thus, as his safe haven, sure she will be unable to orgasm this way herself. But why would she need to, if she can swim in Jaffar's pleasure instead? He is gasping for breath, hugging her close, his cock slipping in and out of her as Fadl beats into him, moaning so loudly he hurts her ear and she adores it, loves seeing him so undone with joy.
Fadl wipes sweat from his face and tugs at Jaffar's hair. "He always comes so voluminously when he's fucked, too," he says, smacking him on the chest. "Don't you, brother?" When Jaffar's only answer is but a groan, Fadl dismounts and kneels behind him, now rolling his hips, using shorter strokes to tease Jaffar's insides. "If I pull back a little, like this, I can hit him right in the gland--"
And now Jaffar wails, his eyes snapping wide open. "Fadl!"
"Thought that's where it lay, yes," Fadl laughs. "Are you ready to be drenched, my dear?" he asks Yassamin over Jaffar's shoulder, as if Jaffar weren't there.
"Go on," she smiles, taking Jaffar's face in her hands; oh, she does not want to miss this. "Let me see your face, my love."
But it is inwards Jaffar is staring as Fadl now angles his hips and begins to truly milk him, pound his sap out of him: Jaffar is struggling to keep his eyes open, all hair on his body standing on end, and now she feels the same white-hot nausea she herself had felt when Fadl had been sodomising her. Shiver upon shiver, he trickles into her mind as he drips into her cunny: Oh, my love, forgive me--I cannot hold back any longer--
"Drench me, Jaffar," she says out loud, her fingers slipping in the sweat of his temples, she squeezing her cunny around his thrusts. "Let me feel it."
Before the last words have even left her mouth, Jaffar is spiralling into her, soul and sperm flooding into her, each of Fadl's blows making him surge forth in convulsions of white. White sperm, white pleasure, white love he flows into her, saturating her until she spills over, her body echoing with his orgasm. He shouts into her face, his face knotted with a thousand wrinkles, his sweat raining upon her neck as Fadl pounds his release from him, merciless, brutal as he lays waste to his brother. Jaffar is but the shape of a man hollowed, but slurping, open flesh around the white-hot glory of Fadl's cock, but cunt and prick and arse and thigh, and she must see this, she must.
With a kiss, she leaves Jaffar, a Jaffar too far gone to protest, so that now Fadl can press him fully into the mattress, resting on top of him, still nestled within him. Neither man speaks; Fadl is trembling from fatigue, trembling in his amorous fury still, sweat pooling in the dip of his spine. Softly, oh, so softly, she kisses this sweat, licks it, rolls it in her mouth like fine wine; she follows the trail of soft dark down between Fadl's buttocks, kissing his hole, the seam of his sack, down, down to where he sinks inside her husband.
"Show me," she asks, a request gentle, yet firm, that of a queen who will not be denied.
With a soft sigh, Fadl rises, lifting Jaffar onto all fours with himself, nuzzling him awake with embraces, kisses. "You heard the lady."
Jaffar glances over his shoulder at her, smiling fondly. "To hear is to obey. Show her, then; show her what you made."
And with his words, he does not mean only tonight, the perversion of the man's cunt, but the Jaffar he is, his true nature, all that he is and all that Yassamin loves. And she sends him her knowledge of this, her ecstatic adoration of it, the beauty of him as Fadl again braces his thighs on either side of Jaffar's hips, sinking into him so deep his balls nestle against his body. The way Jaffar's howls are now music to her ears, the way his half-hard prick sways with Fadl's thrusts, dripping with sap, the trickle of foam now sluicing from his arse down the seam of his perineum. Oh, it is the most delicious thing she has ever seen, the white ring forming around the pink, now completely smooth ring of his arse, Jaffar crying out even louder as he sees it through her eyes, feeling the way her cunny swells at the sight.
Her mouth watering--oh, yes, she sends this desire into Jaffar's mind, too, sees him clutching the sheets at it--she traps her clitoris between two fingers and masturbates furiously, stepping closer to the men, closer. Fadl is losing rhythm, now, roaring so loudly it echoes off the windows and the walls, his legs shaking from the strain. She has to push two fingers from her other hand into her cunny, now, groan along with Jaffar, take herself in time with Fadl's thrusts, and she is so close, so close.
Yet the devil in her is stirred, wickedly inspired by the sight of Fadl's anus, the way it clenches with his thrusts. Oh, but she has neglected it, and they cannot leave Fadl too proud, thinking he is the only conqueror here. Oh, no. That would be most unthinkable, would it not? Thus, grinning like the demoness she is, she lifts her fingers from her cunny and pushes them into Fadl's arse.
"You little bitch!" Fadl screams, jerks.
"What's the matter?" she asks, pretending innocence. "I merely want to see you drench him, that's all."
"Oh, God--" Fadl wails, his balls lifting, his voice now breaking into a shriek as Yassamin curls her fingers inside of him, milking him, milking him. "Don't stop, oh, merciful God, don't stop--"
Jaffar but laughs, laughs deliriously underneath as Fadl cannot stop pushing his arse onto her hooking fingers. With one last cry from the bottom of his lungs, Fadl lets go: his balls jump against his body and he rams into Jaffar, his arse squeezing around Yassamin's fingers. Yet, he cannot stop thrusting, his orgasm as long as a woman's as he pours himself into Jaffar, fills him to the overflowing.
Yes, overflowing: this is what she has been waiting for, the fat, heavy dribbles of sperm now leaking out of Jaffar's hole, he slurping in that awful way she herself had done when they had been taking her. With a soft cry of delight, she leans forwards and feasts upon these rivulets while Fadl still thrusts into Jaffar, sucking at them, lapping at them, stroking herself furiously.
"Is that what you want, then, my lady?" Fadl groans, a laughter dark bubbling in his throat as he pulls out, taking Yassamin by the hair, lifting out his gleaming cock. "Taste it, then; taste your husband."
And it's Jaffar who now cries out as he watches Yassamin sucking Fadl into her mouth; and by that cry, by this taste she is undone, undone. Screaming around Fadl's cock, she grinds into her hand, sobs in her joy as she tastes the metal-salt of Jaffar's flesh, the deepest recesses of his body, deeper than she has ever tasted him before. The foulest, dirtiest of acts, now turned into that of love, the sating of a hunger no ordinary lover has ever felt; she hums with it, her orgasm's first waves unfurling through her hips.
Yet Fadl yanks her off his cock, pressing her cheek against Jaffar's buttock instead. "Give it to her," he groans, "drench her."
And as Jaffar pushes out Fadl's sperm, his arse heaving, gaping, nausea turns her stomach. But Jaffar only chuckles, grinning at her wickedly, horribly, knowing exactly what the sight does to her cunny. Thick, thick bursts of come bubble out of his hole, rich, pearlescent, shimmering in the lamplight. And the noise, oh, the disgusting, farting noise, she cannot bear it. With a howl of desperation, she sinks her mouth between Jaffar's buttocks and laps all of it up, huffing, snorting like a filthy animal. She sucks, slurps the warm mixture of sperm, cream and mucus a woman possessed, like those pairis that feed on men's emissions; screaming, she rides her fist, her entire body convulsing from the force of her release.
She is filthy, she is foul, but so are they, oh, so are they, all three of them radiant in their sin; even as the waves of her orgasm ebb and die, she still whimpers as Fadl pets her hair, as Jaffar croons to her in his adoration.
"Demoness," Fadl murmurs, "she is a demoness," he groans as she tastes his cock once more, near-deaf from her greed, still shivering in aftershocks.
Jaffar laughs as he gathers her into his arms, Fadl spooning her from behind, all of them hot, sticky, shaking from the strain of their exertions. For a long while, all remain quiet, Yassamin listening to the men's heartbeats, holding them close until they even, until they beat in time.
She clasps both their hands and brings them to her chest, whispering a soft prayer. "God's peace and blessings upon you," she murmurs with a voice firm, clear, making sure both of them hear it. "And I would you honoured that peace, sons of Yahya; from now unto death. What say you?"
She looks at Fadl, who is looking at Jaffar, searching his brother's eyes. "Amen," he murmurs, his gaze challenging Jaffar's.
With utmost tenderness, Jaffar leans over them, cups Fadl's head and pulls him into a kiss. "Amen."
(The clamps Jaffar uses in this chapter are akin to something like the forked, adjustable pins on these, mechanism-wise.)
Nowruz is over, the bonfires extinguished; as Yassamin helps pack the leftovers to be distributed among the poor, she wonders about Jaffar and Fadl. She had barely seen them the day after their encounter; they had but sat together for the celebrations, and this morning, Fadl had taken his leave. He had left as suddenly as he had arrived: she'd only had a chance to bid him goodbye, but at least those goodbyes had been warm, free of insults. The brothers had embraced lovingly, a sight that had warmed her heart: for all of yesterday and today, she has been offering extra prayers to God in thanks, pleading for him to never set them apart again.
When the evening prayers are over, Jaffar finally visits her bedchamber. She has already withdrawn to bed for the night, exhausted from the festivities, and feels a little guilty as she greets him with a kiss lazy, more friendly than passionate.
"Evening, my cheetah."
"Your cheetah is weary from its hunt." He tosses off the last of his clothes, pulls the bedcovers over them and gathers her into his arms. "I only came here to hold you; you know I sleep better next to you."
"I am glad to hear that. I was afraid I would disappoint you." She winces at the pain in her hips. "Besides, I am still a little sore."
"No wonder," he chuckles as he removes her nightshirt.
She curls up in his arms, relaxing into his embrace. "Did you talk to Fadl at all before he left?"
"Very little," he says, squirming playfully. "Our mouths were rather busy with... other matters."
She slaps his arm. "You're impossible. But I suppose that's better than you coming at each other with swords."
"Much more preferable," he murmurs.
"Did he say whether he will return?"
"Who's the impossible one, now?" he laughs. "Little harlot. You haven't even recovered from the last bout."
"I'm serious. What did he say?"
"I asked him to visit us again for Mehregan. He said that that was too soon and that he would come again next year--and you know what he said?"
"That I had better make him an uncle before that."
She rolls her eyes. "Does he want me out of the way, then? Suckling a babe while you go at each other with your pricks?"
He grins and hugs her. "I doubt that. He probably thinks it will help you accommodate him better."
"I can't believe what I'm hearing!" Her very womb curls in on itself in horror. "Talk like that, and I will never bear you a single child!"
"Come, come," he chuckles, kissing her cheek. "I was jesting. Although I must admit, they must be thinking me impotent by now..."
"Or a sodomite," she laughs and kisses his nose. "You know, Aixa talked to a judge about that; asked for his advice on such things. Apparently he said his school does not find anything against it when it's a married couple enjoying themselves in love, but others do. They say that it is cruel for a man not to allow his wife children; that sodomy is something only the most selfish of masters force upon their slave girls, so that they would not have to manumit them and provide for the children."
He searches her eyes. "And what would you have in your bed, then?" he asks her, softly, taking her hand in his. "The kind husband or the cruel slave-master?"
She thinks upon this, squeezing his hand. "I would have the cruel slave-master for a while longer," she whispers. For she is still afraid, still not ready, and she knows he would never force her to give up her potions; oh, but his kindness breaks her heart. "Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive," he says, kissing her hand. "That's how I lost Fatima," he whispers, now closing his eyes. "She miscarried."
"You never told me that." Her heart lurches. "Oh, Jaffar--"
"I never told you all of it, but now you know," he says, now serious, his eyes glimmering wet. "You are more important to me than a dynasty, Yassamin," he whispers. "I would not lose you. So if it is your wish to remain childless, I will never hold it against you. No matter what people would think."
"And if I did wish for children?" She is afraid to, now, not only because she fears the same fate, but for fear of breaking his heart. Yet what if her fate should be different? "If I wanted them, would you hold that against me?"
He presses his forehead against hers, swallows. "Never. I know more of medicine now than I knew then; master powerful magics, you know this. Trust me that I would use all my powers to keep you safe, to guard your life with my own."
She kisses his lips. "I am glad."
He smiles a little. "And what of tomorrow? I have all evening free, and would reacquaint myself with my wife. Which Jaffar would you have in your bedchamber tomorrow night?"
Even through her fatigue, even through her fear, a little curl of lust licks at her cunny. "The slave-master, I should think," she murmurs against his lips, rocking her hips. "I have seen enough of the sodomite, the pageboy and the woman; I would be reunited with my witch-king once more."
He chuckles, a chuckle dark, bunching her hair in his fist, hurting her just a little. "Then you shall," he says, taking her mouth with a kiss.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," she says, entering his bedroom through the secret doorway. "I came as quick as I could." She pulls off her veil and starts to undo her braids, still wet from the baths.
He looks up from the book he has been browsing and sets his eye-glass upon it. "Did you omit the perfumes, as I asked?"
"That's why the girls kept me so long. When I told them you wanted me scentless, they scrubbed me as if their lives depended on it," she laughs.
"As a matter of fact, they do," he chuckles and sets down his book. "No, don't sit down yet. Let me look at you."
She smiles as he walks around her, shrugging off her robes. "Clean enough for you, my lord?"
He leans down to nuzzle her collarbone, inhaling her. "Perfect." He lifts a bag from his jacket and takes out three waxen perfume cubes. "Musk, roses and oudh, your favourites."
She inhales the cubes: the perfumes are of the highest quality, priceless, their scent even more powerful than what she has been used to. That there would be perfumes even more luxurious than what the shahbanu of all Persia uses for her toilette? It astounds her.
"Did you make these yourself?"
"A little chemistry experiment," he nods. "I found a compound that fortified the scents, increased their medicinal properties."
"Aphrodisiac properties, you mean."
He grins, mock-innocent. "That... may have crossed my mind. I tried them myself and found them very effective," he murmurs as he takes the rose-scented cube and runs it across her chest, kissing her.
The wax is so light it feels silken against her skin, leaving no residue whatsoever; astonished, she watches as her skin absorbs it, swoons as her body heat enhances the scent even more.
"That smells wonderful."
"Come to bed and I shall give you more," he murmurs against her mouth, smiling so much his eyes are crossed.
They spend long moments sharing the perfumes: she undresses him, anointing him as he anoints her. Slowly, lazily he runs a pink cube down her arm, a brown one up her thigh until she tickles, giggles: she tackles him and draws dirty poems on his back with the musk until the cube is nearly worn out. With the rose wax, he massages her breasts until they are warm with heat, her nipples hard against his palms; she massages his cock with saffron and honey oil until it darkens, flushes, golden and hard in her hands. They continue thus until the entire room is rich with scent, until they are so distracted by each other's bodies the cubes tumble off the bed.
"There is one perfume I have yet to sample," he sighs, lying atop her.
"And what's that?"
With a chuckle, he slides down between her legs. "This," he says, lifting her legs over his shoulders so suddenly it makes her yelp. He plants a soft, tender kiss on her freshly-shaven mound; she shivers, jerks, her bare skin now so sensitive to touch.
"Delicious," he murmurs, splitting her folds with his tongue, sucking and tasting her greedily, moaning with exaggerated delight. "You're always so sweet."
"Even more so this time of the month," she says, gasping as he grazes her clitoris with his tongue; her hips are so full of blood, her breasts aching from the humours that have gathered inside of her. She burns from her need even more than she had done a few days ago: there is an ache deep in her cunny, at the root of her womb, one that can only be remedied by him. "Please, Jaffar. Don't make me wait; I need you now."
"Is that so?" he says, kissing his way up her belly. "I thought you wanted the slave-master tonight."
"Later," she says, wrapping her arms around him, sighing in utter joy as he enters her. The saffron and the honey have made his cock even hotter, harder; with but a few thrusts, he is buried in her entirely, the head of his cock exactly where she wants it to be. "God, Jaffar. You fit me so perfectly," she moans, wails against his shoulder as he begins to thrust, taking her with force, knowing she needs it tonight, not only to satisfy her premenstrual heat but to bring both of them back to their centre. He, too, seeks to know her anew, reclaim her, establish himself at the core of her heart, her flesh after another man had visited it.
Of course you are at the centre, you silly thing, she sighs into his mind when he thrusts too hard for her to speak; you have never left me.
"But conquering you is so much fun," he laughs out loud, slowing down to kiss her.
"I mean it, my love," she says, squeezing around his cock until his eyes fall shut in delight, until his leer splits his face. "Fadl was too big, but you are just the right length and width, as if made for me."
He laughs and rolls his hips. "I could say the same of your cunny, my sweet." And as she squeezes again, he groans and stares down at her sex, at the way she now swallows him within herself. "The greedy little thing it is. He was right about the lips; it is as if you are eating me alive."
"And do you enjoy being eaten alive?" she says, urging him to move with her feet.
"Oh, very much," he says, making his thrusts harder, faster once more.
"Then, give it to me," she says, clutching at his hair, moaning louder as he speeds up, "I am starving, oh, please, please, please--"
And he lets go, rutting into her without rhythm, without finesse, he taking her, she taking him like the beasts they are: all their slow tenderness gone, they tear at each other, devour each other, shout into each other's faces in their heat. She always comes so fast when it's this time of the month, screaming until her throat is hoarse, lifting her hips up into his thrusts; red and swift and wide, the waves of her orgasm ripple through her flesh, over her skin, around Jaffar as he keeps on moving within her.
But as soon as she falls slack, as soon as he can tell she has come, he pulls free, a sharp cry bursting from his throat. He kneels upon the bed, his cock wet, still golden from the saffron, his balls lifted high against his body. Again, he whimpers, clawing at his thighs; he must have been seconds from coming himself.
"God--!" he takes in a deep breath, then lets it out, panting. "I will die in that cunny one day, I know it."
She has seen this enough times to but laugh at it, lovingly, so she pats at his thigh with her foot, sending his cock swaying. "You and your perversion for waiting!" she grins and shakes her head. "What fiendish plan have you in mind this time?"
"Well," he laughs, picking up her foot and kissing it. "There's something I forgot. Stay there."
"Yes, master," she says, curling up on the bed, adoring him as he leaves it.
He rummages around in his discarded clothes, glancing at her over his shoulder. "What Fadl did to you reminded me of something I meant to give you long ago, but forgot. Where did you put that thing you wore on your head?"
She blinks, but soon realises he means the gold band she had worn about her forehead. "That thing is an heirloom! Those coins date back to the time of Alexander, I'll have you know. By the washbowl, over there."
He snatches the chain unceremoniously, his cock bobbing as he returns to the bed. "Solid gold, hmm?" he weighs it in his hand.
"Be careful with it."
He shakes his head. "You'll be the one wearing it. Sit up."
Puzzled, she sits opposite him, watches as he loops each end of the chain into what look like a pair of large hairpins. "But I just took it off."
He grins and pinches her left nipple. "I should have been more specific. You're not going to wear it on your head, my sweet." And before she can protest, he has slipped the pins around her nipples. Her eyes fly wide and she shrieks from the sudden pain, but he captures her scream into his mouth.
"I promised you this on our wedding night, remember?"
He lets the coined chain fall from his hand, so that it now drags on the pins, making her jerk and shriek once more. Oh, but the pain is awful, yet wonderful at the same time: her breasts are so sore even walking hurts, and now the flat metal bits squeeze her nipples harder than Jaffar's fingers ever have, sending pulse after pulse of agony into her chest, into her spine. She has to moan, has to balance her hands on Jaffar's shoulders, yet he but laughs wickedly, flicking the chain so it sways once more. She can't breathe; she hangs onto Jaffar, her eyes closed, her mouth open against his cheek.
"If it hurts too much, I can loosen them."
"Trust you to have thought of that," she slurs.
And fascinated, she looks down and sees there are little rings around the roots of the pins, to adjust the tightness of the fork. When Jaffar slides the rings a little lower, she can breathe more easily; now, the squeeze feels but pleasurable. "Where on earth did you find these?"
"I made them. A little variation on clamps used to staunch bleeding, to stop tubes and air-bladders. Quite ingenious, don't you think?" he says, flicking the chain.
She groans, jerks once more, shaking her head as she watches the swaying of the chain. "I am going to put these on your prick the next time, I swear to God."
"I look forward to it," he grins, kissing her softly. "Speaking of which..." he lifts out a third clamp, snapping it playfully. "Spread your legs."
She blanches, stiffening in his arms.
"You are not serious."
He only looks at her. Seconds pass, and with each one, his expression hardens, his eyes widening, staring down at her. Fear and doubt have stolen into her mind once more, yet it is as Jaffar always tells her: a queen should not let herself be consumed by such things, for such things demean her, reduce her to a slave. And as her lover, as her king he is here to enthrone her anew: as his queen, she should only be a slave to the love he anoints her with, only to the pleasure he crowns her with. Thus, he becomes the slave-master, her beast-king once more, and he takes her breath away: his eyes grow paler, vaster, swallowing her in their command.
"Do you trust me?" he asks, softly.
She feels like a fool, so ashamed now--would he ever hurt her? No, no; he would rather die than truly harm her. He only wants to give her the pleasure-pain she had herself requested; to deny this would be hypocrisy. And Yassamin of Basra is not a coward, not a hypocrite, no, no; she is queen.
Thus, she swallows and nods. "Yes."
"Then lie down, girl. Spread your legs."
Slowly, she moves back upon the bed: the pain from the clamps and the chain now weighs her every movement down, making her extremely aware of her every limb, her every breath. She reclines upon the sheets, biting her tongue as even the act of lying down makes the chain tighten, tighten as her breasts pool across her chest and towards her armpits. She draws a shuddering breath, another, and spreads her legs.
And the tenderness that flashes in his eyes as he kisses her cunny, oh--she shivers from it, shivers as he now draws her mound up, up, exposing the hood of her clitoris. He traces the root of it with the clamp, measuring her with precision, then closes it around the uppermost part of her slit, the pins framing her clitoris. The pressure feels unusual, but not unlike what Fadl had done to her with his teeth; Jaffar looks into her eyes, listens for her breathing as he slides the ring down, tightening the clamp.
"How do you like that?" he asks, his thumb and forefinger still on the ring, his voice soft, gentle.
"Oh--" she would toss her head, but even that movement brings her more pain; she can barely breathe.
If you cannot speak with your mouth, speak to me this way, my child.
But she cannot even put it into words: instead, she sends him the chaos in her mind, in her body, never having felt like this before. The diffused, soft pressure around her clitoris is so strange, similar to how Fadl's teeth had felt, now only more so. The sensation is intense, that of a near-climax, an orgasmic wave spread out, stretched into infinity; the heat inside her hips, the flush of blood there is maddening, maddening. She dangles upon the edge of orgasm, suspended there, aching for release and so soon; within her mind, she sobs, her body too far gone even for tears.
"That is a little too tight, then," he murmurs to her gently, loosening the ring.
"What are you going to do to me?" she slurs, her tongue heavy in her mouth, her words those of a drunkard. She thinks of him taking her, but every position she can think of seems as if it would bring her but agony.
He strokes his cock and tilts his head, brushing his thumb across the top of her slit. "Perhaps I shall but watch," he says, adoring her. "You're making a mess on the bed, you know," he leers.
"Do something. Please."
He nods graciously. "Very well." He hooks his finger into the chain between her breasts, pulling on it a little. "Up."
Gritting her teeth, she lifts onto her knees. This is a test, she knows this; a test she must pass. It's just as it has been every time they have been playing with others: only the most intense forms of love-play, only the greatest heights of pleasure-pain will bring them the heat they both need to fuse together once more, to melt into each other once more. Just like metal, just like steel, just like gold, the steel and the gold of the pins, the chain now swinging between her breasts as he guides her to sit on top of himself, to take his cock inside of her cunny. Past that pain, she sits upon him, howling in her chest at the speed and depth of penetration this position always gives her, the clamp on her clitoris nestling against his pubis and the chain glittering between her breasts, swaying, swaying.
"Good girl, good girl, good girl," he purrs, the delight on his face immeasurable, his smile as bright as the midday sun. "Have you any idea how long I have dreamt of you upon me, like this?" he says, caressing her breasts softly, his thumbs gentle underneath the chain. "Bejewelled and beautiful, so beautiful."
She chokes upon a sob, bracing her hands against his chest. Even the tiniest movement sends a lightning bolt of pleasure-pain through her cunny, sharp spikes of heat through her hips. "I am going to die," she gasps, jerking her head like a distressed animal, losing control of her body.
"We'll see about that," he says, kissing her arm. "Ride me a little."
And she has to, she has no choice: the agony of withheld orgasm is now worse than the pain from the clamps, the chain, as if a clawed hand was clutching at her womb. With a soft cry, she shifts upon him and rides him, assaults that pain with the blows of his cock, forcing herself violently upon it. She is close, she has been close for so long, ever since he had put the clamps on her, so close.
Yet she cannot move her hands. "Stroke me, Jaffar, please--"
He hesitates a little, worried that he might hurt her, yet he licks his thumb and brings it to her sex. But what he finds there makes him laugh, laugh in sweet awe. "Oh, God. It's so swollen," he pants, "look, Yassamin, look--"
And he sends to her the vision, the horrid, yet beautiful vision of her clitoris, her folds swollen, purpling in their prison of steel. The moment he brings his thumb to the tip of her clitoris, but brushing it gently, a shockwave goes through her, a shock that's beyond pleasure: he repeats it, and now she is convulsing, those stretched, wide waves finally compressing, coming faster and faster, finally bringing her release. The groan she makes is so low it might as well be that of a man's: it is a low, rough, animal bellow and she cannot stop beating him with her hips. Deeper, deeper, she has to have him deeper: she lifts herself so high and lowers herself so fast she is hurting herself but it's perfect, perfect.
She is still riding him, still lost in the waves that now gather again, widen and then narrow, the strangest, the most unusual of orgasms, when she hears him chuckling. There is a sharp, strange sensation upon her clitoris and now he throws the clamp aside: she judders on top of him, screaming as all the blood that had been trapped there now rushes, surges into her body. She is pushed, no, kicked, beaten into another convulsion by it, one higher, fuller, more devastating than the ones before it. Shrieking on top of him, clawing at his chest, she is spiralling free, free, free.
And at that, he turns her onto her back and takes her, just as violently as he had done before, savaging her, pounding the last of her orgasm's waves out of her hips. Waves, waves, she has become but red, molten waves, waves flowing out of her limbs as tremors, out of her mouth as ululations as Jaffar grunts on top of her, his chest dragging against the chain, each sweet tug a new wave, her tremors neverending.
She tosses underneath him, pulling him into herself with her arms, her legs. "Come inside of me," she begs, pleads; "I want to feel you, please, please."
But she doesn't have to tell him to: he is already gone, his consciousness falling through her a rain of petals. In waves white, pearlescent to her red he surges into her, his whiteness swirling into her redness, sperm into blood, male into female, Jaffar into Yassamin. The wellspring unto the jasmine, he flows into her, pouring sweetness and love upon her, soothing her heat with his moisture. Laughing, his hips still bucking, he settles on top of her, grounding her with his weight.
She only awakens when he removes the clamps from her nipples. The pain is awful, awful as it blossoms through her, turning her into a quivering, shaking ball. "Oh, God."
He throws the clamps and the chain aside, gathering her into his arms. "How did you like that, then?"
She but hiccoughs, still shivering against him, spasming as he cups her breasts to soothe them. I am going to make you wear them the next time.
You said so before, he chuckles into her mind, his cock twitching a little against the small of her back. And that's how he feels about it.
She groans in her throat, yet he but chuckles once more and hugs her tight.
Later, he tends to her with soothing creams, cool and white upon her nipples, her clitoris. "There's no bruising," he says, kissing her mound. "I take it that I didn't hurt you too much."
"No," she murmurs.
Yet she is still humming, still in a haze, warm; the pain having left a strange restlessness within her flesh. It isn't helped by the way he now rubs her sex with the creams; as he slips a slickened finger into her arse, she bites her lips and moans.
"Insatiable," he purrs, tugging with his finger a little.
"And pray, whose fault is that?" she says, not opening her eyes.
He kisses her hip. "I'm not sure if I can rise to the occasion again, I'm afraid. At least not yet. However..."
And now he dips two fingers into her arse, fucking her shallowly with them until she opens her eyes. She knows exactly what he is referring to, knows what he means. His prick may have sated itself, but his soul is another matter; there is a hunger burning within him still. Oh, he has barely taken her tonight, compared to what he is now offering her. She shivers, opening for him, opening; now closing around him, around the beauty of his touch, the touch that seeks to surpass that of ordinary joinings.
She takes his wet hand and kisses it, kisses it. Not merely to taste herself upon it, no, but to adore it, to worship it. The hand of majesty, the hand imbued with the skill of the master engineer, the magician; the hand that gifts her with pleasure and pain with such exact precision, the hand that knows the innermost secrets of her flesh. Its fingers longer and more elegant than she has ever seen on another human being, its back crisscrossed with thick, green veins; the wrist as delicate as that of a woman's, the palm so wide, so wide she trembles at its memory. And she would have it all tonight, give herself to it, would be held in his palm as a soul is held in the palm of God's hand--oh, she blasphemes, but cannot think of it as such. For the Lord himself reminds her of his beauty and majesty through her Jaffar, each and every day; as she submits to her beloved, so she submits to the All-Highest.
Reverent, reverent, she turns to her side and places his hand upon her buttock.
I would take your hand, beloved.
The smile upon his face is tender, his cheeks trembling from emotion. Then, beloved, you shall.
He turns to spoon her, playing gently with her anus, stroking it, dipping one finger, now two into it. In this manner, they lie for long moments, he but stretching her, opening her for his love. His cock stirs and softens against her back; her fingers stray to her cunny to caress it now and then, to help pleasure relax her muscles so that he can dip three, perhaps more inside of her. She loves this, loves not being able to tell; there is but the beautiful stretch, but the warm glow of his body behind her, the softness of his breathing against her neck.
Naturally, inevitably she turns towards the mattress as he pushes deeper; now, she can feel he has entered her into his palm. She cries out a little as she turns onto her stomach, as Jaffar follows her; streaks of her arousal now flow down her mound to touch the sheets.
Oh, but you're beautiful, beautiful, he tells her. Stroke yourself, pleasure yourself, and I will show you.
She moves her hands underneath herself and begins to ride them, yet now careful, more careful than she would be when masturbating alone. Her clitoris is still a little sore, deliciously sore, making her moan as the heels of her hands find just the right angle to grind upon it. He follows her with his hand as she lays the entire weight of her pelvis upon her hands, upon her clitoris; now he joins her in pressing her to the sheets, chuckling a little as he adds to the pressure.
"How do you like that, my love?" he asks.
Yet he knows exactly what he is doing; his fingers are pressing at that spot behind her womb that makes her trickle, trickle, rub her face into the sheets, moaning and jerking upon his hand.
"Show me," she slurs, shuddering, so close, so close.
"With pleasure," he murmurs.
And he gives her himself, lifting his hand a little to show her her cunny, to show exactly how deep he is inside of her arse. Palm-deep, he rests within her palm-deep, with only his thumb brushing against her left buttock. The sight of it makes her stomach turn, yet he curls his fingers once more and she can see herself dripping, spraying a little, her fingers slipping in her fluids. And at the centre of her being, pure sensation: the whiteness in her body now called forth, summoned by his hand, that perfect, white, blinding pulse of the deepest anal orgasms. She sends this back to him, and he receives it with utmost love and devotion, pouring his own pleasure back into her, urging her on.
The heat of your body, my sweet, the heat; oh, I could die here, nestled next to the great vein. I can feel your heartbeat right here, right here, he whispers in awe, and she can feel tears welling up in his eyes.
Yet I would have it all, she howls at him in her mind, howls as the white pulses grow higher, higher.
Then come for me, my child. Come into my hand, he purrs, beckoning his hand against her womb, swirling his red into her white; let me catch you in my palm.
And she does, he following her movements perfectly, easily as she takes herself with his hand; she moans low in her belly, her spittle wetting the sheets. It is the easiest of orgasms, easiest; yet the power of this form of release never ceases to astound her. Again, she is wiped out, whited out a lacuna for him to write his love upon: she explodes into but light, bathing him in her brilliance. The white of the sun, the white of the sun in the sky of Jaffar's eyes, oh, Jaffar, Jaffar--
I am here, he murmurs, turning his hand, turning it mercilessly this way and that, rolling his knuckles inside of her; each roll, each brush of his fingertips bringing with itself a new convulsion, a new trickle from her spasming, molten cunny. Molten, yes, she is molten, he smithing her into a shape that pleases him, a woman composed of but pure, burnished pleasure. She is no longer in control of her own body, not with the way he makes it toss and jerk still, the front of her cunny still in ejaculatory spasm even when she is wrung dry. He has emptied her, hollowed her for his love and he continues, seeking what she too seeks, a penetration beyond what he has given her before.
Tonight, tonight, she will take him entire; as he greases his hand further and tucks in his thumb, she knows she will be able to take it all.
Groaning deep in her chest, she lifts her hips, her arse in the air, her head and shoulders upon the bed. "Please," she says, rubbing her cunny, willing herself to open. "Please."
And he expands his hand, widens his fingers, twists, twists. "Breathe, my love. Breathe," he says, his voice now but a quiet whisper, his other hand soothing upon the small of her back. We're almost there.
And he sends it to her once more, the sight--he is in to the widest part of his hand. The muscles of her opening are completely smooth now, shining from cream, little droplets of her wetness dangling from her flushed, full cunny. Wetness, wetness glimmering upon the hairs of his wrist, that beautiful wrist that now twists his hand in screwing motions, not giving her arse time to close. And now he turns his twists, his dips longer, deeper: he pulls out completely, gifting her with the shock of her flesh heaving open wide. She cries out, but that cry is cut short as he rolls his hand inside of her once more, fluttering his fingertips against her womb, petal-soft.
She draws her lungs so full she aches, even if it feels as if he has left no room in her body for air; she can feel the stretch of his hand even upon the muscles of her back, each stroke a nauseating, glorious, beautiful streak up her spine. She rolls, coils, gathers up all her desire, all her love and holds it, holds it; he awaits at her entrance, his hand poised. From between her legs, she can see he is erect, a little bead of arousal dangling from the tip of his cock, about to fall, fall--
She breathes out, empties herself, pours herself free of everything that is not Jaffar; with a final twist, his hand slips past the muscles and he is in. In, in, in; Jaffar cries out as if stabbed, his cock swaying, the little drop falling onto the sheets. And it is thus, with a delay that she experiences her own penetration: time itself, he has thrust aside with his hand, parted it as he now parts her flesh, establishing himself at her centre. The stretch is so overwhelming, she completely unable to breathe, now; there is nothing inside her that isn't Jaffar's flesh and bone and sinew and love. Love, love, radiating into her; love, love, now splashing upon the small of her back as tears.
"Yassamin," he sighs, his throat wet; "oh, my God," with the delight of a child. Innocent, radiant, adoring he kneels behind her, inspecting her, laughing a little as he turns his hand.
It's as if I am holding your heart in my hand, Yassamin, he thinks, nuzzling the small of her back, kissing it, kissing it in awe.
She hears his thoughts from far away, from behind the thick, heavy veils of ecstasy, her entire body now white, hollow as if a glass vessel, a woman made of water and air. Louder, louder his sensations echo, and she understands these for her pulse, her very life now beating around his hand. She should perhaps be shocked, perhaps be screaming, perhaps be convulsing in joy; yet all she can feel is peace, a space vast, a place where she is beyond such things, beyond violent emotion. She but floats, floats upon the wave of that pulse, upon the soft movement of his hand, flowing happily upon the music he plays upon her body. Yes, music, a tune silent; softly, he plays at the curve in her guts, reaching beyond even the place Fadl had touched, striking hums, vibrations from the darkest echo-chamber of her body.
His breathing grows more ragged, his hand greedier in its thrusts; she opens her eyes a little, glances over her shoulder and she can see he is stroking his cock. She laughs, laughs, the echo of it like bells within her body, and she is so light, swooning from it all.
"So you did rise to the occasion after all."
He keens through his nose, embarrassed. "It's a little difficult with one's left hand," he mumbles.
That he should ask her permission to free his right hand--oh, she but laughs once more, rocking softly upon his wrist. "Remove it, then. I would see you," she sighs happily.
He smiles a little, pulling out with the utmost care, offering her the sight of her flesh so hollowed. It is a sight brutal: the uneven, rippled red and pink flesh now heaving like a grotesque mouth, yet her cunny clenches at the sight.
"Quite," he laughs, dipping in for a brief lick as he brings his wet hand to his cock, the bed creaking as he jerks at his own touch. "I can see right inside of you, God--"
"More," she pleads, returning her hand to her cunny.
And as soon as she has said it, he dips his left hand into the cream and pushes it inside of her, twisting, twisting. Oh, but it feels wonderful; anchored around his hand, she lets herself float once more. Take me with you, she whispers to him, knowing she is too far gone to orgasm herself. Let me feel you.
You would sup upon my life-force, then, demoness? he thinks, now curving atop her, close enough to kiss, one hand soft in her guts, one hand fast, furious upon his cock.
Yes, she moans into him, sending the vibrations of her own pleasure to him, beckoning orgasm out of his body as he beckons within her with his fingers. She is but heaving, greedy, open flesh, hollow; still, she would have him fill her to the utmost.
My pleasure, he hisses, slithers into her mind, ruts into her, ruts against her, moaning into her mouth. Take it, take it, take all of it, Yassamin, all of me--
And he blossoms within her, unfurls within her, his fingertips neverending, become but pleasure themselves, his touch uncurling like ferns: undone, he shoots his seed against her thigh, his love into her body, cascading, falling, pulling her down with himself. She tosses with it, tosses with him, both of them grinding, moaning, writhing against each other, not wanting this to end. Just she screams in order to keep the ripples moving, to keep her body vibrating, he keeps on thrusting with his hand, shouting against her, bucking into his hand.
Yet finally, finally, he has to slip out, has to clutch her against his body like a man drowning; he pulls her down onto the bed and clasps her belly with his hand. Still, he shudders, shudders; still, she hums, warm within, warm without, drawing her love around him like a golden cloak.
That was-- he starts.
Shh, she laughs, curls within him. Do not even seek names for it; it would shame it.
"That was amazing," he blurts out loud, defiant, laughing, hugging her against his chest.
And she has to laugh with him, then yelp in shock as her laughter makes her arse spasm, farting out cream and air. She whimpers and covers her face in shame, and he laughs so loud the bedchamber echoes with it; purring and purring, he rocks her in his arms.
"I am so sorry. I was the one who pumped that air in there."
"You are horrible," she groans, kissing his hand. "And I am going to hurt everywhere tomorrow, I know it."
"Then I'll take you to the baths myself. Get us a private room. And pound your hips like a bath-eunuch--"
She slaps his arm. "That would be too scandalous even for you."
"Perhaps," he grumbles. "Although I am going to take another day off and nevermind what the Diwan thinks. I am getting a little too old for this kingship business." He nuzzles her back and grumbles once more, like a petulant child. "When I would much rather spend my days like this."
"And you'd end up killing your wife in love-sport," she laughs. "I doubt whether even courtesans could keep up with you."
"That's why I married you instead," he sighs happily, slapping her breasts, relishing her noises. "In harlotry, you surpass them all."
She rolls her eyes. "What's next? Are you going to invite all your brothers into our bed? See if I could take four fists?"
"Stop giving me ideas, woman!" he cries in mock-shock.
She turns around in his arms, pinching his nipples until he yelps. "Something gentler next time. Perhaps Fadl was right; perhaps we should try and start that dynasty."
He strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "There's still plenty of time," he says, kissing her tenderly.
"Don't tempt fate! You're nearly fifty."
"All right, all right," he says, kissing her hand, searching her eyes. "I do, in fact, have a few more games in mind for you," he says mischievously, "but I am sure we can squeeze them in before you're... incapacitated."
"And what would those games be?"
He leers. "Now, that is a surprise. You'll find out when we get there."
"Oh, you--!" she slaps his arm, squirms in his arms. "You are a monster."
"And that is why you love me," he sighs, hugging her, kissing her until she can speak no more.