Her buttocks like a dune
Over which a rain shower falls
Matting the sand
As it sprinkles down...
Samarkand is the emerald of Persia's sultanates, a city of orchards, forests and fountains. Yassamin has never seen as much greenery in her life, and with great enthusiasm, she sets out to explore all the area's natural riches during the first few weeks of their time there. Latifa is only glad to take her on a tour of the city and its surroundings, and they spend many a pleasant picnic and hunting trip in the forests and gardens on either side of the Sogd.
Yassamin feels life returning to all of her limbs, feels more well-nourished than she ever had been as a queen; all this exercise, all the fresh fruit and game have done wonders for her health. And she is sure it has to be the fresh air, the fertility of the ground itself and not merely the promise of a new life in her belly that makes her feel so replenished. For the people here are glowing with health, even in the lowest classes: the trees bear fruit in every season and there's a garden and running water in every house; as a consequence, she has seen hardly any cases of scurvy and dysentery is rare.
Yet despite all their civilisation, most of the people here still worship idols, revere the Three Jewels even if their rulers are good Muslims. There are hundreds of temples here, many monks, many golden idols of the Buddha, of goddesses riding on lions, and Yassamin mumbles a prayer every time she has to pass them by. However, Latifa is not bothered by such things, having lived nearly her entire life here: she tells Yassamin that her husband tolerates these practices exactly because pagans will have to pay higher taxes. In fact, she tells Yassamin, the majority of those who have converted to Islam are wretched climbers, people out to grab power for themselves; Latifa says she would rather trust an honest pagan than a false Muslim.
Jaffar, in turn, falls in love with the city because of its heritage of learning, the vast libraries housed in its temples. At first, the saffron-robed monks look upon him with suspicion, but he has always known how to charm his way anywhere: in perfectly enunciated Sanskrit, he offers them the secrets of the latest papermaking techniques developed in Baghdad, and unlimited access to the local paper mills. These mills had been established in the region some sixty years ago when the Barmakids had first arrived to pacify it, yet until now, the Muslims had jealously guarded this new medium, only allowing practitioners of other religions to buy very limited amounts of paper--Mohammad in particular had feared the locals might use it to disseminate revolutionary pamphlets. But after many an eloquent speech from Jaffar on the subject of knowledge, all knowledge, being man's birthright regardless of religion--and Samarkand having been peaceful for three generations--Mohammad finally relents and abolishes the religious restrictions regarding the sale and purchase of paper in the region. Even the proudest of abbots come to respect Jaffar for this noble act, and thus, he is allowed even into the inner sanctums to go through their manuscripts.
And when he isn't too busy devouring books, he is busy putting all his scientific knowledge to good use: he had taken one look at the plumbing in Mohammad's palace and said he could improve it vastly in but a few weeks' time. He'd been developing a new system of showers in Baghdad, far more reliable and less likely to grow cold right in the middle of one's bath. He has found a way to pump water out with enough pressure to cleanse every pore after a steam bath, enough to scrub even an Ethiope white, he boasts.
Mohammad rolls his eyes and slumps upon his cushions. "Where do you get the energy for all this, my brother?" he asks. He is all of fifteen years younger than Jaffar himself, and already suffering from gout and growing a paunch besides. "Have you harnessed djinn to do your work for you?"
Mohammad means it as a joke, but--well. Jaffar glances at Yassamin over the scrolls of the plans he has just been demonstrating to his brother. "You could say that," he grins, for it is exactly that; but Mohammad and Latifa need not know.
Of course, to Yassamin's chagrin, Jaffar decides to test his new plumbing inventions in their house at first, promising to have them all done by the time it's their third wedding anniversary. She has to use the public baths for a week before Jaffar's rebuilt all the aqueducts and pipes, installed furnaces to heat up the water and calibrated all the valves and levers by which one can adjust the temperature and the volume of the water. Without djinn, the work would have taken several months, she supposes; still, she shudders as she sees the last of them vanishing through a drain in a flurry of blue fire.
She clutches her towel more tightly about herself, her clogs loud on the enamelled floor--the surface of it so reminiscent of water that it gives her vertigo. Jaffar, now even more in love with the myth of Solomon than ever before, had wanted to create the same effect Solomon's palace floors had had on Bilqis: to make them so clear and shining that she had taken her shoes off before entering, thinking she was going to dip her toes into a pool.
The steam room has remained unchanged, but as Yassamin steps into the frigidarium, it greets her in the most brilliant new hues of copper and blue: Jaffar has had hundreds of thin brass pipes arranged into a row of tall willow trees set into the blue-tiled walls. The pipes swirl and curl out of the wall to form canopies, opening out over their heads into clusters of jasmine blossoms, these in turn being the shower-heads. It is as if they have stepped into a tunnel of the most beautiful flowering trees, the flowers ready to offer their rain to anyone who should wish to bathe.
"Well, what do you think?" Jaffar asks and swats her buttocks.
"It's beautiful," she murmurs.
He comes to embrace her from behind and kisses her shoulder. "I got the idea from our lovemaking, you know. That first time you took me a woman," he says, sighing happily.
She remembers that day as if it were yesterday: how she had risen and flown like gold up him and through him, had rained down upon him and sluiced down his veins, he the living forest nourished by her love.
"The wellspring and the jasmine," she laughs, tears springing into her eyes. "Jaffar, I--"
He chuckles and rocks her in his arms. "Happy anniversary, beloved. I have heard of kings having created gardens and palaces for their loved ones, but I have never heard of baths dedicated to queens. You're the first," he chuckles.
"And no longer a queen," she says and pokes him in the ribs. "Thank the Almighty. But come, show me. How do you operate it?"
"Watch," he says, whisking her towel off her, making her squeak; he tosses both their towels onto one of the benches lining the walls and steps underneath one of the showers. "There is a little valve here," he says and starts to turn a metal wheel in his hands. "Turn it clockwise and--" but his words are interrupted as a huge spray of water splashes onto his face, blasting him at full volume, sending him sputtering. "I'll have to fine-tune that," he coughs, spitting water from his mouth, grumbling as he notices Yassamin is laughing at him. "You try it."
She steps underneath the copper tree next to him, but stands aside from the cluster of brass flowers. She turns the valve and the water bursts out of the flowers with a more reasonable volume; after testing the temperature of the water, she steps underneath the spray. "But this is marvellous!" she exclaims, working the water into her hair. "It's like standing underneath a waterfall!"
"Yes," he beams, smiling widely, his eyes glittering from happiness. "That's what I was trying to approximate." He switches off his own shower and steps in underneath hers instead, pressing against her back. "I had to build an entire new room for the pumps," he says as he begins to soap her back. "Can you hear the machinery? Underneath us?"
So that's where the humming noise had come from. "It's not unpleasant," she says and turns around. "But if we have the entire river at our disposal, there's no need to save water," she teases him, nudging at his erection with her hip. "However, they will be scandalised if they find us bathing together!"
"I gave the servants the day off," Jaffar says and splashes down onto his knees, pressing a kiss to her thigh; he rustles in his washing bag. "Besides, it looks to me as if the gates of Paradise are a little overgrown and in need of a trim," he says and brushes his thumb across the short bush of hair that has now sprung up on her cunny. "And we can't have that."
But as he presses his lips to her cleft, kissing her clitoris, she moans in frustration. "Oh--Jaffar--"
"I know, I know. 'Don't harm the babe, Jaffar.' Only the pleasures of the hand and the mouth, I promise." He presses his ear to her belly. "Has it quickened yet?"
"No," she says and shakes her head. "That's what worries me. It's the twelfth week beginning today."
"Which means we should be hearing from him any minute, now. I am told it can take longer when it's a woman's first time; that it sometimes takes all of eighteen weeks before the soul arrives."
"How do you know it's a boy?" she says and sits down on the bench, spreading her legs for his attentions, her belly already making it a little more difficult for her to move.
"I don't," he says and begins to shave her tenderly. "But trust that I will love a daughter just as much."
"You are the strangest of men, my wicked wizard," she sighs and ruffles his hair. "What have I done to deserve a husband like you?"
"Whatever it is, I forgive you," he grins, and as he begins to suck her cunny in earnest, she can think no more.
"Merciful God!" Jaffar says as he takes his ear off Yassamin's belly. Immediately, he draws two runes of protection over it and recites the bismillah twice over her womb.
"What is it?" Yassamin says and moves further back on the bed where Jaffar has been inspecting her; even that little movement exhausts her. She is now in her seventh month; she'd never expected childbearing to be so difficult as to confine her to the bed all day--at least not yet. That's what had surprised and concerned Jaffar, too; thus, this morning, he'd set out to perform a thorough examination of her to find out the exact causes of her fatigue, using all the methods at his disposal, methods both medical and magical.
"But a moment."
Now, he presses an ear-horn to Yassamin's belly and listens; she can feel he is reaching inside of her body with his mind, sending out a psychic call and waiting for an echo. He had told her that this was how bats found their way in dark: that they made certain noises in order to assess the size and shape of caverns by the strength of the echoes that issued back from the rock surface. Thus, by sending a psychic wave through her womb, he hopes to chart the shape nestled inside of it: to find out whether the babe is malformed or not, or whether it sits within her in an awkward position, pressing on her organs more than it should. He cups her belly on the right side of it and hums, listens; he repeats the same procedure on the left.
"Two heartbeats. I swear. Yours can be heard behind them, so it cannot be an echo." He drops the horn from his hand and rests his head over her belly. "Twins."
"Oh, God." She covers her face with her hands.
She is going to die. It's her first time, and very few women survive giving birth to twins if they have not borne children before. She is going to die. Their children are going to die. And then Jaffar will die of grief. Just like his first wife had died, just like his first child had died, and now she is wailing, howling--
"Yassamin," he whispers and moves to embrace her tight, tight, kissing her tears. "Hush."
"Don't you dare hush me!" she cries, hysterical, now. She can feel a kick in her womb, and now, it does indeed feel like there are two pairs of feet inside of her--previously, she had but thought it a very active child, beating her with its fists as well as its feet. But now, the blows come from slightly different directions, and that has to be two pairs of feet, has to be. Feet that will rip her apart, tear her apart, and if the babes will not kill her, they will maim her forever, forever. She weeps uncontrollably, pushing him away from her arms. "I should never have let you put your seed inside of me! Never, ever! If I survive this, I will never sleep with you again, I--"
"Yassamin!" he is shocked, again embracing her despite her protests, now swallowing back tears himself. "Don't say things like that. If you'd seen what I have seen--"
And he begins to send to her the memory of Fatima dying in child-bed, but she screams at him and pushes him out of the bed. "No! That's the worst thing you could show to me right now! Get out of my head!"
Stubbornly, Jaffar sits back on the bed and embraces her once more. "Trust me in that I will do everything in my power to arrange for a safe delivery. I have told you before: I now possess far more knowledge and skill than I did then. You could not possibly be in better hands; there is no physician, no midwife in all of Persia who's as powerful a sorcerer as I. Do you remember the tale of Zal and the Simurgh?"
She wipes her tears on her sleeve. "I do." The Simurgh, the patroness of all physicians, had come to Zal's aid when his wife, Rudaba, was about to die in childbirth. The Simurgh had taught him how to perform a Caesarean section, a procedure so dangerous it was rarely attempted, a procedure that nearly always means the death of the mother. "But do you possess a Simurgh's feather?" she asks. "If not, how would you call her for help?"
"I have my books," he says and kisses her hand, "and I will consult with doctors and midwives; the main temple had an extensive medical library. That itself should count as one Simurgh feather."
"And pray, do not forget."
"I already am. Right now," he says, reciting yet another prayer for each child over her belly, then one over her heart. "We will find a way."
"I am so scared, Jaffar," she says, searching his eyes. "How long would I have to wait in the afterlife to be united with you?" she whispers, tears rolling down her temples. "I don't want you among those pagan idols," she sobs; "if it means God will cast you into Hell and set us forever apart. Perhaps this is His punishment for all our sins, Jaffar; perhaps--"
"Don't say that!" he cries and holds her, his tears mixing with hers. "I cannot believe such a thing. He has been merciful to us, so merciful; it would not make sense for Him to withdraw His mercy now. Have we not become better people day by day, my love?"
And he is right: she has become less vain and more humble; he genuinely sweeter, gentler now that he doesn't have to watch for backstabbers and poisoners when ruling over an entire empire. If anything, their exile has softened them both, made them more grateful for what they have. But still... God sees into all hearts, yet Yassamin is not so sure whether she and Jaffar can see into their own hearts as well as God does, see whether they still have stains on their souls that would count against them come Judgement Day.
"We must not become vainglorious about our piety either, my love," she murmurs. "I will hire hafizas to recite holy verses here day and night, I--"
Jaffar winces. "Don't. Zubayda did that, and she was the wickedest bitch that ever lived," he hisses and spits over his shoulder. "I'd rather recite the entire Qur'an every day myself."
"I'm sorry," she says, casting down her eyes. Zubayda, Harun's queen, rumoured to have poisoned Jaffar's father--there are enough ghosts haunting this house without bringing hers in to join them. "You'll have to translate some of these medical books for me. Maybe they would help me as well."
"I shall," he says and kisses her hand. "Lie down, my love. I'll prepare you something to soothe your nerves and the womb."
And he takes to his task, disappearing into the small cooking alcove. Since this is Jaffar's grand bedroom, even this alcove has been turned into a laboratory, and she thinks of making some joke about how she hopes Jaffar won't mix poisons into her tonic by accident, but she is out of light humours tonight. So she lets him work his magic, lets him mix his herbs and mutter his incantations, knowing it helps him to make himself useful.
And as she sips his soothing tea, as he rubs his soothing ointment onto her belly, her tears turn into those of joy and fragile hope. Even if these might be the last weeks she will ever spend with him, she will not have regretted a day: she has had a good life, has been blessed with the most loving of husbands, a hero greater than any she has read of in legend. And even if she should not survive childbirth, she would know Jaffar--the man who is half woman--would take good care of their children, to be the best of fathers, of mothers in her stead.
And she is so exposed, so raw now that he can hear her every thought, can feel them tremulous against his mind: gently, he wipes his hands and takes her free hand in both of his.
"Dare to hope for the best, my sweet," he says. "Look at me. I have seen the worst that could happen, and I still dare hope," he laughs, a little sardonically. "It would be impious of me not to, so I will stubbornly choose to believe the best while preparing for the worst. And so should you."
She sets down her cup and clasps his hands. "I know. I am trying."
He closes his eyes and sighs against her cheek. "Let us pray."
And they do, there on the bed as she is too heavy to perform the prostrations, reciting the prayers as one mouth, one heart, one soul.
"I mean it, Jaffar," Yassamin slurs as the midwife mops sweat from her brow. "I am never going to let you inside of me again."
Jaffar focuses on inspecting the stitches on her lower belly instead: the sharp scent of cypress oil stings her nostrils as he rubs it over the incision to staunch bleeding.
"You were lucky," the midwife says. "Most women suffer far longer, but you were asleep for most of it. What was that drug you used, so that I might mix some of my own?" she asks Jaffar, looking him in the eye boldly, used to speaking to strange men.
"Magic," he smiles at her, then at Yassamin and at the two babes now suckling at her breasts. "Look at them; drinking like Christians at a tavern. Speaking of which, old mother," he says and takes the midwife by the shoulder. "I have set a bottle aside for you in the guest room. Go and have a few hours' rest; you've earned it."
She takes a few pouches of herbs out of her bag and sets them on the bedside table. "Don't forget these. Change the poultice every hour, and let her drink that as soon as she is able. Will help the womb shrink down."
"I shall," Jaffar says, not looking at the midwife as she leaves, too busy smiling at Yassamin instead.
"I still mean it," Yassamin groans as she lifts the vile potion to her lips; at least the stomach-turning bitterness means it has plenty of opium in it. She forces the liquid down her throat even if it makes her gag; the drugs Jaffar has given her have made her nauseous enough, but she is still in terrible amounts of pain. "I am never going to let you inside of me again."
Jaffar pretends to sulk, but soon his pout breaks out into a grin. "Not even sodomy?"
"I'll think about it," she groans and feels for the children, but her hands flop onto the bed. "Please. If you have any pain-relieving spells, use them. It's as if a fleet of warships has passed through my body."
He clasps her belly with both hands and whispers a soothing spell. "Is that better?"
"If I recite it any louder than that," he murmurs, "it will put you under again."
"I should like that."
Uncaring of the stench of cold sweat, of all the filth of the child-bed, Jaffar climbs in next to Yassamin and holds her, gently cradling the children against her bosom as well. Already has he recited the call to prayer in both little ears--it had been difficult for him to do it through his joyful weeping--and now, he caresses the thick, dark hair on the firstborn's head. "Do you think Anwar will lose it as fast as I?"
"I hope not," she murmurs. "She has your eyes," she says of the girl-child. "As blue as a wellspring. Tell me," she asks, too groggy to remember, "What was the name of that fountain in Paradise?"
He chuckles and hugs all of them tight. "Salsabil."
"Salsabil," Yassamin murmurs. So often, Jaffar has called Yassamin his Paradise; so often, she has called him her bounteous spring. There could not be a name more perfect for their little surprise, then. "Salsabil it is," she says and kisses her daughter's head.
"Pinch me," Jaffar murmurs.
"I am so happy--" he laughs, choking back tears. "I think I might die if you don't pinch me."
She pinches his nose, sending him howling, howling so loudly both children start crying.
"Now look what you've done!" she sighs.
"What I have done?!" he sputters, helping Anwar to her right breast as she struggles to calm down Salsabil with the left.
"As soon as the midwife's gone, you'll perform the sex-changing spell," she mutters. "So that we can split breastfeeding duties."
"So that's what the tingling in my nipples was." He peeks inside of his robe and feels for his chest. "I could swear I made a stain--"
She rolls her eyes. "I wouldn't be surprised if you had."
But she laughs as she says it, laughs in disbelief, still hovering in that unreal, weightless space between absolute elation and death. She might still decline rapidly, might still have complications; he had told her that she would have to stay in bed for the next two weeks at least, preferably a full month. But right now, she does not care; as the children finally grow quiet and settle in to suck, and her giant child of a husband settles into a doze beside her, she can finally drift off to sleep herself.
Three years later
"Jaffar, what is that awful racket? I told you I have a headache!" Yassamin moans, staggering into the courtyard.
But as she leans against one of the pillars, she knows it is of no use to complain: Jaffar is pretending to be a horse again, carrying both Salsabil and Anwar on his back, neighing and kicking and staggering about until both children are shrieking from laughter.
"Play with each other while I tend to your poorly old mother," he says and gets up, tossing each child a piece of nougat from his pocket.
"You spoil them," Yassamin murmurs as he comes to embrace her from behind, panting against her back from exertion.
"That's because I have never been as happy as I am when I see them play. Can you blame me?"
"No," she whispers, leaning back against him. She wonders whether he sees the faces of his lost family when he plays with their children, knows this is his second chance at life, one most men of his position would never be given.
"I do," he murmurs. "See their faces. But, come, my love; we should not be mourning the dead. They are in Paradise, waiting for us. I will introduce you when we get there."
"And you think we would get along? All your wives and your concubines?" she smirks.
He kisses her head, still short of breath. "Of course! You would get along splendidly. It would not be Paradise otherwise."
"Yes, well. I am not in a hurry."
"I told you not to think about them," he laughs and hugs her tight.
Suddenly ashamed of her complaining, she turns around and pulls him into a kiss, a kiss fierce, passionate, the kiss of that demoness he once married. "I'm sorry, Jaffar. Let me make it up to you tonight."
"Oh, so that's why you came to fetch me," he leers, rocking his hips a little. "Your stallion."
"You're as incorrigible as ever," she says and slaps his chest. "But yes, my stallion. Send the children to bed early. I have a mind to go riding tonight."
"What happened to your headache?" he grins.
"It's still there. I'm asking you to rub it out of me; that's all," she grins back at him. "You're usually good at that."
But then she can no longer speak as Jaffar picks her up, in a mood to show off, and begins to carry her to his quarters. "Good night, little ones!" he cries over his shoulder.
The children don't even acknowledge their leaving, so absorbed are they in their games.
"They'll become engineers, just like their father," Yassamin laughs in Jaffar's ear as the maids rush to tend to the children.
"I was exactly like that at their age," Jaffar sighs and groans as they make it to his bedroom. He doesn't manage to carry her all the way to the bed, however; instead, he merely drops her onto the nearest cushions. "I do apologise," he says, collapsing beside her, still chuckling. "But let me catch my breath, and I'll soon be ready for whatever game my mistress wishes to play tonight."
"Definitely riding," she says and plays with the buttons of his jacket; how his scent can still drive her mad from desire after all these years, she does not know. "And sodomy always relaxes me so perfectly, so I think we should have a little bit of that tonight, too."
"You spoil me," he purrs, his eyes lighting up with delight; with his fingertips, he traces the curve of her hip, her thigh.
"Can you blame me?" she grins. "For never have I been as happy as I am when I see you play," she whispers and kisses him on the mouth, sweet and long.
For weeks, now, she has dreamt of women. This old lust in her that she had thought had died, this old lust that she had not even thought about when she had been busy tending to her children, impatient as she had been to recover enough to make love to Jaffar again. But now that both babes have been weaned, now that she has been able to leave them in the care of capable maids for longer periods of time, she has finally had time for desire once more: she has had time to learn her body anew, learn her husband anew. Slowly but surely, she and Jaffar had taken up more intense forms of love-play once more, yet now that they were in possession of sex-changing magic, they had not felt the need to play with others. They had fallen in love with each other again as if newlyweds, enjoying their exile so much that they had barely been thinking of the outside world at all, preferring to spend their time together and with their children rather than at Mohammad and Latifa's court. They had not thought of others, needed others to fulfill their desires, even Jaffar's lust for sodomy easily sated by their toys or by Yassamin's hand.
Yet now, she awakens from dreams of soft breasts, bellies, buttocks; her mouth dry after visitations of plump mounds, wet folds, the pink flowers of gleaming cunnies from which she had been drinking nectar. And it is strange that these dreams should come now, when she is happy, so happy, so well-loved and not in want of anything: she feels guilty for even having these dreams. She is a woman blessed with good fortune, and grateful for what she has been given: that she even has a body with which to praise God, that she is alive in the first place, that she had made a complete recovery: most women would not have survived her ordeal.
Yet the dreams come, and then the daydreams: she lies in bed and masturbates, imagining the scent of her cunny another's, tasting her fingers and imagining she has just brought another woman to completion. She counts down days until the full moon when Jaffar takes on his female form, and when it arrives, she ravishes him. Mad from her lust for the cunny and the breast, she takes him so violently that she is bruising him, with such passion that it has him weeping in joy against her breasts.
Yet she wants more, and she cannot keep on lying to herself about this, cannot keep it from her husband: one night, when they have just begun to make love, she bursts into tears as she kisses him. For she had thought of women again, had thought of how much she was aroused by those parts in him that were female: the redness of his lips, the length of his eyelashes, the curves of his hips. Tearfully, she tells him everything, pours all of her desires over his heart, asking him if she is a bad woman, an unfaithful wife, unnatural.
"But, my child!" he hugs her close and kisses her tears. "Then we shall find you a woman."
"Oh, Jaffar. I wish you would just slap me sometimes," she says and wipes her nose on a handkerchief. "Sometimes you are all too understanding; perhaps you should whip it out of me so that I would feel only you, have thoughts of all others burned out of me by the presence of your love."
He slaps her on the cheek lightly, playfully. "Never," he grins. "My father always used to recite a tradition of how whenever Fatima was upset with Ali, Ali would rather go out and sprinkle dust on his head than fight her. He would rather humble himself than hurt her by arguing with her."
"Don't blaspheme, Jaffar. I am a sinner, a woman of unlawful lusts; far from the most pious woman who ever lived."
"Then, pray, what would you have me do? For it seems to me that you would be in pain whether I embraced you or whipped you. Therefore, logic dictates that the only way to resolve this is to find you a mistress. I could make enquiries at the slave market, find you a beautiful girl to amuse yourself with..."
She rolls her eyes. "I am not a man! I cannot take and leave women like that, like toys. It would have to be true affection between friends, not merely some business transaction."
He chuckles. "So you wish to fall in love."
She nods quietly, realising this for the first time only now that he has put it to words. "I suppose so," she says and rests her head against his heart. "And I would that you loved her, too; that this woman was someone we enjoyed together."
"I swore in our marriage contract to take no other wives, and I would not change that," he says. "There is only room in my heart for one woman, and it's you."
"Now you're the one who sounds like a woman," she says, looking up at him with a smile. "How about your bedchamber? You did seem to enjoy Gol."
"I did indeed." Yet, he sighs. "Call me a fool, but I would not fall in love with anyone but you. Perhaps lust would be the better word?"
"An infatuation? An adventure? Trust me in that I have no need to love anyone as I love you, either. That is certain, so it has to be... affection; lust, like you said. I cannot understand this desire myself, for it is not as if I need the love of others--yours would be enough to fill several hearts to the overflowing. So perhaps it is not love we should be talking about, but some need... of the flesh. As if I have been without some foodstuff my body requires to nourish itself, like the strange cravings I had when I was expecting." She laughs nervously. "I apologise. I am not making any sense at all."
"Oh, I don't know," he says and rocks her in his arms. "It's not that different from my desire for man, I am sure. At least that's what I hope it is," he says and she can feel him brushing against her mind, seeking entrance. "Would you let me have a look?"
Then know my love, my sweet Jaffar, know how my heart beats for you and you alone, she thinks at him, enveloping him in this thought, the truth. She lets him step inside of her heart and listen to her from within, asks for him to arbitrate for her, since he is twice her age and has suffered such conflicting desires himself. Is there such a thing as affectionate lust? she asks him. A love more akin to sisterhood, brotherhood, friendship, where bodies meet and hearts touch; yet of a different kind than what you and I feel for each other?
I have known men who were to each other as husband and wife, he thinks as he sits inside of her mind, curls up inside her being a cat: I know Halima has certainly loved a woman in that manner. When souls meet, sexes do not matter, yet I would think there was a different attraction in existence, too. Perhaps you have heard of it more rarely, as love between women is hardly celebrated, when the love between man and boy has been sung of a thousand times.
It's unfair, she thinks, monstrously unfair. It's as it is with all female desire: there are hardly words for it, hardly even a language for it, so how would I even begin to understand it, if I didn't even know what these feelings were called?
And now she is weeping once more, and he is capturing her tears once more, he so entwined with her that she can feel the salt of her tears stinging his lips.
Then you must be the first, my love, he whispers to her within her mind. You must be the one to write this tale, to recite this poem, to pick up where Sappho left off. For I can see the most beautiful of images in your mind, of hands laced in hands, of breasts pressed against breasts, of sweet softnesses entwined. Never would I close my hand over a mouth that had such a beautiful song to sing, he thinks, his breath trembling from his emotion. I know you are sincere, a woman kind and good; I would feel a monster were I to hold you back.
"And you would never lose me. I promise," she says out loud and clings to him, clings to his body, hugging him so tight her bones creak.
"I know, my child," he says, "I know. I never truly suspected it."
"There is only thing for it, then: whoever this woman is, we must both take her."
He bursts into laughter. "If you insist. God, if only Mohammad were here to hear this--my wife, all but throwing cunny into my lap!" he chuckles and rocks her in his arms.
"I mean it," she says, lust now curling in her belly once more. "I have never seen you seduce a woman, all on your own. And we still have the crystal."
"My God!" he exclaims, his prick now stirring against her thigh. "You would watch?"
"Why not? You watched me and Gol," she leers, parting her thighs and slipping his prick between them. "It would only be fair," she murmurs against his lips. "Perhaps, if you found a woman as wild as us, one who liked a little pleasure-pain..."
He moans into her mouth, lifts her leg around his waist and slides his cock inside of her. "Yassamin..."
She straddles him, taking him deep, deep; she shudders on top of him, his cock so deep inside of her he is pushing her womb up, up. The intensity of it is near-nauseating, so she tempers it with friction, tightening her cunny, rocking her hips and massaging him with her flesh. "Yes, think of it. I would watch, in hiding, as you put your hands to work..." she says and brings his hands, his beautiful hands to her breasts, now thinking of him sharing them with another, giving another woman a taste of their sweet cruelty. "Doing this," she hisses and clasps his hands, crying out loudly as he squeezes harder in turn, she bucking on top of him, now beating down upon him with her hips. "God, Jaffar. Promise to me that we will do this!"
"We shall," he snarls and turns her onto her back, driving into her, now. "Oh, but this little cunny is so wet from the idea already," he laughs, spreading her legs wide as he pounds into her, his hair coming loose from its ponytail with his thrusts. "Perhaps I'll take her from behind as you watch. Sodomise her. Fuck her in the arse," he snarls. "Is that what would stir you, my child? Hmm?"
"Yes!" she cries, tugging at his hair, devouring his mouth. She imagines, oh, she imagines another woman, her cunny flushed and wet as Jaffar dips into her arse from behind, his balls slapping wetly against a dripping cunny--and at the very thought, she is undone. She shares this vision with Jaffar before it's loosened from her, before all sense is taken from her, before she dissolves around him in bursts of stars and waves of light.
And he follows her, keen, following that trail of thought like a hound, howling into her mouth as he, too, unravels: and here, he adds to her vision, adds to it the woman's beautifully gaping hole, the gleam of his cock sliding out of it, sliding into Yassamin's mouth, offered, offered--
She moans into his ear and shudders around him, her cunny still clenching as he shoots his sperm into her, he drenching her body and her mind with his delight. "I love you!" she shouts, laughing, senseless, delirious; "What woman ever had a husband so generous?"
"What man a wife so full of surprises after six years of marriage, so full of new love-games when most couples' have finished?" he laughs into her sweaty hair, kissing her ear, her cheek. "Most would already have taken lovers, and most men mistresses, yet we take ours together."
She presses her forehead against his and nuzzles his mouth. "It is because you and I are the same human being, I swear," she whispers. "Perhaps it is the Jaffar in me that so desires all this cunny," she chuckles and squeezes hers around his shaft.
"Yes," he nods and laughs. "And the Yassamin in me that is such a terrible tart."
"I shall go to the royal baths tomorrow," she says, sliding off him and pulling the covers over them. It's market day tomorrow, and this means many rich merchants' wives will gather there to exchange news and gossip, to discuss marriage contracts. "Perhaps we shall find our mistress there."
"I'll cast a love-glamour over you--oh, what am I saying?" he says. "You shan't need one; you are still the most beautiful woman in the land. You'll have to beat even women off you with a stick."
She nudges him with her elbow. "One thing at a time, husband; at first, we must be kind and gentle. Only then can we bring out the stick," she grins in his arms, he bursting into wicked laughter with her.
She imagines herself touching Zainab, imagines herself taking possession of her body, her beauty: she thinks of walking up to Zainab as she stands in front of her mirror, of running her fingertip up the hollow of her spine. She imagines gathering Zainab's golden hair up with her hands, imagines pressing her cunny into her plump buttocks, her mound nestling there. And there, she imagines the sharp intake of breath, the way Zainab's pink nipples crinkle and harden, imagines the parted lips, the lowered eyelashes, the violent shudder as her body tenses with desire.
"I am going to do so many things to you," Yassamin murmurs, sliding her hand between Zainab's legs and cupping her sex. Like a man would, like Jaffar would. "I am going to make you beg," she whispers wet against Zainab's ear, then pinches her cunny's lips around her clitoris, thrusts against her arse, trapping Zainab between her squeezing hand and her rolling hips.
Zainab moans, her entire body vibrating between her hands, and Yassamin's cunny hurts from her arousal, hurts.
"Zainab?" Jaffar murmurs.
And now, Yassamin is wide awake. She moans loudly against Jaffar, her cunny still aching, the pain now unbearable; Jaffar is erect against her belly. He must have been dreaming with her; their telepathy has matured to the point where with dreams as intense as these, they can hear each other, be drawn into the other's dream-world during sleep. She had not meant to share her dream with him, but it's impossible for them to control these things when they're both asleep and lying in the same bed, next to each other. She had not been sure of what she had felt for Zainab, but here she is, dreaming of her: there is no sense in questioning it any longer, in keeping it from Jaffar any longer.
"Yes; Zainab," she murmurs, embarrassed by her own aggression in the dream, so unlike her usual desire to lie underneath, to be taken.
"Don't be ashamed, my child!" Jaffar laughs softly, gently; he takes her hand to his stiffening prick. "I quite enjoyed that, as you can see. Who is she?"
She takes his hand to her cunny, adores the look on his face as he marvels at her fullness, wetness. The power of the taker, the one dominant, the one bathing in her plaything's reactions still swirls hot within her, molten; Jaffar can feel all of this within her, his eyes wide with excitement as he begins to sate her need with his fingers. "Tell me."
"I first saw her at the baths, earlier this week. Let me show you," she kisses onto his lips, sliding her tongue into his mouth, stroking his prick with her hand.
And she is at the baths again, Jaffar fully present within her body, seeing the world as she sees it, feeling everything the way she feels it.
This is the most luxurious of the city's bath-houses, one where the pools' waters are changed every day, accessible only to the select few rich enough to sample its pleasures. The domed ceilings are pierced by constellations of exquisitely cut stars, the walls decorated with rich paintings and mosaics in warm ochres and yellows. Here, people come to display themselves, their wealth with the amounts of slaves, grooming-kits and cosmetics they bring with themselves; equally, one can enjoy one's bath treatments--and whatever pleasures one has purchased to go with them--in complete privacy in its many spacious, well-furnished alcoves.
It's afternoon and the men have just left; now it is the women's turn to bathe. The richest arrive fashionably late, and soon the rooms fill with chatter and the tinkling of jewellery, the rustle of silks being removed. The older, more pious women clutch their towels to their chests and wrinkle their noses at the courtesans who bathe completely in the nude, and the younger, bolder women who follow their example.
"I have nothing to hide," a husky, playful voice declares; its owner steps into the steam room and stretches, displaying her full beauty for all to envy, her curvaceous figure and her riches and her influence shutting the mouths of all but the most vicious of old harpies. She leaves them to their muttering, lets them withdraw to their alcoves while she makes her way to the back of the room as if it were her stage, deliberately framing herself with the heathen mosaics of nymphs frolicking across the walls; like nymphs, half a dozen slave girls rush in to tend to her, to scrub her, to wash her.
That is Zainab, Yassamin tells Jaffar.
And she is not a courtesan, either. Something far more formidable than that, Yassamin thinks; a freedwoman, widowed young, completely in possession of her body, her beauty, able to love whom she wills. And she celebrates her own beauty, exercises her will with great relish, as you will soon see.
And now, Yassamin moves the slave girls aside, moving forwards to that moment where Zainab's skin has been scrubbed, her pores opened for the steam to wash them, just before the girls begin to pour water over her. Jaffar's prick leaps in Yassamin's hand as he feasts his eyes upon Zainab's beauty; likewise, Yassamin's cunny flutters around his fingers at the sight.
For now, they are looking at a woman whose beauty leaves even the most stunning of courtesans in the shade: Zainab must once have been a slave girl brought in by the Northmen, pale and blue-eyed and blonde as she is, so fair they have rarely seen the like. Her skin is so pale it is almost translucent, alabaster to your marzipan, Jaffar thinks; she is plumper than Yassamin, too. Her breasts are full and heavy, with large, flat pink nipples ending in tiny points as if rosebuds; her belly round and soft, her hips wide and generous.
And the most astonishing thing about Zainab is that she is small, as small as a child, barely five feet tall, yet her body is unmistakably a grown woman's. Usually, such women appear childlike their entire lives, or then their fat spreads out so evenly across their bodies that they resemble butter-balls. Yet it is as if Nature had gifted Zainab with a girdle invisible, so that her figure curves out into a perfect hourglass; underneath it quiver two full, thick thighs. And as she turns around, exposing her buttocks rippling with fat, like two dunes upon which a loving rain had left the marks of his fingertips--now, Jaffar moans into Yassamin's mouth, his prick trickling over her hand.
Exactly the type of woman that drives you mad, Jaffar chuckles into her mind. A Gol but fairer and in miniature; and you know what they say about tiny women.
Don't think I hadn't thought of that, Yassamin murmurs to him, dazed from her own lust; Fadl would love her, as enamoured as he is of petite women. I thought myself a Fadl at that moment, almost growing a prick from the sheer thought: of having those plump thighs wrapping about me, of that cunny squeezing around my shaft. How tiny she must be on the inside, full and fat on the outside--
You haven't shown me her cunny yet, Jaffar whispers, turning Yassamin over: now he is so heated from his desire that he turns to spoon Yassamin, sliding his cock inside of her, then staying still. Show me that cunny you would take as I now take yours, my sweet. Show me.
And now, Yassamin moans, rubbing her swollen clitoris as she begins to undulate upon Jaffar's cock. Again, she moves forwards in time, showing Jaffar what she had seen once the girls had stopped shaving Zainab. For Zainab's cunny is as plump as the rest of her, her full mound spreading out to form a vast, soft delta across the bottom of her pelvis, stretching out from hip to hip. So that if you were to thrust into her, it would be as if into a great cushion, oh; and as the girls had started to rub coconut oil onto Zainab's cunny, Yassamin had had to retreat behind a curtain to masturbate.
Yassamin had sent her vision closer to Zainab, so that through the magic Jaffar had given her, she could watch Zainab from but a few feet away, watch as Zainab spread her legs out on a bench, leaning back against the wall and purring in pleasure as her slave girls began to massage her sex.
Shameless, Zainab had displayed her pleasure at being touched so; and at that moment, thanks to the psychic awareness the spell had brought her, Yassamin had become aware of the awkwardness of the slave girls, how they had felt disgusted rather than adoring. And how Zainab had taken a sadistic pleasure in this, her pupils so wide from lust they had turned her eyes the shade of blueberries. She had wetted her lips with her tongue; had caressed her girls' heads, urging them to stroke the now-filling folds of her cunny, to rub the root of her swelling clitoris. One of the slave girls had even been screaming inside, swallowing as Zainab had guided the girl's finger into her anus: Zainab herself had moaned in pleasure, her head falling back against the tiles, her wet hair a dark golden crown of wickedness about her head.
And at that, at such exquisite perversity, such audacious depravity, such ruthless command, Jaffar comes inside of Yassamin. He bites into her shoulder and howls, his hips beating as he is undone as fast as a youth. "God!"
Yassamin but squeezes his prick with her cunny and holds on to him, persuading him to stay hard inside of her. "A woman after your own heart, I see."
Jaffar cannot even speak; he gasps. "We must find her." He shakes his head. "I have to see her doing this to you."
"I would rather you conquered her," Yassamin finds herself saying, Zainab's cruelty awakening some strange cruelty inside of her in turn. "I would see you do to her what she was doing to those girls."
"We can do both," he groans. "With persuasion or magic; oh, Yassamin, we must have her!"
"There was more," Yassamin says and lies down on her belly, beckoning for Jaffar to take her in this position, to lie down on top of her so that he may catch his breath. "She retreated into one of the alcoves with the reluctant slave girl, the one who had hated her job the most."
"God," Jaffar snaps through gritted teeth, rolling his hips into Yassamin, clasping her hands, sucking at her ear. "Tell me," he moans, greedy for it, Yassamin relishing the power her vision has over him in turn, the way he is trembling on top of her from his need; through their connection, she can feel his balls lifting as if they had not been emptied at all, his chest aching from the need to drive into her.
She turns her head a little and stays quiet for a while, parting the curtain a little, not letting him into the alcove just yet, teasing, teasing; her cunny pulses around his cock at his despairing sigh. "Take my arse and I'll tell you," she whispers against his mouth, licking his lips as much as she can in this position, sucking upon them, squeezing his cock with her cunny. And they know that she cannot be too clean, and that's what excites her, him: that her need to be sodomised is greater than anything else, now; that her cunny trickles onto the sheets as he starts to push inside of her arse. She howls from the pain of it, stiffening at the suddenness of the penetration, clutching the sheets: Jaffar but growls and claws at her sides, claws them as he fucks himself inside of her.
"Tell me," he hisses, thrusting inside of her so violently that she sobs; "you teasing little bitch. What did she do?"
And Yassamin shows him. She shows him the way Zainab had sat on another bench, this time in the light of oil lamps rather than daylight, the way she had taken out a toy made of glass, obviously intended for sodomites. It had been the sort of wand men use to open boys with, shaped not unlike a tulip: on top of it had sat an egg-shaped bulb, attached to a shaft about four inches long, the shaft itself covered in narrow, cruel ridges all along its length. Zainab had spread her legs on either side of herself as if a fertility goddess giving birth, had started to rub her cunny, telling the girl she was going to punish her in the way she deserved to be punished.
"Bite," Zainab had said and held out the toy's base to the girl's mouth, forcing the terrified girl to take it between her teeth. And there, she had held her arse open, had crooned mockeries of love-cries to the girl as she had forced her to sodomise her with the toy: with the oil, the bulb had slid inside of Zainab's arse easily.
And what an arse! Now, for the first time, Yassamin had encountered a woman whose anus was as distended as her own from this kind of play, the rim of it thick and full and protruding, a little flowerbud of perversion; it had made her shiver in recognition, delight, need.
Mercilessly, Zainab had taken the girl by the hair, had forced her to sodomise her with the toy until the girl had been coughing, drooling around the glass; half her gags were of disgust, half from lack of air. Zainab had pleasured herself in this manner for a long while, stroking her clitoris, telling the girl to pull the toy out entirely now and then, to give herself that great pleasure of something wide sliding completely past the gatekeeping ring of muscle and back again. That she knew these pleasures so well, as well as Yassamin and Jaffar did, oh, oh--it was at that that Yassamin had come: the way Zainab's hole had gaped, pursed shut in quick spasms as if winking, oil dribbling out of it, then opening into a hungry gape once more.
And as she remembers the way the toy had plunged inside of Zainab's arse again, the way Zainab had howled and sprayed the girl's face--the sight pushes both Yassamin and Jaffar over the edge, Yassamin herself spraying her hands as she rides them, Jaffar shouting, bellowing as he shoots his seed inside of her. On and on he takes her, unable to stop, pounding into her until his cries are hoarse, raw; Yassamin, too, trickles, her cunny spasming underneath her hands as she grinds herself down onto them, desperate to wring every last tremor of orgasm from her flesh.
Zainab, Zainab: around her, both their lusts curl and entwine and merge, ravishing their mistress-to-be with cunny and arse and prick: wild visions swim in their minds even as Yassamin's memory fades and they fall panting onto the mattress.
I would take her arse and make you drink her spray, Jaffar swirls into Yassamin's mind, his cock still pulsing, pulsing.
I would take her with my hands and have her do the same over your damned devil's mouth, Yassamin whimpers back at him, imagining pushing one hand into Zainab's arse, then one into her cunny, milking her until she wetted Jaffar's moustache with her ejaculate.
"God, Jaffar. We must have her, we must!"
"I will make sure of it," he groans, groaning louder as Yassamin slips down to suck his cock, to taste herself off it; they both know she is thinking of Zainab's arse, of what she would taste like, Jaffar's fingers tightening in Yassamin's hair as he spurts one last drop of sperm onto the greed of her tongue. He pushes her down onto the bed and kisses her wildly; it is only at that that she realises how rich the taste had been this time, disgust-pleasure rolling in her stomach as she clutches her husband with her arms and her legs.
"She is driving us mad," she murmurs onto his mouth.
"We were mad already, my dearest," he says and licks his lips. "Send a messenger. Whatever Zainab's trade is, tell her that we are buying, and that you would wish to speak with her in private. No word of me. That way, we can take her by surprise."
"I still want to watch you take her first," she says. "The things she did to that girl were appalling; it would serve her right to be disciplined a little. By someone who knows how."
"You can count on it," he laughs and nuzzles her face. "And on her having her revenge on you, methinks."
She nods, laughing. "It had crossed my mind."
"You little harlot," he groans and hugs her, chuckling against her shoulder. "We are two of a kind."
Zainab's trade, as it turns out, is mining. Over tea, Yassamin asks Latifa to tell her all she knows, and Latifa points to the jewellery she is wearing on her person that very moment: exquisite, if slightly crude clusters of flowers and grapes made of pure gold hang about her neck and her wrists, so heavy upon her nostrils and earlobes that they have to be held in place with chains attached to her hair. "That giant gold bracelet of yours is from here, I'll wager," Latifa says.
The bracelet Yassamin's nameless suitor--later revealed to have been Jaffar--had given her when she had been but a maiden in her father's garden. She still has that bracelet, but seldom wears it because of its unwieldiness. "I had always thought it rather... barbaric," she says awkwardly, not wanting to insult her sister.
Latifa laughs, her gold making music about her. "That it was designed to limit a woman's movements? That's what Mohammad always says. That he likes to know where I am by the sounds of these things, and that I can't run away from him too fast. I'm used to them," she says and waves her hand with great elegance despite her thick bangles. "Wearing them is an art all on its own. Whereas your Jaffar seems to be chaining you with but his caresses," Latifa smirks and raises her eyebrow, indicating that she has seen the love-bites about Yassamin's neck, ones she had in vain tried to cover up with a scarf.
Yassamin flushes and looks at her hands. "It is true. But come, what else do you know about Zainab? I heard she was the richest woman in the sultanate after you."
Latifa glances about herself to make sure they aren't being listened to. "She may be even richer," she mutters under her breath. "She owns most of the gold and silver mines here, and a glass-blowing house besides. And do you know what the irony is?" she rolls her eyes. "They call this woman 'as rich as a Barmakid!'"
"We married into the wrong family, then," Yassamin smiles into her glass. "Who was this husband of hers?"
"The son of the previous governor. The one whose place Mohammad took, after the people had driven him out for his cruelty. The son was a weakling, rumoured to have been an exclusive sodomite. He gave her no children, so there might be a grain of truth to that."
A sodomite. That would explain the glass toy Yassamin had seen, but she chooses not to share this knowledge with her sister. Jaffar had told her such toys were incredibly rare; that was why he had paid an astronomical sum for the jade phallus and afterwards, had been content to make their toys himself. Perhaps this was what had kept Zainab satisfied? Perhaps she was a she-sodomite, and her entire love life comprised of toys and slave girls?
But Yassamin does not share this speculation with Latifa either. "She must have had many suitors after she was widowed?"
Latifa nods. "Mohammad proposed, in fact. She refused; that was a terrible blow to his pride, poor man. But she offered him a dozen of her girls as a gesture of goodwill; naughty little creatures they were, as skilled as the girls of Medina when it came to the art of pleasuring a man. Very educated, too; some of them work as scribes at the monasteries now. Mohammad had to manumit most of them, you see; he couldn't keep up with them, that's how wild they were! But don't tell anyone I told you that."
"I shan't," Yassamin laughs.
Jaffar falls onto his cushions laughing. "My own brother? Couldn't keep up with a dozen slave girls? Why, he is tarnishing the family name! Wait until Fadl hears of this; he'd go through them like toothpicks--"
"Hush!" Yassamin cackles, handing Jaffar the wine-cup, so drunk she spills a little. "But now we know. Our fair Zainab trades in gold, silver, glass and... tarts," Yassamin hiccups. "What is our answer to that, husband?"
Jaffar empties the cup in one long gulp. "I should have thought it obvious," he says and wipes his mouth, slurring himself. "Tarts. Made of gold and silver and glass."
Yassamin falls beside him and groans. "You and your dolls. It'll take ages for you to build even one."
Jaffar drops a wet kiss onto her cheek. "One is all we need. You negotiate with Zainab. Tell her what we can do with her metals and her glass--I think I have enough to build one doll out of what we have, to give her a demonstration. It's plain to see that with her riches, we could build hundreds more. Think of it. Luxury items every powerful man in the land would kill to possess, more valuable than gold or musk or saffron. Everyone has heard of Harun's mechanical animals, of his clockwork minstrels that rowed a boat down the Tigris, but to possess entertaining-girls made of gold and silver? Every man would want one." He snorts. "And they wouldn't argue or need to be fed, either, let alone bear unwanted babes..."
Yassamin pokes him in the ribs with her elbow. "Continue like that, and I'll swap you for a silver husband."
He nods. "Silver youths, too, for the women and the sodomites. Lithe and beautiful, with pricks as thick as--mmph!"
For now, Yassamin has silenced him with a kiss. "It looks to me as if we need to build Zainab a woman," she says, sitting on top of Jaffar, rubbing herself against him. "The only men in her household are sodomites and eunuchs, and it is said she spends her nights with her girls. You might find it difficult to seduce her."
"I will find a way," he says, combing her hair from her face. "She cannot be worse than Halima, and you saw the power I wielded even over her cunny. I am the man even women of her kind make exceptions for," he leers and thrusts up with his hardening prick. "Remember?"
"Yes," she laughs and rocks her hips. To think that it had been half a joke to her back then, to call Jaffar half female, but now they both know better: he truly is as much a woman as he is a man. Yassamin knows Jaffar is thinking of it--of seducing Zainab during the full moon when he is again female, but that's not what she wants to see. "I want to see you take her as a man," she says, supping kisses from Jaffar's lips, her cunny growing more heated as she rubs herself against his belly, imagining Jaffar pulling Zainab's legs open wide, all that lovely flesh jiggling with his thrusts. "I want to see her impaled on this prick," she murmurs, "begging for mercy."
"My God, Yassamin!" he says and kisses her back, rocking himself between her buttocks. "She truly has brought out the beast in you. I can't say I mind," he murmurs and kisses her again, again. "As long as you give me my share," he says and squeezes her arse.
"You can count on it," she smiles and gives his cheek the lightest of slaps, enough to make him moan, enough for his cock to stir into full hardness. "How soon do you think you will have finished the first doll?"
"On my own, four weeks. With djinn, one week," he says and undoes her shalwars, his.
"I shall send for her in five days," Yassamin says and guides him inside of herself. "I can't wait to see that proud little trollop--" she moans as she slides down onto Jaffar's cock with all her weight, "fucked."
Zainab arrives at their house like a royal, magnificent upon a cream mare that seems to be made of gold itself; both horse and rider are richly draped in sapphire-blue silks and velvets, escorted by a bodyguard of three dozen heavily armed eunuchs. Again, Zainab flaunts herself, as shameless as a courtesan, advertising her beauty and her wealth for all to see, the exact opposite of whenever Yassamin had been let out of her father's palace. She had always been tucked away in her curtained howdah on top of her elephant, whereas Zainab displays herself boldly; she wears only the bare minimum of clothing considered decent. Instead of the heavy mantle all the local women wear, she has draped about her head and body a shawl of diaphanous blue silk, so sheer that only when it folds across her arms and shoulders does one even notice there's fabric there; akin to the way water appears blue when collected into a lake, yet becomes transparent on close inspection. She wears her hair in but two braids the way Northwomen do, instead of the five or seven considered lucky by Persians; these, too, are tomboyishly short, only reaching down to her shoulders.
And like men, she wears long leather socks and boots as she rides, no over-skirt over her blue shalwars; her short jacket reveals more of her breasts than it hides, consisting as it does of a net of golden vines cupping her breasts, clutching them lustfully through more transparent silk.
Jaffar stares at Zainab, devours the sight of her in his crystal; Yassamin kicks him in the shin. "Behave yourself while I'm gone."
"But my sweet, my sweet!" he leers and strokes his groin. "I have to keep myself from pouncing her somehow, so I might as well take matters into my own hands. Good luck."
"I'll need it," Yassamin mutters as she adjusts her veil and leaves to receive Zainab. For despite Zainab's deliberate flaunting of custom, Yassamin is not going to have her reputation ruined by allowing her husband to consort with strange women in public. The more careful they remain about observing purdah, the fewer tongues will wag: if Zainab is never seen in the presence of Jaffar, there will be no proof of their oncoming affair whatsoever.
Their oncoming affair. Yassamin shivers in lustful delight at her own boldness, at Jaffar's outrageousness: little does Zainab know that in their minds, already have they seduced her, already have they spread out her limbs upon their bed, already have they feasted upon her a pair of hyaenas.
"The Almighty's blessings upon thee, Umm Salsabil, the sweet new fragrance that hath enraptured our land as if a lover's dream," Zainab recites as she performs the finest of court curtseys--a greeting performed in front of a queen rather than a merchant's wife, a twinkle in Zainab's eye suggesting that she might know more about Yassamin's true identity than she should. And with that twinkle, a smirk: that same lustful smirk Yassamin had seen upon Zainab's face at the baths--oh, but she is one of those very few, bold women who always look as if they are out to seduce.
Yassamin's cunny flutters, but she performs a curtsey even humbler at Zainab, kissing her hand. "And greetings to you, my lady Zainab--you truly are the essence of your name; indeed a precious jewel, a father's pride and joy, a sapphire set in gold."
Zainab shakes her head wistfully and drops her shawl to her shoulders. "My father was slain so long ago I no longer remember him," she says quietly. "Leave us," she tells her eunuchs, measuring Yassamin with her gray-blue eyes, eyes Yassamin fancies the skies of Hyperborea must look like, wintry and wide. "We wish to discuss business."
"But first, tea," Yassamin says, clapping her hands, and soon enough her handmaidens arrive, with five different courses of delicately arranged cakes and sweets. She leads Zainab to sit beside the largest of the fountains in their garden, with a column of four lions roaring out cascades of water in all the cardinal directions. Here, they sit in the shade of cypresses, the water cooling the afternoon air; after a fair amount of pleasantries have been exchanged, Yassamin sets down her glass and gets to business.
"I would demonstrate to you my husband's work, if I may," she says.
"That's what I'm here for," Zainab says, nibbling on a date. "Come, tell me all about it."
"I shall let his work speak--nay, sing for itself," Yassamin says, reaching out to pull a lever set into the ground beside the fountain. Music bursts out of the lions' mouths, a simple melody from a series of pipes set into their heads, mournful but sweet.
Zainab looks pleasantly surprised, chewing on her date thoughtfully as she watches, listens to the sweet play of the water and the music. "So is this what he specialises in?"
"Aye; he used to design devices far more complex for the Caliph, including a singing throne. But he fell out of favour with him, you see, and ever since our arrival in Samarkand, he has been suffering from a shortage of materials. Only the finest of metals are suited for building such delicate pieces of machinery, you see."
"I would be glad to be able to assist you in your endeavours, as long as we can agree on a price," Zainab says and washes her hands with rosewater.
"But therein lies the problem, my lady," Yassamin says, pretending awkwardness, casting down her eyes. "We are running low on money as well, you see. But he has this--this most marvellous of new inventions that would make us rich overnight--and we'd let you share in the profits, of course--if we were but provided with the raw materials first."
Zainab raises an eyebrow, but Yassamin cannot tell if it is the look of a woman skeptical or cruel: it looks as if Zainab might enjoy encouraging people to take upon themselves projects that led to their ruin. She is rich enough to do so comfortably, and Yassamin knows as well as anyone how cruel powerful people can get in order to amuse themselves: her father had entertained himself with the most brutal of executions whenever he had felt boredom creeping on.
But they shall see who ends up toying with whom, Yassamin thinks: therefore, she gets to her feet and gives Zainab her hand. "Let me give you another demonstration, my lady. I guarantee that what you will see will astound you, charm you--nay, seduce you," she says, with a smile as bold as Zainab's own.
Zainab looks up at her, still sitting there as she clasps Yassamin's hand with her own, stroking her wrist with her thumb, looking at her lazily from underneath her heavily painted eyelashes. "Seduce me?"
Yassamin shivers from arousal, from her own boldness as she looks at Zainab up and down, bathing her figure with her gaze, leaving her in no doubt as to her attraction towards her. "Indeed," she purrs, as lascivious as Jaffar himself; "Come. This way."
She leads Zainab into the shabestan underneath the house; Jaffar has turned the entire basement into a workshop, and Yassamin has rarely visited it herself. Jaffar had only told her where to go in order to find his masterpiece--she has never even seen the final doll, as Jaffar had been putting the finishing touches on it but hours before Zainab's arrival. Casually, she waves her hand to light the lanterns in the underground chamber, a magical gesture so simple even the children know how to perform it, but it's nevertheless enough to surprise Zainab.
"Impressive," Zainab murmurs as she looks around herself, clearly expecting djinn.
They arrive at the back of the basement, with an area separated from the working space by thick curtains: this is where the doll must be hiding. Yassamin pulls on the rope to part the curtains, and now, it is she who gasps more loudly than Zainab does.
For now, another Yassamin, made entirely of silver, sits before them upon a pedestal, in the manner of a heathen goddess: she is as nude as Ishtar, bearing her tiered crown and jewellery, smiling charmingly at them in blessing.
Zainab looks at Yassamin and then at the doll, then at Yassamin once more. "It is a good likeness," she purrs; "and in every detail, I'll wager."
"I must confess... I was not expecting that."
Yassamin keeps staring at the doll. "He only finished the face this morning, he said," she murmurs.
"So, pray, how is this..." Zainab waves her plump little hand in an elegant gesture, "creature going to seduce me?"
"She is an automaton," Yassamin says. "This is what my husband specialises in; dolls that look and feel like human beings, obeying their masters' commands. I do not know the exact magics with which he makes metal seem as if it were alive, but..." she clasps the doll's arm. "Feel her. She is warm."
"My God," Zainab murmurs. "Do you speak?" she asks the doll, but the doll does not respond. "I can see how men would prefer that," she harrumphs as she withdraws her hand.
"Allow me to demonstrate," Yassamin says, still astounded at having gained a twin sister. "Doll," she calls her, for she cannot call her Yassamin, can she? "Get up; stand between us so that your mistress may take a good look at you."
And as the doll steps down from her pedestal with the grace of a gazelle, exposing her sex to their eyes, lifting her hair away from her breasts in a coquette's gesture, even Zainab's eyes fly wide. But the shrewd businesswoman Zainab is, she soon hides her astonishment, disguising it with a lascivious smile instead. She walks around the doll, measuring her with her eyes, caressing her body with her gaze--she knows exactly what this is doing to Yassamin as well, and relishes her discomfort.
"Does she please you?" Yassamin asks, her voice a little strained.
Zainab runs her hand up the doll's arm, then cups her breast in her hand, feeling for her buttock with the other. "She does please me indeed," she murmurs. "But seduction requires more than just beauty. What are her specialties?"
"My husband told me that he can gift these dolls with whatever qualities and skills the owner should want them to possess. This one knows twenty different dances and has memorised forty love manuals."
Zainab bursts into laughter, her earrings tinkling as she throws her head back with it. "Forty love manuals. Do any of them even mention love-acts between women?" she says, now meeting Yassamin's eyes boldly.
With equal boldness, Yassamin smiles back at her. "I am sure he has included several in her repertoire. We used to be in possession of a woman slave who only loved women, and he commissioned a book from her on the Lesbian arts."
"I would read that book," Zainab says, but she is not looking at Yassamin: she caresses the doll's shoulders and again, her buttocks, lost in measuring her silver curves with her hands. "She is exquisite."
And now Yassamin realises Jaffar has made the doll's buttocks rounder than her own, boyish ones, and she feels a little sting of jealousy. That, and the doll's belly is smaller and firmer than hers is now, after the twins, and the doll does not possess the scars from the Caesarean, or stretch marks, either: suddenly Yassamin feels ugly, undesired, second best. She would Zainab touched her in this manner, but she swallows this bile of self-pity, choosing to focus upon her task instead.
"Doll. Show Mistress Zainab some of your caresses; the ones a woman would awaken another's desire with."
Zainab's eyes follow the doll's hands as they come to rest around Zainab's shoulders, both women astonished at the tenderness with which the doll now captures Zainab's gaze with her amber eyes, heavy-lidded from what mimics genuine desire. At least Jaffar had retained the crookedness of her eyes, Yassamin thinks wryly: so often he has told her they always made her look as if she were drunk from love.
And now, the doll cups the back of Zainab's head, presses her body into hers so that it bends, sways: she lowers her lips upon Zainab's in a soft kiss, a kiss teasing, then withdraws.
"My God!" Zainab gasps, now flushed; reflexively, she tries to kiss the doll back, but the doll twirls Zainab around instead, pressing Zainab against the seat. And now that she has trapped Zainab there, she devours Zainab's mouth in a wilder kiss, sinking her hands into her victim's hair: Zainab mewls into her mouth, drawing the doll to herself with her legs and clasping her breasts. At that, the doll makes a little whimper and shudders, truly shudders as a real woman would at having her breasts so squeezed.
Just as Yassamin would, were Zainab to kiss her instead; Yassamin's cunny flutters, and she can feel she is wet, wet as she watches the doll feasting upon Zainab's mouth. Presently, the doll takes both of Zainab's braids in her hands and pulls back her head, refusing to let her initiate the kisses: she traps Zainab in place and attacks her with a succession of open-mouthed, quick nips of her lips one after another.
And now it is Zainab who is trembling, panting, heaving in the doll's embrace: she glances at Yassamin, her eyes wide.
"Doll, stop," Yassamin says, gesturing for the doll to withdraw.
And so, the doll does: she stands still, her arms to her sides, only regarding the women calmly, placidly as if she had never been ravishing Zainab at all.
"Impressive, is she not?" Yassamin asks.
"Quite," Zainab pants as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Now you can see why we are so confident that these dolls would be a success," Yassamin grins, glad to see Zainab's pride as rumpled as her clothes. "We would share one third of the profits with you, more than enough to cover the price of the materials."
Zainab does not look at Yassamin, still sitting on the pedestal and clutching at the seat's armrests; she keeps on staring at the doll. "I would like a full demonstration first, to be absolutely sure," she murmurs. Yet there is no great lust to her voice, only marvel: she looks upon the doll as if she were a challenge, and Yassamin would not put it past her to dismantle the entire doll with her bare hands to see how it worked. Jaffar would not like that, so she is not sure what to answer.
Let her, Jaffar speaks to her telepathically. Let her have the doll, right there, and I will make sure to stop her if she attempts to damage the toy in any way, whether through accident or intent. Come and watch her with me in the crystal--I think we're in for quite a show, my child.
"All right," Yassamin says, smiling charmingly. "There's a small ice-cabinet over there should you require refreshments, and beside it, a bed. My husband uses it when he is too absorbed in his work to return upstairs, but should you wish to use one of our more comfortable bedrooms--"
"Thank you. I'm sure I will manage." Zainab has now stepped off her seat and wrapped an arm around the doll once more, her other hand over the doll's chest, muffling the ticking of her mechanical heart. "I only have to tell her what to do, and she will obey my every command, is that not right?"
"Correct. She is at your beck and call. Anything you should wish for her to do, but ask for it; and if you should run out of ideas, the list of the acts she has been taught can be found beside the bed. But speak the name and number of each act, and that will trigger the action."
"What if something goes wrong and I want her to stop?"
"Use the word 'mercy.' If you have chosen one of the more... arcane practices, the ones that mimic ravishments, an ordinary 'no' or 'stop' will not suffice."
Zainab smirks at her, purring, as if she is about to sink her claws into Yassamin herself next. "By Freyja. You truly have thought of everything."
By Freyja she means the Northmen's Venus, Jaffar chuckles into Yassamin's mind when she at first fails to understand Zainab's meaning.
"My husband is an expert at these arts," Yassamin grins.
"Aye, and it seems to me that what this doll knows is but a fraction of his knowledge," Zainab leers. "You simply must introduce him to me. The man is a genius!"
"Perhaps after," Yassamin says and curtseys. "But ring the bell beside the bed when you're done, and my maids will escort you to our quarters."
"I shall," Zainab says, caressing the doll's hair, gazing into its eyes, already having lost interest in the real Yassamin. "I shall see you soon."
"Until then, my lady," Yassamin says, curtseys and makes for the stairs.
"My God!" Yassamin sighs as she slumps next to Jaffar on his cushions. "She is worse than I thought."
Jaffar has already cast turban and robe aside, sitting shirtless and with his drawers open beside the crystal. "I have heard of these cases," he says with his mouth full, waving a half-eaten date at the crystal. "A physician once told me there is a type of woman that has a burning heat in her sex, in her womb, an imbalance of the humours in her hips. Thus, these women are more drawn to other women, as female sexual moisture soothes that heat," he says and stuffs the date into his mouth. "It's rare that a man's sperm alone can sate it, which is why they often seek out both men and women, or women alone; they need to be drenched, as it were."
"Which one do you think she is?" Yassamin asks, half-joking as the doll begins to strip Zainab before their eyes.
Jaffar tilts his head and offers Yassamin the bowl of dates, which she declines. "I would say she seeks out both. She is not cold enough, not masculine enough to be one of Halima's kind."
"I noticed that, too!" Yassamin says. "It's rare to find such tendencies in such a feminine woman."
"Some of us are unusual admixtures," he murmurs and realises he has just stroked his cock with sticky hands: he makes a disgusted face. "Hand me the rosewa--"
But now Yassamin has licked the stickiness off Jaffar's cock herself, too heated to care. Jaffar whimpers, trying not to caress her hair with his hands: she loves rendering him helpless like this, even for but a few moments, having felt powerless with Zainab and the doll.
"Not powerless," Jaffar groans and reaches for the rosewater himself, washing his hands as Yassamin kisses his prick still. With his wet, now-fragrant hands, he combs Yassamin's hair aside and kisses her. "And most definitely not ugly or undesirable; I heard what you were thinking down there. I made the doll to appeal to her; it was not a reflection of how I prefer you," he says and draws her to sit in his lap, her back against his chest, his hands gentle upon her stomach. "This belly and these scars mark you as the mother of my children, the one who bore the fruit of our love within her body, the one who risked her life to bring new life into the world because she loved me so much," he murmurs and kisses her cheek. "They're the battle-scars of Love triumphant."
Yassamin sighs and leans her head back against his shoulder. "You are too good to me," she murmurs. "But look. Isn't she beautiful?"
"My creation, or Nature's?"
"Both," Yassamin says, gesturing for the lamps in this room to dim so that they might better see the crystal.
For now, Zainab lies on Jaffar's makeshift bed, upon its well-worn sheets and cushions, the silver Yassamin undulating between her legs, glittering as if a fish swimming upstream: the crystal can transmit sound only weakly, but they can tell Zainab is moaning loudly, feverish in the throes of this new love affair.
"Is that what you would do to her?" Jaffar murmurs, cupping Yassamin's breasts in his hands.
"No," Yassamin smirks, dipping her fingers into her cunny and pushing them into Jaffar's mouth for him to savour, adoring his whimpering around them. "I would use three fingers, and in her arse."
But it's as if Zainab has heard them. For now, she turns quickly onto her knees, her face pressed into the mattress, rubbing her cunny furiously, and it seems to them that she is begging. As the doll pushes four fingers into her cunny, Zainab howls and is pushed forwards on the bed, and Yassamin shudders in delight: she knows exactly how firm and yet soft Jaffar's living metal is, how easily it finds its mark inside the body when told to seek the right spots. The doll takes Zainab with those four fingers, hooking them so violently inside Zainab they can see her belly rippling; now, her cries can be heard easily over the distance.
Equally desperate, Yassamin pulls Jaffar's hand between her legs, and he does what the doll does: but his fingers are even more skilled, warmer, more ruthless; Yassamin squeezes her own breasts, howling and writhing as she takes herself with Jaffar's hand, Jaffar but chuckling underneath her. Through hooded eyelids, through the rising ripples of her nearing release she watches the women of silver and alabaster rutting upon the bed: now the doll is milking Zainab so roughly with her hand that Zainab gushes all over, spraying her thighs, the doll's face, the sheets as she rubs her cunny with violent force. Yassamin and Zainab moan in tandem, Yassamin's eyes rolling back in her head as Jaffar replaces his hand with his cock; instantly, he pushes himself inside her to the root, slapping her cunny with his hand, slapping it so hard her entire pelvis rings with it. She curls up, ululating as she comes, her ripples peaking between Jaffar's slaps, her cunny squeezing his cock so tight he, too, moans in shock and delight as she so takes him.
"God--!" he cries, now taking her by the hips, pressing his fingertips into the soft flesh inside the curves of her hips, on either side of her navel. He presses and he presses, massages her there, knowing the nerves there lead straight into the vagina and make it pull at his cock, swallow it with even greater force: he must be guiding the doll telepathically as it now does the same thing to Zainab, licking the aftershocks out of her cunny as she so massages her belly.
"Tell me that that's how you'll take her," he murmurs in Yassamin's ear, lifting her and lowering her easily, in deep and sweet thrusts, using her body to pleasure himself. "Just like that, four fingers in her arse, just like that--"
Because that's what the doll is now doing, taking her wetted fingers and pushing them into Zainab's distended, sodomite's arse; now Zainab's noises are completely swallowed by the bedclothes as her face is buried in them, her entire body jerking as the doll rubs her clitoris at the same time. Zainab clutches at the sheets and lets herself be pleasured; she tenses tight, tight as the doll folds in her thumb and enters her to the widest part of her hand with but Zainab's own sap to ease the way. And oh, Yassamin wants to do this, has been yearning for it, remembering how Gol had felt like silk on the inside; keening, she rubs her cunny and moves into a similar position, offering herself to Jaffar. With her free hand, she spreads her buttocks, wets her fingers and hooks her arse open with two, begging, pleading, desperate for the mercy of his cock.
But it is not his cock that he takes her with: he spits on his hand and--"Four," his four fingers as large as the doll's entire hand--with his cock still inside of her cunny, he pushes those fingers inside of her arse and curls.
And now Yassamin can no longer speak: the vision before her blurs and she nearly knocks the crystal down, her entire body jerking, tossing as Jaffar pushes cock and hand into her sloshing flesh. Yes, she is sloshing, never not embarrassed by the sounds she makes when she is this aroused, but she is helpless, helpless underneath the assault of Jaffar's love: only he can do this to her, make her surrender so, feel as if she could do anything with him, anything. He twists his hand inside of her and he owns her, his cock hitting the root of her cunny and she can see no more. She jerks once, twice and then her entire body remains still: her ejaculate trickles into her fist and down her wrist, her lungs spasm and then even her breathing stops, all of her extinguished inside the darkness of his beauty, the all-consuming night of his love.
When she awakens, she lies upon her belly upon the cushions, and Jaffar has slid his cock inside of her arse: he clasps her fingers with his wet hands, both now soaked and wrinkled from her fluids, sweet and dank from her cunny and her arse. Shuddering, all hair on her body standing on end, she kisses both his hands while still clasping them, then relaxes underneath him, letting him take his pleasure of her, enjoying the simple act of but lying there and being taken.
"Are they finished yet?" she mumbles, too tired to even look at the crystal.
"I don't know whether to come or to be sick," Jaffar laughs. "Look."
For now, Zainab lies down upon her back, the doll's hand buried inside of her arse almost up to her elbow. Zainab lies still, her eyes closed, her legs and arms splayed wide, only her fingertips' and her eyelashes' trembling telling them she is still alive. Her body shines in the darkness, the white of her flesh blending into the whiteness of the sheets; the only splashes of colour upon the bed the halo of her hair and the dark red wetness of her cunny. It is a sight grotesque, disturbing, yet oddly beautiful, serene: like those images Christians paint of their dying martyrs, ecstatic even as they are impaled, torn apart. Zainab's cunny has swollen to twice its normal size, the mound of it, the lips of it, the folds of it a dark rose red, gleaming beautifully in the lamplight: Yassamin can almost smell her sweetness.
That is what I am going to do to her, Yassamin thinks; I want my hand to be that hand, to take her so, to silence her so; I would wear her as an ornament upon my wrist.
And at that thought, Jaffar falls on top of her and moans hoarsely: he shudders upon her slippery back, howls in ecstasy and comes inside of her, barely moving at all, silent, still. He lies on top of her, but trembling all over, that vision rippling sweet through his each limb, prickling upon each hair of his body.
In the crystal, Zainab lies curled up around the maid of silver; inside of Jaffar's love, Yassamin lies curled up in contentment.
"You have got yourselves a deal," Zainab tells Yassamin as they meet later in one of the more secluded rooms, a secret guest bedroom on the harem's side. "Where is this genius husband of yours, so that I might thank him personally?"
"Abu Anwar!" Yassamin cries. "Do not tarry; our esteemed guest is leaving."
Of course, Jaffar is late because he has been grooming himself, wanting to look his best for their guest. He enters the room heavily kohled and in a cloud of musk, his silks as fine and as blue as Zainab's; he's even left a few side-locks of hair dangling out from underneath his turban.
"My lady," he cries and performs an elaborate court bow, kissing the ground before Zainab's feet, while Yassamin rolls her eyes. "It is an honour to meet you," he purrs, using the full beauty of his eyes and long lashes to look up at her from below in order to charm her. "Rarely do we receive such esteemed guests."
Zainab throws her shawl over her shoulder and smirks at him, gesturing for him to stand up. She devours him with her eyes, the way Yassamin always does--he is so long and so catlike it always seems as if he just keeps on stretching and stretching as he straightens out into his full height. Six foot three without his turban, six foot seven with it, he towers over all other men, yet moves as elegantly as a woman; that has to be what so charms Zainab about him, that very two-sexedness of his--if she only knew of the days he carried a cunny between his legs!
"Gladly will I enter into a partnership with you," Zainab says. "Is it true that this woman was made of but ordinary silver?"
"Indeed," Jaffar purrs. "I have perfected certain alchemical methods with which to bring metal into a... semblance of life. Not true life, of course; that would be blaspheming," he says and slinks his weight from one foot to another.
Zainab raises her eyebrow. "And making her in the shape of a heathen goddess was not?" But she laughs and waves it off. "I will send my scribes and lawyers over this week. Yet, as I am sure you will understand, I have to ask for an advance payment of sorts."
Ah. The doll, Yassamin thinks; fair enough.
"And what might that be?" Jaffar asks, leaning downwards to compensate for their height difference, making it look as if he is a beast swooping in for the kill. "If it is within our power to give, gladly would my wife and I give it, as a token of our honesty."
Zainab glances at Yassamin, pursing her lips, then looks back at Jaffar, a lascivious smile spreading upon her face. "One night..." she purrs, tapping Jaffar's amber pendant with her fingertip, "with your wife."
"What?!" Yassamin exclaims.
Zainab looks at Yassamin, then again at Jaffar. "As my slave."
Jaffar bursts into laughter. "Done."
"Why did you agree to it?" Yassamin shrieks at Jaffar once Zainab has left, beating his chest with her fists.
"Why not?" he laughs at her, knowing her to be protesting just a little too much. He takes her by the wrists and kisses both fists. "You were going to lie with her one way or another, and you would not have been so stirred by her had she not been so cruel with her handmaidens."
Yassamin casts her eyes down, her hands upon his heart. "The moment she said 'slave'..."
He nods. "Your cunny jumped so violently I saw you staggering. It is her dominance that excites you, my child; that part in you that so responds to the whip," he says and smacks her arse with both hands. "And surely you don't imagine I wouldn't be there?" He kisses her hair. "I promised to always protect you, to watch over you, and I shall. Even if I have to make myself invisible, I will be there--physically, and not just through the crystal--to stop her should she get too excited."
She hugs him tight, clinging to his body, a mixture of fear and lust swirling in her belly, stiffening her limbs. "I want her, and would gladly take her whip, but... I do not trust her the way I trust you."
"I shall talk to her before she takes you. I promise."
Yet it seems to Yassamin that once Jaffar and Zainab had put their heads together, their plan had reached heights of perversion neither of them could have concocted alone. Zainab had welcomed Jaffar's presence, in fact; she had told him it would make things immeasurably more satisfying to have him watch. Jaffar, in turn, had told Zainab of their adventures, of how he and Yassamin had taken great satisfaction in playing with others, how much they loved to see each other's faces enraptured from pleasure given to them by others. He had told Zainab of all of their games apart from the sex-changing ones, had shown to her their favourite toys. Zainab, in turn--or so Jaffar had said--had shown Jaffar her late husband's collection of sodomitic toys, a veritable treasure chamber of pleasure-objects: phalli, wands, beads made from materials as diverse as ivory, jet, leather, silver, gold and jade. The greed with which Jaffar's eyes had glowed as he had described these objects had told Yassamin everything she needed to know: he was going to get his hands on that collection, one way or another.
"They'll find you dead with half a dozen toys sticking out of your arse, in all the colours of the rainbow," she had scoffed.
"Now, there's a thought. If we stuffed different colours of beads inside of you and made you push them out fast enough, maybe you could fart out a rainbow..."
But she had silenced him with her hand on his mouth. "I am nervous enough. Help me."
And he had acquiesced: just as he had done with her before they'd loved Halima and Gol, just as he had done with her before they'd loved Fadl, he had given to her of his magic, had dissolved her inhibitions, his love-spell settling into her limbs as heavy as opium. "We shall take good care of you, my child," he had said and picked up her chin, kissing her softly on the mouth. "Now, that memory of you thinking yourself unattractive still stings my heart, and Zainab and I have planned a little something to remind you of your own beauty. Your father kept you from the eyes of all men, is that not so?"
"Yes," she had whispered, her limbs now humming, heavy and soft at the same time, her gait gentler, her heart light.
"There is a square in the bazaar where they display a new idol each week," he had said, kissing her cheeks, her ears; he had caressed her breasts, her arms, leaving goosebumps in his wake. "And this week, Zainab and I are going there to display a goddess of our own: you."
With a flick of his wrist, he had made all her clothes fall onto the floor; all her jewellery had rained down her body with it. He had kept but one garment: a long veil of black silk, which he now wrapped about her face and neck, fitting snugly so that it clung to her nose, chin and cheeks. "This is all that you shall wear tonight," he had said. "A burqa would cover too much, a niqab would reveal your love-drunk eyes which people might recognise, but this is perfect for a goddess who shall always remain a mystery," he had said and kissed her lips through the fabric. "At once veiled and unveiled."
She had beheld herself in a mirror, with this black hood over her face through which she could see but not be seen; her breasts, her hips, her freshly-shaven sex bare and offered, the goddess who revealed all her bounties but who had no face, no name. By this, he had made her sex itself, the erotic itself, one of those faceless fertility goddesses she had seen in his books--creatures who were all breast and cunny and buttock, but whose heads had only been represented by flowers.
He had taken her hand and kissed it. "Your palanquin awaits, Ishtar," he had murmured in love.
And here she sits, naked in her litter but for her veil, a mantle wrapped about her for warmth, but the greater warmth she feels comes from Jaffar's gaze.
"I cannot believe we are doing this," she murmurs, yet drunk, gay as if she had consumed wine or drugs.
"Neither do I," he says and squeezes her hand, his eyes glittering in the lights of the lamps winking through the curtains as they are brought to the bazaar. "But trust that I shall keep you safe, and that we shall have a magnificent night."
"I shall," Yassamin says, and now, they have arrived.
Jaffar steps out first and she waits inside: there is some discussion outside, and she can hear Zainab's deep, lilting voice giving out orders. She realises Zainab does not sound as husky as a woman speaking Arabic, let alone Persian: she wonders how old she must have been when she was brought over here as a slave. When Yassamin had been a toddler at court and had first heard Northmen talk among themselves, she had burst out into uncontrollable laughter: their entire language sounded as if it was composed of la-la-las and the rocking, lolling rhythm only eunuchs used in jest when they imitated women. Her father had explained that it was because they spent all their lives navigating seas and travelling down rivers, singing songs to accompany their rowing, so that's why their language carried that rolling wave.
And it is the roll of the waves Yassamin now hears in Zainab's voice: Zainab, Zainab, the woman she is finally to be loved by tonight, and now those waves pour down her ears as ripples of delight, travelling all the way down to her cunny as pleasure.
There is a rustle of cloth, a flash of metal, and pain explodes within her body as stars. For now, Yassamin is being lifted out of the palanquin, and--oh, God, oh, God: she looks down at herself and she had been right. Jaffar had given Zainab the clamps, and there she, Yassamin of Basra now stands, naked for but her veil in front of dozens of people, her nipples and the root of her clitoris pinched by the cruel pins of cold metal.
And now, Zainab smirks, attaching a silver chain to each nipple, to her clitoris, and a longer chain to all three to lead her by. "Come on," she says, as if to a hound, leading her out onto the sandy floor underneath a sandstone dome. Around them stands a crowd, the area fenced for the display of idols: the crowd, mostly men, seem astounded that it is not a statue they are now looking at, but they soon break out into whistles and cries of lascivious delight.
The pain, the shock, the outrageousness of this makes Yassamin's steps falter: as Zainab slackens the chain and retreats to the back of the square, Yassamin has to balance herself against the litter's frame. But she immediately regrets this, as Zainab is holding the chain tight some twenty feet away from her: the pain on her nipples and her clitoris is indescribable, and she is panting. She wants to drool, wants to crawl, the pain reducing her into a growling animal, so senseless is she rendered by it, but she cannot, cannot.
At the end of the leash stands her mistress, unveiled, her hair a golden halo around her head, and she twirls her leash around her finger and laughs, laughs. This is the woman now claiming her, this cruel beast: and behind her stands her husband, tall in his blue robes, the scarlet tails of his turban drawn over his face. The crowd might as well not exist, for all she can now see are Zainab and Jaffar: her king, her queen, all a slave girl should ever think of, is that not so?
Indeed, my child, Jaffar thinks at her. You look beautiful. So, so beautiful.
"I'll pay five thousand dinars for her!" a man's voice cries out from the crowd, half-joking.
"I'll pay seven thousand!" another cries, dead serious.
"We're not selling!" Zainab laughs, again twirling the chain about her finger, drawing Yassamin closer, making her dance and tiptoe upon the sandy floor. "We are but displaying her. Although perhaps we could negotiate... a little taste here and there, for very special buyers?" she asks and glances up at Jaffar.
The crowd cheers, roars, whistles; they clap and ululate and stomp.
Jaffar looks into Yassamin's eyes, his gaze piercing even from across the square. He nods, and leans to whisper something in Zainab's ear.
Zainab's eyes fly wide and her mouth purses into a delighted O. "Well!" she laughs. "I am told that we do indeed have a set of three samples to give out tonight, to the three highest bidders." She tugs on Yassamin's chain, now drawing her forwards so that she is standing in the centre of the square. "A taste of her, from whichever part you should wish--but only that, a taste."
Yassamin is glad of her veil, for now she is flushing scarlet: from instinct, she moves her arms and hands forwards to cover up her breasts, her sex. But as soon as she does that, Zainab yanks upon her chain once more, giving her so much pain that she cannot breathe; she clutches the chains instead, sobbing quietly, crouching.
"Come on, girl! Stand up!" Zainab cries. "Let go of the chain. Let the buyers see you, so we can get this over and done with." Zainab pretends to be stern, but she is loving this, and Yassamin wonders if she can feel the rays of pain emanating from her, feel the aura of her shame: she knows Jaffar most certainly can, which is why he had chosen his darkest, loosest robes for this venture. He must be erect, he must: his eyes are burning into Yassamin's across the room as the merchants haggle for her.
The third highest bidder is a young, rakish-looking man. He hands a large pouch of money to Zainab's lackeys, and as they finish counting it, he is let in past the fence. He is not an ugly man, but that's the worst thing about it: he is exactly the sort of handsome courtier who is full of nothing but conceit and cruelty. Yassamin thinks of panicking, thinks of running away, knowing that with but one cry of 'Mercy' she could have Jaffar end this game, end it once and for all.
But she doesn't. The harlot in her, the Ishtar in her straightens out her frame, ready to welcome her supplicant. The man edges closer, stroking his moustache, contemplating where to taste her from. She expects him to go straight for her cunny--should that not be obvious?--but instead, he makes to lift her veil, to kiss her.
Yet no sooner than has he touched her veil, he falls onto the ground with an anguished scream, clutching his stomach. Behind Zainab, Jaffar twists his hand into a fist and turns it, turns; it is as if with it, he were twisting a knife in the man's guts.
"That is forbidden!" Zainab barks, throwing the money-pouch back in the man's face. "Leave, before I feed you to my dogs!"
Jaffar lets go of the spell, and the man crawls back through the fence, retching violently.
Zainab glances around herself. "Fortunately, I was the second-highest bidder, and at least I know my manners." She hands the chain to one of her eunuchs and walks towards Yassamin, making a show of it, the crowd cheering her on, eager for this forbidden form of titillation. Zainab is so sure of her beauty she wants to be the one all eyes are on, for a moment: she caresses Yassamin's breasts, drinking in her gasp through her veil, her nostrils rippling as she smells how wet Yassamin is. "Soon, my dear," she purrs, nuzzling her through the veil, taking her hand between Yassamin's legs, shivering in delight herself as she strokes the wet, swollen lips of Yassamin's pinched, tortured cunny. She cups her mound, the pressure pure agony as she plays with Yassamin's wetness, pleasure and pain entwined in her cruel caress.
"Oh, but you are ready for me," she murmurs, making Yassamin rut against her hand despite herself, "so ready to be fucked," she snaps through her teeth. She rubs and she rubs, and Yassamin pants against her shoulder, all of her shuddering against Zainab's smaller body, and the waves of orgasm begin to rise in her, rise, rise as Zainab flicks the clamp around her clitoris, flicks it again, again--
And then Zainab steps aside, licking her fingers, her eyes wide from wickedness, from her desire. Yassamin groans, howls at her in her frustration, falling onto her knees in the sand.
But it is at that that the highest bidder enters, and she knows it is Jaffar, knows it to be him even as he watches her from the opposite end of the room, standing behind Zainab. She cannot see him, but she can feel him, a double, a ghost he can make seem real but for few moments, and it is only a few moments it takes for him to possess her. This man, this ghost in blue silk bends over her as she lies there, her face on the ground and her arse in the air, and he rubs her cunny, rubs it, and pushes two long, coarse fingers deep, deep, deep inside of her arse. Yassamin howls, howls so that her veil billows, so that the sand billows, so that her nostrils fill with dust; yet Jaffar keeps on stroking her until she reaches orgasm, coming violently on his hooking fingers, onto his rubbing hand.
She is still sobbing upon the ground as Jaffar lifts out his glistening fingers before the crowd and sucks them into his mouth; most cry out in disgust, some cheer in perverse delight. He takes his own mouth with the fingers, fellates his own hand, sucks his fingers as if a sodomite would a cock: he slurps and sucks her taste from them, cupping his groin as he does. But as the noises of disapproval grow louder, he vanishes as soon as he had arrived, vanishes back inside the man he had emanated from: behind Zainab, Yassamin can see Jaffar smirking into his turban.
Yassamin falls sobbing onto the ground, so humiliated, so sated; the lust of all these people entwining about her, she having learned her lesson. She is still as her father had told her she was: a woman so beautiful she could cause riots, could send entire nations into chaos. For it is chaos she now feels around her, pent-up desire thrashing in its chains as the men--and women--still devour her with their eyes, their voices. The collective desire licks at her cunny, ruts against her arse, squeezes her breasts and she sobs again, sobs, now more terrified than anything else.
"Mercy," she cries, loud enough for Zainab to hear. "Mercy, in the name of God, I beg of you. Mercy."
Zainab flicks her chain. "Come, then, my child. It's time to go home."
She can smell Jaffar's perfumes of ambergris and musk, feel his silks and his velvets as he lifts her into his arms; the curtains of the palanquin close around her and she can see no more.
When Yassamin wakes up, they are still on their way to Zainab's estate. Now, Zainab has joined them in the litter, sitting next to Jaffar, while Yassamin sits opposite them.
"Good evening, my sweet," Jaffar says.
He pulls the mantle from Yassamin's shoulders, and she realises she is no longer wearing the veil nor the clamps; she stirs into wakefulness, and with it, pain. She bites her lip, her head lolling against the back of her seat.
"Where are we?" she asks.
Zainab peeks out through the curtain. "My house is on the outskirts of the city; it will be a while yet." She pulls back, but keeps the curtain a little parted, letting the moonlight in to bathe Yassamin's body. "Now, let's have a good look at you."
"Come, my dear," Jaffar says, pretending to make a gesture of offering. "Show us your beauty. Don't be shy."
And at that gesture, Yassamin's arms are pinned to her sides and her legs lifted: now she sits spread out on her seat, her feet planted on either side of her, her cunny exposed for both Jaffar and Zainab to see. She shivers from shame, but she is too tired and aches too much to protest out loud: besides, Zainab does not seem to have realised Jaffar has used magic to bind her, so she pretends to be but obedient.
In the moonlight, Zainab seems even paler, a voluptuous, full-breasted ghoul as she leans forwards in her seat, stroking Yassamin's ankle. The litter is small enough for her to kiss Yassamin, should she wish to do so, but she doesn't: she seems to possess a perversion for delay, one equal to Jaffar's. As the moonlight dances through both their pale irises, they seem like a pair of demons sent to devour her, one of those pairs that are complete opposites of one another: Zainab is as fair as Jaffar is dark, as soft as he is lean, as short as he is tall.
And now Zainab rests her soft little hands upon Yassamin's knees, nuzzling her face: her perfumes are sweet, heavy and floral, with enough ambergris and sugar to render her fragrance an imitation of the vulva itself. Yassamin's cunny clenches, tightens, lifts; she moans out onto Zainab's lips, only barely brushing hers. Her entire womb curls up with her desire, so violently she can feel it in her scars, the pain in the root of her abused clitoris peaking as it swells with arousal once more.
Zainab but laughs, a laughter rich, rubbing Yassamin's knees, her bangles tinkling sweetly in accompaniment. "You would serve me, girl?" she purrs with exquisite erotic cruelty, a feminine echo of Jaffar himself.
"I--" Yassamin gasps. She is truly at a loss for words--something that does not often happen to her, a former queen. This is so unlike Gol, so unlike Halima, this drawn-out, wicked seduction she has hitherto only experienced at Jaffar's hands. Zainab is staring at her from so close that her eyes are crossed, her heavy breasts lifting with her breathing, and Yassamin can swear she can smell Zainab's cunny. Not bitter like Halima's, her gestures full of such elegance and softness they are far from Halima's masculine brutality, the moonlight striking white sparks from Jaffar's eyes as he observes the scene with delight.
It is then that Zainab picks up her chin, nuzzling her face once more. "Speak, girl."
"I would serve you," Yassamin says, swallowing, her cunny pulsing and pulsing and pulsing once more. "Mistress."
Yassamin closes her eyes and she can hear Jaffar hissing; she would not be surprised if Jaffar were clutching his prick through his suit. But then she has other things to think about as Zainab is kissing her, now, her mouth soft and sweet, too, making Yassamin moan into her kiss. She tastes of fresh fruit and mint, her mouth warm and delicious, her tongue somehow seeming bigger than Jaffar's, less long and lithe; again, Yassamin's cunny flutters as Zainab allows her to respond to her kiss and the softness of her full cheeks meets hers, peach nuzzling peach.
"Do I please you, Yassamin?" Zainab asks, and she realises she has never addressed her by that name. She looks at Jaffar across Zainab's shoulder, and Jaffar but nods, indicating that he trusts her; however, Yassamin is not so sure. Does she know their true identities? Or is Jaffar but relying on their names being commonplace enough not to raise suspicion?
But now, Zainab runs her hand across Yassamin's inner thigh. "I asked you a question, girl."
"Yes," Yassamin says, and she hates how weak her voice sounds, like that of a little girl-child; only Jaffar has made her sound like this before. "You please me very much," she speaks rapidly, near-babbling, dizzy; her entire body strains in its bonds as Zainab's hand nears her cunny.
"I am glad," Zainab says. "You see, I find it difficult to find slaves who can please me. Oh, you know how it is--even the most well-trained entertaining-girl is, most of the time, simply pretending. Only rarely have I found other women who can match my... appetites."
Jaffar chuckles, a chuckle warm and heavy as it drags in his throat, his voice husky from lust. "I am warning you now, my lady Zainab. For I am absolutely certain that my Yassamin can not only match your appetites, but surpass them. I shan't even bet money on it; I know it."
Zainab tilts her head, the way a cat tilts its head when watching birds. "You have told me as much."
How much has he told her, exactly? Yassamin's head fills with wild visions: she knows Jaffar had promised not to reveal to her too much of their magics, or any of their sex-changing practices. Zainab's eyes flicker so much Yassamin can tell she is thinking of many things at once, very likely a cavalcade of perversions: Yassamin wonders which ones Zainab has found most pleasing, which ones she has picked out to try on for size tonight.
"However," Zainab says, glancing between Yassamin's legs and then back at her face, "I would like to find out myself. I desired you so much I could not be satisfied with a mere imitation, you see," she murmurs warmly. "I had to have the genuine article."
To hear Zainab say it out loud, that she desires her--oh, Yassamin's chest aches. Even with her flatter buttocks, even with her looser belly, even with her scars--oh, but Yassamin cannot breathe, her nipples crinkling, hard as they point at Zainab, yearning for her touch. What is she to say? "Thank you, Mistress," she murmurs, smiling back at Zainab with genuine coyness.
Zainab takes her by the chin. "You are sweet. But keep that position and I shall reward you; I like to be entertained on long journeys by pleasant things, you see." She leans back against her seat, again tilting her head, now gazing upon Yassamin's cunny and her cunny alone. "You are right, my lord. It is not unlike a peach."
"And just as delicious," Jaffar says, flicking his fingertip in a psychic caress over Yassamin's clitoris, making her gasp and tense in her bonds. "Would you like a taste?"
"Not yet, I shouldn't think," she says to Jaffar, as if Yassamin were not there. "Let her stay like that. I find her quite... ornamental."
Yassamin bites the inside of her cheek, swearing inwardly.
She is good, Jaffar chuckles to Yassamin within her mind.
And you two are both swine. Infidel swine.
But at that, Jaffar but raises his eyebrow and plucks off two of the long peacock feathers decorating the palanquin's curtains. "These feathers go particularly well with our idol, I find," he says and hands one of them to Zainab. "Our little Lajja Gauri," he murmurs. And now, with his eyes twinkling, he drags his feather up and down Yassamin's thigh, making Yassamin all but scream in frustration, as she still cannot move her limbs.
Zainab bursts into laughter and runs her feather up and down Yassamin's cunny, her eyes widening with wicked glee as the feather comes away dripping wet immediately. "I don't think we shall be bored on this journey, no," she chuckles.
You bastard, you bastard, you utter, miserable, wretched bastard, Yassamin screams at Jaffar in her mind.
Jaffar but lets his feather join Zainab's. I love you, too, my sweet.
By the time they reach Zainab's house, Yassamin has completely ruined the seats. Already, she aches everywhere; Jaffar senses this and wraps her in her mantle, picking her up in his arms. Eunuchs offer to carry Yassamin for him, but he refuses; as he walks, he radiates warmth into Yassamin's body, pours more of the wine of his love-magic into her in order to relax her limbs once more. Again, he has drawn the tails of his turban over his face and veiled Yassamin as well, unwilling to reveal their identities even to Zainab's staff.
And what staff! She has hand-picked the most stunning of eunuchs, like those sultans who surround themselves with the prettiest girls from all over the known world. These eunuchs are as beautiful as her women, painted and perfumed and vain about their beauty--yet among them, to her astonishment, Yassamin can spy a few tall, handsome Ethiopes who seem to have retained a masculine musculature. Blue eunuchs, Yassamin remembers they were called, the type that had only been castrated as adults and whose penises had been left intact--a fact which Zainab has seen fit to flaunt with the thin white loincloths she has given for them to wear. The sorts of eunuchs who could not produce children but who could still perform sexually, the sorts no honourable man would ever let guard his harem, the sorts only rich widows like Zainab could afford to purchase in order to sate their desires.
"Which way?" Jaffar asks, after he has finally been able to tear his eyes off the eunuchs himself.
"This way, to the baths," Zainab says, gesturing towards a courtyard that takes them to an entire adjoining building.
The baths? But they have just bathed today, Jaffar having rinsed Yassamin personally and having cleansed himself as well, to be sure. Yassamin shudders a little in Jaffar's arms, Jaffar's surprise echoing hers--he knows just as well as she does that this can mean only one thing: whatever it is that Zainab has planned for them, it will be filthy in every sense of the word.
The light in the room stings their eyes at first; it is brighter than daylight, the enormous--chandelier? Lantern-cluster? Whatever it is in the honeycombed ceiling that now shines as brightly as if it were a shrapnel of the sun itself. The entire room is made of white marble, the walls and the pool set into the floor reflecting the light even further, and now Yassamin understands the stories of travellers who were blinded when exposed to vast enough expanses of white sand or snow.
Jaffar sets Yassamin down on one of the benches lining the walls and sits down to catch his breath himself, shielding his eyes from the light. "Impressive," he says, his voice strained from exertion.
"I knew an engineer such as yourself would appreciate it," Zainab grins. "All made with material from my own mines, the light of each flame multiplied a thousandfold through the clever use of mirrors and luminescent minerals." She undoes her cloak and tosses it aside, stretching luxuriously. "I prefer to see everything clearly, you see."
And now, her maids rush to undress her, in a commotion of soft limbs white and pink and brown and black and olive and yellow: only the prettiest six have followed them here, along with two of the blue eunuchs. "See my lord to his seat," she says, waving her hand in Jaffar's direction, then turning hungry eyes upon Yassamin. "And the new girl upon the dais, I think; it's a while since we have had a fresh one in here. We shall have to teach her the manners of the house, shan't we, girls?"
One of the eunuchs pulls Yassamin's veil from her head and lifts her to her feet: now six new pairs of eyes fix upon her, six beautiful little she-devils grinning as they measure her hungrily, and Yassamin is utterly terrified. Terrified and aroused as she is licked by the girls' gazes, her cunny tightening so that she staggers.
"She is all yours," Zainab purrs, standing there fully nude, with her hands on her hips. "Warm her up."
Now, the eunuchs take Yassamin up by her hands and her feet and she is screaming, her heart galloping in terror. They carry her to a marble dais at the end of the long pool, a dais that seems as if it once was--or still is?--a pagan altar. A sacrifice, she is a sacrifice, and despite Jaffar's magic, she still wails in panic as the girls descend upon her a flurry of pleasure-pain, pinching her, slapping her, clawing at her all over. The eunuchs hold her wrists and her ankles fast, even as she struggles with all her might; she howls from the bottom of her lungs, only for one girl to slap her cheeks for it, another to stuff her fingers into her mouth.
Even through her haze of pain, of her perverse pleasure at this, Yassamin knows this makes perfect sense: from what she had seen at the public baths, Zainab had taken great pleasure in tormenting her girls, and it is always those who have been tormented that become the greatest tormentors in turn. This must be a special treat for them indeed, to be able to take out their frustrations on a new victim like this: the girls are merciless, laughing as they spread her legs and take turns slapping her cunny, the sounds of it ringing in the room.
And all throughout this, she can hear notes of Jaffar's purring, crooning, hear him sending to her the exquisite joy he feels from watching her like this: her cunny pulses against the girls' slaps, her heart somersaulting as Zainab walks closer, stroking her cunny lazily at the sight. Therefore, Yassamin makes a show of her struggle, twisting and thrashing even as the girls pull her hair and smack her face, her breasts, push fingers into her cunny and her arse, claw at her and lick her, lap at her sweat. She moans loudly, bellowing like an animal as they begin to truly take her with their hands, screaming into one girl's mouth as another takes her with her fingers so that she is sloshing.
"So soon?" Zainab laughs at the sound, peeking in from between the girls to look at Yassamin's cunny, without touching it yet. "Although it looks as if you were this wet by the time we got here," she chuckles, nodding at the girls in approval. She walks around the dais, gesturing for the eunuch who holds Yassamin's wrists to move aside so that she can take Yassamin by the hair, lift her head herself. "Look at yourself. What kind of a girl responds to such an assault like that?" she tuts, in mock-astonishment. "Not even slaves do, so you must be truly enjoying it. Is that it? Hmm?" she says, tugging Yassamin by the hair. "Have we got ourselves a little harlot of our own, then? A little slut?"
"Please," Yassamin moans, hysterical, now, her body burning, stinging, singing from the heat of the slaps, so wet that she is trickling down to her arse. Jaffar has never called her such names, used such foul language; his trollops and harlots have always been tender and adoring, not insults a woman would throw at another to truly wound her and shame her, ruin her. And this is it, exactly: it is true what they say about women being far crueller to each other than a man could ever be.
And yet it is different. For even these vilest of insults, wielded by someone far more sadistic than Jaffar himself, someone who truly knows their sting, are but used to fan her desire: just as Zainab must've hoped, Yassamin is responding. Oh, but she is responding, flowing out a slut onto the girls' hands, moaning a harlot as she hangs off Zainab's claws, her cunny hot and anointing all participants with her arousal. This is more than she had ever bargained for, worse than the crowd had been, now that they can see how much she is enjoying this: ten people taking in the sight of her loving her pain, her torment, being taken so by other women.
Yassamin sobs, her back arching off the dais as another girl slides her fingers into her cunny, longer and crueller than the ones that had been taking her before; yet none of the girls touch her clitoris except with slaps, drawing her towards orgasm but trapping her just upon the brink of it.
"Please, Mistress," Yassamin asks, staring up at Zainab from the level of her belly, seeking her face past her enormous breasts.
"Please, what?" Zainab says, walking her fingers down Yassamin's belly, tapping at the top of her mound. She nods to the girl taking Yassamin, and the girl turns her fingers downwards, now, pushing so deep into the very back of her sex, behind the root of her womb. Yassamin's eyes fly wide--Jaffar must have told them of this, of that special spot, oh, the bastard!--and then her eyes roll back in her head.
But of course I told them, my darling, Jaffar purrs, himself shivering as he senses all that Yassamin senses through her body, drinking in her pleasure so that he might experience it as his; did you think I was not going to take my share?
Yassamin swears and twitches, jerks upon the marble; the eunuchs hold her so tight she is losing sensation in her hands and her feet.
"Please, gracious Mistress;" she looks up at Zainab, the vision of her swimming in her eyes as but a sea of gold and white and pink, the ceiling-light blinding her; "please let me come."
Zainab looks up at her girls. "Should we?" She taps at Yassamin's mound with her fingertips, slaps it, so close to the root of her clitoris, now, so close.
"Yes!" they cry in unison, and not out of mercy; their voices are wicked and hungry for blood. What this must say about the ways in which Zainab makes her women come--and now the girls spread the lips of Yassamin's cunny, exposing her entire--
"Then, come!" Zainab snaps, slapping her right on the clitoris, hard, over and over, sparks of pain flying from it into Yassamin's womb and she is gone, gone, gone. The rings upon Zainab's fingers, the white of the lights, the girls' hands still singing upon her breasts and her belly--and now the hand that fucks her curls towards her spine, curls after each one of Zainab's slaps. Yassamin lets out a hoarse howl from the bottom of her lungs, from the bottom of her belly, from the bottom of her cunny and she is coming, coming, coming; the girls shriek as she sprays them, the eunuchs groaning in unison, an erection brushing her ear.
"That's my girl!" Laughing wildly with her girls, Zainab keeps on slapping her, slapping and smacking and spraying her ejaculate all over. On and on, she shares Yassamin's sweetness as if it were a holy libation, sprays it so that each and every participant is anointed with it, blessed with her taste.
And now the hand is removed from her and Zainab pushes her own fingers into Yassamin instead, feeling for her wetness, crooning at her, pressing her breasts against her face, deliberately suffocating her with them. Good girl, Jaffar murmurs, "Good girl," Zainab purrs, the vibrations of their voices, their desires clashing and entwining inside of Yassamin's body, sending it spasming again in cascades of rippling aftershocks.
The eunuchs let go, but that is the worst thing they could have done: Yassamin is shaking, slipping, twitching, so much so that Zainab has to hold her in place lest she fall off. Zainab but chuckles against Yassamin, chuckles; finally, she withdraws her hand from Yassamin's cunny and licks her fingers, sucks them, moaning in appreciation as she savours her taste.
"Exquisite. Absolutely exquisite. Now I can see why you compared her to marzipan," she murmurs at Jaffar.
And now Jaffar has left his seat to inspect Yassamin: he holds her legs open and laps at her cunny, licks it, kisses it, sucks it in adoration, relishing Yassamin's trembling around him. "Marvellous. She is absolutely marvellous."
Zainab looks down at Yassamin, caressing her reddened breasts, the claw-marks upon her belly, taking in her softness, weighing her flesh in her hands as if some kind of butcher of love. "I couldn't agree more." Again, she tilts her head, now kissing Yassamin, soothing her as she kneads her breasts.
Yassamin can't help but sink her hands into Zainab's hair, wrap one leg around her. "Thank you, Mistress," she says, Zainab's kisses flowing into her mouth like honey, pleasure flowing out of her cunny onto Jaffar's tongue.
As Zainab withdraws from the kiss, her eyes are lazy; she seems to resent having to pull back. "And now, I would see a demonstration of these pleasures you deemed arcane, my dear," she murmurs, returning her hand to stroke Yassamin's cunny, making her jerk upon the dais. "This pleasure your husband called... 'Byzantine' stirred my curiosity."
Jaffar finally lifts his face, kissing Zainab's hand, hissing in his lust for them both. "I have cleaned her for that very act myself, so that no trace of filth remains. It is perfectly safe that way, although I would lie if I said the risk of pollution did not add to the thrill of it."
Zainab nods and begins to unravel Jaffar's turban. "My late husband told me there was a saying among sodomites. That great treasures were hidden within dirt, and that one should keep digging past the filth to find gold," she chuckles.
"Trust a miner to say that," Jaffar chuckles right back, tossing his turban aside; he moves to stand beside Yassamin and spreads her legs. "You will find her taste exquisite even there, I promise."
Zainab shakes her head. "You mistake me; I mean not to partake of the taste, merely watch. You told me of a particular fantasy she had, involving this practice." As Jaffar continues to undress, Zainab nods towards her girls. "Would six girls suffice?" she says and claps her hands, then gestures towards the long, soft rug beside the pool.
Jaffar's erection springs out to slap against his belly. "You do mean it," he says, astonished as the girls arrange themselves on all fours in a neat row beside the pool.
Yassamin has to lift herself to look: six girls, six beautiful, full arses, six plump little cunnies all presented to them, offered. The girls tickle each other, laugh, finger their arses and each other's, slicking themselves up with but their own cunnies' sap.
"I chose the girls who were experts at this art," Zainab says as she turns to Yassamin. "Does this resemble your fantasy at least somewhat, my dear?"
"My fantasy?" Yassamin mumbles as she sits up. "But I thought--" that she was here but for Zainab to use, for Zainab and Jaffar to take their pleasure out of her.
Swiftly, with a wicked laugh, Jaffar comes to embrace Yassamin from behind; he pulls her head back by the hair and kisses her neck. "Your pleasure is our pleasure, my sweet. And have we not dreamt of this for years? I picked up the image from one of your dreams before you even took Gol, my child. Remember?"
And she does remember, shivering, all of her hair standing on end; Jaffar twists his hand in her hair and she quivers, as taut as a bow, her nipples pointing towards the girls. She has dreamt of this, oh, yes: the sodomy-row, the culmination of her maddest, most feverish Sapphic fantasies. To taste six cunnies, six arses--saliva swirls into her mouth at the very thought. If Jaffar weren't holding her back now, she would spring upon the girls like a hunting-pard, this, she knows; as Zainab walks past each one of the girls, inspecting their cunnies, their arses, Yassamin's cunny clenches so violently her entire body judders. The very thought of tasting multiple girls from her master--and now, her mistress--it is more than she could have ever dreamt of, and she whimpers in Jaffar's grip.
Jaffar pushes her off the dais so that she tumbles down to his feet. "Kneel."
He steps before her, a giant of a man, but a dark silhouette against the blinding white glare of the ceiling light. And before her lips, his prick, his magnificent, dark red prick, so beautiful even its veins seem to be curling around it in worship like vines: naturally, instinctively, easily, she crosses her wrists behind her back and begins to worship him in turn, to thank him, to adore him with her mouth. For it is Jaffar who is giving her all this, guarding her in this, her beloved husband, Jaffar, Jaffar making her dreams come true. She wants to weep; he is giving her so much, so much more than is her due, and the tears that now spring to her eyes are not merely from her choking on him, no, no; they are tears of gladness.
And it is Jaffar's loud pleasure-groan that now stirs Zainab: she licks her lips and strolls over to them, and from the corner of her eye, Yassamin can see only her cunny. It is flushed, swollen, now a glorious pink, her swollen petals peeking out from between its plump lips, even her mound gleaming from where she has been stroking herself. Its scent fills her nostrils as Jaffar's cock fills Yassamin's throat; she gags on Jaffar, her tears now streaming down her cheeks, and she is whimpering from her need. She wants this, wants all of it, wants everything: to taste Zainab, to swallow her as she is now swallowing Jaffar, wants to be taken by her, wants to eat her girls up--
And now something cold is being pushed into her arse. She shrieks, pulling off Jaffar's cock to look behind herself. "What are you doing?"
"Just a little preparation," Zainab says, showing her the marble sphere she has been pushing into her arse and with it, two similar spheres, all of them a little larger than eggs. "The white one first, so that afterwards, we can see whether you are truly as clean as he says you are," she smirks, weighing the spheres in her hands. "Then the jet one, then the jade, I should think," she says as she threads them all together with a length of heavy, tar-stiffened string, then ties the ends into firm knots. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," Yassamin breathes against Jaffar's belly, then leaves his prick with a kiss. She bends down on all fours, just like Zainab's slaves, yet more obedient than all of them, enslaved by her own need. And as Zainab pulls wetness from her cunny to slick up the spheres and begins to push them inside of her arse one by one, she howls. She claws at the carpet, moans between the deep breaths she is taking in order to open herself, keens between Jaffar's caressing hands as he sits cross-legged before her, cradling her head.
"Shh," Jaffar says, magic sparking from his fingertips, sluicing golden down her spine, unravelling her flesh, opening her, opening. With his mind, he holds her open, just as he is pulling at one buttock now, Zainab pulling the other as she keeps on filling her, daubing the spheres with cunny-sap and spit. Give it to me, he murmurs into her; share it with me.
And she does, her hair a tangle around his genitals, his hands fluttering down her back: she gives to him the amazing weight of the spheres, unlike anything she has ever felt before. As they settle inside of her body, as they expand her flesh relentlessly, heavy against the back of her womb, her cunny teeming and flushed from blood underneath them. And at last, the final sphere slides in and they all click together inside of her body, nestling within her, and she suffocates her scream onto Jaffar's cock, shuddering.
For now, it is as if she has two cunnies, or two arses--no, all of her body is but cunny and arse, the heat radiating into the insides of her thighs, her buttocks, her back, her very bones. She does not know if it is merely the spheres pressing on her spinal nerves, or Jaffar's magic, or both, but now all of her hangs heavy, as heavy as the stones inside of her, as heavy as the blood in her cunny, in her breasts, as heavy as her love for Jaffar.
Jaffar, Jaffar: each touch of his fingers is a little orgasm sparking across her skin; as Zainab gifts her cunny with a tender lick, two, she convulses in his arms. She keens, pushing back into Zainab's kiss, and now Zainab dips inside of her with her tongue, rubbing her clitoris, and as Zainab moans her pleasure at her taste into her cunny, the spheres vibrate inside of her body.
"Please, please, please," Yassamin moans, shivering against Zainab's tongue, rutting against her, trying desperately to get more friction. She does not even know if she can orgasm with the spheres stretching her so, but already she is driven to madness from her need.
"I think she's ready," Jaffar says, soft, tender, entranced; Yassamin can even hear a little concern in his voice, listening as he is to her, feeling her, his own cock having dripped streaks of sap into her hair and onto her cheeks from what the echo of the spheres has done inside of his own hips. Yassamin clenches, as much as she can with the spheres inside of her, and feels it, experiences it: the spheres weighing heavy against Jaffar's prostate, making his cock jerk and drip again so that she wants to suck him into her mouth, to taste him.
But not now. As Zainab moves her aside, she can see Jaffar is looking at her, responding to what must be amazement on Zainab's part as she sees how wet he is, as wet as a woman. He but slickens his erection with his sap and smirks, strokes his cock and lets out a languid sigh. "All the better to take your girls with," he murmurs, his eyes half-closed as he stands up, licking his palm with relish.
Zainab slaps Yassamin's cunny, sending her moaning onto her face from the impact of the spheres on her womb. "Crawl."
And Yassamin does, adoring Zainab as she walks to the girls ahead of her, the rock of her gait, the fullness of her rippling buttocks. As Jaffar takes Yassamin by the hair to lead her by, she cries out; it is what she had hoped for, whimpering from her need as she slowly makes her way to the girls. At her noise, Zainab grins at her over her shoulder, herself dropping onto all fours with the grace of a cat, and only now can they see there is a similar string peeking out of her arse; Yassamin wonders how many spheres Zainab is carrying inside of herself in turn. Jaffar is practically growling as he gazes upon Zainab's cunny, those of the girls; it turns into a true moan as he watches Zainab kiss the first girl slow, deep.
"Now, then, Layla," Zainab murmurs, takes the redhead by her hair and slaps her; Yassamin marvels at how much the girl seems to be enjoying her torment, a bead of sweetness falling off her cunny at the force of Zainab's slap. "He is going to fuck you," Zainab says, accompanying her vulgarity with another loving slap; Layla shivers and pushes her lily-white arse up in adoring submission. "Each one of you, he will fuck and she will suck until you orgasm; don't you dare pretend release. I want to see what he is made of," Zainab says, glancing up at Jaffar, her eyes glimmering in challenge. "If he truly is up to the task."
Jaffar but laughs, a laugh wicked, dark, terrifying; he presses Yassamin's face into Layla's cunny. "I always am," he says, and tries to take Zainab by the hair, too, to kiss her, but Zainab pulls back.
"Prove it," Zainab says and kneels back, her hands on her knees. Her voice is husky from lust; she wants Jaffar, Yassamin can tell, but has decided to tease him, knowing exactly how it is driving Jaffar mad from desire.
She's good, Yassamin laughs to Jaffar telepathically as she savours the sweetness of Layla's cunny, relishing the feast set out before her.
That's what I said, Jaffar tells her as he spits on his glistening cock to slicken it even further; unceremoniously, straddles Layla and starts to push his cock inside of her arse. I have never taken this many women at once, but I am going to kill you if you tell her, and out loud, he groans, masking his nervousness as a lecherous, indulgent sigh.
Your secret is safe with me, Yassamin laughs to him, loving the way Layla moans and stiffens, now.
Thus, they set out to prove their true natures to Zainab and her household: Jaffar that of the champion lover, ravisher, Yassamin the slave to love, to the cunny, to the erotic thrall of her beloved. Together, they mirror each other, Yassamin's submission and her facial expressions illuminating, outlining the perfection of Jaffar's dominance. She knows exactly how to angle her face so that Zainab can see each gleaming daub of cunny upon her lips, and the first time Jaffar sets out to gift Yassamin with a taste of Layla's arse, Yassamin stays still for but a few seconds, enough to build up the tension of the moment.
Layla's arse gapes, a sweet pink hollow within her ivory white softness, heaving as Zainab holds it open: Jaffar's cock slides out of it, gleaming from foam, even his balls gleaming from Layla's wetness as he holds himself out for Yassamin to taste. He smells sweet and dank and salty; Zainab's mouth remains open, her tongue trembling as Layla's innards tremble, red and wet and slick. As Yassamin finally wraps her mouth around Jaffar's cock and sucks it with wicked relish, she can swear she can hear Zainab whimpering. She wants this, Yassamin knows it; she envies Yassamin as she rolls her head around Jaffar's cock, as she makes Jaffar moan, as she rubs her cunny and rides her hands, the thrill of her sin and the spheres sending ripples of pure ecstasy through her.
And now, Jaffar slides the full width and length of his cock back inside of Layla and she mewls, her buttocks and her thighs shaking, her cunny pulsing full against Yassamin's kiss. Oh, but Yassamin knows what Layla is feeling this very moment, loves feeling another woman experiencing the exquisite joy of the second entry, such a shock when the penetrating cock has left her body but for a few moments. That amazing sensation as Jaffar slides in with such great ease, now, the way one's flesh simply gives, surrenders to his strokes, his cock striking white lightning through her guts with his every blow. Layla is so close that now Yassamin brings her hand to Layla's clitoris, still stroking herself with her other hand; she licks at Layla's cunny, at Jaffar's cock as it slides in and out of her, catching the white strings of her foam with clever curls of her tongue. Together, Layla and Yassamin climb and climb and teeter near the peak: Jaffar pauses for but a short moment, then rams in with full force, and Layla is lost, lost.
Screaming, Layla comes onto Jaffar's cock, sprays Yassamin's face, utterly drenching her so that Yassamin gags, gurgles as Jaffar keeps on taking Layla, spraying her ejaculate all over; to feel another woman coming like this, receiving the same gift Yassamin receives each night in her conjugal bed is such bliss that Yassamin is herself plunged into orgasm with it. Sharp, fast, Yassamin's climax spikes through her, so violent that the spheres inside of her give her pain; yet as long as she keeps on moving, she can push those waves past the arcs of pain and into pleasure, pleasure, pleasure. She laughs and she laughs as she laps at Layla's sap, never ceasing in her stroking of her clitoris, thinking how many women would absolutely hate this, be humiliated by this rather than--oh, but she feels sanctified by this, exhilarated from this, to so experience Jaffar's love as it tears through the body of another, devastating another's flesh just as it has devastated hers.
Jaffar chuckles, chuckles; he pulls out of Layla and pulls her down with himself, only now seeing her face properly, kissing her freckled face tenderly. She is as out of breath as he is, her face and her chest flushed from her orgasm; stunned, she stares at him as if she had been born anew.
"Thank you, master," Layla pants, laughing onto Jaffar's mouth in disbelief.
"I hope that satisfies your mistress," he drawls onto Layla's lips, kissing her and kissing her as he catches his breath.
Zainab but stares at them quietly, impressed herself, but she doesn't seem to want to give Jaffar the satisfaction. She but sits back and strokes herself, nodding to the next girl in the row, as black as this girl has been fair. "Tahira's turn."
Yassamin but grins at Zainab, wiping her mouth in challenge: Tahira looks at her shyly over her shoulder as Yassamin kisses her behind in greeting. And what a behind it is! Her buttocks are so round, so protruding and full they form near-perfect spheres; Yassamin has never seen the like, and she embraces their softness eagerly, sighing between them in genuine delight. "You taste wonderful," she murmurs, smiling at Tahira; she is even sweeter than Layla had been, sweet in both cunny and arse.
"So I am told," Tahira grins, yet she seems nervous, doubly so now that she has seen what Jaffar is capable of; Yassamin tries to reach out to her telepathically to soothe her, but just as with most people, she can only project a mild effect, her psychic skills nowhere near as great as Jaffar's.
Jaffar senses Tahira's tension, too, and chooses this moment to demonstrate his tenderness, that most ravishing of his weapons. He mounts Tahira but does not enter her yet, choosing only to kiss her over her shoulder, to rut into the cleft of her arse with his cock, purring as Yassamin takes advantage of this in turn. For now, Yassamin begins to lave his balls, his arse with her tongue, going well beyond what has been asked of her, her body aglow from her shamelessness as she displays to Zainab the exact extent of her love of the arse.
"Disgusting," Zainab mutters, yet she is transfixed: she has now moved beside Yassamin to watch them close by, and Yassamin can tell she is shuddering in desire as Yassamin picks up Jaffar's cock and wets it with a loose suck, then guides it to Tahira's anus. In defiance of Zainab, Yassamin keeps helping Tahira take Jaffar by licking her arse, the glans of his cock each time he dips in and out of her, slathering them with her tongue all over, uncaring of the danger of filth. Together, Yassamin and Jaffar persuade Tahira's muscles to open, the dip in the bud of her anus deepening and deepening, unfolding little by little, glistening with spit and cunny-sap; by the time Jaffar has fully inserted the head of his cock, Tahira's clitoris is enormous, as big as the tip of Yassamin's thumb. Yassamin has to only slicken her fingertips and to clasp Tahira's clitoris with them, to rub it all over in wide circles, and Tahira moans deep, deeper than Jaffar himself, groaning as Jaffar slides fully inside of her.
"More?" Jaffar asks, rolling his hips, crying out in delight as Yassamin dips her tongue into his arse at each roll of his hips, deciding for Tahira: now, he derives such pleasure from the act that he cannot keep still. "God!" he moans as Tahira begins to push back, she groaning deep in her chest once more, now pushing her arse back into his thrusts, rolling herself against his hips.
"More," Tahira groans, now bolder, and her clitoris pulses between Yassamin's fingers; her voice is raw from her lust, her cunny dripping into Yassamin's palm, filling it with thick, sweet nectar. "More."
Zainab slaps Tahira's arse playfully. "You always were a greedy little harlot, Tahira," she says, yet there is an edge of envy in her voice, her jealousy growing moment after moment, it seems. And to think that this is only the second girl--what sort of a wreck will Zainab be after Jaffar has made it to the last one?
And Jaffar knows this; without even looking at any of the women, he focuses on giving a beautiful performance. With a dancer's grace, he undulates his hips and his back in a serpentine fuck, his moans turning into meaows, strings upon strings of Tahira's sap now dangling from his balls for Yassamin to sup upon. But it is the scent of Zainab's cunny that fills the air the most, now, she still seemingly unfulfilled; she is trembling upon the edge of orgasm, riding her hands, now, mesmerised as she watches the ripple of Jaffar's muscles, fascinated by the long scars streaking his back.
Perhaps she dreams of opening them anew, Yassamin thinks as she glances at Zainab from the corner of her eye; perhaps Zainab dreams of whipping Jaffar herself for making her lust after him so, proving himself to be the sort of lover she wishes would not exist: a lover who could conquer her, the woman who only conquers others. Oh, but Yassamin wants to see Zainab like this, screaming like Tahira now does: her full flesh jiggling in the embrace of Jaffar's thin arms and legs, bucking and trembling like a gazelle in a cheetah's grip as she comes, her cunny slurping as she shudders between Jaffar's perfectly calculated rolls and withdrawals and blows. Her cries, too, are those of an animal slain; Jaffar bites into her back and thrashes upon her, his balls jumping, all of him taut as he struggles not to come inside of her. He keens in his rage, his frustration, and Yassamin can only surge into his mind to cool him, careful not to touch him lest even a pinch should send him tumbling over the edge.
Zainab notices this, smirking like a devil as she runs a fingertip up Jaffar's perineum. "Up. Give Yassamin the taste. As we agreed."
Jaffar hisses as he turns to Zainab, trying to grab her by the hair, but Zainab is quicker: she pushes Yassamin between Jaffar's legs, pressing Yassamin's face against his cock. Jaffar howls, clenching and unclenching his fists as Yassamin licks him, but the gentlest and lightest of licks, his cock dripping, pulsing with sap. He sends to her the white, roaring chaos in his body and his mind, wrenching her head back by the hair; violently, he kisses her, digging his nails into his prick to stop himself from coming.
And Yassamin pities him, pouring coolness, darkness into his mind, flowing down his veins as ice, telling each cell in his body to wait, wait, wait. Yet she wonders who it is that decides when Jaffar is finally allowed to come--is he planning to ejaculate in the last girl's arse? Yassamin's mouth? Or is he planning to take Zainab by surprise and ravish her, whether she likes it or not? All these visions flicker through her mind as she murmurs her love into Jaffar's mouth.
When Jaffar pulls back, his eyes are glazed from fever, his pupils wide; the veins on his temples are swollen, his nostrils wide. "Go on," he says to Yassamin, glaring at Zainab over her shoulder. "Girl number three."
The third girl is tiny, as petite as Zainab, but of the childlike sort--one of the Chinese women so favoured by the rich men of this area. Even Jaffar hesitates a little as he sees how small the girl is, but she seems to be the most eager of them all: she pulls her fingers out of her arse and it's clear she has been masturbating all this time, overjoyed now that her turn has come. "Lina," she introduces herself, tenderness, smiling at them and rolling her hips at them in the perfect invitation of the skilled entertaining-girl.
"I might not be so," Jaffar murmurs as he brushes hair back from Lina's ear to whisper into it; "but I think you are ready for me, aren't you?"
"I am," Lina whispers back at him, making even Jaffar excited once more: this orgy had threatened to turn into a chore, but her wicked grin has him shivering in delight as she guides his cock into her arse with her own hand. It is rare enough to meet a pleasure-girl who truly enjoys her job, but Lina has to be one of them, one of those women so lustful they were born to be courtesans: she shivers in true arousal, her cunny dripping in strings as Jaffar begins to push inside of her arse.
And he enters her fast, rough: he is inside of her as soon as he has mounted her, groaning in astonishment at how easily he enters her, despite her small size. And from what Yassamin can feel of Lina's cunny underneath her tongue--such a tiny, pretty little cunny, more of an apricot than a peach--it seems as if Lina is orgasming from the very first half a dozen thrusts Jaffar gifts her. But Lina, in her greed, bites her lip and tries to disguise it, knowing full well how difficult it is for a man to tell when a woman has achieved release.
"Jaffar, I think she is cheating," Yassamin says, slapping Lina's cunny, sending her mewling. "I am sure she is already well past the peak, and yearns for another."
"I don't believe you," Zainab says.
Lina hides her face from them, laughing into her arm. "Almost there," she whispers, but even she doesn't believe her own words.
At that, Jaffar takes Lina's hair and loops it around his wrist, again showing off more to Zainab than anyone else, showing what he can do with his hands as he pinches and slaps Lina's small breasts with his free hand. He makes music with Lina's cries, her ululations; he slams into her arse so violently his balls spray thick dollops of sap from her cunny onto Yassamin's tongue. "This time, I want you to come louder," he growls in her ear, rolling his hips, rolling and rolling so that Lina's back dips and curls underneath him, he raising his voice so that Lina can hear him over her own howls. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, master," Lina rasps, her breath cut off as Jaffar wraps his arm around her throat.
But now, Zainab has squatted in front of Lina, observing her face, as if she knows her well enough to tell the signs of orgasm from her face. "I think you are right," she says, then slaps Lina's cheek; at that, Jaffar howls--Zainab knows exactly how hard she has just made Lina's arse clench around his cock. "Lina, you always were a terrible little liar," she says and slaps her other cheek, now making her scream; "let's see you make him come instead."
Again, Zainab slaps Lina's face, so violently that Jaffar jerks back; now Yassamin can't even rub Lina's cunny or lick it, so brutally does Zainab now beat her. But Lina seems to be one of those women who thrive on pain, keening as she does, stealing kisses from Zainab between her slaps, shrieking into Zainab's mouth as she takes Lina's nipples between her fingers and pulls. Lina jerks, milks Jaffar's cock with her arse, as if she were but Zainab's instrument, her flesh entirely controlled by her mistress's blows; orgasmic, lithe, squeezing flesh taking Jaffar exactly how Zainab wants to take him.
And that is his undoing. Howling, he buries his face into Lina's shoulder, then thrusts into her so hard they both lose their balance: he pins Lina onto the floor and slams his hips into her as he comes, Zainab clasping his face, triumphant. Sperm dribbles out of Lina's arse, Lina's tiny body twitching as if she were a child slain, a sight terrible even if Yassamin is sure she must be coming; Jaffar's balls jump again and again as he empties himself into her smallness, beads of sweat sluicing down onto the quivering bud of his anus. He mewls, howls through his teeth as he stares into Zainab's eyes, Zainab grinning, grinning.
Yassamin cannot bear to look at the triumph on Zainab's face, so she soothes Jaffar's pain at his defeat by worshipping his arse with her tongue. Yet as soon as she touches him, the contact makes her able to see Zainab through Jaffar's eyes, so open is he in the throes of his emotion: she looks straight into Zainab's gray-blue eyes, wide with sadistic glee as she clasps Jaffar's cheeks, staring into the eyes of a man she thinks she has conquered.
"It seems I have won this round, my pard," Zainab smirks, dragging her thumb down Jaffar's lower lip; Jaffar's arse clenches against Yassamin's tongue, his balls shifting underneath.
"How so?" Jaffar laughs and shakes his head. "Has my wife not told you I am a man of stamina?" he rasps, staggers as he pulls himself up. "But give me a moment," he says as he sits down to catch his breath, his cock still hard, slick from sperm and foam all around its length.
Yet it is Lina's anus that's now the more shocking sight. Zainab leans over and spreads Lina's arse with her hands, digging in one finger from each side, ignoring Lina as she cries out, jerks from the sudden intrusion. Within Lina's arse, sperm and foam and sweat still swirl, her insides heaving as Lina moans quietly into the rug; Zainab raises her eyebrow at Yassamin.
"Aren't you going to taste it?" she asks Yassamin. And in her eyes, there is the implication that now she has gone too far, has pushed past even Yassamin and Jaffar's limits, and that Yassamin should feel the same disgust Zainab now does at the sight: that now, Zainab has proved them to be but dabblers in perversion once and for all.
"And you aren't going to?" Yassamin says, her cunny clenching in arousal at the sight as she leans towards Lina's arse.
"Naturally not," Zainab says, spitting into Lina's arse, making her jerk underneath her as she pulls her arse open once more, now with four fingers. "What kind of a woman savours a taste such as this?" she sneers.
Yassamin's stomach turns as she watches the mess heaving inside Lina's pink and brown gape, Lina's anus so dark she could not even tell if there was a hint of yellow or brown in the mixture. But she will show Zainab, oh, yes, she will. She will--she will, even if she gags a little as her lips near the mess--
It is then that Jaffar's hand comes over her head, caressing her hair, murmuring softly. "Only a queen could take on and relish such perversions," he says; "only a queen could submit with such dignity. Show her, Yassamin; show her you are the empress of all true libertines."
And it is at that that Jaffar scoops up his seed from Lina's arse and lifts it out onto Yassamin's tongue: the alkaline taste of sperm, salt and must explodes onto her tongue, and she begins to rub herself, pushed to the brink of orgasm from the sheer delight of her perversion alone. The disgust entwined with desire--oh, but now she has to have more and as she slides onto her hand to ride it, she slides her tongue into Lina's gape and slurps from it, sobbing into Lina's flesh as she comes. Again, a sharp and hard and fast orgasm, but perfect, perfect; she shrieks into Lina's arse as it clenches violently underneath her mouth, bursting out warm, richly flavoured come into her mouth.
And Jaffar joins her, Zainab pulling out her fingers as she reels back in disgust. Now this play is but Jaffar's and Yassamin's, them showing Zainab who the true royals of perversion are, even as they can both feel Zainab shivering from secret, twisted, suppressed envy inside. Without shame, Jaffar dips three of his fingers deep into Lina, fucking her with them, Lina moaning out her delight; she now rides her hands, too, writhing in abandon underneath their ministrations. Jaffar but chuckles and swirls his fingers into her between scoops, licks, sucks, tastes; Lina jerks underneath them as both he and Yassamin dig their fingers into her, tasting her as deep as possible, taking turns fucking her with their hands. Yassamin can slide four fingers into her arse with ease, curling them and curling them, Lina moaning into the rug, her cunny trickling underneath Yassamin's thumb.
Zainab stares at them like a wounded lioness, prisoner to her own inhibitions, furious that it isn't she who is now giving Lina this, or now receiving this very pleasure from Jaffar and Yassamin's hands.
"Enough!" Zainab barks, yanking Yassamin's hand out of Lina. "Three more girls."
"And then, what?" Jaffar says, taking Zainab by the chin, his prick leaping in delight as Zainab slaps him so hard his hair flies. "And then what, my sweet lady love, who so keenly for perversion yearns? Aren't you afraid we might break you?" he laughs, a laughter ugly, cruel.
Zainab is trembling from rage as she extricates herself and arranges the fourth, fifth and sixth girl in front of them. "Take them. That was our agreement."
Jaffar raises his eyebrow and strokes his cock. "Oh, but I have only just started."
And together, now triumphant, Jaffar and Yassamin claim girls four, five and six; lick and suck and finger and fuck arses brown, black and white, conquering each one with ease. Yassamin's jaw hurts, yet dutifully, she surrenders to her fantasy, to the utter delight of it, now that Zainab seems to be admitting defeat. Slow, stroking herself all the while, Yassamin savours the full length of Jaffar's cock as it emerges from each little arse marbled, fragrant; laughing, she takes upon her face all the sap-trickles and sprays as Jaffar forces howling orgasms out of the girls, their cunnies pulsing sweetly in her palm.
Again and again, Jaffar dips into arse after arse, pulling back now and then to give Yassamin beautiful little gapes to probe into with her tongue: in her delirium, Yassamin thinks she could live like this forever, live from but the delicious taste of arse, arse, arse. Salt and metal and must and sweat and musk; again salt and streaks of sweet cunny swirling into the film coating Jaffar's triumphant, full, heavy cock. Yes, film, thick and rich, thick as the strings of pleasure she pulls from the girls' cunnies with her tongue. Finally, moaning out her hoarse delight, she herself slides into a slow, deep and full orgasm, more fulfilling than the ones that had preceded it.
So violently does she now spasm at the end of it all that now, the sphere of jade bulges and falls out of her arse, dangling heavy between her thighs: the last girl screams in her release and Jaffar pulls out, his cock slapping against his belly, festooning his skin with long, heavy white streaks of mucus and sap. He looks at Yassamin and then at Zainab, panting, his hair having escaped its tie to halo his face, his eyes glowing and staring madly like those of the demons guarding the temples here.
"Is that proof enough, my lady?" he rasps, kneeling in front of Zainab, clawing at his thighs, again twisted, taut from his need to come. He drags his fingertip up his cock, his belly, twirling the wet ribbons of foam around his finger and licking them off to show his triumph. "I still have a little left, should you want to sample some. And I think you have earned it," he says and gets to his feet, covering Zainab with his shadow.
"Guards!" Zainab cries.
Immediately, the two eunuchs are upon Jaffar, Jaffar far too exhausted to resist. He glances at them both flirtatiously, seeing as they are both erect from watching the proceedings. "What are you going to do?" he asks Zainab. "Have me ravished?"
"That is exactly what I am going to do," Zainab says and gets to her feet. "So that you shall not disturb me while I have your wife."
Jaffar throws back his head and laughs. "It's my lucky day. Come. Have your wicked way with me," he croons to the eunuchs, throwing a companionable arm around each. "I shall offer no resistance."
"Excellent," Zainab says. "Girls!" she says and claps her hands. "Take her."
Only Lina and Tahira have finished washing; the others are languishing in the shallow pool, exhausted still. From their smirks, Yassamin wonders if Lina and Tahira have done something like this before; they proceed as if of old habit. "Where are we going?" she asks.
"To the Mistress's private bathchamber," Tahira says, squeezing her arm.
"What happens in her private bathchamber?"
"You'll find out," Lina smirks and stuffs the jade sphere back inside of Yassamin's arse; as Yassamin yelps, Lina slaps her on the buttocks. "This way."
Yassamin glances behind herself at Jaffar, but he is already lying down upon the dais, his head thrown back as one of the eunuchs spreads his legs, another hurrying to push his cock into his mouth. He sends Yassamin a weak don't worry, I shall watch over you, but that does not make Yassamin any less nervous, any less nervous at all.
How can you watch over me when you are roasted like a lamb on a spit? she asks him, sputtering as she senses Jaffar's legs being lifted, cocks entering him from each end.
Trust me, he moans into her, but then his consciousness sinks into but a sea of cock, cock, cock; a deep and dark and heavy rut.
Zainab's private bathchamber is similar to the main one, only in miniature: this room has a small, circular pool set into its floor, and at the end of it, another marble dais. However, this particular dais seems centuries old; it's extravagantly decorated with reliefs of human figures in what look like mythological scenes. This is most definitely a heathen altar, Yassamin realises as the girls make her wash her hands and her mouth in the fountain at its foot. Of the deities, she can recognise Ishtar at least, by her nudity and her wings and her tiered crown: nervously, she laughs at the irony. The goddess Jaffar had made Yassamin herself a manifestation of, yet it is Yassamin who shall now be sacrificed on her altar, she thinks as she swoons in the girls' embrace. A sacrifice, a sacrifice--she feels drunk from more than just lust, wondering if the fragrant smoke that now billows out of the peacock-shaped censers comes from herbs not only aromatic but aphrodisiac as well.
Another thing she notices immediately is that in this room, she feels like a giant. She has always been taller than most women, but the way everything seems to be set underneath her shoulder level now makes her feel like she has wandered into the house of a pairi. The room seems to have been built for Zainab herself, or someone equally petite. Perhaps the previous owner of this house had had an entire harem of Chinese women? For the dais is at the height of her hips, the pool shallow and the hundreds of small alcoves that line the room's walls--making it seem like a dovecote--are positioned no higher than four feet from floor level, so that Zainab can reach into them easily, as she does now.
"Merciful Lord!" Yassamin cries as she realises what's housed in the alcoves.
"What's the matter?" Zainab laughs, weighing a massive silver phallus in her hands. "Did your husband not tell you of my collection?"
"He did," Yassamin says, taking in the hundreds of erotic toys in all colours, shapes and sizes: phalli, beads and wands made of glass, silver, gold, jade. Some at least vaguely resemble human body parts, some resemble torture devices in shapes most ingenious, in materials imaginable and unimaginable. Yassamin returns to look at the giant dildo Zainab now holds in her hands, and her cunny clenches in sheer terror at the idea of something so cold and hard entering her.
"Not this one tonight," Zainab laughs and puts the silver phallus back in its alcove. "The good old leather pricks tonight, I should think," she says and nods to the girls, who immediately fetch two harnesses and begin to buckle themselves into them with great glee.
Yassamin swallows as she sees the stuffed, ribbed leathern cocks attached to the harnesses--both are about the size of Jaffar's, but she does not trust a woman to be as careful as he is with his, and that is the exact thing that now worries her.
"My husband makes harnesses like these, too; ones that make love to the one wearing them," Yassamin says conversationally, trying to mask her nervousness by boasting a little.
"Really?" Zainab says as she nuzzles Lina's face, caressing her cock as if it were real, not even looking at Yassamin. "Shame I prefer to be taken myself," she murmurs. "Let these wonderful nymphs do the work."
"Gladly," Tahira says and comes up behind Zainab, rutting between her buttocks with her leathern cock, cupping her full breasts with bold familiarity. "Are we to give her a demonstration, Mistress?"
"I have been waiting for a long while," Zainab sighs and squats between her girls, sucking on both cocks shamelessly, and Yassamin cannot stop staring at her cunny, how full and pink it is between her legs. Has she truly not come yet? Zainab's perversion for delay is even greater than Jaffar's, it seems. And within the back of her mind, Yassamin can feel Jaffar performing this very act himself with the eunuchs, this very moment: sucking one cock, then another, wetting both with thick spit. The image of Jaffar doing this slots over that of Zainab, Jaffar's giant prick flashing between Zainab's legs; Yassamin feels faint.
But it is then that Zainab wipes her mouth with the back of her hand; as she gets up, a string of her wetness whips down from her cunny to curl around her thigh. She smiles at Yassamin. "You have wanted to taste me for a while, haven't you?" she says warmly, glancing at her cunny, then back at Yassamin. Without further ado, she hops onto the dais and spreading her legs on the edge of it. "Make her kneel."
Unceremoniously, Lina and Tahira push Yassamin onto her knees in front of Zainab. And now, Yassamin awakens from her torpor, as the appetite of one starving awakens at the smell of a feast: Zainab's cunny is so beautiful, so fragrant that she moans out loud, making to kiss it. This is what she has been yearning for days, weeks; what she has tasted of other women tonight pales in comparison with Zainab's mere scent, so unbelievable her head reels. Zainab, Zainab and her softness, the object of her desire now so close to her face; oh, but she wants to swallow her, have her melt upon her tongue.
"May I?" Yassamin asks and bites her lip, unable to stifle a moan.
Zainab flinches back; her cunny must be so sensitised by now that even Yassamin's breath must feel like a caress. With a soft croon in her chest, Zainab rubs herself, slaps herself, lifting out thick strings of her arousal with her fingers, like sugar candy to taunt Yassamin with.
"Beg," she says, grinning.
"Please," Yassamin murmurs, looking up into Zainab's eyes with the exact devoted, adoring, utterly surrendered look she knows drives the beast in Jaffar wild. She does not pretend, even: it is a relief for her to let go, to let go completely and to become but Desire's slave alone. Thus, she slides and glides and falls into that state of mind where her soul obeys but the laws of love and lust, her entire body a tool of pleasure, listening keenly to her lover's every command.
"Mistress. May I please kiss your cunny?" she asks, reverent.
"First, tell me," Zainab hisses, sucking on her own fingers, her cunny pulsing so that now the spheres--the lowest one jade, it seems--peek out of her body, the sap of her arousal sluicing down over the distended rim of her anus. "Are you truly one of our kind, Yassamin? A woman who worships at the cunny?" she murmurs like a priestess, exhorting Yassamin like a neophyte at her initiation.
Yassamin's hands come to rest against the figures on the dais, one of her hands over a smooth stone cunny, the other over a pair of breasts. Entranced, she looks at Zainab, her entire body trembling as the scent of Zainab's cunny fills her lungs and expands inside of her; just as when one lifts strong wine to one's mouth, the very scent of it intoxicating before one has taken even a single sip. She has wanted this for so long, needed this for so long, this desire in her that she had thought but youthful curiosity now stronger than ever before. Zainab had been right to call it a worship; Jaffar had been right to call himself a slave to the cunny, because what else could one be when presented with such a beautiful vulva? Her life is not complete lest she taste this peach, split it with her tongue and suck its nectar, the elixir that will make her fully herself once more.
When Yassamin does not answer, Zainab slaps her out of her reverie. Oh, but the pain but deepens Yassamin's trance, but swirls spice into the wine of her lust-intoxication, her cunny clenching so violently it is as if her womb wants to curl in on itself in want.
Zainab smiles, knowing exactly how much Yassamin is loving this, purring as she captures Yassamin's chin with her sticky, sweet and soft little hand. "Out there, your husband could have forced you. But now, you kneel here at my feet out of your own free will, do you not? It is because of your own desire to taste, to make love to women, is it not? Answer me. Do you love women, Yassamin?"
"Yes," Yassamin laughs, her heart light; she is glad, glad, glad. "Please, Mistress. Gladly, would I make love to you, if you would but allow it."
"I command it," Zainab says, ruffling Yassamin's hair; in the other room, Jaffar's moans and shrieks have reached such volume that even Zainab looks up, laughing. "That you enjoy loving the same sex as much as he does."
Yassamin breaks out of her trance a little, looking past her shoulder, past the curtains; from the gap between them, she can see Jaffar is now lying crushed between the two eunuchs, them seemingly attempting to take his arse simultaneously. The absolute greed of the man! Yet, typical of him; if any man could take two pricks at once, it would be Jaffar.
"He always howls like that when he is taken," Yassamin murmurs and shakes her head.
"And you?" Zainab asks, nodding to Tahira, who now moves behind Yassamin and without any effort whatsoever, slides her prick into Yassamin's cunny.
Yassamin moans, her head thrown into Zainab's lap, her tongue trembling against Zainab's inner thigh; even if Tahira's strokes are careful and considerate, the stretch from the spheres and the cock make her nearly faint there and then.
Zainab but laughs. "Begin," she says, guiding Yassamin's mouth to her cunny.
"Yes, Mistress," Yassamin murmurs.
And oh--now, this kiss she has dreamt of starts not as she had imagined it would: because of Tahira's thrusts, her first licks and tastes are clumsy as she struggles for balance. She is embarrassed by this, unable to even focus on the wonderfulness of it all because of the awkwardness of her position.
Focus, my love, Jaffar murmurs to her from afar; I am listening. Give me some of that plush little cunny; I have waited to taste it as long as you have.
You--! Yassamin thinks at him and moans into Zainab's cunny; as she senses what Jaffar is sensing, the stretch inside of her body is doubled, tripled. So the eunuchs are pushing two cocks into Jaffar's arse at once, indeed! But that he would be able to eavesdrop on her even now--son of Yahya, you are the greediest swine I have ever known!
"Go on, then," Zainab chuckles and cards her fingers through Yassamin's hair, completely oblivious to what has just passed between husband and wife. "You may begin with little licks before you start to suck; I should like that."
Yassamin looks up at Zainab and smiles at her, nuzzling her mound. "To hear is to obey, Mistress." She is glad of this opportunity, not only because it allows her to begin slowly, to worship Zainab's beauty as it deserves to be worshipped: this way, she can listen to the reactions of her body to gauge what sorts of caresses she prefers. Tahira, too, slows down, taking Yassamin with such a slow and exact rhythm it makes Yassamin swoon; if she wasn't so sure it'd make Zainab jealous, she would now turn her head to Tahira and tell her her lovemaking reminds her of Jaffar's own engineer's precision and skill. Now, she can tell when each blow comes, and how deep it touches her; now, she can time her sucks and licks to the movements of both women's bodies. As Tahira's cock pushes deep inside of her, so she pushes her tongue deep inside of Zainab: as Tahira pulls back, so does Yassamin, sucking upon Zainab's folds, the fullness of her cunny's lips.
And oh, what lips: she has to frame Zainab's cunny with her hands, to stroke those lips with both her thumbs, press them together on either side of the top of her slit so that now she is massaging the very root of her clitoris. Astonished, Zainab falls back a little on the dais, balancing herself on her elbows, her head thrown back: her toes curl as Yassamin rubs her mound, her labia in deep, slow circles, gifting her clitoris with short, sharp sucks at each one of Tahira's blows. Zainab's moans grow lower at each suck, her clitoris growing larger and larger at each one of Yassamin's deep, thorough rubs: again, Yassamin spreads her cunny's lips only to press them back together again, and now the tip of Zainab's clitoris peeks out from between them even as her cunny is closed, like a miniature erection seeking her touch.
"You are good," Zainab groans, clawing at the marble, panting at the ceiling.
"It is only that you inspire me, my lady," Yassamin murmurs; she adores watching Zainab's reactions, again understanding why Jaffar derives such great pleasure from manipulating his lovers so, submitting them to the drug of his skill. For now, Zainab's whole body arches off the dais as Yassamin rubs her entire cunny with her hand, her distended clitoris and her folds in the nest of her palm, Yassamin pressing and cupping and squeezing her mound with her fingers, fanned over the hill of it.
On and on Yassamin massages her sex until Zainab arches, arches, pushing into her touch: Tahira withdraws, and as she pushes back inside Yassamin once more, Yassamin pulls back and slaps Zainab's cunny, slaps it, smacking her until she howls. Zainab keens, her eyes furious, her hips jerking, twitching: the jade sphere bulges out of her arse and bursts out of it with a slurp, sticky as it dangles off the edge of the dais.
"Come here," Zainab rasps, her eyes staring mad from lust; she grabs Yassamin by the hair and forces her mouth onto her cunny. "No more games," she moans from between her teeth and begins to take Yassamin's face, fuck it with her cunny, smearing her entire face with her wetness until Yassamin can no longer breathe. "Suck. Suck or I'll have your head, you wretched harlot; suck, suck--"
Yassamin shivers herself as she closes her mouth around Zainab's clitoris; she laughs into her cunny, loving the way the vibrations of her voice now break out of Zainab's mouth as ululations. No longer does Yassamin wonder whether Zainab likes her matings soft or rough: she sets out to suck her clitoris as furiously as if it were a little prick, making a milking motion with her mouth. Now, she can swear she can feel it pulsing in her mouth, Zainab moaning hoarse and deep from the bottom of her belly, gifting Yassamin with the vibrations of her own voice in turn. Tahira picks up the pace, too, laughing; she slaps Yassamin's buttocks and begins to thrust into her faster, guiding Yassamin with her hips into the exact rhythm Zainab likes, it seems.
With this kind of guidance, Yassamin's job is easy: it's only that her jaw aches, now, and she wants to make Zainab come, knowing she must be close. A few fingers should do it, but the spheres still nestled within Zainab's arse--two by the feel of it--have made her tight, so sensitive that she twitches and hisses in discomfort as Yassamin attempts to push two fingers into her cunny. But Yassamin knows how this feels, having had Jaffar perform this same act upon her numerous times as he had been filling her arse with some toy or another: therefore, she knows how to angle her fingers, knows how to slide them back and forth very gently in order to bring them where they will bring Zainab the most pleasure.
And with most women, that spot is just behind the pubic bone, not too far from her entrance: Yassamin curls her fingers there softly, looking into Zainab's eyes, never ceasing in her sucking of her clitoris. She makes a little inquiring noise, hooking her fingers upwards gently, not putting too much pressure on her lest she is too sensitive by now, or if the spheres are making this too uncomfortable for her. Oh, if only Zainab were telepathic--
Zainab lifts her head, her hair a golden cloud of curls around her face; the soft rolls of her belly tremble and undulate as Yassamin strokes her. "Deeper."
Does she prefer to be touched there, too, then? Gol had preferred to be touched behind the clitoris; so had Halima--has Yassamin found another woman who shares her favourite pleasure-spot, then? She had thought herself the only one, if she did not count Jaffar, for she had always presumed Jaffar had modelled his cunny on hers in the first place, from her sensations and his experiences within her. Yassamin raises her eyebrow and feels for Zainab, giving her an apologetic look as she accidentally skims the root of her womb, finding it impossible not to bump into it now that the spheres are tightening her so. But there, there it is--at the very back, behind the womb, where the curve of the last sphere presses hard into the very end of her vagina: Yassamin's fingers touch membrane smoother than the rest of her, and Zainab convulses around her hand.
Now, Zainab's eyes bulge out of her head, her nostrils tremble wide and she is puffing, moaning, bellowing like an animal. "Don't stop," she groans, tossing her head as if possessed by djinn; "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop!"
And at that, it is Tahira who picks up the pace, now slamming into Yassamin, so that Yassamin howls herself: she obeys the rhythm of Tahira's thrusts, sucking Zainab wildly with the last of her strength, curling her fingertips as deep as she can, deep, deep. Yassamin sobs from her exhaustion, her arms and her knees trembling from fatigue; now, Zainab screams, her legs flailing and clutching around Yassamin's head and she sprays Yassamin's chin.
Yet, from her own experience, Yassamin knows that unlike on a man, a woman's ejaculation might be but a herald of impending orgasm rather than the orgasm itself. Therefore, she doesn't dare stop yet, pressing and curling and hooking her fingers inside of Zainab's flesh so violently that now the last two spheres burst out of her, clattering onto the floor as Zainab's arse loosens with the contractions of her release.
Yet Yassamin keeps on pressing, taking Zainab with her fingers, and on and on Zainab howls and trickles down Yassamin's neck; Yassamin is so close to orgasm herself, now, shaking from how much she needs it. But she is so tired, now, so tired that she cannot come: therefore, she but wraps herself in Zainab's pleasure, wraps herself in her flesh, bathes in her fluids thick and sweet and salty and thin.
Finally, Zainab pushes Yassamin's face aside with a trembling hand, gesturing for them to stop. Yassamin kneels there, Zainab's ejaculate dripping down her chest onto her nipples and onto the floor; her mouth hurts so much she cannot even make a noise. She is exhausted, covered in sweat and sap, but happy, happy; as Tahira pulls out of her, the spheres that had been inside of Yassamin fall out as well, and Yassamin collapses onto the floor, panting.
It is then that a loud series of moans bursts out behind them, and Tahira groans. "You are impossible."
But it is not Yassamin or Zainab she is groaning at: behind them, comfortable on the cushions beside the pool lies Lina, masturbating lazily; it seems she has just reached release herself.
"You didn't need me, so I decided to take matters into my own hands," she laughs breathlessly, wiping sweaty hair from her face into the cushions. She is still wearing the harness, but she has removed the dildo from it and is still working it in and out from her arse as she lies there on her side, sighing luxuriously as she rubs her clitoris.
"I should whip you," Zainab mutters, "but you would enjoy it too much. Come here."
Yassamin watches as Lina washes the dildo and her hands, then walks over to the dais, her spine sinuous and lax from the glow of her orgasms. To think that Zainab possesses women this lustful, and more than one, when in Yassamin's experience, most women do not care for the arts of love at all: Zainab must have spent considerable amounts of time and money in the slave markets querying after such girls, ones who had been sold on when their lusts had turned out to surpass those of their masters. And now she understands what Latifa had meant about the girls Zainab had given to Mohammad: these vixens would definitely exhaust even a Barmakid, and she marvels at them, marvels.
"How long have you been sheltering such girls, my lady?" Yassamin finally asks Zainab.
Zainab nuzzles into Lina's breasts as Lina comes to hold her from behind, resting her head upon her chest. "Many years. Such girls are rare, more precious than gold, and I would rather their skills weren't wasted on masters who cannot appreciate them. The women who prefer women are easy to buy off in particular; I have heard whisper they call my house the new Lesbos," she chuckles in satisfaction, Lina laughing into her mouth as she takes it with a kiss.
"But, come," Zainab says. "We are all empty, and we cannot have that." Brightly, as if but refreshed from love's exertions, Zainab hops off the dais and goes to pick up the spheres that had been inside Yassamin. She dangles them against the light, inspecting them. "He was right; you truly are clean on the inside," she murmurs, yet still shudders a little in revulsion at the white foam now drying upon them. For a while, she keeps on staring at the spheres, perversely fascinated and disgusted at the same time. "Still, rather you than me."
I will make her taste them, Yassamin groans in frustration on the inside, but realises that thought had come from Jaffar, simultaneous as he watches Zainab so scorning their favourite pleasure. Even now, Jaffar is sucking his taste off one of the eunuchs, shocking both of them with the relish with which he slurps and laps the traces of his guts off the lucky fellow. I will make that bitch suck you and herself off my cock and like it, he growls into Yassamin's mind. I will make her beg for a taste of the jade cock from my arse; oh, Yassamin, we will show her, we will show her.
But then his voice is gone, and Zainab must have felt the idea, even if she has not heard him consciously; again, she shivers, but chooses to ignore it and begins to wash the spheres underneath the fountain.
And as Zainab kneels there, her buttocks on offer, Yassamin sees her chance and takes it. Lina and Tahira make no move to stop Yassamin as she presses Zainab against the fountain bowl, hooks her arm around Zainab's throat and presses two fingers to her arse.
"How clean are you, my lady?" Yassamin asks, as if she were now possessed by Jaffar the ravisher; Zainab is so open that Yassamin can slip her fingers inside of her arse easily, hook them upwards so that Zainab cries out in her embrace. "For I have a mind to teach you, to teach you indeed."
With a roar, Zainab tears herself free; Yassamin dances back and sucks upon her fingers, making a show of it, rubbing her cunny as she savours Zainab's taste. "Delicious," she murmurs at Zainab in challenge, Zainab the she-lion now staring at her in cold fury, her hair a wild mane around her head. "What's the matter? I thought you fancied yourself the most perverse woman in the entire empire," some demon in Yassamin says.
She has never been like this, never, but women bring this out in her, they must do: more than anything, she wants Zainab to simply give into her lust, to tear through all foolish inhibitions and join her and Jaffar on their level of debauchery. The level of the greatest libertines in the known world--in this, she pities Zainab: that for all her orgies and excesses, she still holds back. That she still refuses to fully submit, for it is in submission, in surrender that one is truly crowned king, queen: Jaffar himself has taught Yassamin that, many times over.
But is that it? Is it Jaffar that Zainab needs to submit to, Yassamin herself not being strong enough? She can see lust flashing in Zainab's eyes, some strange curiosity--admiration, perhaps. She expects Zainab to attack her, yet Zainab but wipes her mouth, as if she had been forced to sample the forbidden taste already. "Take her," she says to the girls, "on the dais. Tie her up."
And now, the beast in Yassamin leaves her as quickly as he had arrived: she feels as if a djinni is leaving her body as the girls tie up her wrists and her ankles, her hips pulled to the edge of the dais so that she is in a birth-giving position--or in a position to be ravished. How did she get here? Had Jaffar possessed her?
Perhaps a little, Jaffar whispers, innocently. Perhaps a tiny, tiny bit, he smirks into her mind. A dash.
"You bastard," she moans out loud; the girls look at her askance. "I am sorry," she gasps, tossing her head. "I do not know what came over me. It has to have been one of my husband's tricks," she babbles, struggles; on the other side of the dais, Tahira picks up a voluminous syringe. "Please--I'll do anything you want!"
"As a matter of fact, that's exactly what you will do," Zainab says, plucking off her rings and picking up a nail file. "I was going to ask you to take me with your hand, but it seems you cannot be trusted; therefore, we are going to teach you a little lesson." She inspects her nails. "Aren't we, girls?"
"Oil or cream, Mistress?" Tahira asks, making her way to a series of pots near the brazier.
Zainab pretends to consider, blowing on her nails. "Jasmine oil for you, I should think; rosewater for Lina, and cream for me." She looks up at Yassamin. "To be frank with you, we have never done this sort of thing before. But from what your husband told me, you seem like the ideal candidate to test it on." She walks around the dais and feels for Yassamin's ribs, her shoulders, as if assessing how much weight her body can take. "And the bridle, Lina. I do not wish to hear another insult from her."
"What are you going to do?" Yassamin asks, and now she can hear Jaffar listening, keenly present as he senses her fear. However, he is still being held in place by the guards, the legends of the stamina of the blue eunuchs proving themselves true as they keep on molesting him, determined to wring every last ounce of amusement from him.
Zainab slaps Yassamin's cunny. "Nothing that shall maim you permanently," she grins. "I think."
"Please!" Yassamin panics, tosses in her bonds as Lina brings over what Zainab had called a bridle; indeed, it is a series of leathern straps and metal clasps that buckles around her face. As Lina takes out the mouthpiece, she looks at Zainab, waiting for her permission to gag Yassamin with it.
Remain calm, Jaffar whispers. I will smite her if she truly hurts you. She has promised to honour the word 'mercy,' remember? If she breaks that promise, I will break her, he sends to Yassamin, to Zainab, with such force that even Zainab stills for a moment.
So that's the word she is listening out for. Even in her wickedness, Zainab stands there and waits--is it merely that she is such a good actress that she can terrify Yassamin so? Is this all a part of the ravishment-play Jaffar had promised Yassamin? Yassamin had never expected it to go this far, that she would be so out of her depth, so genuinely terrified.
Zainab takes the mouthpiece--a thick leathern ring--from Lina and holds it to Yassamin's face, softly caressing Yassamin's cunny with her other hand. Her eyes are a little gentler, now, such a strange mix of consideration and even tenderness entwined around a core of true sadism. "He told me you were a little demoness," Zainab says, now fondly. "I told him that I specialised in their taming. But that is all--taming. I do not break them, or destroy them, as witch-doctors do. I but scour them, as one scours a silver mirror to polish it, to let it better reflect light."
"And you would... scour me?" Yassamin whispers, looking at the gag, then at Zainab, her chest constricting with conflicting emotions. It is just as Jaffar had said: the greatest of magicians turns his demons into his mistresses, his adorers, submits them forever to the caress of his loving whip.
Zainab cups Yassamin's cunny with her hand and kisses her, soft, tender, deep. "I would. For it seems to me you have been misbehaving because you needed something more. Is that not right?"
Yassamin shivers underneath her touch, her hand so skilled, so perfect it awakens her need once more, the need for a truly deep orgasm, the sort she has not yet had tonight, so that she might be truly sated. Perhaps that's why she has been so restless; perhaps it had not been just Jaffar who had wanted to see Zainab the lioness unsheathe her claws. She opens her eyes and searches Zainab's; Zainab taps her cunny with her hand and smiles.
"Would you be pleasured, my sweet Yassamin?" Zainab asks, licks her fingertips and returns them to Yassamin's clitoris. "With the permission--nay, the request of your husband--and my own desire to see you burn; burn as you have never burned before?"
"You frighten me," Yassamin says, her honesty making her sound like a fool; yet, she arches into Zainab's sweet touch, the softness of her lips against hers. But she had also been afraid of Jaffar, had she not? And in him, the man she had thought an ogre, had dwelt the most skilled of all lovers, the most loving of husbands.
And now, Jaffar's spirit comes to embrace her, weighing her limbs into the dais, his gaze hovering above them, caressing all four women in blessing. Say but the word and she will stop.
"Say but the word and I will stop," Zainab says out loud.
Yassamin swallows. Is this not what she had wanted? To be taken as a woman, by women, in ways she has not been taken before? This place, this moment is where her own desire, coupled with Jaffar's, her very heart and her sex have taken her.
She clenches her fists, unclenches them, then nods. "Take me."
Good girl, Jaffar purrs to her, then steps back inside of his own body, the taste of cock and sweat and come sharp and slick in Yassamin's mouth; good girl.
"Open your mouth," Zainab says and attaches the mouthpiece to the bridle. The leathern ring comes to rest between Yassamin's teeth so that she can bite down on it, yet it still holds her jaw open, leaving a gap in the middle for--she dreads to think what. It isn't big enough for a cock, however, and this even disappoints her slightly; the gap is only just wide enough for Zainab to push two fingers into it, and now she tests the fit, tapping Yassamin's tongue with her fingertips. "There," she says and withdraws her fingers. "We are almost ready, but for one thing. For your husband has also told me that in lieu of the word 'mercy,' you have agreed upon three taps of the fingers, should you not be able to speak. Is that not so? Show me, so that I might recognise the signal if needs be."
Yassamin clutches at the air in vain--now that her wrists are bound, she has nothing to tap against. Therefore, her mouth now gagged, she makes a noise and points to her wrists with her head, nodding three times instead.
Zainab nods back, clearly not even considering loosening Yassamin's bonds. "Three shakes of the head for 'no,' then. Or three blinks. Will that do?"
Again, Yassamin nods thrice, and Zainab kisses her nose. "Good. These bonds are but for your own protection, my dear," she says, smirking. "It will make it easier for you to keep your position for what we are about to do to you, as we shall be there for a while. Won't we, my sweets?"
But Lina and Tahira are too busy filling each other with the enema syringe: Lina yelps, giggles as Tahira stops her arse with a small leathern plug. Zainab joins them and soon, she, too, is filled and plugged; as Yassamin watches them, she wonders how long the women are going to keep their enemas in for.
"You are wondering if they are medicinal," Zainab says. "And you would be right. Excellent for stimulating one's circulation down there. I've found a mix of saffron, honey and coconut oil most marvellous for sensitising the rectum; warms the cunny quite wonderfully as well," she says and opens a little jar of ointment; going by its scent, it contains those very ingredients. "Lina, fresh pricks. The ridged leather; yes, the white ones. One for me and one for Tahira."
As Tahira begins to buckle her cock into her harness--it is a prick thicker than the ones they had used before, made entirely of white leather, longer and more cruelly ridged--Zainab rubs the ointment onto it and smiles at Yassamin. "I did not see you reach the peak, and would have Tahira bring you release first."
"It would be my pleasure," Tahira murmurs and kisses Zainab.
"And what about me?" Lina says, sulking a little with the second dildo in her hand.
Zainab wipes her hands on a towel, chuckles and wraps her arms around Lina's neck, kissing her deeply, passionately as she takes the cock from her. "You and Yassamin get to have me," she purrs, licking Lina's mouth, smacking her arse. "Put it in her mouth."
And as Lina slips the base of the cock into Yassamin's bridle and buckles it in, Yassamin's eyes fly wide. The rounded root of the toy slides into her mouth, enough to gag her, so that she can only just breathe: she screams around it, and at that scream, she can see Zainab's nipples hardening in delight. They mean to--they truly mean to--and as Zainab tests the cock by tugging on it, Yassamin's heart breaks out into a gallop. She is this close to tapping Zainab's thigh, this close to screaming mentally for Jaffar's help--
Exquisite, Jaffar murmurs into her mind. Absolutely exquisite. It surpasses anything I could have ever thought up myself. You know, I think we've had it the wrong way round, all this time. Instead of Zainab hiring us, we should hire her as our head engineer of the erotic.
I am going to kill you for this, Yassamin howls in her mind, kill you for this--
With many grateful kisses and sucks, I expect, Jaffar chuckles.
Jaffar's voice fades just as Zainab climbs onto the dais and straddles Yassamin's face; Yassamin still cries out in terror as Zainab places the tip of the bridle-dildo into her cunny and smiles down at her. "Shh. Just refrain from thrashing too much and it will be fine. You don't want to break your neck, do you?" she grins.
Oh. She had not thought of that. Now, she is forced to stay still for her own good--and immediately, she recognises Jaffar's hand in this, the same way he has forced her to stillness when she has most needed to be calmed down by heavy love-play. And just as Jaffar has stilled her body with the weight of his own, now Zainab does the same: Yassamin can only marvel at her as she lowers herself down upon her face. With her very cunny, Zainab swallows her, takes her as she descends upon her. Has she done this before? Or is this a new toy? Zainab seems somewhat unfamilar with it herself, shifting a little as she settles down on it, shivering as she lets the cock slip inside of her body.
Yet, even in this, she is beautiful, her beauty itself offering Yassamin something to anchor herself to, to submit to in worship. The soft rolls of her belly, the rippling fat upon her thighs, the rosebud-whorls of her nipples on breasts dangling heavy before her like ripe fruit: all of Zainab now closes over and around Yassamin, a warm sea of loving, white flesh. Never has she been so devoured by a woman before, never so taken: at the realisation of this, she sobs in gratitude, at Zainab's cleverness, at Jaffar's wisdom. And there, there: but inches from her face, the slick, full sweetness of Zainab's cunny, its lips stretched beautifully around the white leather cock. Zainab shifts a little, pulling and spreading her inner folds so that they don't drag on the toy, unfolding herself delicately; her plump little fingers holding her cunny open like a moist, sweet flower, her clitoris peeking from between them, glistening and firm from her arousal.
Oh, but how Yassamin wants to taste her, now, her nostrils flaring at her scent, but that is it, that is it exactly: it is in her denying Yassamin this that Zainab revels, laughing wickedly as she rubs her clitoris, rocking upon Yassamin's face, her thighs heaving on either side of her.
"Cat got your tongue?" Zainab purrs, tossing her golden mane to the side; she makes a show of her masturbation, submitting Yassamin to the service of her body. And now, as Tahira pushes inside of Yassamin's cunny once more, makes her feel what Zainab is feeling as the identical leather prick now rubs at her insides, she howls into her gag, howls. Before Tahira even starts to rub Yassamin's clitoris, she shudders in near-orgasm at being used so, at being reduced to but an object of desire: in this, the women are perfecting her, beautifying her, turning her entire body into an instrument of love. There is no longer any room in her for the woes and anxieties of her ordinary life, no room for shame or insecurity about her desires: she can only be, can only pleasure others and be pleasured in turn, be and breathe and moan and tremble out love, love, love.
This, too, is my design, my sweet, the love of all my loves, my one who so for love's dissolution yearns, Jaffar whispers into her mind, and as Zainab sinks her hand into Yassamin's hair, for a moment her fingers become long, brown and weathered with age, the fingers of a man, the fingers of her beloved. I told them to take your mouth so that the only sounds that might emerge from it were those of pleasure; told them to so weigh you down that all anguish and woe were pressed from you. I told them to so envelop you in cunny that you would drown in its softness and its sweetness and its joy, the way I have always drowned in your flesh, my Paradise; told them to so fill you with prick upon prick, to so pound you that there was no room left in you for shame or grief. Let them take you, my love; let yourself be immersed in this baptism of Woman, have your senses steeped, dyed deep in breast and thigh and cunny-sap. For that is my desire, Zainab's, ours; come, Yassamin, come to us in Love. We are waiting for you.
Annihilated, vanquished, Yassamin lies there, and it only takes Zainab's hand on her clitoris to bring her to release, release, release: the walls of her cunny rubbed raw, all of the women's thrusts and rubs now force her orgasm to crash through her body. Pleasure, devastating pleasure sweeps through her in violent arcs, arcs iridescent, flashing out of her in waves, as if reaching well outside of her body, waves lapping, weaving, wings bursting out of her--and then she returns to the center of her body, juddering as if thrown upon cruel rocks. Yet again she retreats as Tahira retreats, and as Tahira again pushes into the root of Yassamin's cunny, the wave crests once more, still rippling coloured light through her flesh, and now she shares it with Zainab: she flows out of her mouth as trembling moans, thrusting the pearlescent, gossamer swirls of her pleasure into Zainab's body, each one of her cries a blow upon Zainab's womb, making Zainab arch and toss upon her face in turn.
And Zainab rides her, rides her wildly, arching her back and grinding upon her until Yassamin's jaw aches, aches: from her shudders and her screams, from her shaking thighs, Zainab must now be in the throes of release herself. "God--!" Zainab cries, riding Yassamin's face until her cunny is sloshing, she rubbing her clitoris until her knuckles are white, and she slips on top of Yassamin, hoarse as she wrings out the last tremors of her orgasm.
Zainab shakes her head, still trembling, beads of her sweat falling into Yassamin's eyes. "Your face, your face--" she moans, laughs, cupping Yassamin's head; "I was smitten the day I first saw it, and wanted to possess it, but never did I know I would be so satisfied by it," she says, shaking her head. "That it could take me so deeply, so utterly. Wonder of wonders that a woman can now do this to another," she murmurs.
She must mean the difference between cunnilingus and penetration; then, Yassamin cannot be the only woman who is never truly satisfied with but external stimulation. A mere clitoris-orgasm is, after the first peak of it, eventually but painful for her, leaving hot blood trapped and swirling in her womb, leaving her aching; those days when she has had to make do with but her hands have always been utter torture for her.
However, she had always thought that women who only loved other women could come fully from but rubbing their cunnies, that there was some anatomical difference that gave them full release externally, the same way a man orgasmed. So this anomaly, their mutual love of deep penetration--perhaps more common with a woman who responded to both women and men?--would explain Zainab's love of toys, of the female hand.
Interesting that you should mention that, Jaffar says, chuckling into her mind; he is now sipping a cool coconut drink with the eunuchs, all of them gathered beside the pool: Yassamin would not put it past him to have projected the vision from Zainab's bathroom onto the surface of the water, so pleased the eunuchs look as they gaze into the pool. That's what she's been saving Lina up for, I think, Jaffar tells her. She does have the smallest hands of them all.
And Jaffar is right: now, Zainab lifts herself off Yassamin so that she can see what is taking place at the foot of the dais. With a kiss, Tahira and Lina exchange places, Lina going down on her knees and rubbing the fragrant ointment all over her hands; but before she can touch Yassamin, she is pressed against the dais, moaning as Tahira begins to take her from behind. From behind Yassamin's gag, she can see Lina closing her eyes, shivering in pleasure as she is finally taken; it must be exactly because Lina seems the most lustful of them all that Zainab has made her wait.
"Thank you, Mistress," Lina moans and bites her lip, rolling her hips back into Tahira's thrusts, gazing at her over her shoulder. "Don't stop."
Zainab looks at them and laughs, giving Yassamin's cock a long lick, savouring her own taste from it. "Mm. Are you ready?"
When could I ever be ready? Yassamin thinks, swallows; her head and her neck ache, and as Lina slides several fingers--she does not know how many--into her cunny, she arches off the dais, trembling in her bonds. Zainab's fluids trickle down from the root of the cock into Yassamin's mouth and she coughs on them, biting hard into the leather as Lina curls her hand, curls, curls. It feels wonderful, but the dildo has rubbed her so raw that the sensation is painful rather than pleasurable; she is glad that Zainab has dismounted her, because now she can clearly move her head thrice, to indicate that this is more than she can bear. Her cunny has always been too sensitive for extreme play; she hopes Jaffar has told them that, too.
Zainab gestures for Lina to stop. "Poor girl," she says, brushing hair from Yassamin's face. "And how about your arse?"
Yassamin hesitates a little, looking down at Lina apologetically: Lina has waited for her pleasure so long and she does not want to disappoint her. And Yassamin's arse has hardly been played with at all: surely she must be able to take more than that, at least there. While her cunny's sensitive walls are easily hurt, her arse has always been able to accommodate the most extreme of penetrations, stretches: if she has been able to take Gol's hand, Jaffar's hand, even two men's pricks, surely one small woman's fingers should not be too difficult? Therefore, she nods thrice, first to Lina, then looks at Zainab.
Zainab beams. "I am glad we understand each other," she says and caresses Yassamin's belly, then cups her cunny in a soothing gesture. "Come. Lina, take her arse instead; go slow and gentle. I am told her arse is nothing short of a cave of miracles," Zainab laughs and slaps her cunny. "What is it they say? Open sesame?"
That Yassamin should be able to blush, even now--oh, but she is dizzy from this, made dizzier as Lina grins and begins to work her fingers into her arse. She is an expert at this, it seems; she goes slow, wedging her hand in order to stretch Yassamin's muscles little by little, careful so as not to hurt her. And oh, how the pleasure now rises in Yassamin, making her hips lift, her cunny pulsing and pulsing in Zainab's hand. She keens in her throat, so heated now that Zainab sits upon the dildo strapped to her face once more, this time facing Yassamin's cunny so that she may keep on rubbing it. And oh, what a sight Yassamin is now offered: Zainab's massive, white arse, the stretch of her fat cunny even lewder from this angle, its lips swallowing her cock up like a hungry, pink mouth. And on top of it, a sight that turns her stomach as much as it makes her cunny clench, clench between Zainab and Lina's hands: the gleaming end of the plug in Zainab's arse, whorls and drops of cream glistening upon the bud of her anal muscles. The cock pushes upon the plug grotesquely, making a little cream trickle out of Zainab's arse even now--surely, if she were to push hard enough, the plug would fly out--oh--
But now Yassamin can no longer think, as Lina picks up the rhythm and begins to take her with both hands, dipping what seem to be all of her fingers into Yassamin's arse; left hand, right hand, left hand, then right hand once more. Yassamin can but moan inside her gag, moan into the dildo, Zainab's arse jiggling as she laughs and laughs at the vibrations of Yassamin's noises pleasuring her hips.
It's as if Yassamin has become one of Jaffar's clockwork machines, Lina's hands the mechanism that pushes her into movement as if a clock or an automaton; oh, but this is ludicrous, but it is all she can think of. With great precision, Lina pounds moans out of her, then adds to her strokes the refinement of a curl of her fingers each time she pulls out. She tugs, tugs on Yassamin's muscles each time she pulls out entirely, and Yassamin becomes but howls, her nipples standing hard underneath Zainab's thighs and she is trickling, her cunny pulsing and pulsing, each one of Lina's penetrations pushing out another spray of ejaculate.
Zainab but laughs and rubs Yassamin's cunny so that she sprays everywhere, Lina moaning and choking and laughing and drinking her in greedily; she is inside Yassamin to the widest part of her hand when she tugs it out once more and Yassamin is gone, gone. Her arse loosens, slurps, makes a horrible, disgusting noise and even here, Lina knows not to interrupt it, knows only to hook her fingers around the rim instead of pushing in entirely; even in the white haze of the violence that is the anal orgasm, Yassamin is astounded. It is with such care and skill that Lina listens to her body's reactions--a skill borne from years of performing this on her mistress, perhaps?
And Lina listens to her not with her ears alone; she reads the palpitations of Yassamin's flesh with her fingertips, assessing the strength of her convulsions so that she can time her caresses to them.
As soon as Yassamin's tremors start to ebb, Lina senses her time has come: she swirls her hand in a circular motion, pushes in with the full force of her arm and her entire hand slips inside of Yassamin's body. Oh, but Lina is inside, inside, entire, entire; her hand settles inside of Yassamin's flesh, nestling into the curves of her body. Yassamin cannot even breathe; her muscles want to eject the intruder, but she is now so stretched her arse cannot even clench around Lina's wrist, the control of her entire body given up to another. Her cunny aches, pulsing and pulsing, but despite the enormous pressure from Lina's hand she is unable to spray any more, so have they milked her dry. Her eyes roll back in her head and she stays still, her entire body white and cold and breaking out in gooseflesh, cold sweat. She is pushed into emptiness, her body become but stone, yet within that stone, a core of heat as the molten core of earth itself; she can feel the girls stilling as well, perhaps even slightly concerned for her, yet she swims in bliss, an ecstasy beyond pleasure and pain.
The fountain underneath the dais trickles; outside, the nightingale trills; Zainab's weight shifts upon Yassamin's body and her jewellery tinkles, tinkles.
There is a soft hand upon Yassamin's cunny, and with it, a soft, warm, woman's mouth upon her clitoris; together, Zainab and Lina pull her back into awareness, Lina fluttering her fingertips inside of her body, gentle and sweet. Zainab seems to be unbuckling the bridle, lifting her weight off Yassamin's face a little. There is a trickle of wetness across Yassamin's mouth and she opens her eyes--no--no--
"Yes," Zainab murmurs, squats over Yassamin and pulls out the plug from her arse. With a wicked, soft laugh, she rolls her hips and releases a stream of honey-sweetened cream over Yassamin's face.
Yassamin shrieks in her shock, now completely shaken awake; she is horrified, but is this not exactly what Jaffar had done to her on their first night in Samarkand? She coughs, gurgles, and now Zainab lifts up, tossing dildo and bridle aside: she curls her back and purses out the remains of the warm, white, honeyed liquid all over Yassamin's astounded face. And she never stops rubbing Yassamin's clitoris, Lina never stops rolling her hand; whimpering in her humiliation, Yassamin is plunged into another orgasm, one so violent her consciousness is completely loosened from her body.
Perhaps she is dead. Perhaps she is dead from shame, from ecstasy, from both; she is watching herself from above as now Tahira, too, squats over her and releases her enema over her face. She can smell jasmine oil, jasmine trickling into her hair, a wet cunny ground against her mouth, she forced to suck it, serve it even as her eyes are drenched with thick, golden, sweet oil. And Zainab, the palest of the women is now pushing her hands into Yassamin's arse, entering her easily; she pulls out her right hand and then inserts the left, as simply as if she were but trying on new gloves.
From her position high, high, high above, Yassamin can see there are white rings around Zainab's wrists as she works both of her hands into Yassamin's arse, in and out, left and then right, rolling them inside of her sweetly. And oh, the gape, the slurp as she pulls out: Yassamin's arse heaves grotesquely, like a gasping red and black mouth; if Yassamin were still inside of her body she might be sick. Yet now, she is but fascinated, mesmerised by the rhythm and flow of Zainab's hands as they plunge back in and out again, the tremor on her own belly as her innards are pushed upwards by Zainab's thrusts. She is being worked on, reshaped, made anew: all the while, she can hear, feel Jaffar's marvelling at this, his worshipping this orgiastic mystery play. Even now, she can feel his spirit guiding Zainab's hands, him taking her as Zainab does, himself being taken as Yassamin is taken, swimming in her trance with her.
You are beautiful, Jaffar whispers, even his psychic voice near tears; my beautiful queen. That you should give me this gift, when it was I who had thought to gift you, oh--it is I who am adoring, my love, adoring.
And now, Lina straddles Yassamin's face, demanding her to serve her in turn; Lina's tiny little cunny is now a delicious golden brown from its flush, so heated it does not take more than a few sucks from Yassamin to bring her to release. Lina bucks, screams shrill as she comes, and this, too, has been a masterstroke of Zainab's. For now, at the moment of her undoing, Lina releases the last of the enemas, the one most voluminous: that of rosewater. With it, the oil and the cream are sluiced off Yassamin's face, trickling in serpentine rivulets down her hair and off the dais, splashing onto the floor, pooling there.
If that isn't the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Jaffar sighs into Yassamin's mind, his soul rutting against hers, making love to her in spirit; I shall cherish this forever, he says with great fondness, utter tenderness despite the filthiness of the act.
You are insane, she thinks. You are insane, all of you.
And you love us for it, my madwoman, my maddest of the mad.
I do, Yassamin thinks, hopeless, helpless; I do, I do, I do, she moans inwardly as her head lolls back on the dais.
And now, Zainab slaps Yassamin's cunny to stir her; vigorously, she slaps her breasts, slaps her face, then laughs and gathers her up into a kiss. "Wake up, my sweet. You look as if we scared your soul out of you!"
"You did," Yassamin says, her jaw hurting, aching so that she can barely speak; she winces against Zainab's shoulder. "What next?" she slurs.
"Considering where we are," Zainab says and slaps her on the arse, "I would suggest we bathe."
And then, a warm bucketful of fresh rosewater is thrown into Yassamin's face and poured into her hair; Lina goes to fetch another bucketful as Tahira begins to scrub Yassamin clean with rough towels. They wash Zainab and Yassamin together, both women resting upon the dais in each other's arms, warm and languid from pleasure. Yassamin remains in a haze all throughout their bath, no longer sure if she hasn't indeed walked into the land of the pairi; this has been a night of such miracles, such perversions she does not know what is real any longer. To think that she is a queen no more, that now she is but an ordinary engineer's wife and a mother, and only now she is experiencing miracles told of only in bawdy fairytales? It is madness! Resting her head upon Zainab's breasts, she laughs softly at the absurdity of it all.
"What amuses you so, my child?" Zainab says, still embracing her as the girls wrap them in but one large towel.
"Is this a dream, or is this reality?" Yassamin asks, laughing, shaking her head. "Tell me, my lady, for I cannot tell any longer."
"A dream," Zainab says, kissing her cheek. "Come and share my bed, my sweet Yassamin; come dream with me a little while longer," she says as they are both helped into soft robes and lifted into her litter.
But they have not even made it to Zainab's bedchamber before Yassamin is asleep, her head cradled in Zainab's lap, nestled into her softness like a happy, exhausted child.
"Revenge," Jaffar murmurs into Yassamin's ear, his head lolling drunkenly upon her shoulder. "My honour cannot abide it. I must conquer that wench!"
Yassamin nuzzles him and smiles, blowing dry apricot leaves from his hair. The children are asleep and she and Jaffar have retreated to the garden after the nightfall prayers; it is the first time they have been able to spend a good deal of time together after their adventure with Zainab. Finally, they have time to focus on but loving each other, enjoying fresh air and wine and and kisses; they have banished all servants, even the minstrels so that they might be completely alone.
It's been a week since their adventure at Zainab's house; Yassamin has finally healed enough to sit down comfortably, and Jaffar has at last finished the first half a dozen of his dolls. Amorously, Jaffar's eyes query Yassamin's over the brim of the cup as he passes it to her; he caresses her hand sensually as he does so. With her eyes, she replies in the affirmative and lays her hand upon his thigh; tonight, she should be able to make love to him without pain once more.
"Don't think I'm too drunk to fuck, wife," Jaffar slurs, having heard her thoughts.
"Evidently too drunk to remember you were once a man eloquent," Yassamin says and sets the wine cup well out of his reach. But his vulgarity amuses her: his jealousy of Zainab is as playful as it is competitive, turning a man of fifty-four into a suitor furious, with the energy of a youth of seventeen. Thank God he has not felt the need to punish Yassamin, as so many husbands would have in this situation, whether they had led their wives to sin by the hand or not; Yassamin has heard of such cases. That some men display their wives, even share them in order to prove their own superiority: to prove to others--and especially, to themselves--that no matter what happens, they are at the centre of their women's hearts and that no other lover could compare. Jaffar has always been a man vain, proud of his cleverness and his skill whether it be in letters, sciences or the art of love; even if he knows Yassamin's heart belongs to him and him alone, he is shocked at having discovered someone who could match him in perversity.
Therefore, he seems to now think of himself and Zainab as rivals, if not over Yassamin's heart, then in the championships of debauchery. Perhaps even more so now that he is no longer Caliph, no longer goes by the name of Barmak: these titles gave him prestige, a reputation, whereas now he has no name to throw about like a royal seal, to strike unease into the hearts of his rivals. His skill is all he has, and as age creeps upon him, he has grown even more determined to prove that he is still the greatest lover in the land, the entire empire, upon God's green earth.
"In Harun's day, they used to tell legends of the Barmakids, the great libertines," he murmurs, climbing inside Yassamin's blanket and taking her into his lap. "Did you know that when we still lived in Balkh and still revered the Three Jewels, all brothers would share one wife? My great-grandfather and his brother did so, and when that bitch Zubayda heard--" he pauses to spit over his shoulder at the memory of his father's murderess-- "she started a rumour that Fadl and I were sharing wives," he chuckled. "And to think we only managed that after she was long gone."
Yassamin wraps her legs around him and sinks her fingers into his hair, kissing him softly. "Imagine Fadl with Zainab!" she laughs softly, mock-appalled. "He would love her."
Jaffar bursts out laughing and buries his face in her shoulder. "Merciful God. He would, wouldn't he?" he mutters. "Tiny and tireless, just like he likes them. Perhaps we could ship her out to Balkh."
Yassamin rocks herself on Jaffar languidly, kissing him once more. "Mm. I like the mines being in her hands. It's good for us to have an ally. And a steady source of income, I might add."
"Enough of work and enough of that minx," Jaffar groans and pulls her down onto the rug with himself, seating her upon his bourgeoning erection. "What would I care for all the precious metals and jewels of the world, when I have my Yassamin adorning me thus?" he sighs, pulling blanket and veil off her, adoring her in the light of the lanterns, the moon and the stars.
"I agree," Yassamin says, unbuttoning her jacket and lifting his hands to her breasts. "Besides, I think I know a way in which you could seduce her," she says, "if you would but care to listen."
"After," Jaffar grumbles, lifting his head to gift each of her nipples with a tight suck, squeezing her breasts in the way he knows goes straight to her cunny. "Speak not of cold alabaster when here lies a man starved of marzipan."
Yassamin laughs, soft, sweet; she lets her hair tumble over Jaffar's face, her earrings tinkling as she leans down to take his mouth. "You still think me a woman of marzipan?"
He glances at the sky, feeling for her breasts, pretending concern. "I hope those clouds do not mean rain, my love!" he exclaims. "They would melt you." He groans and rolls her onto her back. "Of course I do," he says and undoes her drawers, pulling open the split between their legs to reveal her cunny; he drops a wine-hot kiss onto her mound. "Delicious," he purrs, nuzzling her with feather-soft strokes of his nose and mouth.
His moustache tickles her; she shrieks and kicks, trapping him in place with her legs until he stops. "And you are still a beast, husband. But remain a gentle one tonight, I beg of you. I still ache a little."
He laces his fingers with hers and squeezes her hand. "I shall," he says, now kissing her sex with more seriousness, taking her gaze with his as he takes her clitoris with his mouth. I shall be the gentlest beast you ever saw, he murmurs into her mind.
Dead leaves are crushed in her hands; she knocks down and spills the wine cup, moaning her joy out to the stars: Yassamin, daughter of Mahmoud is united with her true love once more.
Samarkand is a city known for its emeralds; the very word 'smaragdine' itself originates from the name of this region. Yet it is the blue sapphire that is Zainab's greatest passion, the jewel she craves the most, particularly since sapphires cannot be found in her own mines, but have to be imported here from as far away as Serendip. They are the crowns of her vanity, reflecting the cold blue of her eyes, sparkling against the gold of her hair. Yet all these gems are but small or middling in size, and only a former queen such as Yassamin can tell that some of the gaps in her elaborate ornaments have, in fact, been filled in with lapis lazuli.
And it is only in Yassamin's coffers that larger and more beautiful, well-cut sapphires can be found: she would have been a fool not to have taken a comfortable amount of gold and jewels with herself when they had left Baghdad, and her collection of sapphires is second to none. Jaffar himself had gifted these to her, a set of every possible ornament that could be hung upon the female body, from the most brilliant little blue stars strung on nose-rings to pendants as large as robins' eggs. There's even one the size of a chicken's egg, hung from a chain and sparkling with a double asterism: a treasure Zainab would not be able to resist.
"I have told her of these," Yassamin says, holding out the sapphire-chest to Jaffar. "It is her birthday in a week, and she will want to look her best for the celebrations, to show everyone she is still in the full bloom of youth. She wants to dazzle, and dazzle she shall; I have invited her to try them on in advance, should she want to purchase them from us."
"Rent them from us," Jaffar says, quietly, holding up a heavy brow-pendant. "I had these made for you especially, and could not bear to see you parted from them."
"Very well. It was the time you first put them on me that gave me the idea, you see," she grins.
Jaffar raises his eyebrow, his eyes flashing in heat at the memory. "Oh, yes. I remember," he leers. "And you would have me do the same thing to her? You would think it that easy?"
Yassamin kisses his cheek. "Use your charm. She is exactly the sort of woman who dominates others, but secretly yearns to relinquish control, yearns to be taken--if she but found the right person to do the taking. I have seen this desire in her eyes whenever she has been looking at you, perhaps because she has seen the woman within the man; therefore, just as with Halima, you are the only man she would let conquer her. I know it. And with these, you could make her drunk from her own beauty, her own confidence, make her feel adored; you are a master at making a woman feel a goddess heathen, my love. You would have her cunny flowing with honey in no time at all, have her kneeling at your feet, begging to be ravished."
Jaffar drops the pendant into the chest and takes Yassamin by the chin, dragging his thumb across her lower lip, hissing in delight at her perversity. "And what would you do, my sweet? Hmm? What would you do as I so conquered her?"
Yassamin snaps the chest shut and grins. "I am going to watch."
Yassamin did not expect to be tied up as she did so, however. But trust Jaffar to want to delay her satisfaction, to make her unable to masturbate as she watches the play unfold in his crystal! So there she sits, propped up on cushions in his study, her wrists and her ankles tied with rope, the crystal's eye focused on her own bedroom.
For it is Yassamin Zainab now expects to meet, not Jaffar: Yassamin had seduced her into coming, had hinted with her glances and her touches that she would wish to renew their fleshly acquaintace, this time in private.
Jaffar takes his seat upon the low bed and smirks at Yassamin, his eyes guiding the gaze of the crystal: he tests it, now, just as he had said, sending a telepathic query to Yassamin, asking her to tell him what she sees.
"I can see you," Yassamin says. And she can smell him, too: his scent still lingers in the study, seeing as he had drenched himself in musks and sandalwood and oudh, scents manlier than what he usually wears. She does not envy the suffocating cloud of perfume Zainab is about to walk into, but she envies what Zainab is about to look at and touch--or, rather, be touched by.
For now, Jaffar has taken on an outfit that resembles those of the Northmen: a short white shirt tucked into a pair of cream-coloured trousers, trousers barbarically tight. Like a courtesan, he takes pleasure in his costume, posing in it for Yassamin with catlike grace: never has she seen him wearing anything that so clings to his legs, thighs, buttocks, groin. It is absolutely outrageous and were he, a Persian, to walk out wearing those things now, they would arrest him for indecency. So easily can she see the outline of his genitals that she can tell where sack ends and prick begins, and what a monstrously long and thick prick it is that he has on offer; she had always thought he looked slightly grotesque, satyrlike because of his proportions, and now these savage garments but emphasise the fact. It looks as if he is filling out already, too, narcissistically aroused by his own looks; he even runs his hand softly over his bulge, his eyes wide and pale with delight, made even more striking by the heavy rings of kohl drawn around them. And as if he didn't look debauched enough already, he now undoes the laces at the neck of his shirt as low as he can, revealing a generous expanse of chest; after a moment's thought, he pulls out a few locks of hair from his ponytail to hang on either side of his face, then purses his mouth at Yassamin in satisfaction.
"Good. That's the mirror you are looking at me through. How about now?"
Now, the point of view shifts so quickly Yassamin feels dizzy for a moment: she realises that now, she is looking at the room through Jaffar's eyes, his gaze pointed at the door.
"I can see the door," she says, "the one with the purple curtain." But now, as she settles inside of Jaffar's body, she has to laugh. "And you are hardening already. I knew it."
He squeezes his groin and hisses a little. "It's difficult not to. How do they walk around in these things?" he huffs. "Pressing and squeezing and chafing you all day? And the way they don't even shave or wash down here, letting their organs marinate in sweat and sebum and piss... no wonder they are such a violent lot; already I can feel my gall rising."
"Perhaps that's why she prefers women," Yassamin laughs, rearranging herself to sit as comfortably as possible. "Why didn't you receive her as a woman?"
"I told you," he grumbles. "That play is to remain between you and I."
"Shame," Yassamin says, now deliberately teasing him. "I would quite have liked seeing her licking your slit. Both of you licking each other's," she sighs.
"Woman!" Jaffar groans, now squeezing his erection with true violence to keep it in check.
"Two soft, pink, slick little cunnies--" she continues, but now there is movement behind the curtain. "Here she comes. Good luck."
There is a rustle of cloth as Zainab's eunuchs take her mantle, and Yassamin's girls lead her in through the door, closing it behind her. Zainab pulls the curtain aside and looks around herself, then finally notices who it is that is sitting on the bed at the back of the room.
Jaffar gets up with such a swagger that Yassamin's head spins; he performs an elaborate court bow and poses in front of Zainab. "My lady."
Zainab bursts into laughter.
Jaffar is so shocked that he transfers the crystal's gaze into the mirror; Yassamin is slammed back into it so fast her breath is knocked out of her lungs. Jaffar must have done this to focus fully on Zainab, to take control of the situation; yet the connection between him and Yassamin is strong enough for Yassamin to feel his utter infuriation, embarrassment. And Yassamin cannot help but be as amused as Zainab is; Jaffar's eyes stare wide and he looks like a cat whose pride has just been insulted with a bath.
"Pray, what is it that you find so amusing, my lady Zainab?" Jaffar finally snarls. "Or is it that you have partaken of the hashish?"
Zainab walks around him and covers her mouth with her hand, trying to stop herself from laughing. She has dressed seductively, her bosoms bursting out of her tight, Turkish jacket; said bosoms, too, jiggle with her laughter. "You remind me of a hunting-pard I once had," she giggles. "So thin I always wondered if a gust of wind would not carry him off as he ran."
Jaffar raises his eyebrow. "Yet I expect no gazelle cared to take her chances with his teeth," he snaps in warning, gazing pointedly at her throat.
Zainab looks at him up and down, smirking. "I appreciate the effort. Yet I thought you a man of subtlety," she tuts, clicking her tongue as she sits down onto the cushions with languid grace. "Where is my lady Yassamin?" she asks, sprawling back on her seat, her gaze lingering on Jaffar's groin. "I was invited to come and look at a set of family jewels, but I was under the impression they were of a slightly different sort."
Jaffar glances down at himself. Mine are indistinguishable from sapphires thanks to this minx, he mutters to Yassamin. By now, they will have turned azure. Yet, when he speaks, he tries to keep his voice calm.
"Enough with the pleasantries. My wife has come down with an illness, and she has asked me to demonstrate the jewels in her stead." He sits down opposite Zainab; the chest lies on the floor between them, and he raises its lid a little, teasing her with a flirtatious smirk. "I was told sapphires were your... weakness."
Zainab leans her head on her hand and rocks her hips, coquettish. "My specialty," she purrs in correction. "I can tell a fake three feet away."
That's not what you told me, Jaffar thinks at Yassamin.
She's bluffing. Or then she's so confident that most people are so ignorant they would mistake any blue stone for a sapphire.
"Really?" Jaffar says. "My wife told me you had to fill in the gaps in your collection with but lapis," he croons at her, with a pitying note in his voice. "Whereas what we have on offer, here--" he raises the lid an inch higher-- "is the genuine article. These are practically a part of the crown jewels, gifted to my wife by the shahbanu herself, when we were still in royal favour."
Zainab pops a grape into her mouth and raises her eyebrow. "I can see why you lost it."
Jaffar ignores her barb, still grinning at her, his crooked teeth glimmering in the afternoon light. "I can see why you never gained it." But even as Zainab flashes him a murderous glare, Jaffar continues, raising the lid completely, now. "Here. A full set of jewellery, with additional pieces designed for only the arts of love. Yes--not one, but two of your specialties, now combined. What say you to love-toys made of sapphire itself?" he asks.
Zainab washes her hands with rosewater and leans in. "Impossible. I have seen some made from lapis, but there are no sapphires large enough," she murmurs, swallowing the remains of her grape.
"See for yourself," Jaffar says. "And use your imagination."
But Zainab is already doing so. She reaches into the chest, clearly impressed as she rummages around in it; she lifts out what looks like a large earring, yet with a clip instead of a hook so that it can hung upon almost any part of the body without piercing the flesh. The clip comes with a tiny screw, so that its grip can be adjusted to accommodate thicker or thinner pieces of skin, and from it hangs one of the larger sapphires, one and a half inches long, in a beautifully cut teardrop-shape.
"But this is exquisite!" she exclaims, holding the jewel out into the light; she picks out a loupe from her pocket and peers at the sapphire carefully, then lifts out two, three, four similar pendants. Even one would be a treasure worthy of any true debauchee's collection, but her face as she finds eight in total--she does not even glance at the rich necklaces, now. "I'll take them. All of them."
Jaffar chuckles. "They are not for sale. Only rent. They have great sentimental value to us."
"I said I will take them," Zainab says, tucking her loupe back into her pocket, not even looking at Jaffar. "No matter what your price."
He shakes his head and leers. "You have not heard our price."
Zainab tosses the pendants back into the chest, snapping it shut and drawing it towards herself. "Only the Calipha is richer than I. Name your price, and I will double it."
Jaffar places his hand over hers on the chest, and now Zainab finally looks at him, truly looks at him. His gaze lingers upon her, and Yassamin wonders if he is trying to hypnotise her; going by the tremor in Zainab's bosom, he has made a shiver go down her spine. He smirks once more, stroking the plump flesh of Zainab's hand, squeezing a piece of its paleness between his long, dark fingers. "A night with you, my dear lady."
Zainab looks at his hand, then challenges his gaze proudly. "As revenge for having so pleasured your wife?" she says.
Interesting that she does not say yes or no, Yassamin thinks; Zainab's chest is still heaving, and now there is a flush upon her cheeks.
"Partially," Jaffar says and tilts his head, encompassing her with a flick of his eyelashes. "Perhaps a little revenge," he purrs, now tracing his fingertip up Zainab's brocaded arm, to the edge of her jacket where her full white breasts spill out of it. "But mostly, pleasure," he says, hooking his finger into one of the jacket's golden button-loops, leaning in close enough to kiss. "Now, would you still offer to double the price?" he says, pulling her closer to himself by her jacket, his lips nearly upon hers.
Zainab flicks down her eyelashes, glancing at his gleaming, red mouth; she makes no move to extricate herself. "Only if I get to keep the jewels. That is my final offer."
"Done," Jaffar says, and not for a moment does Yassamin believe him, even if Zainab seems to be too dazed from lust to care, now; so confident is she in her own beauty, her authority as the uncrowned queen of this land.
Jaffar retrieves his finger and traces it up Zainab's breast, across her collarbone and up to her neck, feeling for her pulse. Even through their psychic link, Yassamin can tell Zainab is so aroused Jaffar can smell her cunny; a cunny wet from vanity, from greed. Zainab still thinks she shall be the victor in this game, and Yassamin has to laugh: her cunny clenches as she watches Zainab shivering in pleasure as Jaffar caresses her hair, nuzzling her mouth with his.
"But, come," Jaffar says onto her lips. "You have not even tried them on yet."
"I do not need to," Zainab says and shakes her head; she leans in to kiss Jaffar.
Yet at the last moment, Jaffar sinks his hand into her hair and yanks back her head. "Oh, but I insist," Jaffar purrs, freeing her breasts from her jacket; he lifts out one of the pendants and traces its metal clip across one nipple, then the other, adoring the way they rise up into the cool touch of the silver metal. "Think of it as a part of our bargain."
"Done," Zainab rasps.
It is then that Jaffar releases Zainab's hair, and now it is Zainab who takes his mouth, wildly, crushing him onto the floor so that the contents of the chest crash and spill onto the carpet beside them in a sea of blue and silver cruelty.
And it is with this blue and silver cruelty that Jaffar decorates Zainab; with the blue and the silver and nothing else. She stands at the centre of the room, naked but for her jewels; her arms are lifted towards the ceiling by invisible bonds about her wrists, she herself standing on a small, low table so that her face is level with Jaffar's. He is a foot and three inches taller than she, so he needs it; he is still fully clothed himself as he walks around her and twirls his riding cane over his shoulder, admiring his handiwork.
And he has reason for his pride. Zainab has never looked more beautiful, and even as she is stilled by the pain from the clips and clamps and chains, she is glowing white in the centre of the room, a white pairi of light sparkling with silver and sapphires. Her head lolls back a little and her eyes are closed; between her brows hangs a heavy teardrop-shaped pendant, and her ears rattle from the weight of clustered inflorescences of sapphires, chainfuls of smaller stones arching over her earlobes. Three necklaces, each one heavier than the next, wrap about her throat, her collarbone and over her breasts; two of the heaviest pendants, with sapphires as large as robin's eggs, dangle from the clamps Jaffar has chained over her nipples. A heavy belt weighs down her wide hips, rivulets of sapphires trickling from it down over her buttocks, brushing over the root of her mound in a tease; her arms, ankles, wrists all glitter with blue.
But the most heavily ornamented part of her is her sex. Jaffar takes the gaze of the crystal and directs it between Zainab's legs, parting them for Yassamin to see; Zainab whimpers from pain, unable to speak for it as Jaffar sets her feet down wide so that he can inspect the jewels he has hung there. The clitoral clamp, he has separated from the nipple ones, and from its pins, dangles another robin's egg bead; six similarly large pendants hang from her inner labia, three on each side. Her cunny's lips are full and stretched around her folds, her already fat vulva now massive and protruding like that of an animal in heat; the petals of it so grotesquely swollen the clips bite deep into her flesh. Nevertheless, the sap of her arousal has painted each and every pendant so that it glistens from her fluids, clear little drops of her wetness dangling from each, her pleasure-pain weaving its own jeweller's art.
Jaffar flicks the pendants on her inner labia with his finger; Zainab moans hoarsely in her throat and twists in her bonds. But as that only increases her pain, her moan is cut short and she stills, cramped, coiled, her breathing fast and shallow. Merciless, Jaffar hooks his finger into the chain linking the clamps on her nipples and pulls it; Zainab's face is twisted in a grimace, tears glimmering upon her eyelashes as she squeezes her eyes shut, whimpering as Jaffar presses a wet kiss-lick to her cheek.
"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful," he murmurs against Zainab's ear, nuzzling the tears from her eyelashes, feeding upon them like a moth. "This is what you wanted, my sweet lady Zainab, was it not?" he asks softly, and in his voice, Yassamin can hear care: even through his cruelty, he shows mercy, asking this of Zainab even now. It takes Yassamin's breath away to watch this, to watch Jaffar take another woman as he takes Yassamin: the skill with which he holds her, now, holds her with his hands and his gaze.
Yet it is not enough for him to merely bind her, to torture her: it is her own desire that he wants to excavate from her, to lift it out into the light so that he might celebrate it, revel in it with her, bathe in her pleasure with her.
Zainab but groans; Jaffar kisses this from her mouth, too, holding her against himself, anchoring her against the heat of his body. Soft kisses, he drops upon her lips; when she has stilled once more, he continues.
"I need to have you speak, my dear; if only a little, for it is the truth I would hear. The truth of your desire for me, Zainab; no more lies. The very moment you looked at me, you knew me for who I was, the man half-woman; you saw one of your own kind in me and you yearned for me. You knew I could give you what you wanted, the ravishment of your dreams, wrapped in the cloak of care; you looked upon my cruelty and my skill, and from it, you yearned to drink deep. Is that not so?"
And through their link, Yassamin can hear the echo of Zainab's thoughts; she is not truly psychic, but the very intensity of her pain, her emotion, her want now laps at the edges of Jaffar's mind a red sea of need. Take me, Yassamin can hear Zainab weeping, sobbing within her mind; ravish me, she cries. Zainab's desire surges out from her, endless, a lifetime of yearning so great it breaks and ripples against Jaffar's mind, seeking a way in; yet she cannot voice it, still suffocated by her fear and her shame. She fears he will parade her sin out in public; fears that he will expose her, fears that he might rape her, but use her to sate himself, crush her wants and her needs and her desires under his unheeding heel.
And Jaffar knows this, senses her panic, and that is exactly why he holds her thus, holds her tight and sweet; this is exactly why he needs to hear her voice her desire out loud.
He needs her to trust him.
Thus, Jaffar tucks his cane underneath his arm and cups Zainab's face in his hands; tenderly, he nuzzles her nose and her lips. "Remember that I shan't tell a soul; only Yassamin and I will ever know of this. From my experience with her, I know to respect a woman with such desires; if she trusts me enough to lay those desires in my hands I am humbled, honoured and will protect them with my life."
He pulls back a little and gazes deep into Zainab's eyes. Hers are a wide, flax-blue, her kohl smudged; she looks so much like a child with her round cheeks and her open mouth, searching his eyes for a long while. "But you have to trust me, my lady," Jaffar tells her, brushing her hair back past her shoulders; "trust that I will keep you safe, you and your secrets, and that should you so much as whisper the word 'Mercy,' I would stop immediately. Do you trust me, Zainab?" he asks.
Zainab looks as if she will panic, kick, scream; yet she swallows, forces herself to still. She keens through her teeth, pressing herself against Jaffar's body, driving into him in her need: how many years must she have dreamt of this? How many men she must have rejected, knowing they could never love her with the skill and the cruelty and the emotional wisdom of women? She moans and she rages, shouting into Jaffar's shoulder, and he lets her; he holds her as she twists, shuddering in her pain, racing along her own personal razor's edge, between the hope of pleasure and the terror of betrayal.
"I want to," Zainab finally moans as she lifts her head, her hair a massive golden halo around her head; as Jaffar brushes it back once more, she kisses his palm, nuzzles it. "Please. We have come this far. Take me."
Jaffar smiles, wistful, melancholy; it is fair that Zainab should still be scared, not knowing what will happen next. "I shall. And I shall prove to you how much I value your trust, my lady." He presses his forehead against hers and laughs a little. "You know, I have not done this to another woman besides my wife," he says. "And I am doing this partially because it is my sweet Yassamin's desire, too: that I should take you, give to you of what she enjoys in our conjugal bed."
"I am honoured," Zainab says, laughing a little in turn. "Show me."
"I shall." Jaffar rocks his hips, playful, now; he cups Zainab's buttock from underneath the rivulets of sapphire-chains and pulls her into a deep, passionate kiss. "We have reached an understanding?"
"We have reached an understanding," Zainab says. "Now, get to work," she says, with a wicked glimmer in her eye.
He swats her on the arse with his cane for that, making her yelp. "I am not one of your slaves," he smirks as he dances back; "In fact, I would you addressed me as Master." He swats her across the belly, harder, now, to show her he means it; a blow strong enough to send Zainab swinging on her toes, swooning from pleasure-pain. "Is that understood?"
"Yes, Master," Zainab laughs, even as she rolls her eyes; she laughs and hisses in pain simultaneously.
That has got to be my favourite look on a woman's face. My absolute favourite, Jaffar murmurs to Yassamin.
Yassamin, so mesmerised by the play that she now stirs to wakefulness by Jaffar's words, squeezes her thighs tighter together. Tell her. She deserves to hear it. Every woman does.
Jaffar laughs, twirling his cane between his fingers. "Yes. That has to be my favourite look upon a woman's face," he says and takes Zainab by the chin; he kisses her and stills her. "Agony and ecstasy, blossoming there by my touch, prettier than any face-paint," he grins. "Now, I want you to stay completely still. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes," Zainab says, yet obviously wondering what he means by that.
"I think it's time for me to strip you, you see," he murmurs, walking around her again, tickling her calves with the tip of his cane; as she moves, he yanks her back into position by her belt. "I said, still. Otherwise I might do you damage," he says.
And before Zainab can say anything, Jaffar has twirled back and struck the pendant off her left nipple. Zainab screams, howls as she falls back; howls even more as she realises this is the method by which he means to undress her. She twists in her bonds, pants, her hair dangling down over her face, a messy mane flying in every direction as she so tosses and turns. Jaffar gazes at her for a long while, listening for that 'Mercy,' yet Zainab does not invoke it. Instead, she straightens herself out, determined to prove herself, pushing her breasts out in defiance, proud of their beauty.
"Exemplary discipline, my dear," Jaffar purrs, and with the full force of his arm, he strikes the other pendant off her right breast. The chain, too, skitters onto the floor, the pain Zainab now feels as she curls up so powerful that Yassamin feels a white flash of it in Jaffar's eyes.
Zainab is still howling, still shaking as Jaffar comes to gather her close; he presses his face into her breasts and sighs, savouring their softness, their beauty, offering the sensation to Yassamin in turn. Such richness, such heaviness; he takes each wounded nipple in turn and sucks upon it, sucks until the whorls of both nipples turn into peaks; squeezes her breasts until Zainab sobs in his arms.
And upon her cushions, Yassamin, too, sobs; as Jaffar immerses himself in the soft sea of Zainab's bosoms, so does Yassamin swim in their scent, of sweat and rosewater and violets. She can feel the soft rippling skin of Zainab's nipples as they harden in Jaffar's mouth, as they fill and tighten against his tongue and between his lips; as Jaffar bites down on them, bites, Yassamin herself screams, her cunny clenching again and again in echo of Zainab's need.
Jaffar cups Zainab's cunny within his hand, feeling for its wetness; cruel, he then pulls back and slaps Zainab's mouth with his wet hand, sending her sobbing once again, ecstatic.
But she stills as Jaffar brings his cane between her legs, tapping her there.
"Please, please, please, no," Zainab cries and closes her legs as Jaffar starts to tickle her cunny with the cane.
Yet, he keeps moving the cane, dragging against the jewels. "You know the word," he says sternly.
"Mercy," Zainab says, to both Jaffar and Yassamin's astonishment.
Jaffar nods. Perhaps that is indeed too much, for someone who has not had anything like this done to her before. "And what of your belt?" he asks.
Zainab nods, and as soon as she does, Jaffar whips it off her hips with two bold, violent strokes: now, a perfect X crisscrosses her buttocks, and even as she dangles and sobs there, Jaffar lets his cane clatter onto the floor. He comes to embrace Zainab from behind, settling her tiny body into his giantness; he lets Yassamin watch the scene from the mirror and gazes at himself and Zainab in its reflection, himself curious to see how he looks. Now, his tall shape frames Zainab's little body, his hand sliding between her legs and covering her bejewelled cunny entire; he begins to cup it and slap it and rub it as he holds Zainab's head up by the hair, pulling it back to rest against his shoulder.
"Now, then," he says, with a firm slap upon her cunny, strings of her arousal dangling from his hand as he lifts it out. "Are you ready?"
"No," Zainab howls, trying to rub herself against Jaffar's hand and to pull away from it at the same time, it seems.
Jaffar chuckles, rumbles, purrs against her back a cat; he brings his hand to Zainab's mouth, offering to her his glimmering fingers. And oh, oh, his adoration as Zainab sucks upon them, avidly, without even being told to do so: clearly, she loves the taste of her own cunny, and no wonder, no wonder. Now, even Jaffar hisses; he scoops up more cunny-sap, watches it glistening upon his fingertips, and for a moment it is Zainab who plays him, arouses him, teases him, fellating his fingers as if each one were a little prick.
"We do have to take these off you, however," he murmurs against her sticky-sweet lips, his voice reedy as he returns his hand to her cunny. "They will maim you permanently otherwise," he says and clasps the first of the clips upon her inner labia. "Count to three."
"One... two," Zainab says, struggling, taking a deep breath, her entire body tensing. "Three."
Swiftly, Jaffar snaps off the pendant and tosses it aside, throwing it God knows where, as if it were but a worthless rock. As Zainab cries out, sobs in pain, he drinks this sob from her mouth; he caresses her breasts and her belly with his wet hand, all the while holding her head back with the other. "Good girl," he murmurs, "good girl," his very voice a balm to anoint her with, his very breath holy incense suffusing her with his pride.
And with these gentle encouragements, he counts down with Zainab with each subsequent clip until her folds are free, swollen like a barbaric, scarlet flower, heaving and dripping with dew. By the end of it, she is a trembling, sobbing chaos in his arms, her hair tangled, the kohl on her eyes smudged, her thighs wet from her sap.
And yet Jaffar holds her, gathers her pleasure-pain to himself, bathing in it, growing taller and heavier and darker from it, saturated from it. Finally, he brings his hand to the clamp on the hood of her clitoris, Zainab twitching at his touch.
"And this is the last one. Are you going to be a brave girl for me?" he says, turning her head so that he can look into her eyes.
"Yes, Master," she murmurs, even as she stiffens, her entire skin covered in goosebumps.
And it is a beautiful sight, so much so that Jaffar himself relishes it for a long while, but softly petting her cunny, stroking it, pleasuring it while the clamp is still there. Yassamin remembers the sharp, shooting pain of it like red lightning; her own cunny aches swollen between her legs and she suffocates a scream of frustration into her cushions. Jaffar and Zainab look absolutely sublime, the small pale woman surrendered unto his great darkness, letting herself be cradled in the giant man's arms this way, Zainab never taking her eyes off Jaffar's as he takes a good hold of the clamp.
And now it is Zainab herself who initiates the counting down; upon "three," such pain shoots through her that her eyes roll back in her head and she falls limp in Jaffar's arms.
Jaffar himself looks alarmed, worried that he has gone too far; he keeps on rubbing Zainab's cunny, offering her kisses, little slaps upon her belly and her breasts until she stirs once more. "You made it," he says, with the gentle, delighted, congratulatory voice he uses with his children; a voice that makes Yassamin's heart ache with its sweetness, at Jaffar sharing this part of himself with Zainab. "Good girl. You have earned your name, Father's Precious Jewel," he murmurs, kissing her and kissing her, his hand gentle upon her swollen cunny. "Beautiful, beautiful," he keeps telling her as he removes the rest of her jewellery, rocking her in his arms.
When he can be sure Zainab will not pass out again, he leaves her with a kiss. "Don't go anywhere."
"Where are you going?" Zainab slurs, her head lolling back.
"But a moment," he says. He removes his shirt, mops up sweat from his face with it, then tosses it aside. He considers for a moment, then undresses completely, making sure he stands right in front of Zainab, showing off to her. "There's one jewel we've forgotten, my sweet," he says as he goes to take it from the chest. It's the largest of all the sapphires, the one shaped like a chicken's egg, dangling from its wider end upon a steel chain. "Do you know what this is?"
"Of course I do," she laughs as he comes to greet her with a kiss.
"Then you also know how to get it wet," he purrs, his eyes sharp and bright blue slits as he holds the egg to her mouth. "Open up, my child."
And there they stand, Zainab fellating the egg, staring into Jaffar's eyes as she does, slickening the egg with thick spit. He chokes her with it, deliberately so that he gets her to drool; thick, long dribbles lash onto her abused breasts, decorating her more beautifully than sapphires ever could have done. Jaffar lets his psychic gaze travel around the room so that he can look at them from all directions, and it's just as he had thought: Zainab's arse, her greedy, plump arse is clenching in anticipation, Zainab the she-sodomite eager to have the egg inside of herself.
He returns his gaze to Zainab's face and pulls out the egg, slapping her lightly on the cheek. "You greedy trollop," he murmurs in delight. "Spit."
Zainab takes that as a compliment, spitting upon the egg once, twice, thrice; she laughs and licks her lips. "My pleasure, Master."
He but raises his eyebrow at her, and without ceremony, squats a little and pushes the egg inside of his own arse. "Much better," he groans as it slips inside; he offers Yassamin a glimpse of his still-clenching anus and the long chain dangling from it. "Wouldn't you agree, my dear?" he asks Zainab, cheerfully.
"You utter bastard!" she cries, kicking and stomping. "Give it to me!"
"Language!" He slaps her on the other cheek, harder, now; that only sends her into a further kicking and hissing fury.
Again, Jaffar catches her, steadies her. "Are you going to behave?" he asks.
"No!" she cries, and there are the beginnings of a smile upon her lips.
Jaffar raises his palm beside her face, looking at it pointedly, then at her face again. She seems to have enjoyed that slap all too much; something wicked sparkles in her eyes as she so defies him. And the smirk that spreads upon Jaffar's face in turn is wide, jagged, evil; with more force, he now slaps Zainab again, sending her howling, spinning, tiptoeing upon the table.
He lets her dance there for a while, staggering a drunkard from her pain; then, he takes her by the hair once more, nuzzling her face, inhaling the fumes of her pain-intoxication. "I am going to ask you again, Zainab. Are you going to behave?"
"No," she moans, hisses, trembling in her desire; she has stirred from her rest into such frustration, such disappointment that only further pain will blast it out of her. It is a state Yassamin knows well, as does Jaffar; a state in which she needs to have her anger lashed out of her, just as the fakir needs a bed of nails to forget himself and lift his soul to the heavens.
"Very well," Jaffar says, striking Zainab on the other cheek once again, so violently her hair flies; sparks dance even in Yassamin's eyes as Zainab's pain licks at Jaffar's consciousness.
He balances Zainab again, still searching her eyes. "Is that enough?"
"Go to Hell," she groans, then spits in his face.
At that, he slaps her so hard the table itself topples over; Zainab dangles free and kicks with her feet, choking back tears and phlegm. She is terrible to behold as she so laughs there, a lunatic, her sobs shot through with delirious joy: Yassamin can feel hot and cold waves radiating from her, can feel Jaffar trembling in both lust and rage.
And horror, yes; indeed a little horror at how hard he has struck her.
No. No. I may be a beast, but this is where I draw the line. This is where love-play ends and torture begins; this shall have to suffice.
"That is as far as you will be able to push me," Jaffar says, coolly, calmly as he collects the table and settles Zainab's feet upon it once more. "Anything more would damage you, and that is not my intent." He wipes Zainab's spittle from his face, licks it from his fingers, then combs her hair back from her face with his hands. "If we are to continue, I insist on being more gentle with you," he says, in a voice brooking no argument. "If it is indeed more that you want," he says, demanding honesty from her with his eyes.
Zainab nods, now fragile, her eyes warm from pain and from awe at his doing this, that he should still ask her if she wanted him to continue. Finally, he has broken her open; open so that he may pour the medicine of his love inside of her, to treat her as a surgeon might.
And Zainab herself understands this, it seems, marvelling at him with her gaze. "More, please. Master."
"Very well," he says, and captures her mouth in a kiss, the tendermost of kisses, hugging her and holding her tight. "But as I said, gentle," he murmurs, gifting her cheek with a softer slap. "A kiss after each slap. I insist. Are you ready?"
"Yes," Zainab says, kissing him back, laughing into his mouth, her voice rich and heavy like wine.
For a long while, he teases her like this, slaps her cheeks only to take her by the hair so that he can crush her against his body in a kiss, can press out tremulous moans from her within his embrace. After each slap, he devours her mouth with deep, passionate kisses, sucking upon her tongue; like a ghoul, he sucks her until she shrieks into his mouth, pouring her ecstasy down his throat, pooling in his belly as heat.
And on and on, he continues: slaps and kisses, slaps and again kisses until his arm wearies, until his jaw aches; he flicks his tongue into her mouth, spooning up her moans from her, swallowing her until his prick paints his belly, until Zainab's cunny is dripping down to her knees.
Yassamin cannot bear it: Jaffar has never done anything this violent with her, and her heart breaks for him, for Zainab, she now feeling what Zainab feels so acutely--just as Zainab is crushed and drowned in the sweet honey of his care, so is Yassamin, swooning in Zainab's pleasure-pain. And the effect each one of his slaps and kisses has upon Yassamin's body, oh; but watching it has pushed her so close to orgasm that now, she wonders if she could bring herself to climax purely by squeezing her thighs together. But no, no: she has to watch, listen as Zainab screams and wails into Jaffar's mouth; as Jaffar smirks like a beast between kisses, slapping Zainab's plump, fat cheeks until they glow a bright red.
"That's better," he finally says and lets go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his cock slapping wet against his stomach. "Now, you'll get yours."
The entire room echoes with Zainab's scream as with a simple flick and roll of his hand, Jaffar takes up her legs with invisible ropes and suspends her horizontally in mid-air. Chuckling, he binds her thighs, her knees, her waist with psychic straps, then slides his palms up and down her back, splaying out the bonds. As easily as butter, he spreads them underneath her back and her limbs, melting into one solid sheet holding her up, so that she now lies in an invisible hammock of sorts. A magical hammock, in mid-air, just at the right height for him to take her--oh, but he is incorrigible.
"I once lifted my favourite horse out of a ditch with this method," he smirks as bewildered, Zainab looks at him from between her spread-out limbs. "Ah. But now your head is not supported. But a moment." He moves to stand behind her, sliding his palms underneath the back of her head, cupping her head in his hands as he suspends it firmly, too. "Is that better?" he asks, staring at her upside down; Yassamin can only imagine what a fool he must look like with his staring eyes and his crooked teeth. After all, it is not an expression unusual to him, whenever he is showing off his tricks like this.
"You are ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous," Zainab murmurs, her hair tangled about his prick.
He pulls back and kisses her nose. "My wife always says that," he chirps, reaches over her and gives her cunny a mighty slap. As Zainab yelps into his belly, he laughs, steadying her with his hands. "But like I said, now you will get yours. If you would but stay still."
"What if you should lose your concentration?" Zainab sputters as Jaffar takes his place between her legs, sitting down on the little table, lowering her so that her cunny is level with his face. "I'm going to break my back if I fall!"
"A most astute observation, my child," Jaffar murmurs and leaps off the table; he moves it, and levitates Zainab--despite her loud protests--so that Zainab is now hung over the cushions they had been sitting upon earlier.
He sits down on the table again, making sure that she is positioned right over the cushions, her legs on either side of his face.
"I had hoped you would have told me not to worry," Zainab mumbles, glancing down and then back at Jaffar.
"Don't worry," he says and slips one cushion underneath himself, getting comfortable on the little table. "I merely thought you would appreciate the comfort, once I let you down and had my wicked way with you," he grins and frames her cunny with his hands, inhaling her theatrically. "Although I might be here for a while," he murmurs and licks his lips, his eyes now slitted with lustful greed.
Yassamin cannot hear what Zainab grumbles in answer, as now Jaffar directs the crystal's gaze to what he is looking at: Zainab's cunny, that which he has yearned to taste for weeks, now; a most wonderful display of pink and red flesh, gleaming and wet. His sack tightens as he takes in her scent, sweet and rich; gently, he strokes the full hills and valleys of her sex, marvelling at their fatness, and Yassamin feels a little sting of jealousy in her heart.
Stop that. Yours is smaller, but just as beautiful; there is more than one kind of delicious fruit in the world! he tells Yassamin. Come. Enjoy it with me.
And Yassamin does, suffocating her jealousy in shame: for does she not love this cunny herself? Therefore, again she looks at it as the lover, as Jaffar himself now does, taking in the wonderful softness of it as he rubs it with his thumbs. And oh, but the way the mounds of Zainab's belly now quiver, the way her breasts heave as he so massages her: as he brings his thumbs together to pinch the root of her clitoris, a hoarse little cry rises and breaks in Zainab's chest, Yassamin's.
"Do you like that?" Jaffar asks softly, his voice slithering out the consonants, as soft as cunnilingus before he has even tasted of her. He spreads her cunny once more, taking her sore and reddened folds and spreading them out as well, a lash of heat licking up his cock as she stiffens in sweet pain. "Shall I kiss it better, my sweet? Hmm?"
"Please," Zainab says, weak, sounding so young, like a virgin being offered this illicit kiss on her wedding night.
"It's such a beautiful cunny," he murmurs, cupping her massive mound in his hand, squeezing it so that the heel of his hand presses into her clitoris, akin to how Yassamin had massaged her. "I would take it, too. To feel this flesh against my flesh, you wrapped around me, Zainab--you have no idea how long I have wanted it," he says, honest, solemn, adoring. He licks her wetness from his palm and sighs, returning his thumb to rub her clitoris. "Yet, I need to hear you say it, Zainab. That you want me in turn."
"I do," Zainab sighs, squirming in her bonds, her love making all of her glow a warm, creamy white, her cunny pulsing against his hand; she strains so that a bead of wetness drips out of her cunny and onto the floor, making both Yassamin and Jaffar's breath catch. "Please, Jaffar. Please, take me."
Gently, easily, Jaffar takes his fingertips to the small of Zainab's back and pulls her towards himself; he flicks out his tongue and closes his mouth over her cunny. Greedy, he opens his mouth as wide as he can, as if he could take her entire cunny into his mouth if he but tried, made a madman from his need: Zainab cries out underneath him as he kisses her so, worries at her with his lips, pressing into her flesh with his teeth.
"Delicious," he snarls, splaying his other hand flat upon her belly; he brings her yet closer, rocking her against his face with his hands.
Zainab makes a surprised noise as he continues thus, moving her back and forth so that her cunny softly pounds against his mouth, a shock through her nervous system each time the bones of his face hit her clitoris, each impact sending hard and sharp sparks through the bones of her pelvis. It is a strange mimicry of the movements of coitus, yet from his experience as a woman, he knows exactly what he is doing; he knows how much pleasure it gives to a woman's vulva to receive blow after blow like this. That this is why a woman might ride her hands, cushions when masturbating; the weight of her entire body concentrated upon her clitoris.
And he plays there, pinches the top of her slit, draws her body back from his mouth only to draw long, glimmering strings of her arousal out of her cunny with his tongue; he tests how long he can make these strings, laughing at her as he sits there like a stone demon with his tongue curled out of his mouth, until she laughs as well. Zainab shakes her head, writhing and arching and moaning, her hands clenching and unclenching, her toes curling as he draws string upon string of her sweetness out; thick strands slapping onto his throat and his chest and her buttocks, sluicing into the shadowed cleft between them.
Zainab may protest, but from time to time, Jaffar still keeps pulling back only to marvel at her, at her cunny's pinkness in contrast to her pale white skin; her folds are larger than Yassamin's and he spreads them, too, over and over, sucking her salt-sweetness from them, digging his tongue deep into her entrance until she howls in frustration.
"What's that?" Jaffar asks, pinching her clitoris again, shaking his hand playfully so that her entire cunny jiggles. "Is it more that you want, my sweet?"
"You know what I mean! Stop this teasing!" she shrieks and pushes her cunny up into his face. "For the love of God, suck me!"
"Here?" he asks, grinning as he pinches her once more, massaging the root of her clitoris between finger and thumb. "This little bud right here?"
"Please!" Zainab cries, so loudly it echoes in the room. "I cannot bear it," she babbles, tossing her head from side to side. "Give me release. Please."
"Mm-hmm?" he croons, pushing two fingers inside of her cunny, immediately turning them towards her spine, knowing from what Yassamin had told him that this is what Zainab prefers. "Like this?"
"Suck me!" she sobs, now, her voice now pitiful, desperate. "I beg of you. Master."
"Very well," he smirks, triumphant.
And he takes her with his mouth indeed; he closes his lips and his teeth around her clitoris, draws it out of its hood and begins to whip it with his tongue. There is no end to Zainab's moans, groans; she is so wet Jaffar's fingers make slick sounds inside of her as he begins to take her with merciless vigour. And now, now his conquest of her is complete, victory curling within him, beating in his veins with such heat he has to squeeze his cock in his fist: for now, Zainab's cunny is trickling down his fingers, into his palm and onto his wrist. He, too, moans, keening his delight into her cunny, sending ripple after ripple of sound-vibrations through her body, taking her with his voice as well as his lips and his hand.
Take me with you, Yassamin whispers to Jaffar, jealous, weak from her own arousal and her need. Please. Please.
Jaffar but chuckles into Zainab's cunny and looks at her, sucking upon her clitoris, taking her with his eyes even if it is Yassamin he is speaking to. That I should make two women come at once? Now, how could I refuse a challenge like that? Ready yourself, then, my dear; she is near.
And he opens himself wide, sucking the beginnings of Zainab's tremors into himself; presently, he rolls them up and throws them at Yassamin. There, there comes the first blast: Zainab howls and jerks so violently Jaffar has to wrap his arm around her waist to keep her in place. Yet, he sucks, sucks, fucking her deep with his fingers, curling them against the deepest reaches of her sex; her orgasm is so violent he can feel the contractions of her womb above his fingertips. Even if he cannot fully feel her the same way he can drink in and experience Yassamin's orgasm, he bathes in its glow nevertheless; each moan of Zainab's washes over him a wave of delight, each ripple and twitch of hers sparking through his own nerves and from there, into Yassamin's.
And as Yassamin tosses in her chamber, curled up on the cushions, finally reaching release herself, Jaffar smirks so wildly his mouth almost comes off Zainab's clitoris. It's like engineering the waterworks in a paradise garden, he chuckles in his mind; merely a matter of building channels that feed into one another. Enough water-pressure here to turn into a gushing fountain here, a sweetly rippling pond there, vast and lush and wide.
Engineer talk! Yassamin wails, even in her orgasm, tossing upon the cushions, swearing she is going to murder him. Now she will never be able to look at their garden the same way--
Exactly, my dear! he cackles, a love-maniac.
But now, he returns his consciousness back to work on Zainab: on and on he milks her, fingers her, pushing roughly into her and curling inside of her, making sure this orgasm of hers is a deep one; he continues until he is sure Zainab is finished, even beyond. He keeps on hooking his fingers and rolling them inside of her until he is sure she must be sore, sure that he must already be giving her pain.
Only when Zainab twitches and tries to pull off does he release his grip, resting his head upon her belly, grinning with pride.
"As good as a woman!" he cries, slapping her thigh with his wet hand. "A cunny-suck worthy of Sappho herself. Don't bother to deny it."
"You are such a show-off," Zainab groans.
"My wife says that, also," he says, giving her cunny one final slap, so powerful Zainab is sent swinging, groaning limp in her bonds. "Now," he says and balances her, pushing the table out of the way so that he can stand up and bring his cock to rest against her cunny. "It's about time I got mine," he says and rubs up against her, even trembling a little as he nestles in her slickness. "Wouldn't you agree, my sweet?"
"Have your wicked way with me, then," Zainab smirks against his mouth as he leans in for a kiss; he makes sure to share with Yassamin his relish at taking in the softness of Zainab's body, his chest pressed against her magnificent breasts. And the cry that Zainab makes, the way she starts as Jaffar begins to push his cock inside of her cunny, oh--it is as if she can't believe it's happening as he begins to slide in deeper and deeper. It feels marvellous; absolutely marvellous.
"You haven't had a real man in here for a while, have you?" he asks, meaning to tease, but he feels tender, rather; the way his cruelty is always tempered the moment he enters a cunny. He cups her face in his hands and leans into her, deep inside of her, groaning himself as he finally rocks himself inside to the hilt: she is so wet, so heated, so soft that he can sheathe himself fully with ease.
She looks up at him, drunk; she smiles sweetly as he cups a breast, two. "My late husband preferred the back entrance, and so do the eunuchs," she murmurs. "Yours is the first flesh and blood prick to have visited her in years," she laughs.
"Mmm," he says, kissing her nose; "do not fear I will leave your arse unmolested," he says, slapping her buttock. "But I had to have this." He groans, trembling as her flesh squeezes his cock; he cannot keep from thrusting, from taking her hips and moving into her with a better rhythm, now. "God, but you feel marvellous; just as I thought you would, God, God--"
"You fuck like a sodomite," she hisses, and Jaffar takes that as a compliment; she even angles her hips into his thrusts as much as she can, her cunny so hot around his cock he can hardly bear it, dripping sweet and slick down his sack. "Don't you dare stop!" she cries.
"You're so tight," he groans. "I knew you'd be, God. So tight, so tight; and yet so fat on the outside, so fat, so plush; if you only knew how good it feels, God, God--"
But now Zainab cannot even speak; her head lolls back and she but takes it, surrendering unto his thrusts, her entire body becoming but yielding flesh for him to surge into. Jaffar has seen this before, afraid that he is hurting a woman with his size; yet, Zainab seems to be but revelling in his length and girth. And thus, he gives of it to her, makes his strokes deep, brutal and short, alternating them with softer, longer ones; just as she opens her eyes to wonder whether he has stopped, he growls and begins to pound into her again, his bare-shaven groin slapping against her cunny's lips, sending her howling, clutching at the air. He is so close to coming himself, driven mad from her heat and her wetness--
Yet, he has some desire for revenge left within himself still. Hating that part in himself, but unable to resist it, he steps back, slides out of her and slaps her cunny once more.
"What's the matter?" Zainab asks, still swinging; her face is red and wet from sweat, her eyes wide from confusion.
"It is only that you scorned me and my lady Yassamin, my sweet," Jaffar growls, stroking his cock. "And I would have revenge."
"This," he says and pushes a finger deep inside of her arse, then pulls it out before she has even finished moaning. "You mocked us for our taste for this, the Byzantine pleasure," he says, tapping his finger against his tongue, sucking off her taste. "And now I am going to make you pay for it," he says, looking down at her, his eyes aglow with mad, wicked mischief. "You are not going to come until you have partaken of the taste, my dear. In fact, I will make sure of it," he says, whispering a little binding-rune and blowing it upon her cunny. "There. You will not have release until I decide it."
"Yes," he says, entering her cunny once more, holding out his finger to her mouth, grinning in sadistic glee as she flinches from it--yet, her cunny clenches around his cock, squeezes it violently, in nothing but reluctant desire and he is sure of it.
For in her eyes, he can see that exact mixture of terror and curiosity he has seen in Yassamin's whenever he has introduced her to a new perversion. Thus, he keeps going, sure of himself, his evil swelling in him, the demon in him that would teach women sin, to tear their inhibitions from them like clothes. Zainab possesses that one word that could stop him, yet she has not uttered it! Therefore, in her heart of hearts, it is not 'Mercy' she wants to cry, but she wants to let far worse words fall from her lips, ones far more unladylike, ones worthy of Zainab the she-libertine. Therefore, it is only gentlemanly of Jaffar to help her, to prompt her, he chuckles in his mind.
"And I want you to ask for it, too," he says, tracing the side of her mouth with his finger, making the most awful, most mocking impression of a slave girl's coo: "Please, can I taste my arse, Master?" he simpers, then slaps her cheek. "Say it!"
"Never!" she hisses, yet her cunny clenches around his prick with such force he fears she will snap it off. "You are disgusting, filthy animals--"
But it is then that he pulls out and pushes his cock into her arse. With surprise as his weapon, with her cleft and his cock as wet as can be, he slides in easily past the double gate of muscle; Zainab shrieks and stills, her eyes rolling back in her head. With brutal, swift thrusts, he fucks himself inside of her completely; it is terrible to behold, and Yassamin wonders if Jaffar has not gone too far.
For now, Zainab but lies there, her entire skin covered in gooseflesh, trembling pale as she is impaled, like some Roman marble of a barbarian vanquished.
Even Jaffar is a little alarmed, but he knows the art of perversion too well to stop here. Therefore, he but remains inside of Zainab, listens for her, observes her as her cunny pulses, pulses over his cock, beading upon it.
She has not cried 'Mercy,' my dear, he tells Yassamin, tells himself so as not to call himself a rapist just yet: again, Zainab's cunny pulses, her nipples crinkle, her entire body shuddering upon the edge of orgasm.
Zainab lifts her head and looks at Jaffar, furious, hateful; yet again, her cunny clenches so that he can feel it. "Jaffar..." she groans, lost, seeking his eyes.
"Do you surrender?" Jaffar asks softly, bringing his thumb to her clitoris, rocking into her arse, and now the white flashes, peaks, stabs of pleasure that his strokes send through Zainab's body are so powerful both he and Yassamin can sense them. "Do you surrender, my dear? To that forbidden pleasure you have dreamt of for days and weeks, ever since you saw us relish it? To that taste even your slave girls dared to sample, when you yourself didn't?" he mocks, never ceasing in his rocking, her arse loosening around his cock as if in orgasm, she painfully held just upon the edge of it, hovering over the precipice, yet unable to fall. "You, the queen of all libertines, dissolutes? Zainab the Harlot? That's what they call you, and yet you would be outdone in sin even by your handmaidens?" he laughs incredulously, cruel and sweet.
Zainab's eyes flash in hatred, slit like those of a furious cat; he has found her most vulnerable spot--her pride. She is as vain in her excesses as she is in her jewels, her costumes; never having met anyone who could match her in her debaucheries, she cannot bear to be bested in them. Jaffar is her enemy, even as he makes white-hot pleasure surge through her body with every clever stroke of his hips, makes her cunny trickle down onto his cock to further her own ravishment; oh, no, she cannot bear the idea of being second best.
"Take my mouth, then," she hisses, clutching her hands into fists. "But I cannot guarantee I will not bite off your filthy prick!" she spits.
He but throws back his head and laughs, tossing sweaty hair from his face. "I think I have a solution to that." He drives violently into her and stays there, penetrating her as deep as he can. "Say 'please,'" he says sweetly as he pulls the egg out from his arse and holds it up to her mouth.
Zainab jerks her head back and groans, swearing in a most unladylike manner. "I hate you! I hate you and your disgusting, twisted--"
He rubs her clitoris with his other hand, rocking his hips, taking her, pushing psychic waves through her, even, so that now she is in agony from being denied release. "Say it," he sing-songs.
She looks at him, barely able to speak as the first waves of orgasm begin to roll through her. Her very flesh vibrates, all of her shuddering long after each one of Jaffar's thrusts has reached the end of its arc. Yet it is not his body with which Jaffar has made her yield, but his mind; now, within the hopelessness and the frustration and the loathing in Zainab's eyes, genuine curiosity sparks. Why, she even licks her lips!
"Please. Let me taste it," she says, her voice hoarse not only from defeat, but her need; she is unable to take her eyes off the egg.
"Open up," he says and dangles the egg above her mouth, gleaming from anal foam, his cock pulsing as he speaks, his balls rising, rising. "Once more. What is it that you want?"
"Please, can I taste your arse? Master?" Zainab says, tears of frustration in her eyes, then opens her mouth wide.
He lets out a pitying croon and tilts his head, pretending to consider; yet Yassamin can tell he is merely waiting until he is pushed onto the brink himself, just upon the edge of ejaculation. With another roll, another deep breath shimmering and sparkling through his body, his balls rise and he is there, there. "Then taste me, my sweet," he hisses, dropping the egg into Zainab's mouth, "and come."
And as Zainab closes her mouth around the egg, wincing, screaming, Jaffar unlocks the spell: she crashes into orgasm that very moment, shrieking around the egg, suffocating upon it, her face red and twisted. She howls, pushing back onto Jaffar, and Jaffar staggers from the force of her convulsions; he pushes straight through them, into the eye of her storm, cupping Zainab's face as he licks the egg, too, coming inside of her in time. And upon her howls, ululations he can taste surprise, more delight rather than revulsion; he had rinsed himself with rosewater, had even daubed a little honeyed fat upon the bud of his anus to prevent piles.
Oh, yes, now it is her enjoying the taste that so revolts her; now, she has to admit to herself that Jaffar and Yassamin had been right.
"There, my dear, you see, you see?" he purrs and feasts upon her shame, taking her shrieks into his mouth, pouring them down his own throat like wine. And as Zainab's cunny, her womb, her arse contract violently around him, he lets her tremors pull his seed from his body: he surges into her, weeks of frustration unravelling from him as he spurts inside of her in long, luxurious blasts of rich sperm. He laughs, triumphant, picks the egg from Zainab's mouth with his teeth and tosses it aside; he fucks her through her orgasm, licking in her screams with deep, loving, victorious kisses. He kneads her breasts, squeezes them, gives her the best, longest, strongest of his ruts and his rolls and his thrusts; even now, he is enough of a gentleman to make sure Zainab is getting the best fuck of her life, he thinks.
You are the proudest, most smug man I have ever known, Yassamin thinks, rolling her eyes.
Correct, Jaffar thinks back at her, but I am taking the proudest, most smug woman in the empire; therefore, it all evens out, you see.
He leans down and holds Zainab, tender, now; he moves to sit down on the table and pulls her to himself. He loosens the bonds around her wrists and lifts her to sit in the hammock, guiding the psychic ropes to wrap her arms around him. There, he cradles her, her head nestled against his shoulder, her cunny still pulsing, squeezing above his cock even as his sperm now drips out of her and down his sack onto the table. "Again, you made it," he says to her. "Good girl," he murmurs, "good girl."
She pulls back to look at him, dazed, her curls now so frizzy they point in all six directions. She looks at her arms, her legs, takes in the way she is sitting in his lap, the way she is now free to move.
"Bastard," she spits, and slaps him with as much force as she has left in her body.
The sweet jolt of pain makes his cock pulse inside of her, pulse and lengthen where it had already started to grow soft; surely she should know by now that he reads this as a plea for more? Therefore, he groans with exaggerated delight and kisses her palm. "Do that again."
"Bastard!" she cries and slaps him again, so violently that they topple off the table and onto the cushions, the cushions themselves wet from their combined fluids. There, he rolls her, kisses her, laughing and laughing, still nestled inside of her arse; she keeps slapping him, not least because each one of her slaps results in a thrust from him.
"It tasted good, didn't it?" he laughs, mewling as she pulls his hair. "Don't lie to me. How was it?"
"Salty," she sputters, making it clear that it was unlike what she had expected. "Metallic, sweet; not unlike honey. What on earth do you keep in there?! A beeswax candle, to sate your catamite's arse?" she spits, slapping him again.
"Oh, now, there's an idea," he groans back in delight, but decides this little humorous interlude is now over. Therefore, he pins Zainab's wrists down onto the cushions and kisses her, deep, deep; slow, he fucks her, long and indulgent strokes in and out of her arse. "You have to taste yourself, still, my sweet," he rasps into her mouth, his face now burning from her blows. "You have to suck it," he hisses, his words as sticky and as wet as her cunny against his pubis as he keeps on pushing into her. His victory still intoxicates him, sings through him so that his words become like a song in turn; rhythmically, he bends her will to his pleasure, his words skipping out from his mouth like a bubbling stream. "Slick it up, my dear, slick it, slick it, slick it; get it tasty, oh, delicious," he purrs, adoring the screams that now bubble out of Zainab's mouth in turn. "Open up, open up, ready, ready, now?" he murmurs, his each word hypnotic as he prises her jaw open with his hand, straddles her face and slides his cock into her mouth.
Predictably, she screams around his cock, and makes to even bite it; however, he warns her with a little psychic pulse from his fingertips, a little sharp spike of pain through the hinges of her jaw. "Clean it up, girl, come; you are lucky I won't lock your jaw this way forever," he purrs and begins to rut into her mouth, the way her tongue trembles against the underside of his cock making his voice tremble in turn. "There's a good girl, there, there;" he croons as he rolls into her, "now, suck it, my child, suck, suck, oh--"
And Zainab throws him down onto the cushions, claiming him in her submission, for it is the only weapon she has left. Groaning, furious around his cock, she fellates him with all her skill, and oh, she must have been the greatest courtesan of her time, having been taught by men who loved men. Hadn't Yassamin told Jaffar that she had been fellating even her slave girls' artificial cocks, out of sheer perversity?
She did so indeed, Yassamin thinks at him, both surprised and entertained by this turn of events; she laughs into Jaffar's mind as he turns around and closes his mouth around Zainab's sex in turn. You two look positively amicable.
Jaffar does not reply; he has only just realised that his sperm is still trickling out of Zainab's arse. "We should not waste this," he murmurs and parts her buttocks, laving their cleft with rough, hungry strokes, moaning in ecstasy at the sticky-sweet must. "Sperm, flesh-dankness, sweat, cunny-sugar," he sighs at Zainab. "My favourite taste in the world, the male and the female combined; the cunny and the arse and the prick all in one!" he cries, slapping her arse, his head snapping back with a sweet moan as Zainab manages, for but a brief moment, to swallow him into her throat. "Merciful God!"
Zainab pulls back, tossing her hair from her face, stroking Jaffar in her hand as she pauses to nuzzle his sack. "I am developing quite a taste for it myself, I have to admit. You tasted merely... not awful; however, I taste delicious."
He smacks her arse once more. "I knew you would turn sweeter after getting a good ramming up the rear."
"You are still a bastard, however," Zainab mumbles, paying attention to his cock alone, as if it was his prick she preferred and that Jaffar was only an unfortunate extension she had to put up with in order to enjoy the true object of her desire.
"It's my sperm you're lapping up there, as it happens," he purrs, rocking against her face. "I am told mine tastes very sweet indeed, not as soapy as most men's," he boasts. "Closer to cunny-sap, my wife tells me."
"And you're tasting the most of it," Zainab smirks and deliberately, farts the last of it onto Jaffar's face, sending him sputtering, she laughing like a little devil.
"You wicked little minx!" he growls, rolling her onto her back and spitting the sperm right back into her mouth, despite her kicks and screams.
And even now, you are tasting your own rather than punishing her! Yassamin groans into his mind, now frustrated once more. What about your poor, neglected wife? she asks. When is it my turn? If I have to keep waiting much longer, my womb might climb up into my throat and strangle me.
The wandering womb was a mad delusion of the Greeks--
I am not here to discuss anatomy. My share, husband. You promised I would get it.
"Oh, all right, then," Jaffar says out loud, baffling Zainab, who still has her hand upon his prick. "I should give you a sample of the taste unsullied by sperm," he says to Zainab, taking her chin in his hand, dropping a quick kiss onto her lips. "Therefore, we should wash," he says, smacking her buttock and squeezing it, relishing its rich fat. "A good rinse for you, for a start."
Jaffar! Yassamin groans.
Jaffar murmurs a rune and snaps his fingers; Yassamin's bonds fall off. Come and get it, my sweet, he thinks, then turns to Zainab. "But wait a moment and my wife shall arrive to administer the enema herself."
"I thought you said she was ill," Zainab says and stretches luxuriously in his arms, enjoying his warmth.
"She was most ill indeed," he smirks. "Positively writhing from love-sickness for you. I wanted you first, but also knew she couldn't keep her hands off you lest I... restrained her a little. She has been watching us in my crystal all this time," he says and gives Zainab another soft kiss; she is not surprised, but he expected that. "After all, it was she you came here for, was it not?"
"Indeed, she was," Zainab says, but she is not looking at Jaffar, for now a secret doorway opens beside the bed, and with it, a lascivious smile spreads upon Zainab's lips. "My lady Yassamin," she purrs, rocking her hips. "Words can not describe how glad I am to see you."
Yassamin stands beside the bed, looking at Jaffar and Zainab past the bedcurtains. Yassamin should be jealous, perhaps, and that's definitely what Zainab now wants her to be, trying to turn her at-first-reluctant ravishment to her advantage, pretending it was a great conquest. She is always seeking power, that little vixen; always looking for people's weaknesses, ways through which to gain the upper hand. Oh, no wonder Jaffar has taken such a liking to her; were he still Caliph, he would already have made Zainab a vizier. Proud, proud Zainab: now, she curls up in Jaffar's arms as if he were a sultan and she his favourite, she making herself as beautiful as she can, what with her hair in a mess, her skin covered in welts and her kohl and lip-paint smudged all over her face.
And she is beautiful, Yassamin has to admit: now Yassamin knows the envy her own handmaidens must have felt every time they had tended to her body at the baths, inspecting the marks Jaffar had left upon her body in the sport of love.
And now Yassamin wants to inspect Zainab in turn, she realises. Without saying a word, she walks up to Jaffar and Zainab, tossing away her robe; Jaffar merely watches her as she leans down to study Zainab, curious.
Zainab herself says nothing, lets herself be touched and turned and moved like a slave girl up for purchase--or a masterpiece of Love's art, brought to life by a true artisan. Jaffar beams behind Zainab as he holds her in his arms, lifting Zainab's limbs for Yassamin to examine, cupping her bruised breasts to show Yassamin where he has left his marks, taking pride in his handiwork. Yet he would not want Yassamin to be jealous: this, she knows; he wants to merely share in this, to show Yassamin this is exactly how beautiful she herself looks after their wilder bouts of passion.
Indeed, my sweet, he thinks at her. This is my gift to you: so that you might see yourself in her, the woman debauched. And remember that I am holding back with her, just as I have held back with all our lovers; this is only half of what we share and you know it.
"Isn't she beautiful?" Jaffar murmurs out loud, kissing Zainab's arm as he lifts it high, he spooning into her buttocks, still erect. And in his words, he is saying but you are more beautiful still, my sweet Yassamin; chuckling it, purring it over Zainab's shoulder a conspirator, so ruthless it even stings Yassamin's conscience a little.
If she knew you said that, she would claw your eyes out. No woman would be able to bear such an insult.
Yet it is the insult she thinks we are levelling at you right now! he laughs.
"She is indeed beautiful," Yassamin says, ignoring Jaffar as she cups Zainab's breasts in her hands: these, she truly is jealous of, Zainab's breasts twice the size of hers, even if her own had grown fuller after children. Cruel welts run all across the soft flesh of them, little bruises forming upon the soft skin of her nipples, and now that their love-shy tips have sunk into the rest of the breast once again, it looks as if they are trying to hide from further torture. Her belly, too, forms three perfect, round rolls like upon the heavenly nymphs guarding heathen temples, a soft bed for a lover to lie upon. Whereas Yassamin feels thin in comparison, now feels an ugly a sting in the long, purple scar girding her belly. And as Jaffar lifts Zainab's leg, exposing her fat, gleaming cunny covered all over in slick wetness, Zainab moans a little against Yassamin, her cunny clearly pulsing in delight at her own beauty. Why, the petals of it tremble, still glimmering; the rim of her arse is protruding and red, pulsing as well at the memory of Jaffar's amorous assault.
And as Zainab looks into Yassamin's eyes in challenge, Yassamin wants to slap the pride out of them; oh, but now she wishes she had been the one beating Zainab instead of Jaffar. She cups Zainab's cheek, tapping it a little, searching her eyes, then turns the tap into a slap. "I should take up his whip and teach you a lesson," she says, ignoring the flash of concern in Jaffar's eyes behind Zainab's shoulder.
"Talk is cheap," Zainab purrs and closes her legs, edging closer, close enough to kiss. "Let us see it."
"Girls, girls!" Jaffar says, pulling Zainab back. "I see no quarrel here."
"There will be none, if you but let me have my share of your love, husband." Yassamin says. "Come. Tie her up."
"I'm sore," Zainab whines like a spoiled brat.
"That's enough!" Yassamin cries.
When Jaffar does nothing, Yassamin tackles Zainab herself, using the very same binding-runes Jaffar had used to hold her in place; she rearranges Zainab into a position where her arse is up in the air and her head is pressed into the cushions. Zainab is too tired to resist and but makes herself comfortable, defying Yassamin by not offering any resistance whatsoever.
"I believe he said something about a rinse?" Yassamin says, now glancing up at Jaffar.
Jaffar but looks at Yassamin, warm mirth in his eyes. You want to prove yourself to me, he laughs inwardly. There is no need, but it is quite sweet, my dear: I shall humour you. It is quite flattering to have two women fighting over me so. "Over here," he says, making his way to the washing alcove.
Indeed, Jaffar has brought his grooming instruments here; razors, lotions and an enema syringe. Yet, it is something altogether more comprehensive that Yassamin has in mind. As Jaffar busies himself washing his genitals and his arse, she goes through the towels hung upon the wall until she finds what she has been looking for underneath them: the enema bag. Made of tough leather and equipped with a three-foot tube of gut, it's as large as Jaffar's turbans when filled, and Yassamin makes sure to fill it to the overflowing.
Deftly, she closes the bag with a clip and dangles it in front of Jaffar's face. "What do you think?"
He shakes his head. "I think you are mad. In that she is an experienced sodomite, and I know she can take twice as much," he grins.
"Two rinses, then," Yassamin chirps as she steps out of the alcove, holding the bag out for Zainab to see. "Or three? What do you think, Zainab?"
Zainab but rolls her eyes--Jaffar had been right. She looks as if she is about to say she can take more, but then thinks better of it; not something she would want to boast about at this juncture. "I rinsed before I left, if you must know," she mutters, and now she seems genuinely wounded, knowing exactly how cruel women can be to other women. "I expected better from you. Pleasure, even."
And now, Yassamin most definitely feels a sting in her heart. She hangs the bag off a lantern-hook upon the wall and comes to sit before Zainab, taking her head in her lap. "You bring it upon yourself, and you know it," she says, more of a friendly chide than anything else.
"Yes," Zainab laughs, her voice a little unsteady, "I suppose I do," and now she winces as Jaffar oils the nozzle and guides it into her arse.
Yassamin nods to Jaffar, a nod slow and gentle; he loosens the clip only slightly so that the water starts to trickle into Zainab's guts at the slowest possible rate. "That should take a while," he says, stroking a particularly beautiful welt on her arse with his thumb.
"My plan exactly," Yassamin says and beckons Jaffar to herself. "My share, husband; let her watch."
"I have been hard at work all day, my sweet," he says, piling up cushions so that he can lie down on them comfortably. "Whereas you've been tied up for so long that it's time you stretched your limbs a little." He lifts out his cock and waves it to her. "It's all yours; come and take it."
"Thank you," Yassamin says, dropping a butterfly kiss on his cock; he is already sore, it seems, judging by the way he starts at even such a gentle touch.
But Yassamin cannot wait any longer; that shadow-orgasm Jaffar had given her has trapped so much heavy blood in her hips that she can barely walk from how much she aches. Jaffar might have thought his balls were as blue as sapphires, but--what would be the female equivalent? A purple womb? If a woman could have such a thing, that woman would be Yassamin.
Playing with Zainab had distracted her for a while, but as she sits astride Jaffar's cock, she cries out louder than she had intended to, from how wonderful it now feels to have that ache massaged out of her; oh, how much she has needed this, the way the pressure of his cock itself releases that trapped blood, letting it swirl free about her hips again. She draws in a deep breath and braces her hands on her husband's chest, rocks her entire body onto his in serpentine delight, focusing her attention to every square inch of her vaginal walls. With her flesh, she listens to his, to every atom that he touches with his own, a million upon a million little pleasures all peaking up into one driving, expanding heat inside of her.
She does not even look at Zainab, but she can see Jaffar is glancing at her over his shoulder; he turns back to Yassamin and all wickedness falls from his eyes, his gaze filled to the brim with but adoration.
Yet I am not as tight, Yassamin thinks, hating herself for even making the comparison, but it is inevitable, is it not?
Stop that right now, he thinks at her, cupping her breasts in his hands, showing her how much he adores her nipples, the way they don't have to be teased out, yielding themselves to his kisses immediately. There is a bend in your hips, if you must know, both yours and hers that squeezes me most wonderfully--there, just there behind the pubic bone; I can only tell you apart from the outside, and in depth.
A bend? She tightens herself around him experimentally, milking him with her muscles, lifting up so that it is just underneath the glans that she squeezes him the tightest.
Yes, and now he moans out; and you know the exact place to squeeze, the spot, oh, God, the spot, do that again-- "Yassamin," he murmurs out loud, panting into her breasts, smearing them with his mouth, his kohl. "Please."
Oh, that, that--it is that you both have wombs that are tilted a little, somehow, oh, whatever it is that makes you both she-sodomites! I swear you are only a little deeper, being taller, and her cunny is so fat that maybe that's why I felt I couldn't get as deep inside of her, oh, Yassamin, but you take me entire, entire--
But now she pins him down onto the cushions, lacing her hands with his; she knows Zainab has the best possible view of them and shows off her cunny and her arse to Zainab, knowing how her mouth must water as she watches Yassamin painting Jaffar's cock with her slickness. Yassamin rides Jaffar vigorously, as a man rides a woman, taking him with her cunny, giving to him with her muscles what Zainab gives with but her tightness, and more than that, more.
You lie; she is tighter than I am. I have felt it with my fingers.
"Yassamin!" he now cries out loud, angered that she could even feel like this. Don't you dare think you are second best, don't you dare, he roars into her mind, rolling her onto her back and thrusting into her, thrusting into her with such violence he makes her scream. She is pushed into an awkward position as he forces her own hand between her legs, forcing it into movement through his magic so that it now rubs her clitoris; he pushes his mind into her body, driving her towards orgasm. Your body is my favourite, your soul is my favourite; woman, you are the mother of my children! He stares into her eyes, furious, then slaps her face, but gently, as if to awaken a woman fainted. "Who is your husband?" he asks, tears now springing into his eyes, never ceasing in his taking of her, punctuating his words with his hips. "Who, Yassamin? Who is it that loves you the most?"
Behind them, Yassamin cannot even hear Zainab breathing. "Jaffar," Yassamin sobs out loud; her hand hurts from how hard Jaffar is forcing it to rub her clitoris; she takes her free hand and sinks it into his hair, his hair-tie now coming off completely. His hair falls about her face and encloses them, briefly shielding their faces from Zainab, giving them a moment of privacy. "My love, my love, my sweet Jaffar," she cries, her teeth chattering from the force of his love-blows, each wave of pleasure now rising in her hips, in her ribs, up her spine, each wave carrying his name: Jaffar, Jaffar, Jaffar.
Tell me that you believe me, he whispers into her mind, trembling on top of her, trembling as she begins to come undone around him. That you are at the centre of my heart. She, just like the others, is but a mirror through which we reflect our own love, I have told you this! She drinks from our love, but it is you and I who are the fountain itself, my Yassamin, my sweet Yassamin.
And now he sends the last of his blows through her, blossoming white like a thousand lilies unfurling: his love flourishes out, curlicues inside of her, creeping up her limbs like vines, surging up her veins like nectar: I do, I do, I do, Yassamin cries out into his mind, "Jaffar!" she shouts so loudly his hair billows from their faces; "Jaffar, Jaffar, Jaffar!" she wails as she falls. Like ashes, she falls around him and too, billows, burnt white by the force of his love; soft and light like ashes she flutters down all around them, all of her that was bitter burnt to dust.
He hugs her tight against himself, clasping her with his limbs so that she is lifted off the cushions, he rocking into her still. He has not come yet; even this, she adores, no longer jealous, only marvelling at Jaffar the lover and his self-control. Oh, but she is the luckiest of women indeed, to have herself a man who can keep his own desire in check so that he might spin it out to last all night, to pleasure not only himself but multiple women.
"I'm sorry," Yassamin murmurs into his shoulder, patting his back with her hands even as the last ripples of her orgasm fade; her hands still tremble, her cunny trembles, her very organs tremble around him in love. He is here, he is here; his back so warm and wide underneath her hands, his heartbeat fast against her breasts, the soft and tender and concerned groan in his voice as soft as firelight upon her heart.
She pulls back, and it is an altogether new Yassamin that she now sees reflected in Jaffar's eyes; a Yassamin with a smile calm, contented. And as he grins back at her, wicked, the wickedness in his eyes strikes sparks in hers: now, that reflection turns into Yassamin the she-ravisher once more, smiling back at her accomplice. "Let us take her," she purrs at him, purrs over his shoulder at Zainab, aglow with renewed desire. "Let us take her, my love."
Zainab lets them empty her, wash her; the water comes out so clean that Yassamin has mercy on her and does not force her to take another rinse. Zainab seems to have fallen into a trance of sorts, an erotic torpor, letting them move her every which way; finally, Jaffar picks her up in his arms and carries her to bed.
"It's much more comfortable here," he murmurs, spooning Zainab: she lies in the middle of the vast bed, Yassamin facing her, kissing her softly.
"What was it that you wanted from me, my lady?" Zainab asks, nuzzling Yassamin's face. "You yourself saw that your husband gave me quite a beating," she says, but there is no bitterness in her voice, only satiation.
Jaffar kisses Zainab's hair, caressing her hip. "I seem to recall you wanted to wear Zainab as your ornament, my sweet; make her a bracelet about your wrist. Is that not so?"
"I would indeed," Yassamin murmurs; the cream they use for this purpose is within easy reach, and as she places it between herself and Zainab, Zainab cannot mistake her meaning. "You enjoyed my silvern sister's hand," Yassamin says, cupping Zainab's cheek. "Would you now feel mine?"
Zainab's pupils dilate with desire; she kisses Yassamin's hand. "Gladly."
"She has done it before. I did tell you about that, did I not?" Jaffar asks, lifting Zainab's hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck.
Zainab does not look at Jaffar as she cups Yassamin's face, kissing her softly. "And what would you do, man-pard? Purr next to us?"
But Jaffar has already switched sides; he lifts Yassamin's leg and plants a loving kiss between her buttocks. "I shall see to it that the flames of her passion burn bright all throughout," he murmurs. I remember what you said about being frustrated when having to play the active partner, my child, he says to Yassamin with his mind. Therefore, this time, I shall make sure that you receive at the same time, get poured full of pleasure as you give it. "I shall reward her for every new step of the journey."
Zainab bites her tongue, laughing like a child; she squirms happily in Yassamin's embrace. "Someone to whip you on, then! Excellent."
Yassamin flushes, then yelps as Jaffar nips at her inner thighs. "Then you must blame him, if my hand slips! Jaffar, you are impossible."
"Guilty as charged!" he cries and slaps Yassamin's arse. "Come. Let me see it."
"Come here," Yassamin says, ruffling Jaffar's head, then looking back at Zainab. "I would we opened her together," she says, glancing at Zainab's cunny, relishing the way even Zainab shivers a little. "With just her own sap... at first."
Zainab rolls her eyes. "Oh, God."
"That is my expertise," Jaffar purrs as he climbs in next to Zainab once more, nuzzling her face, guiding her to spread her legs. "To make a woman so wet she can take almost anything," he murmurs, stroking her cunny, "with but the nectar of her own flesh. You did take me without a drop of oil earlier," he chuckles. "How many fingers, do you think, could your arse take with sap and spit alone?"
Zainab pants against his face, jerking as Yassamin leans down to kiss her cunny. "I don't know," she moans into his face, sinking her hand into Jaffar's hair, twisting as she is trapped between Yassamin's kisses and his caresses. "But not an entire hand, even a woman's," she says, now nervous, her cunny clenching against Yassamin's lips as Yassamin takes her clitoris into her mouth. "Without--without cream, I mean."
Jaffar chuckles into her mouth. "Who's the shy one, now?" he says and slaps her cunny, dips his fingers a little lower to gather moisture, then spreads it in gentle circles around the top of her slit, her entire mound.
"It is not shyness, my lord; I am a little sore," Zainab says, more frustrated with her own body's limitations, it seems, rather than the man who had so ravaged her. "Oh--" she now cries as Yassamin slips two fingers into her arse, easily.
"But you are beautiful," Yassamin murmurs; "I shall be careful. But cry 'mercy' if you want us to slow down."
"I shall," Zainab says, but then she can speak no more as Jaffar takes her mouth with a kiss, massaging her cunny in earnest, now.
With a telepathic sigh of thanks to Jaffar, Yassamin settles between Zainab's legs to explore, to worship. For all their debaucheries, she has not had time to adore Zainab's body nearly as much as she has wanted to, her arse in particular. Zainab's cunny is magnificent, yes, Nature's masterpiece in its own right, but it is her arse that Yassamin now wants to claim in full. She had been robbed of this pleasure when Zainab and her girls had decided to take her instead, and now, she gestures for Zainab to truly spread and lift her legs so that both she and Yassamin might enjoy this exploration to the utmost.
There is something about the arse that holds a fascination for Yassamin, whether it be male or female; ever since Jaffar had introduced her to the art of sodomy, she has been a devotee of its mysteries, greater and more complex than she could have ever imagined. For it is not simply the taboo aspect of it, the fear of filth that so stirs her about the back passage, no, no; although there is something to be said for that dimension of the act as well. There is a romance all its own, a poetic beauty to taking even the dirtiest, foulest part of the human body, cleansing it and then claiming it for pleasure, annexing it to become a part of Venus's empire. It is nothing less than a liberation of that tender, rich and sensitive flesh from the tyranny of filth, and oh, how the flesh rejoices at its saviour!
Just as any true conqueror does not merely spoil and pillage, but tends to the territory he's captured and makes it flourish, so does the clever sodomite turn the body's sewer into the most marvellous, most beautiful of triumphal gates: the gate through which one experiences the sublimest, the most exquisite of erotic ecstasies, euphorias second to none. It is nothing less than a mystical station on the road to rapture; a trial through which the neophyte must pass. The little pain and discomfort, the little dirt that might at times get in the way seem illusory and small in comparison to the vastness of the ecstasies to be found within, as if one had been lied to all one's life once one had penetrated the heart of the secret.
And what makes Zainab special is that she truly understands this; so many slave girls have but been hurt, torn and humiliated by their masters with this act, but she has taken its pleasure and made it her own. Nevermind the beauty of her figure or her hair or her eyes, nevermind the sensuality she so freely exhibits, for those are but the surface: it is in the state of her well-loved, swollen arse that she is revealed to be a true love-goddess--because she enjoys sex for its own sake, not because men might enjoy her.
And now, this marvellous arse of hers opens to Yassamin's fingers so easily, just as Jaffar's does after years of experience; just as Jaffar's arse is to him a second cunt, so is the thick, raised, pursed oval of Zainab's anus a gate that clearly loves being opened wide. In fact, now Zainab's muscles seem to not only let Yassamin's fingers in, but pull them in; Yassamin gasps as they clench around her fingertips, beckoning her inside.
"But this is marvellous," Yassamin says, tugging a little as she slips past the second ring of muscle; Zainab gasps and her cunny pulses on top of Yassamin's fingers, trickling a little wetness down her perineum. And by 'marvellous,' Yassamin means the control Zainab has over her sphincter muscles, muscles that are still mostly autonomous, taking orders only from the stomach. On Zainab, these muscles are so thick, so well-trained and give so easily, yet squeeze Yassamin's fingers with such intent that now she wishes she had a prick once more. "She must have felt wonderful around you," Yassamin says to Jaffar, a little wistfully.
"Mm," Jaffar says, pulling back from kissing Zainab, peeking between her legs. "She did indeed," he says, pulling a string of her wetness from her cunny with his hand, then slapping it back onto it and rubbing it in with relish, making Zainab yelp. "I miss it already," he murmurs, but before Zainab can get too smug about it, he takes her mouth with a kiss once more.
"You feel like silk on the inside," Yassamin sighs, adoring the surfaces of Zainab's flesh, her own cunny squeezing and wetting as Zainab's pulse flutters against her fingertips. She concentrates on this sensation, relishing it as she pushes in further, all to way to the knuckle; each little cry Zainab now makes, each ripple and squeeze and clench, Yassamin now drinks in and lets flow down to her own cunny, letting Zainab's sensations massage her on the inside as she now massages Zainab. She takes her with a slow rut, sliding her fingers almost completely out, tugging at the ring of muscles the way she knows brings them exquisite pleasure, so that all of Zainab trembles underneath her, her cunny again pulsing and slicking her hand further, a willing accomplice in her conquest.
And deeper, there, the weight of Zainab's womb; Yassamin is at first a little nauseated as she feels it, the way it tilts so heavily towards Zainab's spine. She is so used to taking Jaffar with her fingers that she has forgotten what a woman feels like on the inside, and the way Zainab's insides mirror her own make her a little queasy, in the same manner seeing someone else's blood makes her feel faint: she is touching internal organs, after all.
In comparison, a man is much smoother, emptier on the inside; sometimes she hasn't even been able to feel Jaffar's prostate and has had to use his reactions as her guide. Even when the gland has been swollen, like when he has had to remain celibate for more than a few days for some spell or another, she has felt it only as something a little firmer than the rest of his innards: not this heavy, living weight that closes up the back of Zainab's rectum almost entirely, these large veins now beating against her fingertips. Yet, she could not reach any deeper with only her fingers in any case, and she realises this must be the curve Jaffar had spoken of, the very thing he said he'd enjoyed being squeezed by.
And as Zainab stiffens, now, as Yassamin's fingers tease at that curve behind the womb, Yassamin can tell that her touch is sending those white sparks through Zainab's body that she herself so loves, both of them blessed with such sensitive nerve clusters in this very spot, it seems. Zainab pushes Jaffar away from herself, trembling, patting the sheets, gasping for air; her eyes want to roll back, but she fights it, for some reason.
But Yassamin will have none of that: she wants to see Zainab come undone. Thus, she slicks up a third finger, now pushing all of them against her womb, hooking upwards until Zainab twists, screams.
"Mercy!" Zainab cries, now--oh. Then it must not have been pleasure she had been fighting, but pain; Yassamin withdraws her fingers immediately.
"What's the matter?" Jaffar asks, gentle, soft; he takes his hand off Zainab's cunny and rests it upon her still-heaving belly to soothe her. "What's the matter, my sweet?"
"I'm sorry," Zainab says, shaking her head, barely looking at Yassamin in her shame. "It's just that fingers are a little harder than a prick," she murmurs at Yassamin, then glances up at Jaffar. "You did give me quite a beating."
"But, my child!" Jaffar says and hugs her. "We can retire--"
"No!" Zainab cries, angriest at herself, it seems, at the way her body has betrayed her. "I will not give up so easily."
Yassamin knows this feeling all too well, Jaffar having instilled in her such a desire for the erotic extreme that her body has, at times, lagged behind when her mind has already rushed ahead to sample pleasures unknown.
"I understand," she tells Zainab, kissing her knee, her thigh. "We might try something else."
"Take me," Zainab then tells Jaffar. "Perhaps that will help a little, to... soften me."
Jaffar throws back his head and laughs. "Now, how could I resist that?" he says, taking Zainab's chin and kissing her on the mouth, yet searching her eyes to make sure. "It is sodomy you mean?"
"Yes," Zainab says and turns over onto her belly, spreading her legs. "This way, it should be easier," she says to Yassamin over her shoulder. "If that does not disappoint you too much, my lady."
"Not at all," Yassamin says, for now she has an idea, a marvellous idea. She smacks Zainab's buttocks, then takes a good hold of them, squeezing them until they ripple and crinkle in her hands like the rind of a ripe fruit. "As long as my mouth gets its share," she explains, then sinks her tongue between Zainab's buttocks, adoring the way Zainab shrieks, her anus pulsing against her tongue. "This does not give you pain, now, does it?" she chuckles between licks.
Zainab squeaks with girlish delight, kicking a little, lifting her hips in invitation. "Rather the opposite! Please. Continue."
Jaffar but smiles and groans in delight, spreading Zainab's buttocks for Yassamin's assault. "She has learned from the best," he sighs. "Exactly the tactic I always use."
"It is--it is a good tactic," Zainab gasps, clutching the sheets.
But Yassamin is not listening. Now, this, this is something she vastly prefers to the finger-rut: it is one of those acts she could perform all night. This, in fact, was one of the reasons she had insisted on the enema: Zainab had never let her taste her arse apart from the cream-shower. She and Jaffar will share this taste with Zainab in a moment, oh, yes, but now Yassamin revels in being the one to taste it first, at its most unsullied. Already, arousal and the tussles of love have given Zainab's cleft a little misting of sweat, and her glands have produced a little of that dark, dank must both Yassamin and Jaffar share an addiction for: both are clearly discernible underneath the sweet slickness of her cunny-sap. Hungrily, she licks away that sap and spreads the bud of Zainab's anus to taste the dip of each fold deep, deep: as she finds the darkest flavours, fragrances, those even the enema had not washed off, she groans deep from her chest into Zainab's arse, as raw and as animal as a man.
Jaffar had been right: now Yassamin becomes like him, a beast as she devours this delicious hole, ablaze with her sin; her nipples drag hard against the silk sheets, her cunny clenching and clenching at her own audacity, at her shamelessness. And from the corner of her eye, she can see Jaffar's balls jumping, his cock jerking so at the sight that he has to take himself in hand; oh, but she burns bright, bright.
Even Zainab now screams into the bed at the force with which she is now being taken, Yassamin beating her face into her arse; this act, too, Yassamin had learned from her husband, the use of one's very skull to make love's blows deeper, sending them rippling all throughout a lover's flesh and bone. Just as Jaffar had taken Zainab's cunny earlier, now Yassamin takes her arse in the same manner, some small spark of sadism within her even hoping she will bruise, leave her mark. No little slave girl, she, no little maiden obeying her mistress's orders: now, Zainab is being ravished by the two greatest masters of perversion's art.
Jaffar shifts upon the bed, and by instinct, Yassamin knows to move aside the moment she sees his eyes flashing with heat. He is in that state of arousal where nothing will stop him, now; for a moment, Yassamin is glad Zainab does not know this face as well as she does, for she wonders if even a 'Mercy' would be heeded, now. He is dark, he is terrible, he is beautiful, a god: without a word, he straddles Zainab's thighs and pulls up her hips, sliding his cock deep into her cunny. It all happens so fast Zainab cries out, howls, screams into the mattress, her body jerking as Jaffar begins to fuck her, rough, brutal, without finesse; he has barely started when he pulls out, judging his cock slick enough, and now begins to press inside Zainab's arse.
Zainab's face twists from pain and she grows quiet, but she is determined to take him, determined to pull herself through to the pleasure that awaits on the other side; she surrenders so completely it is beautiful to watch. She loosens her body, curves her back like a cat pleading to be mated with, forcing herself to accept Jaffar inside of herself with the concentration of a fakir: ready to defy a little pain for the greater ecstasy of being face to face with his God.
Divine, divine, Jaffar is divine as he spits upon his cock and impales Zainab's flesh once more; the streak of his spit and the whorls of her arse curling around his prick a white garland, a pink crown.
Briefly, he pulls his cock out, and Zainab's arse gapes, heaves, as if sighing more, I am empty without you, more; Zainab moaning "Please, Master, more," so quiet a whisper it is swallowed by the sheets entire.
Softly, sweetly, Yassamin takes Jaffar into her mouth; she nearly comes there and then as the dark, deep salt of Zainab's arse, deeper than what she could reach with her tongue, now dissolves upon her palate. The glands underneath her tongue flood her mouth with saliva, as if she were sucking upon a delicious sweet; she keens, rubbing herself, rubbing, transferring her pleasure onto Jaffar's cock with the force of her voice, gives to him of its depth as she lets him briefly gag her throat. She coughs, shivers; now, the fastest, quickest of clitoral orgasms whips through her as she so milks her husband.
Still, she sobs as Jaffar laughs cruelly, softly, wiping tears from her eyes with his thumbs. "Return it to her wet," he says, a command as firm as it is quiet; "slicken it, my child; slicken it well, so that I might take her deeper."
And Yassamin does as she is told, now never taking her eyes off the skies of Jaffar's, her very submission making him hiss with such pleasure so that his stomach ripples and dips against her huffed, short, fast breaths. His nipples crinkle, the hair on his arms standing on end as he cups Yassamin's jaw in his hand, taking Zainab's arse with his fingers at the same time; he tenses like a hound, wanting to pounce, pounce, leap and tear and ravage and maim. Oh, Jaffar may want Yassamin to be swift, but knowing his perversion for delay, she teases him to the utmost: slowly, she rolls her head as she slickens his prick, dancing and swaying into his rut in worship.
"Enough!" Jaffar cries, rasps; he pulls his cock out of Yassamin's mouth so swiftly thick strings of phlegm lash from her mouth onto her throat and onto her breasts. These, Jaffar slurps off her, sucks off her only to spit them into Zainab's arse, pushing them brutally inside of her with his fingers to slicken her up more, more, more. He slaps his cock against his stomach, hissing through his teeth as Zainab wails at his hooking fingers, now three and long and tugging upon her like claws. Finally, he tugs them out, still hooked, and before Zainab has even finished screaming, he replaces them with his cock.
And with this new gloss of slickness, a new tug of Yassamin's fingers to ease the way, Jaffar slides deeper into Zainab than ever before: Zainab makes to howl, but her noise is crushed in her throat as Jaffar presses into her, throwing her into the bed with his entire weight. He may be a man slight, but when he drives into a woman, he seems possessed of some strange new heaviness, as if Desire itself weighed down his blood, just as alchemy makes baser metals gravid with gold. Gold, gold, the sheen of sweat upon his brown belly in the evening light; these, Yassamin laps up, little moans in Jaffar's chest trickling down onto his stomach, Yassamin catching these upon her tongue, too, sweet golden pearls, pearls.
He is more beast than man, grunting, huffing, his nostrils flared; the eyes of a big cat stare down at Yassamin from underneath his brows as she rests her head upon the small of Zainab's back, offering herself up to his service. She strokes Zainab's cunny, now so wet and so swollen in her hand, and a shiver of pleasure goes through Yassamin in recognition: that amazing, wonderful rush of anal penetration that so fills the cunny with heat, makes it swell to twice its normal size, Zainab's folds flushed and full and heavy between her fingers. Zainab, too, is reduced to groans animal, ruts beastlike, huffing and panting as she throws herself back onto Jaffar's cock; she twists between Yassamin's hand and Jaffar's prick, rubbing herself against both as she tries to relieve what seems a massive ache, despair.
"Please, please, please," Zainab begs, pleads.
"Please, what?" Yassamin asks, even if she knows what Zainab must mean--sodomy always drives her, too, close to orgasm from the very start, and Zainab is coiled tight, indeed trembling with the need for release.
"Please, let me come, please, let me come, please, let me come," Zainab sobs, the uncrowned queen of the land now reduced to a slave girl begging for scraps, hoping against all hope that her master will have mercy upon her. How many times must she have lain underneath men like this? For it's as if some old wound opens within her, her cries those of a girl young, abused. The times she must have been robbed of orgasm when the men who had owned her had taken their pleasure of her and left--a man comes so swiftly from such tightness, even swifter than a woman, and whereas an ordinary orgasm being cut off is frustrating enough, to be cut off in the middle of sodomy is absolute hell.
The wild rush of emotions and humours this act engenders in the body of the recipient, a veritable maelstrom of blood and flesh--to have all these humours trapped inside of the body unreleased, to not have the pain of anal penetration assuaged by orgasm is enough to trigger madness, it is said. Why, even being denied release from ordinary coitus can turn women hysterical, raving lunatics from the humours that sex has heated up and darkened inside of them. For as these humours accumulate in the womb without being allowed release, the womb itself will become poisoned, begin to blacken and bleed into the pelvis: eventually, the woman herself shall be slain.
Yet sodomites fare even worse when denied orgasm, it is said, their minds shattered so that they will become paranoid and see things and hear things, their sap and their sperm having risen into their brains and rotting there, turning them insane before they finally die a horrid, screaming death. The greatest madmen have always been those who had been taken as boys but left unfulfilled--look to the Caesars!--so say all the love manuals. Therefore, even the cruellest of boy-chasers should always make sure his boy reaches release as well.
And Jaffar knows this, has seen it happen with his own eyes: therefore, despite playing the brute, he always makes sure that his lovers' humours are released at the peak of coitus, be they male or female. From his time as a woman, he knows the pain of the blood-filled womb is worse than anything he has ever felt in his testes; therefore, he now stills, mercy sobering him from his lust-rage.
"Move aside," Jaffar rasps to Yassamin. Flicking his hand upwards, he makes a curling gesture with his fingers: now, Zainab's limbs are lifted so that she rests upon all fours, Jaffar yanking her back as if a pard on a leash. He flicks his fingers to the right, so that Zainab's head is turned with it to look over her shoulder, so that now, she is forced to watch herself. With a little nod, he gestures for Yassamin to continue rubbing Zainab's cunny; as he stays still within Zainab's arse, her cunny clenches against Yassamin's hand, her hips stiffening with the pain of Jaffar not moving.
"I want both of you to see this," Jaffar murmurs, cupping Yassamin's head. He pulls his cock out slowly, displaying its gleaming length to Zainab with great pride, commanding her to adore its red and shining beauty. And as he does this, he sends to Zainab and Yassamin of his vision, sends to them both what he now sees: the head of his cock slurps out of her arse and leaves behind itself a beautiful, wide open gape.
Zainab shrieks, both from the sensation of seeing double and of seeing herself, her body so opened: yet this shriek turns into a wail as Yassamin slides her tongue deep into this gape, deep. Yassamin sobs into Zainab's arse, never ceasing in her rubbing of her, the first pulses of Zainab's orgasm so violent she can feel them against her hand. On and on, she licks her on the inside, her own cunny clenching in half-disgust; she has never licked a woman this deep inside before, gagging as she forces her tongue out as far as she can, scooping up sap, sweat, mucus, spit.
And it is then that Jaffar stabs his prick back inside of Zainab's arse, out and then into Yassamin's mouth, as Zainab watches. Her taste, her taste, the taste that Zainab is now forced to crave, Zainab's disgust turned inside out until it transmutes into pleasure: Yassamin has to bring her other hand to her own cunny to rub herself, the salt and the metal of Zainab's arse sluicing, swirling into her mouth and her veins and her every nerve, pushing her right up to the brink. The brink, the brink: there, she teeters, the same precipice as Zainab. Pale, Zainab's blue eyes stare at them, wide, her neck craned awkwardly, yet she is there, there.
As Jaffar pushes his cock back inside of Zainab's arse, that very stroke makes her cunny spray onto Yassamin's hand. Zainab moans, howls, shrieks a madwoman, and Jaffar but pulls out again; he scoops up her foam, her anal mucus, clean and white onto his fingers, three fingers, fucking her with them and she sprays and she sprays. Yet he can tell she is still toppling, still in freefall, not having plunged into the sea of orgasm yet: this is why he now takes those fingers and stuffs them into Zainab's mouth, ramming into her arse so deep he is buried into his balls.
Yassamin can barely hear Zainab's noises, can no longer see Jaffar or Zainab for the blinding force of her orgasm: again, Jaffar steals Zainab's from her and pours it inside of Yassamin. Yassamin sobs in full release, howls against Zainab's buttock, falling against her, her body jerking and crashing against Zainab's soft flesh. On and on she comes, Jaffar dipping out of Zainab and into Yassamin's mouth; Yassamin's jaw hangs wide open as if in seizure, all of her so loose and lax that Jaffar dips all the way into her throat.
And when Yassamin falls, breathless, senseless, he dips inside of Zainab's arse once more and offers his beading, marbled, dripping cock to Zainab's own mouth; Zainab can no longer protest but swallows it, weeping around it, sobbing at how much she loves it, loves it, sucking all of her taste into her mouth with great relish.
Thus, Jaffar uses his females, roaring, dipping fingers and cock into both of them, smearing their tongues and their faces with Zainab's taste, marking them with his conquest, saturating them deep, deep with the taste of sodomy itself. Soon enough, Zainab falls, Jaffar falls, but Jaffar has not finished, no, no: to Yassamin's surprise, he still hasn't ejaculated.
With a great, despairing roar, Jaffar slips out of Zainab and falls back on the bed, clutching at the sheets with his fists; his now-purple cock points up his belly, and he screams into the canopies as he tosses there and kicks, trying to keep himself from coming.
Zainab makes to relieve him with her hand, but he smacks it away, glaring at her, furious; both Yassamin and Zainab stare, astounded, as he smacks his own cock, pinches the root of it, twisting his sack violently to bring himself back from the brink.
Yassamin wants to ask him why, but it is then that she feels a psychic touch upon her hand. Jaffar is still lying there next to them, clasping the root of his rock-hard prick; yet, with his gaze, he now picks up Yassamin's hand and guides it towards Zainab's buttocks. Yassamin's hand is shaking too much for her to resist, and Zainab's throat is too hoarse to make a sound as Jaffar makes Yassamin dip four fingers inside of her still-open arse, dip, dip.
"Deeper," he rasps.
Perhaps it is the orgasm, perhaps it is the stretch that has now so loosened Zainab that Yassamin can enter her without too much pain: Zainab only twitches a little as Yassamin slides her fingers inside. Yet, Yassamin listens to her, quiet, careful, concerned: even so, Jaffar's gaze is upon them, and she wonders if he is not using magic to take away some of Zainab's pain, discomfort.
Zainab but lies there on her belly, seemingly resigned to her fate, but a curiosity sparks in her eyes, a hunger for knowledge: her neck must hurt too much from all this craning, so she but looks into Jaffar's eyes as he lies there to the left of her.
Or, rather, Zainab lets herself be taken by them, to become that extreme vision Jaffar so yearns for, gathering her strength as she watches herself in the reflection of his eyes, become Zainab the harlot-queen once more. They all know what he wants to see; they all know what Zainab wants to take; they all know what Yassamin wants to give her.
Still quiet, Jaffar hands Yassamin the cream, takes Zainab's hand as Yassamin slicks her own. Zainab closes her eyes, listening to the wet sounds of what is about to push her body to its utmost limits. with the concentration of a mystic, Yassamin makes sure to grease her hand fully, daubing richer dollops of cream onto the widest parts of her hand, slathering every part of it, even if her hands are as soft as can be.
"Are you ready?" Yassamin asks Zainab, pressing the most tender of kisses upon the small of her back.
Zainab turns her head as much as she can, the look in her eyes flickering with a little trepidation. Nevertheless, she forces her old debauched twinkle into them, taking a deep breath as she relaxes against the pressure of Yassamin's fingers. "Yes," she whispers and spreads her legs, then closes her eyes.
And it is in her stillness that she becomes even more beautiful, indeed alabaster the way her skin seems to take on a glow as Yassamin penetrates her: Yassamin tucks in her thumb and slides inside up to the widest part of her hand with ease. It is more of a shock to Yassamin, this: she has only taken Gol in this manner, and that was five years ago; now, she worries she might be doing something wrong.
But Zainab keeps on glowing, glowing, breathing, breathing: that wet, silken sheath that is her arse expands, rippling a little now and then as her body tries to reject the intrusion, but each time, Zainab's will emerges the victor. As Yassamin rolls her hand, dips it, massages Zainab on the inside, so does Zainab now moan and breathe and push, expanding herself around Yassamin's hand, her very self flickering open for Yassamin, for Jaffar's will to fill.
There. It does not take long at all until Yassamin's hand is fully nestled within Zainab's flesh: oddly, it is now Yassamin who wants to weep, the brine of tears rising into her nose and her throat. "Zainab--"
Jaffar nuzzles Zainab's face, a face now languid, happy, gentle; his crooked teeth flash in the sweetest of grins. Yet it is upon Zainab's face that the loveliest, most ecstatic of smiles now spreads: she glows, as if illuminated from within, Jaffar's passion having lit a flame inside of her chest, and now she encompasses Yassamin and Jaffar within the warmth of that glow as well.
"Don't cry," Zainab murmurs to Yassamin, reaching back to take her free hand, squeezing it over her buttock. "It feels wonderful, my lovely Yassamin. Wonderful."
"I--" Yassamin swallows her tears, taking her hand from Zainab to wipe her face. "I can feel your life, Zainab. The veins--your spine--your womb--" all of Zainab's life flowing around her hand, rushing sweet and full of health, so vivacious and wonderful despite all these dark perversions they have indulged in tonight, despite her body being stretched beyond its natural limits.
"Let me see," Jaffar says, kissing the tears from Yassamin's face, hugging her, laughing softly. "Come. Lift your hand. I've never seen it done like this before," he murmurs with the curiosity of the scientist, only having seen Zainab and her girls playing with Yassamin from afar. "Oh, but that's beautiful," he says as Yassamin pulls back a little. "Come. Let me see what it looks like now, when you have truly opened her."
And to be frank, what Yassamin now sees disgusts her a little, even if it is not a sight new to her. For now, as she withdraws her hand, Zainab's flesh slurps, clenches, her anus now furled and dilated to a massive size, like a small cunny in and of itself. Jaffar, however, is fascinated: he croons and plays with this swollen mass of flesh, taps at it with his fingers, pulls it open with his fingertips from either side, chuckling as Zainab moans quietly into the mattress.
"Beautiful. Like a flower; a massive red flower." He turns to Yassamin, sucking Zainab's taste from her hand, then winces a little at the taste of the cream, the grease now spoiling their sport a little. "Just like yours, in fact," he says to Yassamin, then slides his own hand in as deep as it will go. "How's that, my sweet? Ever taken a man's hand before?"
"No!" Zainab pants, now clutching the sheets in alarm, lifting her arse reflexively, yet she must love it: long strings of her arousal dangle from her cunny, now, a little spray escaping from it as Jaffar moves his fingers.
"Would you like to try?" Jaffar asks, sweet, casual, angelic.
"I am sure you will do it anyway," she whispers, but as Jaffar turns his fingers inside of her, she collapses onto the sheets, panting, whimpering.
"Correct," Jaffar says, taking up the cream.
And there, he and Yassamin take turns, smiling over Zainab's arse as they possess her with their hands. Jaffar scoops up cream into both hands, then laces his fingers with Yassamin's, kissing her deeply as Zainab's arse and cunny pulse around and underneath them; the shock of this, the perverse eroticism of it makes Yassamin swoon into his kiss. She lets her hands be guided, Jaffar wanting to see her do what Zainab herself had done: the movement where one hand is pushed completely inside, only for it to be pulled out and immediately replaced by another. Thus, they alternate, Jaffar's hand first and then Yassamin's, sliding in and out of Zainab, opening her, opening.
Now, Zainab is so relaxed her womb has sunk down a little and Yassamin can get deeper and deeper; Zainab's breath catches in her throat as Yassamin's fingertips slip well past the gate into her colon, fluttering there. She cannot tell if Zainab is, in fact, orgasming, now: but from her own experience, Yassamin knows that at this point, orgasm is a thing meaningless, but a little ripple in the enormous sea of pleasure Zainab is now floating in.
And Zainab is their sea in turn, her pleasure pulsing around them in spirit as it does in flesh; all of her a sea of white and red flesh, slick wetness, the scent of her cunny rich and sweet in the room. Jaffar's cock sways and bobs as he plays there, tapping against his belly each time it's his turn and he gets to slide his hand in deep, deep. He grows bolder moment by moment, and a half-hour must have passed until he finally manages to insert his hand entire: just like Yassamin, it is he who bursts into tears at this moment. And there he kneels, weeping, laughing in disbelief when Zainab's eyes but twinkle, she drunk, absolutely intoxicated with her delight! It is Zainab's pleasure that now flows out of Jaffar's eyes as tears, heaves into Yassamin's body in turn: Yassamin shivers as she, too is enveloped by its warm glow, swaying like a leaf of grass the way Jaffar now does, both of them like unto dervishes. All three of them wrapped up in the same sea of pleasure--
"Not entirely, my sweet," Jaffar says, then, and laces his hand with Yassamin's once more, scooping the rest of the contents of the cream jar onto their joined hands. He looks at Zainab, whose face is but one entranced smile; then at Yassamin, and nods. "All three of us," he whispers, "together."
And as Zainab's flesh parts for them, Yassamin forgets to breathe; she can but watch, disbelieving. They aren't doing this. This isn't possible. This isn't--maybe this is Jaffar's magic, it has to be--but now their joined hands slip inside of Zainab, entire, entire, in. They are in, twisting, sliding, keeping up that little rolling movement that is essential to hold pain at bay, to maintain pleasure; but oh, oh, they are in.
Zainab's eyes roll back in her head and her cunny sprays and trickles onto the sheets; perhaps she is even emptying her bladder, now, from the pressure of two hands inside of her? But whatever it is, Yassamin does not know, nor does she care--Zainab's body has been pushed so far, so ravaged by pleasure that it would be stranger had she not lost control of its functions by now.
Jaffar's fingertips move a little inside of her, and it is as if he is guiding Zainab's very pulse, her very heartbeat with them; Zainab's ribcage expands but a little, obeying Jaffar's movements entirely, the flutter of the little wisp of hair that's fallen across her mouth the only sign that she is even breathing. And even that seems to now obey the flick of Jaffar's eyelashes; it is at once terrible and beautiful to behold, that he should hold her very life in his hand like this, when he could just as easily crush it in his fist.
And to watch it, to feel it, to observe it happening still feels so unreal to Yassamin: has Zainab taken two slave girls' hands like this before, clasped, just like she and Jaffar are doing right now? Maybe she has, and this is not such a strange pleasure to her after all? But women are women, and Jaffar... Jaffar's hands are so enormous even one of them is the size of two women's; yet, marvel of marvels, there it lies, together with Yassamin's, buried deep inside Zainab's flesh.
"Like a bracelet," Jaffar murmurs, "an ornament, just like you said."
"But now, gracing us both, and she herself the most beautiful of all," Yassamin whispers, rapt; her tears fall upon the small of Zainab's back as she strokes her spine in awe.
At that, Zainab lets out a sound small, broken, like a little kitten; she tries to reach for them both and it is Yassamin who manages to clasp her hand, Jaffar's free hand cupping theirs in turn. "You two are my ornaments," Zainab laughs, in disbelief. "Or then I have died and gone to Paradise," she murmurs, delirious.
Jaffar looks down and twists their hands inside of Zainab a little, smiling like such a fool, his eyes so full of love and delight they are as clear as glass. "The last time I read those verses, these pleasures weren't on the list!" he laughs, a little cracked, broken, boyish laugh. "But your flesh, my sweet--it is as soft as the valleys of Paradise, I am sure of that."
"And as sweet as its waters," Yassamin murmurs, kissing the sweaty hair at the nape of Zainab's neck. "Would you we moved?
"I won't be able to take it for much longer," she sighs. "But a moment. Let me impress this upon my memory."
And Jaffar kisses her shoulder, looking at her with a gaze that Yassamin knows will burn this into her mind forever; he nuzzles Zainab's face and rolls their hands inside of her gently, gently. "We hear and we obey, mistress."
But a few moments are long enough for all of them: Yassamin's hand starts to cramp, and going by the tension in Jaffar's shoulder, he is tiring as well. Soon, Zainab lets them go, and they fall onto the sheets in a cascade of lazy kisses, Jaffar and Yassamin hugging Zainab between them upon the bed.
"But you have not come yet," Zainab remarks as Jaffar passes them wet towels to clean their hands with, his prick still waving hard against his belly.
"Correct," he says to Zainab with a kiss. "I did have a little trick in mind... but let us be swift," he says. "I already have a feeling I won't be able to walk for a week."
"Oh, you won't be walking for a week?!" Zainab sputters. "They will have to carry me around on a stretcher!"
He smacks her arse and sighs happily. "I am flattered. It won't take long. Would you go on all fours for me?" he asks with a wicked twinkle in his eye, then looks at Yassamin. "And you on top of her? So that you are stacked, as it were?"
Puzzled, Yassamin arranges herself on top of Zainab; every part of her body aches, but she is curious. "This is ridiculous," she huffs as Jaffar kneels in front of them, stroking cream onto his cock. "Why do you need us like this for? You could have used our mouths--"
He laughs and nips at her ear as he mounts them both--it's fortunate that Zainab is tiny, Yassamin taller than she and Jaffar taller still; otherwise they would have toppled over by now. "It's just that I've always wanted to do this," he chuckles. "All my brothers have done it with their girls, so it's high time--" he says as he guides himself inside of Yassamin's arse, making her squeak. "That I did it as well."
"You're not going to--" Yassamin says as Jaffar pulls out of her, but Zainab's pained wail is her answer.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," he laughs, rocking himself inside of Zainab's arse, rolling his hips in delight.
That he should play the erotic athlete even now! Zainab and Yassamin groan in unison at his outrageousness as he keeps on dipping from one arse into another; thankfully, he has waited so long that it should not take too long for him to reach release. Or maybe he will break his back trying, first, Yassamin thinks; it would be even more ridiculous should he be locked in position on top of them, now.
I heard that, Jaffar laughs into her mind. I need you to orgasm for this, in fact. Focus.
"Zainab," he says out loud. "Hold yourself open. I have a little something for you."
"I'm too tired to come--" Yassamin says, but as Jaffar sends a psychic bolt of heat through her, she finds herself shrieking into Zainab's hair, her cunny clenching, her womb rippling as Jaffar drives deep into her arse and into the back of her womb.
"I decide when you're too tired to come, my child," Jaffar purrs; "I thought six years of marriage would have taught you that!"
"Oh, but you bastard!" Yassamin whimpers, trying to soothe Zainab with her hand, but Jaffar takes that hand and forces Yassamin to rub her own cunny instead. "Oh, you bastard, you bastard--" she moans even louder, now.
"I merely thought our Zainab here deserved a little shower to cool her down," he leers, and now he is striking sparks from Yassamin's womb, sparks, with his mind and his prick both. "Let me show you, girls, let me show you--"
And Yassamin suspects he does this because he, himself, wants to watch: he sends his vision to the foot of the bed, so that now they can all see themselves from behind. Zainab holding her arse open, still distended and slick and red; on top of her, Yassamin, and on top of Yassamin, Jaffar's balls swinging as he takes her arse, Yassamin's cunny already trickling a little at his thrusts.
Zainab is still not used to having her mind invaded so, and squeaks loudly, her arse clenching almost shut. "You are a madman!"
"Keep it open!" Jaffar says. "I said I was going to give you a gift. Use your fingers, there, there, just like that, pull it open and now hold still--"
And as soon as Zainab has dug her fingers in and spread herself so that they see a little black gape, only an inch wide, he sends another lightning-bolt through Yassamin, triggering her orgasm. Even as her entire body shakes in release, goosebumps all over her skin, wracking her with tremors of delight, never before in her life has she resented orgasming so. For now, she realises what Jaffar has been after, as he sends those bolts to the front of her cunny, forcing her to ejaculate.
"Jaffar!" she shrieks, outraged as she watches herself spray Zainab's buttocks, but the harder Jaffar pounds into her, the more voluminous and focused her spray becomes: astonished, she watches as the clear, solid stream of it pours straight into Zainab's arse. As if from a pipe--oh, God, it's ridiculous--!
At the sight of that, at the sensation of that, Zainab screams, yet her scream is shot through with giggles of delight; she is so loud Yassamin can't at first tell that now Jaffar is coming, too, until his bull-like bellows drown Zainab's squeaks out underneath themselves. His orgasm is fast, hard, his blows so brutal and bruising he nearly throws Yassamin off Zainab; yet Yassamin knows what he has in mind next. He is going to do it, isn't he?
"Oh, my God," Yassamin cries, burying her face into Zainab's shoulder, but that does not remove the vision from her head.
Jaffar rolls his hips, ejaculating his last inside of her, cackling, cackling. "Oh, yes, my sweet. Oh, yes."
Jaffar pulls out and spreads Yassamin's arse, urging her to squat. "Come on," he says cheerfully, slapping Yassamin's arse. "Push it out."
"You are a sick bastard, Jaffar, you madman, you swine--"
But at that, he tugs Yassamin by the hair and gives her cheek a playful slap. Exactly the reflex that will make her arse spasm, exactly the thing he needs to make her push out his come: a perfect, thick white stream, it, too, trickles straight into the hollow that is Zainab's arse. Yassamin has to admit it holds a perverse fascination for her, too; yet, she thinks she might be sick as the last chunks of it are pursed out of her arse, falling into Zainab's hole like dollops of clotted cream spooned into a bowl.
"You are disgusting," she moans, even if Zainab falls into wild, insane laughter-fits underneath her, Zainab herself farting a little, spraying the sperm all over. "Disgusting!" she still shrieks as she falls onto the bed, Zainab rolling on the sheets, unable to stop laughing; Jaffar laps up the sperm from Zainab's arse and sends her into utter hysterics. "Disgusting," Yassamin mutters still as Jaffar and Zainab gather her between themselves, sharing with her their sperm-drenched, cunny-drenched, cream-drenched kisses.
"Beautiful!" Zainab says, smacking Yassamin's arse, spooning her from behind.
"Disgusting!" Yassamin still wails, in protest, even as Jaffar chuckles into her face, his moustache streaked with sperm.
"Beautiful," Jaffar nods, taking Yassamin by the hair, pressing his mouth to hers and silencing her for good.
"Careful... that's it," Jaffar says to Anwar as he balances his son upon his shoulders, handing him a lit candle. It is Ramadan in a few days, and Jaffar has had the courtyard lined with a dozen enormous, brightly coloured lanterns--a Barmakid invention, as he is always fond of reminding everyone. Yassamin's protestations notwithstanding, he had promised the children he would let them light the lanterns this year.
"And what do we call a bright thing like that? Not the lantern, but what's in it?" Jaffar asks as Anwar finally succeeds at lighting the lantern. "Give Father the candle. What's the shining thing called when it does that, the same thing the sun does?"
"Anwar!" Anwar cries, proudly as he hands the candle to Jaffar.
"That's right," Jaffar laughs. "Now, close the latch, just as I showed you. Just put that hook in the loop there--that's it! Well done," he says as he lets Anwar down.
"But I'm not a lantern," Anwar says and frowns. "There's no flame inside of me, is there?"
"Yes, there is!" Salsabil interrupts, with her little chin up, she always knowing the answer to everything. "God's put a light inside every heart; you just can't see it because it's inside you."
"Correct," Jaffar says and ruffles Salsabil's head.
"Don't!" Salsabil says and puts her hands to her head. "Mother spent ages braiding my hair!"
"Well, then," Jaffar says and squats in front of his daughter. "It's your turn to light the next one. Hop on."
As he and Salsabil move to the next lantern and struggle with the candle, Anwar stares at his sister, lost in thought. "She is not a fountain either," he mutters.
"It's what we call--steady--" Jaffar leans back as he balances Salsabil, hissing as some of the candle wax drips onto his hands; at least he'd had the good sense to give the children gloves. "Hurry."
"Get closer, Father!" Salsabil exclaims, kicking Jaffar's chest with her ankles as if commanding a horse.
"What I meant to say is," Jaffar says as he leans closer to the lantern, "is that the two of you were named after the things you reminded Mother and Father of."
"Jaffar!" Yassamin gasps as she steps into the courtyard, shocked. "I told you not to let the children play with fire! Salsabil, put that candle away at once!"
Salsabil gasps and drops the candle; it falls onto Jaffar's foot, and as he had only been wearing sandals, he now yelps in pain as the hot wax spatters onto his toes. "We were doing fine!" he grumbles as he lets Salsabil down and then limps to the nearest water-channel, dipping his foot into it.
Salsabil looks at her mother sternly. "Now look what you've done. You have to kiss Father's foot better, now."
Yassamin rolls her eyes and kneels, ignoring the lecherous grin that spreads onto Jaffar's face as she blows on his foot and kisses it. "There." The children have not yet learned how humiliating an act it is to have to touch, let alone kiss someone's feet, but the implications are certainly enough to soothe the pain in Jaffar's foot.
"It's been a while since a subject kissed my toes," he murmurs, drawing Yassamin down with himself onto the nearest rug laid out on the grass, beckoning to the children. "Come, look at the lanterns. Beautiful, are they not?"
"You're going to tell them Fadl invented them," Yassamin interjects, before he can.
"I was going to say I built them, with my own hands. And it was my workshop in which Fadl first saw them; the swine stole them and took them to the Grand Mosque as gifts, claiming they were his own."
Anwar leans his head into Jaffar's lap; Salsabil immediately imitates him and lays her head in Yassamin's. "You didn't finish telling us about our names," she points out.
Jaffar hugs Anwar to his chest. "Well, first of all, we thought there was only going to be the one child. I felt life spark in Mother's belly the moment you started to grow in it, and it was a really beautiful evening, then. It was a sunset as colourful as those lanterns there, so that's why we named you that," he says and kisses Anwar's head. "Our little light."
"But what about me?" Salsabil pouts a little.
Yassamin makes sure to hug her as tight as Jaffar is hugging Anwar. "You were a surprise. But it's because your father had always called me his Paradise, and because his name means a spring, well." She looks at Jaffar. "He put a part of himself inside of me, and you grew out of it. So it made sense that we should call you a fountain in Paradise."
Salsabil turns around, looking at Yassamin. "Does that mean we go inside you when we die, Mother?" she says, astounded.
"Not quite, my little philosopher," Jaffar laughs; that was not a question either of them had expected. "Although I imagine it feels just as lovely," he says and kisses Yassamin's cheek. "It is what we call a metaphor. A figure of speech. Something that reminds you of another thing. Your mother reminds me of what Paradise must be like," he says and leans his head against her shoulder, sighing happily.
To think that even after all these years, hearing this makes Yassamin's heart leap and her cheeks flush! She kisses Jaffar's head and smiles. "Now, pay attention, children. If you strive to become as charming as your father, everything in the world will be yours one day."
Anwar lifts his head. "Even Lady Zainab's elephant?" he says, his eyes wide.
Jaffar ruffles Anwar's hair once more. "That's another metaphor. But your mother once owned an even prettier elephant, one that was so high, and pink all over! Think of it!" he says, raising his arm in front of his face to imitate an elephant's trunk, making tooting noises.
Yassamin laughs. "I was scared to ride that thing. But, come. It's late. You children should be asleep."
Both children moan in unison. "Not yet!"
"It's Ramadan soon, and you'll be able to stay up well into the night, then. But now, you must sleep and gather your strength. Come," Yassamin says and gets up, taking the children by the hand.
"I don't want to!" Anwar pouts, crossing his arms.
"Your mother's word is law, I am afraid," Jaffar says and tickles Anwar, then captures him under his arm, Salsabil likewise. With a great groan, he lifts up both children and starts to make his way towards the door, the children squealing and giggling all the way. "Zahra!" he calls out into the corridor. "Beast-mistress! I have two little tigers for you to wrangle right here!"
Zahra appears, wiping her hands on an apron; her dark brown arms are dusted up to the elbows with flour and sugar. Already the children know what this means: she has been baking her special wheat cakes. And in abundance at that, to last them for the entire month to come; Yassamin had tried the same recipe herself but could somehow never get hers to taste as good as Zahra's. The children are absolutely mad for these cakes: Zahra only has to lift a little silver basket and they recognise it instantly, running to her with shrill squeals of delight.
Yassamin sighs as Jaffar returns to her, laying her head in his lap just as the children had done. "Sometimes I think Zahra is the better mother of the two of us," she murmurs. "To them, she is all tenderness, games and cakes; I am all rules, restrictions, discipline."
"Nonsense," he says and kisses her hand. "A mother has to be that, also. And it was you who carried them underneath your heart for nine months, not she. But I must admit, Zahra and I have the easier role," he smirks.
"Let us take turns," she says. "You take on your female form and be the disciplinarian for a change; I will be the spoiling father. What say you to that?"
He leans back on his hands and groans at the sky. "If only."
The children would be too young to understand these things, so he has only been able to embrace his female self in private; it has only been during the night, or when he's been locked away in his study that he has been safe enough to indulge. For should the children, in their innocence, let slip that their father was at times a woman, it would mean his death, Yassamin's. Even sodomy, some judges might turn a blind eye to, particularly if it was proven Jaffar had still maintained the masculine role; lovemaking between women is so discreetly conducted behind harem doors that most people would not even know such things existed. But that a grown man should, out of his free will, not only take on the role of a woman in bed but also wish to become one, breasts and cunny and all, no court would pardon him--for a crime victimless!--and he would be put to death.
He stares at the thinning crescent of the moon, and even if his face is lifted so that Yassamin cannot see his eyes, she can see him blinking away tears. "I wish you would not even jest, Yassamin," he whispers. "It will be another decade before they will be old enough to understand my practices; this, I know: but will I even be around then, any more? Would I be--" and now, his voice chokes from his grief. "Yassamin, am I never--?"
"Oh, Jaffar," Yassamin says, gathering him into her arms, kissing his tears. "I am sorry. So sorry."
This coming month is going to be particularly difficult for him, as they will be spending even their nights seeing relatives, friends, the children staying up long into the night: they will have no privacy whatsoever. Nevermind sexual relations being forbidden during the fasting-month, Jaffar now has to go without a dip into the deepest well his soul and body nourish themselves from: that of femininity. And as he will not be able to sup upon Yassamin's, either, he is going to be the one performing the most ardurous of fasts, probably greater than that of most fakirs'.
"At least the fakir will be bathing in love-rapture with his God," he murmurs, having heard her thoughts. "But to a man who finds God in Woman, being beside her and inside of her, being her--I do not know what God wants of me sometimes, Yassamin," he says, exasperated, looking up at her as they lie there, Yassamin half on top of him. "Why make me like this, give me absolute certainty of this being the true spiritual practice by which my soul grows, and then snatch it away from me? See how I abandoned the part of a tyrant to be with the woman I love, and to be the woman I am?" he huffs, stroking her cheek. "Has Woman not tamed me, made me a better person?"
"She is right here, my love," Yassamin says, firmly, hugging him close to her chest. "And she is telling you now: I will make sure that you will not have to suffer any longer. Even if we have to send the children away to Latifa's for a week each month, I am not going to watch you being tortured like this!" she says as she pulls back, searching his eyes. "I knew it hurt you, but I never realised how much. I am sorry. So sorry."
"It's not your fault," he groans, hugging her against himself once more. "I knew that I would have to hide it if we had children, and I wanted children."
"We can have both," she says, firmly, kissing his nose. "We will do something, each full moon, until they are old enough to understand," she swears, squeezing his shoulders. "And you will live to a hundred! I will make sure of it. Even if I have to go up to God Himself, and take Him by the beard--"
"Blasphemer!" Jaffar grins, putting his finger to her lips. "You madwoman," he laughs, looking at the lanterns and then back at her, sniffling back his tears. "Although I have an inkling the children might understand these things sooner than we think, you know. The other day, I saw Salsabil running about wearing Anwar's clothes, with a wooden sword in her hand, shouting 'God is great!' and trying to use Zumurrud as a war-horse. Did you see her, too?"
Yassamin nods and laughs, wiping her own eyes. "I did." Zumurrud may be ancient in cat years, but she had hissed and clawed until Salsabil had given up, seeking new adventures elsewhere.
Yassamin takes up a cushion and lies down beside Jaffar, watching the lanterns shimmering colourfully in the darkening night. "Was that story about Fadl true?"
"Do you doubt it?" he asks. "Speaking of the old rascal, I heard he was on his way up here."
Yassamin rolls her eyes. "Mercy! I am still sore from you and Zainab." They had played long into the next day, in fact; at one point, Jaffar had had a hand buried inside each woman's arse. Two days have passed, and they have not made love since; even today, Yassamin has felt unpleasant twinges here and there whenever she has used the privy.
"I told him about Zainab, of course," Jaffar grins, curling up against Yassamin and purring in wicked delight. "It'll be a disaster, and a hysterical one at that. Could he tame her, do you think?"
"Merciful God," Yassamin groans as she imagines it, Zainab and Fadl tangled in clutches amorous and violent: an entire marriage plays itself out on the stage of her mind, full of screams, shattered vases and genitals rubbed raw. "Neither of them could tame the other."
"Well, he only lives a few days' ride from us, now. Perhaps he could visit her once a month. To sate his desires."
"That's as much as either of them could take, I reckon," Yassamin says, then turns to nuzzle Jaffar's face. "But what about my desires, husband?" she asks, smacking him on the arse. "I need to fortify myself for the coming month."
"I thought you said you were sore," he drawls, squirming against her.
"Not too sore for you," she says, placing her hand on his heart. "Provided you do not use the entire hand this time. I think I have had enough of that particular act for... oh, months."
"Mmm," he murmurs against her lips, rocking his hips. "I would you tried it with me sometime. Perhaps when I am female again."
"It'd be easier without the womb in the way," she says, shaking her head. "But not tonight. I have missed my husband, and would have him back--just the two of us, our ordinary selves, ordinary lovemaking." She looks into his eyes. "Or would you fault me for that, think me unadventurous?" Or that I was depriving you of your heart's desire, your true self? she thinks.
"No," he says, gentle, soft, his eyes warm. "I must admit, I have missed that, too. Perhaps this could be our very own form of sexual fasting? No wild debaucheries, no other men or women, no--"
"Don't you dare say no to sodomy!" she says. "Or the pleasures of the mouth. I want to start my fast at least somewhat debauched."
He bursts out into laughter, a laughter so loud it echoes in the courtyard, sending the night-birds rustling upon their branches. "This is why I love you, Yassamin of Basra," he groans, nuzzling her face and taking her mouth with a kiss.
At first, they had thought of making love at the baths, but the only problem there is that they could not go to sleep straight after. Yassamin is so very tired, whereas Jaffar is not; he leads her to his quarters and tells her he has had an idea for a compromise that should satisfy them both.
Astounded, Yassamin watches as Jaffar takes out an ordinary silver bowl, then uses his magic to stretch it out until it's as large as his bed, a vat large enough for the two of them. A few further spells later and the vat is full of warm rosewater; Jaffar throws in a handful of herbs and salts and bows to Yassamin with a flourish. "Your bath, my lady."
"I would tell you you were the greatest show-off in the land, but you know that already."
He chuckles and undoes her veil. "I will stop showing off once you stop being impressed."
"Never," she smiles and peeks into the bath. "Doesn't this tax your strength? How are you not ready to fall asleep?"
He tosses off his robe and undoes his hair, combing it out with his fingers. "This is an easy spell. And you yourself said we were going to relax tonight," he says, dragging over a stool and using it to climb into the bath. He tests the water with his toe, judges it to be warm enough, then slides in with a satisfied groan. "Marvellous, even if I say so myself." He holds out his hand and smiles. "Come. I will wash your back."
"You are better than any of my bath-eunuchs," she sighs as he gets to work, scrubbing her in earnest, so much so that she finds it hard to speak.
"I am sure you can feel I am nothing but," he murmurs into her neck, holding her close, half-erect against the small of her back.
And there, they bathe each other, playing, gentle, sweet; they wash each other not with just water and soap and oil but love, love soaked into each pore, love massaged into every muscle. She yelps when, after he has just scrubbed her clean, he suddenly makes the water vanish, deciding it is too dirty; he refills the bath immediately, repeating this for both of them so that each gets a full bath with fresh water. He does this even as they take turns washing each other's hair and depilating each other's genitals; finally, Jaffar pours bucketfuls of cooler water over them both, awakening Yassamin from her slumber.
"I have never felt as clean in my life!" she laughs as they both wrap up in warm towels and Jaffar begins to oil her hair. "It's almost a shame you are putting that on, now," she murmurs as the jasmine in the hair oil permeates the entire room with its sweet scent.
"I feel naked without my perfumes," he murmurs as he daubs on his own fragrant oils, kissing her neck; "although should you wish me to take you like this, I would not mind. No perfume does justice to the sweetness of your skin, for a start," he groans, sucking at the soft flesh of her arm; "to even call it marzipan is to cheapen it."
She turns around to put her arms around his neck, letting her towel fall of her. "Perfume me with but yourself, then, husband," she kisses against his lips; "mark me as animals do, with your scents."
"That, I can do," he drawls and throws off his own towel as well, pushing her onto the bed, his perfumed hands clasping her breasts, his fingers slipping over them in golden streaks of musk and ambergris.
He knows she wants to be taken tonight, yearns to be claimed anew; he, too, wants to again enthrone himself within the core of her heart, all others locked away from the inner sanctum that is their love. It is always like this after their adventures with others, and they would not have it any other way: Yassamin thinks there is nothing more beautiful than to see the way her husband has grown, changed from the love of others, the way he has taken on new colours, new attitudes, new facial expressions. The way he moves always changes a little, the way he speaks grows richer with new words and phrases; the way he expresses himself changes subtly, but always beautifully, adding more wonderful qualities to the man she knows and loves.
From other lovers, they both learn new forms of pleasure, test each other's bodies to see how they respond to caresses that are others' favourites. Sometimes, they do not enjoy these caresses at all, sometimes these caresses become a part of their erotic repertoire; however, with each new adventure, they learn something new and use it to further fine-tune the pleasures they give each other.
"So," Jaffar says, with Yassamin's legs wrapped around his waist, his arms tight around her, his erection nestled against her belly. "What did Zainab the Harlot teach us? What did she awaken in my Yassamin that her Jaffar can use to his advantage?"
"You needn't perform," Yassamin laughs, then grows more serious, her eyes flickering. "I think that might be it, actually," she murmurs. "She so overwhelmed me that right now, I would have things that were not Zainab, if you understand what I mean. She sated certain needs in me, and those needs are now fulfilled, for the time being. That cup in me that desires to be filled with woman-love is now filled to the brim; I would feel a man, for a change."
"And this Hermaphroditus you chose for the task!" he laughs and shakes his head, yet even as he says that, he begins to take her mouth with his lips with a strength altogether masculine, rocking himself inside of her with a slow deliberation, letting her feel every inch of that part of him that is male. "Then, take it, my sweet," he murmurs deep in his throat, husky from intent; "feel it, focus all of yourself on it," he says as he moves her legs aside and penetrates her so deep she is pressed into the mattress; "be your sex. Become the cunny for me, my sweet; make it sweet for me, soft for me, the little princess I would snatch away and take," he groans and snaps his teeth beside her ear. "Can you do that for me? Hmm? Pretty and slick and tight and sweet?"
Her only answer is a tremulous moan; it surprises her how fast he has moved on to this stage, this kind of play; but as always, he reads her body better than she herself does. It is one of those days when she is surprised by her own wetness, of how ready she is for him; gladly, her mind follows her body and lets go to become but yielding, wet, hot flesh rippling all over with pleasure. She squeezes herself around him, clutching him with her legs, rocking into his thrusts. "I would, my beloved, I would indeed," she murmurs onto his lips.
But that is the last thing she can say before Jaffar drops his hips into thrusts that make speaking, kissing impossible; her mouth smacks off his and she moans into his ear. Each roll of his hips, like wine swirled in the mouth, seems to urge her on, beckon her into displaying her passion further, stirring her even from her tiredness: she finds that she cannot help squeezing him with her cunny and taking him with her hips, now, pleasure snaking through her in golden vines, curling up, up, up and towards him.
You are manipulating me! she groans into his mind.
I assure you, I am not; it is your own response, he chuckles and rolls her onto her left side so that they are spooning. "If you want to but lie there, I can do this," he says out loud, cupping her cunny in his hand. "You can even sleep if you like; I'll help myself."
"Well?" he says innocently, yet squeezes her clitoris between his fingers in the exact way that drives her insane.
"I cannot take it. Push me down," she moans, turning onto her belly. "Let me come, please."
"That was quick!" he raises his eyebrow and slaps her cunny. "But don't think I'll stop at that," he chuckles.
But he is merciful; with soft kisses upon her neck, with the sweetest of cunny-rubs and husky whispers, he turns her onto her stomach, his hand still playing at her sex. "Is that better?" he breathes, wet against her ear, now able to penetrate her deeper than ever before, sliding past the back of her womb. "Hmm?"
"Oh, God, oh, God--!" again, her own body takes her by surprise; her pleasure peaks fast, hard, almost as fast as it does with sodomy: a lightning-flash orgasm, so swift it but whips her up into an even greater frenzy. "Don't stop," she begs, those golden vines now uncurling within her, out of her, and now her every muscle twitches in pleasure-spasm; perhaps she has eaten something aphrodisiacal today, she thinks.
"I am taking you and you think of but food!" he huffs, pretending to be insulted.
"Don't stop!" she groans back at him, trapped between his hand and his cock; her voice turns into but ululating moans as he presses so deep into her she is ground against his hand, his and her full weight upon her clitoris, now, she trickling into his hand. "That's it, please, please, don't stop, please--" she wails, slipping her own hand underneath his, to find just the right spot on her clitoris, there, on the left, just beside the hood.
And that is his cue: he drives into her, bellowing, squeezing her hand harder with his own. "Give it to me," he groans. "Give to me of yours," he pants, and even at that, he breaks her heart: he is clearly pushing himself towards release so as not to exhaust her further, so that they may come at the same time. "Take me with you, my sweet."
But she is already there: yet, now, the vines burst out of her, her body's need for him so great that they surge into his. And she does something she has never done before, something they had practiced a little earlier, the art of turning energy into a tangible, palpable shape: as the first ripples of her second orgasm begin to rise in her hips, she sends this energy through these vines into his arse.
Jaffar yelps in surprise, yet realises immediately what she is doing: with a soft "Oh, Yassamin, Yassamin," he relaxes his muscles and invites her in, in. For now, she shapes the energy so that it becomes a prick, a penetration psychic, a rut invisible inside of his guts. And going by his howls, it seems to be working; he tosses upon her and pushes his arse back, like when Fadl had been taking him from behind when Jaffar had been taking her.
"Oh, God. More, more;" he gasps, now pushing into her, he trapped between her cunny and her vines just as he had trapped her between his hand and his cock.
Shape it, Yassamin tells him as she begins to truly move the cock inside of him, take yourself with it, show me; show me the perfect shape of it, but then she can speak no more, and she falls.
And he surges through her orgasm, just as she is surges through him in turn; it is she who now guides his thrusts with her own inside of his body, completely in control of his movements. She cries out in triumph, one huge orgasm-wave crashing through her at this power, as if she were using him as but a toy to masturbate with. A wicked laughter echoes inside of her, a laughter with an outstretched golden tongue lapping up his cries, the spurts of his sap inside of her, and there, the true sperm as the prick-shape inside of him reaches perfection.
In a split second, he thinks of it, a toy monstrous, with thin ridges, a flared glans and a brutal curve; he cries as if in pain as it thrusts against his prostate, milking him into her body. Willfully, he becomes its victim, surrendering himself to be impaled by this shape, Yassamin taking him as she has never taken him before. He wasn't expecting this, not tonight, had expected to have to wait for something like this a long time still; he clutches her against himself and sobs, sobs in gratitude as he surges into her in waves of Thank you, I love you; oh, thank you, my sweet Yassamin, thank you.
And on and on, she pleasures herself with him, taking in the twitches of his hips as the golden toy ravages his arse, her own arse burning from the echo of its thrusts, pounding further waves of pleasure through her womb. She is glad of his weight atop her, for now she is convulsing so that she would be thrown off the bed otherwise; she screams, roars, howls into the mattress as she milks him with her cunny, golden ripples vibrating through her with such force she can feel them in her very bones. Each spurt of his sperm, each psychic wave of love that he blasts through her body, she takes into her flesh, sucks into her very marrow; in him, she swims, saturated, dyed deep from his love, strong and dark and still his thrusts come, deep, deep.
Deep inside of her, he pushes once more, remaining there; even as he falls on top of her, his arms and his legs jerking from exhaustion, his hips still push into her, his prick still seeking the very deepest part of her cunny, the furthest back wall of it. And he finds it, hits it again, with half a dozen strangled cries, half a dozen nudges sending electric, now-painful flashes up into her womb and up her spine; as equally husky cries, they ripple out of her fingertips, her hardened nipples, her distended clitoris pulsing against their joined hands.
"My God!" he cries, the first one of them to break free; he falls back on the bed, his cock still pulsing against his belly, his hips still jerking at the memory of the ghost-prick that had taken him. He closes his eyes and clutches the sheets, and his face is holy, holy: it is the same expression Yassamin has seen upon it whenever he has been lost deep in a sea of prayer. His cheeks tremble, the deep hollows of them, his high cheekbones shining with sweat; his eyelashes flutter long against them, dark wings even without their kohl.
She lets him lie there, not wanting to disturb him; she does not move at all, but basking in the sight of her husband debauched, luxuriating in the afterglow of her own release. She is wet between her legs, a mess; she breathes deep and his sperm bursts out of her cunny, trickling down to her arse as she moves to lie down on her side. And in this bliss, she floats, so well-loved, so sated; she does not even mind her hair being in a complete mess, now, knowing it will take an eternity to comb out again to be braided. Oh, but to hell with braiding; she does not want to leave the bed, leave his warmth, leave his beauty for anything as unimportant.
He opens his eyes and stares at the canopies for a long while, sharing his thoughts with her. To think that every day you still give me something new, my sweet Yassamin, and his soul's voice is shot through with tears, even if his eyes are dry, he too exhausted to even weep. He sends to her his awe, his disbelief at this, that this should happen; he is a man allowed many wives, concubines for every day of the year, he thinks, and yet in but one woman, he has found a love to last him for all his years.
How is this possible? Never had he thought of this when he had laid his eyes on that beautiful princess in his crystal, so long ago, thinking her but a prize among others; that in her, he should find his fulfillment, his wife, lover, the occasional husband, the mother of his children--and now, a witch powerful enough to take him like this, with but her loving will. What next? What lies ahead of them after this? That is what he thinks, wonders. Will the next stage have Yassamin undoing him in the middle of the day, with but one command, one smile of hers, consuming his flesh with but one glance? Oh, but gladly would he burn in her flame, he thinks, gladly, for she sets him free, free.
And now, the tears, finally, break free from his eyes; his body heaves. "Yassamin," he cries, hoarse.
But she is already there, kissing his tears, wiping them; already she is soothing his rapid heartbeat with the softness of her breasts.
"My angel," he murmurs, then thinks better of it; "my goddess."
"Do not blaspheme," she murmurs, nuzzling his mouth, wiping sweat from his moustache with her lips. "Whatever it is that you have in me, it is given to you by the One God and you know it."
"I know," he says, caressing her hair, pulling her into a kiss. "But what is a man without a little wickedness?" he smirks. "After all, I have to give my wife something to work on; something to better in me."
"You know it's the other way round," she murmurs as she lays her head upon his chest. "It is you who better me."
"Each of us betters the other," he says, determined in his diplomacy. "Although if I become any better, I will become a saint."
"In debaucheries, perhaps," she laughs.
"Speaking of which--" he says. "Let me have a look at the crystal before we sleep. I think Fadl must've arrived at Zainab's, now."
"Must we?" Yassamin groans, but she has to admit she is curious.
"Come," he laughs, "I'm sure you'll like it."
He brings the crystal to the bed and together, they curl up around it to gaze into it.
Zainab's house is brightly decorated with lanterns, but there is no one outside of it. The road is well-turned, however, muddy and full of hoofprints, indicating that a party of a considerable size must have arrived there recently.
"Shall we try the master bedroom?" Jaffar asks her.
"Already?" Yassamin sputters. "But she can't have--"
Yet, as Jaffar draws his fingers across the crystal as if turning a page, it is indeed in Zainab's bedroom that they find her--and Fadl. Jaffar bursts out into laughter, and now, Yassamin knows why he had insisted on a look even this late at night: he wouldn't have wanted to miss seeing his proud, haughty brother in such a state of humiliation. Jaffar howls and he guffaws, so that the crystal shakes; he has to apologise to Yassamin before he can steady the vision again, so that she may have a look herself.
"I don't believe it," Yassamin mutters.
"Come. Did you doubt it? Even for a moment?"
For now, Fadl, son of Yahya of the Barmakids, lies spreadeagled upon Zainab's bed, his wrists and ankles tied to the heavy carvings of nymphs decorating each corner of her enormous bed. At first, Yassamin isn't even sure it is Fadl, as Zainab happens to be sitting over his face, covering his head entirely with her massive thighs and buttocks, all of them jiggling in delight as she rubs herself against his mouth. It is by his monstrous horse-prick Yassamin first recognises him by, in fact; Zainab measures it greedily, but only with the lightest touches of her little hand, weighing it in the plump nest of her palm.
And now, Zainab finally lifts her arse, gifting Fadl with the privilege of breathing; he gasps, strings of her sap dangling between her cunny and his nose. "Mercy!" he cries, licking his lips, heaving underneath her.
Jaffar but laughs. "That massive cunny and that massive beak--I'd say they were made for each other, don't you think?"
"Only such a great ploughshare could fully turn that furrow!" Yassamin laughs.
And as Zainab takes Fadl's cock into her mouth and sits on his face once more, his muffled cries making her arse jiggle with them, Jaffar and Yassamin have had enough: Jaffar darkens the crystal and sets it down, chuckling.
"You are never going to let him forget that, are you?" Yassamin smirks, pulling the covers over them.
"He took that risk when he came here," Jaffar grins. "He deserves a wizard for a brother."
"And a Zainab for a wife?"
Jaffar shakes his head. "I truly do think she might be too much for him to bear. But let them have their fun while it lasts."
"And let us sleep while we still can," Yassamin says with determination, pulling Jaffar closer. "It may make a sinner of me, but I am not looking forward to a month with Fadl," she groans.
"Yes, especially as he will want to escape Zainab into our bed; I know it."
"I will not let him," Yassamin says, hugging Jaffar tight. "I want you all to myself for a long while yet."
He fluffs up his pillow and kisses her hand, his smile soft, gentle, sweet. "You shall have me, my lady; today as you have had me yesterday, and so shall you have me tomorrow."
"Likewise," Yassamin says and curls up in his arms, already halfway to sleep. "Today just as you have had me yesterday," she whispers against his lips, "and all tomorrows."
And yet another manip to illustrate the tale: Zainab and Yassamin at the baths. NSFW.