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The Tartness of Pomegranates

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His brother is as beautiful as a houri.

And Fadl does not care if, in thinking this, he blasphemes: already the soft, sensuous veils of sin have wrapt themselves about his brain in the form of a heady, dark and rich date wine.

For now, he and Jaffar are all alone in one of Dunya's guest bedrooms and Jaffar, upon a drunken whim, has availed himself of all their sister's finery and made himself female.

Knowing exactly how beautiful he is, beautifuller than any woman Fadl has ever seen, he now poses for his brother in the manner of the skilledmost of courtesans, singing-girls when they wish to drive their masters into erotic frenzies.

And it is indeed a frenzy Jaffar now incites in Fadl's mind, heart and loins: never has he been to him as beautiful. Perfumed, night-black curls hang thick and heavy on either side of his face as if clusters of grapes; his skin shines soft, pale, luminous from rich creams and unguents made shimmering from powdered pearls. Anklets, bangles, necklaces, earrings, brow-chains, armlets, belts, rings upon his fingers and his toes tinkle at his slightest movements, now chiming wildly the myriad tambourines of a heathen dance; a band of maenads he makes music there as he stretches, arches, sways in voluptuous delight.

And his eyes, his eyes--as if Fadl wasn't already swooning from the wine! For never has Jaffar rimmed them as thickly with kohl before, further deepening their vastnesses vertignious; never have they flickered as pale a blue as they do now, the same blue fire God had forged djinn and angels of. Haloing the kohl, a fine dust of powdered lapis kisses his eyelids; with indigo, he has shaped and painted his eyebrows so that they meet in the middle above his nose, forming a perfectly curled bow. And the glances he now shoots in Fadl's direction are indeed as arrows: only now does Fadl fully understand the true meaning of this poetic metaphor, having but scoffed at such florid descriptions before.

"That crackling sound you hear... it's my wings burning," Fadl slurs.

"What's that?" Jaffar asks, his voice soft, delicate as he draws a hennaed hand across his bosom, over the sheer white silk of his undershirt. He cups his hands over his vest, cradling its scarlet, gold-embroidered velvet as if breasts, then rests his fingertips over the little golden buttons, toying with them flirtatiously.

Fadl sets down his bowl and staggers to his feet, approaching the bed upon which Jaffar now lies, the latter twirling his hair and rocking his legs. "I compared myself to a moth," Fadl says, drawing in a deep breath to sober himself up a little; he will need it for what he is about to do. "And your little cunt is the flame."

Jaffar throws back his head and laughs; it is a rich, deep, whorish laugh. "Eloquent as ever, brother mine. There are beautiful poems composed even of sodomy, you know."

"Humour me," Fadl says as he sits beside Jaffar upon the bed, running his hand up--well, he tries to run his hand up Jaffar's thigh, but cannot even find the thigh at first; so many layers of diaphanous over-skirts is Jaffar now wearing. The amount of ambergris--a perfume strictly reserved for female use--Jaffar has now drenched himself in makes Fadl reel, the way it reminds him of those slave girls Harun and his other friends already enjoy in their chambers, but whom their father had declared Fadl and Jaffar too young to possess as of yet. Preposterous, as Fadl is fifteen and Jaffar fourteen: an age at which most men are already fathers.

Yet, wise men temper their desires, Yahya had told them both, and had declared that he would find his sons wives first, so that they would first learn the duties of family men, know fatherhood before indulging in purely sensual pleasures. It would be for the best, Yahya had said: he said he'd seen far too many princes start their love lives with courtesans and slave girls, making them into poor husbands later. One could not treat a wife the same way one treated a harlot; one could hardly expect a woman of breeding to do what a slave girl or a courtesan did in bed. And a wife, unlike a slave girl, had the right to expect pleasure from her husband: therefore, a man would have to learn respect for the ladies first and foremost, learn how to behave like a gentleman in the bedchamber before indulging himself--and even then, perhaps only occasionally--with slave girls. Therefore, marriages with honourable women were what Yahya wished for his sons to start with, so that they would grow up into honourable men.

But both Fadl and Jaffar had known this to be little more than a punishment: often, they have both wondered what their father would think if he found out that his insistence on keeping his boys starved of cunny had turned them into incestuous sodomites instead!

"Mmm?" Jaffar purrs, turning to lie on his side, leaning his head on his hand. "How would you have me humour you, my lord and master?"

"Those beautiful poems," Fadl says and flicks Jaffar's over-skirts aside in a billow of white and pink silk, smirking as he sees Jaffar's erection through the thinness of his drawers. He runs his fingertips across the underside of Jaffar's prick, and oh, what a delightful hiss it is that Jaffar now lets out, the way he draws up his legs just like a girl would! "I am waiting," Fadl grins.

Jaffar makes a moue with his mouth, glances heavenwards and makes a great flourish with his hand, his bangles tinkling as he fans out his fingers. Clearing his throat, he recites:

"O, do not scold me, my friend!
For if you saw my lover's anus
You would know I was man beyond reproach:
For so beautiful is its little bud
In its flush of scarlet
That it's as if the cheek
Of a person trying to conceal his anger!"

Fadl's heart beats faster; his blood rushes so heavy and hot in his veins he can now feel each pulse of it in his prick. "That's all very well," he says and brings his fingers to the laces of Jaffar's shalwars, tugging on their bow a little. "But I don't think you quite heard me, my sweet. It is not an arse, but a little cunny I am seeking tonight."

Jaffar's breathing quickens; he is now so close to Fadl his eyes become crossed, and Fadl can smell the mint and basil upon his breath. "Is that so?" he says and runs his cream-softened hand across Fadl's wrist, slipping inside of his sleeve, fondling the tender inner surface of his arm. "What kind of a cunny, my lord?"

Fadl nuzzles Jaffar's face, the peachlike down of it, still completely hairless and soft underneath the beginnings of Fadl's own darkening, thickening whiskers. Jaffar's lips--painted with glossy pomegranate syrup--smack open, the wet sound of it now making a pulse of heat leap through Fadl's prick: he has to squeeze himself and groan. "A cunny plump and wet, my little gazelle," he addresses Jaffar like he's heard Harun do his girls; "a cunny tight and sweet," he snaps, stealing a lick off Jaffar's lips, Jaffar moaning as Fadl withdraws.

Jaffar bites his lip, staining his teeth with the syrup; he flutters his soot-thickened lashes and undoes the knot at his waist himself. "That fruit which you seek might be nearer to you than you think, my lord," he twitters sweetly and guides Fadl's hand between his thighs.

Fadl bites his lip in turn, trying not to laugh. "It's not that particular fruit I seek," he says, nudging Jaffar's sack with his wrist.

"I mean another," Jaffar purrs and parts his legs, still lying there on his side: he lies there and waits, trembles.

And now, Fadl realises what for: as he slips his hand between Jaffar's buttocks and feels for his anus with his finger, he meets a slick, sticky wetness. "Oh, my God," Fadl laughs, at once sickened and delighted when he realises what he is touching.

For now, the scent of pomegranate grows stronger, sweeter: Jaffar gasps as Fadl presses at the bud of his anus, dipping his fingertip inside.

And indeed, as Fadl pulls it out, his finger is daubed with the same dark red syrup as Jaffar's mouth. "Fuck!"

Jaffar but flutters his lashes once more, curling and shifting upon the bed. "Do you find my cunny to your liking, master?" he coos in an exaggerated, girlish, honeyed voice. "It is very sweet," he now croons and leans closer; without any shame whatsoever, he leans in and sucks the syrup off Fadl's finger, slowly, lasciviously.

Hell, the bastard even keeps his eyes fixed on Fadl's all throughout, fellating his finger as if it were a little prick: Fadl can barely speak, the act sending such a shiver of arousal through his body that he sways there, nearly falling over; all the blood in his body now slams into his balls and his prick. "You're disgusting," he laughs, trying to make light of it, but even the vibrations of his laughter now feel excruciating in his state of arousal: again, his prick leaps, aching, hurting. Indeed, he is already so heated he has stained the front of his drawers with his sap, his prick slipping in its nest of wet, slick silks.

And that's it, Fadl decides: he has waited long enough. With a moan, he pounces Jaffar, thrusting his tongue into his mouth; with a whorish eagerness, Jaffar but spreads his legs underneath him and pours his own moans into Fadl's mouth in turn. With his under-drawers still around his knees, Jaffar bends himself double, allowing Fadl to enter him with great ease; indeed, he has prepared himself so well that Fadl meets very little resistance as he begins to dip the head of his cock into Jaffar's arse. By God, what has he been stretching himself with, training himself with? Or have other men been taking him? Fadl now wonders, a sharp sting of jealousy now making him thrust into Jaffar just hard enough to make him cry out in pain. However, as Jaffar but smirks underneath him, spreading his buttocks with his hands, squeezing his arse so that it kisses Fadl's prick in greeting, Fadl's thoughts are scattered into the six directions.

"Take me," Jaffar lisps; "take my cunny, master," he simpers, inciting Fadl into a fury.

Roaring, Fadl begins to thrust in earnest, making Jaffar whimper underneath him, his body stiffening as Fadl forces his way inside of it; his jewellery rattles loudly as Fadl begins to pound him, and friction be damned. They're both going to be so sore tomorrow, but the way Jaffar now mewls at Fadl, staring into his eyes--oh, like hell is he going to stop now to get more oil. Besides, Jaffar loves being taken like this, loves being handled roughly, his silks ripping as he claws at Fadl's back so that he can feel his nails even through his tunic; already Fadl is drenched with sweat but he doesn't care about that, either. Jaffar feels so good, smells so good, so incredibly soft and sweet underneath him and around him, his imitation of a girl perfect; the silks rumpled between them even hide Jaffar's erection from Fadl so that if he squints his eyes, the illusion is complete.

Yet, Jaffar is loud, as he always is when he is being taken; even if Fadl's brain has taken residence in his balls he still worries Dunya will hear them any moment. Jaffar is screaming his ear off, and Fadl is not much quieter himself; with a low whimper, Fadl falls on top of Jaffar, his toes twitching as he desperately tries to stay still.

"She'll hear!" they cry into each other's shoulders simultaneously.

At that, Jaffar bursts into laughter, his earrings jangling. "Cover my mouth, and I'll cover yours," he says and clasps his palm over Fadl's lips.

"Fuck!" Fadl cries into Jaffar's palm, thrusting into him with force: never in his life has he been as thrilled, never has his prick been as hard as it is now, red-hot as he rams himself into his brother's flesh. Oh, but the way he can now scream freely into Jaffar's hand, Jaffar now doing the same into his with a wide-eyed, maniacal delight--the complete and utter freedom Fadl now has to wail out his abandon sends shock upon shock of pleasure through his body with every scream, all of him now so sensitised, so excited all the hair on his body stands on end. Each and every one of his thrusts now becomes as a lightning bolt, his entire body trembling as he throws himself into his brother's tight, molten, silken heat over and over; underneath him, Jaffar screams into his hand, red-faced, his kohl smeared around his watering eyes.

But then, Fadl can no longer see: he is blind from his pleasure, blind as he falls into Jaffar's flesh in a flurry of silk and gold and ambergris. Jaffar's body judders underneath him, and faintly, Fadl can hear pillows falling off the bed, an anklet or bracelet making a series of looping, spinning noises as it clatters down onto the floor; there is a new, slick, lye-scented wetness upon the silks trapped between their bellies. Jaffar's body arches, spasms, his teeth biting into Fadl's hand as he howls out his release; yet Fadl is biting him just as hard as his own orgasm now whips out of his body, hard lash upon hard lash as he surges, shoots, splashes inside of his brother's welcoming flesh.

And now, it is Fadl whimpering in his throat, a whimper as high as a girl's as he jerks his last, his muscles trembling and burning from the strain. Jaffar, in turn, drags in a deep, loud gasp of breath as Fadl's hand falls off his mouth; soon, he is coughing underneath him, a pomegranate stripe now painting his right cheek from mouth to ear.

Yet Jaffar is grinning, heaving as he pushes Fadl off himself so that he can breathe better; Fadl hates having to leave the heat of his body so soon, but is too tired to complain, flopping beside Jaffar to catch his breath himself.

"Oh, God," Fadl groans.

"Shh," Jaffar chuckles and curls up next to Fadl, kissing his cheek. "She'll hear."

"We'll do this again," Fadl groans, shaking his head, his eyes still closed.

Jaffar bursts into laughter. "Are you saying you prefer me as a girl?"

"Yes!" Fadl groans, weaving with his hand. "It's just... you're somehow... more you," he says, now opening his eye, taking in Jaffar, his smeared face-paint and his limbs entangled in a sea of silks.

Jaffar searches his eyes with his; it's impossible for Fadl to tell what he is thinking. Often enough, he's called Jaffar half-girl; Jaffar has never objected to this, has never been offended by it even when Fadl has said it to tease him. "Perhaps," Jaffar responds even now, with a mysterious little smile. "Dunya's going to murder me when she sees these, however," he says, glancing down at his ripped, sperm-stained shalwars.

"Psah. She has four hundred pairs. How would she know to miss just that particular pair?"

Jaffar raises an eyebrow. "That woman also has four hundred eyes. I'd better burn these," he mumbles, picking at the torn fabric.

"Shame," Fadl says, feeling for the silks with his fingertips. "They quite became you."

"You really do think so?" Jaffar grins.

And Fadl is too tired to joke about it any longer; as much as he makes fun of Jaffar's girlishness, that truly is his real nature. And for better or worse, Fadl loves him for it. "Yes," he says and now laces his fingers with Jaffar's, kissing his forehead. "I'm going to regret saying this, because it's going to make you so smug, but right now, I count myself lucky to have in you not only a brother but a sister, too."

"You're only saying that so that you can double the incest, you old pervert," Jaffar says and kisses Fadl's forehead in turn, then sighs and stretches in delight, twiddling his toes. "Where did you put the wine?"

Fadl throws his arm over his eyes. "I drank it all," he groans. "Besides, it's soon morning. Sleep."

"I've got to wash all this off, first."

"Oh, no, you don't," Fadl says and grabs him by the sleeve. "I want to sleep next to my long-lost little sister," he smirks. "Now that I've found her again."

Jaffar looks at him in astonishment, but it is an astonishment tender, happy, impressed. "Well," he laughs. "If that's what you want. But you'd better think up an explanation if Dunya finds us like this come morning."

Fadl hugs Jaffar to himself tightly, nuzzling into his smooth, soft chest. "Mmm. Tell her you lost a bet."

"That won't do."

"Then tell her we had to hide from assassins in a harem."

"But why would you still be wearing men's clothes? You idiot."

"I wore a mantle over them all, you idiot. But they ran out of mantles, and you had to don," and he waves his hand, "all that, to make a convincing woman."

Jaffar rolls his eyes and grumbles, but he still ruffles Fadl's hair. "Very well," he yawns. "That'll have to do. Good night, and God keep you, brother mine," he says and kisses Fadl's head. "Idiot."

"G'night, sister mine," Fadl mumbles and inhales from Jaffar's rose and ambergris. "Idiot."