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Heart-Ravisher, Bird and Snare

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Again desirous of the arrows
Of his piercing glance
Is the bird of my heart:
Make ready, o Dove!
For the Falcon hath come.



Yassamin chokes on her unshed tears, pale as she stands at her window, her head bowed.

Yet there is no reason for her sorrow, apart from this old monthly illness of hers; again the demons of Melancholy seek to slay her from within. An excess of bad blood, the midwife had told her, caused by malformities of the womb: clusters, knots of tissue that trap the blood so that it cannot return to her circulation and begins to blacken, to die, to rot inside of her instead. So that by the end of her cycle, her hips become like a stagnant pool, breeding foul humours: as her womb grows heavier within her hips, the vapours rise up her spine to poison her, filling her brain and her heart and her lungs with noxious fumes until she can no longer breathe.

She does not wish to die, but the blood-demons make her want to slay herself because everything she thinks or does brings her but agony; all reason has left her, has made her fail even at washing, eating, prayer. Her hair falls down loose, tangled beside her cheeks; even the act of braiding she finds too frustrating, now, she having banished her maids to their quarters so that she would not be tempted to take her rage out on them. Let them whisper their foul rumours in their chambers, she thinks, for everyone plots against her now--of that, she is certain; perhaps even Jaffar loathes her.

And could she blame him? Could she truly? She does not want to be like this, to be such a failure after all the love he has given her, all the hard work he has done to heal her body and her soul. Times like these, she is so frightened that he does not believe her when she tells him it is but her womb that makes her so wretched; she fears that he thinks she is but ungrateful and not trying hard enough to overcome this heart-sickness.

No woman could ever love a man more than she loves him, and a thousand times has she told him this--but do actions not speak louder than words?

For here she stands in her tower-chamber, in her self-imposed exile, too scared to go downstairs lest she take her madness out on him as well. Even these bars Jaffar has installed in the window--to keep her from jumping to her death--are a brutal reminder of her state, of the amount of effort, work he has to do to keep her from hurting herself and others. Oh, but she is poisonous, dangerous to everyone who should come near her, and she loathes this, punching herself in the stomach so that the bleeding might finally begin. For it is as if she had to abort a demon spawn every month--if only she had knives, hooks, instruments to drag out the poisoned blood and tissue, she would, she would! Feverish, she hopes and dreams that she could do this so that the normal, happy, loving Yassamin might live and breathe once more.

But now, a new shadow falls upon her, long and lithe in the setting sun's light; a darkness tender, loving, a caress.

Quiet, Jaffar stands in the doorway, watching her, observing her. He is barefoot and in but his nightshirt, ready for bed, but seems to have been unable to fall asleep without her. For a long while, he gazes at her thus, measures her before he enters the bedroom, the old strategist within him considering very carefully whether or not to step inside. His mind ripples against hers, his emotions so vivid she can feel them through their psychic bond, reaching out to her before his body does. He can feel her pain washing over him in waves; the lover in him cannot abide this and thus, he finally approaches her, with the soft gait of a pard. He walks up behind her but does not embrace her; he knows it is the time of her moon-madness, knows he could unleash a storm were he not careful. Therefore, he but stands there behind her, a loving presence within the aura of her body heat, offering her his love and his care: yet, he does not force himself upon her.

But that is exactly what she wants him to do.

"Falcon," she whispers.

Jaffar wastes no time. Swiftly, he spins her around and pins her against the wall, his face an ugly, terrifying sneer. Immediately, he has fallen into the role of Jaffar the tyrant, the cruel beast she craves, needs. He twists her arms until she screams, bruises her mouth with a teeth-clashing kiss, crushes her against the wall: all these to gift her with the pain she needs, to bring about a change in her consciousness. The old trick of the fakirs, of using pain to sharpen the mind, to focus it: and it is upon himself that he wants her to now focus, so that she might forget her own sorrow in her serving of him.

"Lift up your skirt."

She trembles as she does--how he can still genuinely frighten her, she does not know. Perhaps it is the demons--they plague her day and night with fears rational and irrational, of the worst things that could happen. Vile, poisonous fears of him starting to hate her, him having finally grown sick of her caprices; that, or him dying, leaving her alone in the world with no one to assuage her grief. The blood-demons have made her believe worse things, so why should she not, for this moment, also believe that he merely wants to hurt her, to but use her body to sate his sadistic needs? That Jaffar the butcher, the torturer they had told her horror stories of had finally returned to his senses after these mellow, love-filled years, and would now treat her like he had treated the rest of his subjects: but pieces of meat to serve his bidding?

Somewhere deep inside of her, where the blood roils darkest, stickiest and her madness laughs at its most unhinged, she is aroused by this. To be torn to pieces by him, to die by his hand and his prick--oh, a death most wonderful indeed, she thinks as she begins to strip.

She is only wearing a long dark kaftan with no under-drawers, and in anticipation of her bleeding, a rag tucked between her legs, which she now pulls off. She is ashamed of her unkemptness as she exposes herself to him, her pubis overgrown with a week's length of stubbled hair.

His expression is so stern she cannot tell if he approves or disapproves; his eyes are so cold they cut through her like slivers of ice.

Ice. She had never seen natural ice until she had come to Samarkand, remembers how like an excited child, she had listened to it in the courtyard, felt it crackle under her feet as she had stepped into the shallow puddles that had frozen there overnight. But that ice of her first January here had been brittle, not at all like his eyes, she now thinks: there is nothing brittle about him, the ice of his eyes vast and endless like that covering the mountains, crushing her underneath its weight.

He but steps back and holds up the skirts of her robe, his eyes fixed between her legs.

"Spread yourself."

She does, her breasts hurting as her arms press against them, unable to breathe as she balances there. She is not yet wet, but right now, she would not care if he took her too dry, hurt her; rather, she wishes he did. Anything to wash out this--this filth of misery that roils acidic within her, like grease that tarnishes the mirror of her soul. Oh, but she needs to be scoured, scrubbed, washed clean with his sperm's lye: only his seed can now cool her heat, soothe the fever in her womb.

"Good," he says. "Now, stay there."

He cannot even see between her legs, but tucks her kaftan underneath her arms to hold it up. And it is into her eyes that he stares as he feels for her cunny, the smallness of her clitoris, the dryness of her flesh as he pushes a finger inside of her, making her suffocate a scream against her teeth. Just like the slavers had examined her when they had sought to ascertain whether she was virgin or not; that very moment she had passed out from sheer horror, shock. And her head spins, now: faint, she staggers from a lack of food and sleep, from remembered horror and it seems as if only Jaffar's hand were holding her up, now, the floor unsteady under her feet, and she is going to collapse--

But now, he pulls out his hand, glances at it, again a scientist's neutral observation. He licks at his finger--oh, God, he must be tasting only sweat and urine, and she truly has been too lazy not shaving or washing properly in her gloom--

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, casting down her eyes.

But then, his face is nuzzling hers, butting it a cat as he seeks her mouth in a kiss. Oh, but she should hate him for his tenderness, should hate him for it; but as he touches her, her hunger opens wide, an endless sea to meet him, to take him in: her entire body ripples against his, rolls against him in waves.

He takes her lips, his body again crushing hers to press all grief from it, his wetted hand now firm, determined, loving upon her sex.

"Now, now," he laughs as she breaks the kiss with a pleasure-moan; "'Sorry' is not what we say, now, is it?"

"Thank you," she laughs into his mouth, her eyes drunk, her tears escaping to her cheeks and she reels, spins, swoons into his kiss.

But it is then that he lifts her onto the windowsill and takes her cunny with a hungry, animal kiss. She yelps, struggles for balance with one foot upon the window ledge, one upon his shoulder. But it is no slow and languid worship of her vulva, this: his eyes still flash a pard's between her legs, he deliberately spitting and drooling on her sex to wet it--for no sweet lovers' joining, but the ravishment she deserves, needs. The sight of him disgusts her as much as it arouses her, the way he snorts into her in his greed, his crooked teeth and his slick red mouth devouring her; oh, but she loves it all, even as she jerks reflexively at the sight of him lifting his shirt and spitting on his prick, stroking it in his need.

He does not ask her if she is ready; he lifts up, gathers her into his arms and starts to push inside of her with brutal, careless thrusts, aiming only to get as deep as he can, as fast as he can, to fully sheathe himself in her flesh. She digs her nails into his shirt, howls into his shoulder at her penetration: he hurts her still, but now she is soft enough, wet enough to take him without tearing, despite his size. And this time of the month, her genitals are so sensitive, the inner surfaces of her cunny in particular; so heated they are raw, her every nerve ending keen and sharp, sparking at the slightest touch.

This, this is the only good thing about her premenstrual fever, the only one of her heightened sensitivities that brings her pleasure instead of pain and tears; for Jaffar knowing this so well and now exploiting it so well she is grateful, grateful indeed. Even as he pushes into her roughly, lifting her, moving her so that he can take her better, she can sense he is still listening out for her reactions, the gentleman underneath the brute still wanting to make sure even his roughness pleasures her.

She pulls back, her head lolling, crying out helplessly as he thrusts in deep, delivering a brutal blow to her swollen, pained womb. "Please, don't stop," she says through clenched teeth, even if it still hurts a little; she breathes and wills herself to open, relax, to take him in, so that his thrusts will pound all this stiffness and this pain out of her.

"As if I could!" he laughs. "God, had we only met when I was still twenty--"

She wraps her arms around his neck and nuzzles him, laughing into his mouth. That he should still be self-conscious of his age! "If you are this bad at fifty, surely Jaffar the youth would have slain me!"

He raises his eyebrow. "Bad? Am I to take it that you are complaining?" he asks and pulls out, playfully swinging his red and wet prick from side to side, panting in her face as he leans against the windowsill. "Did I hurt your little cunny, then, hmm?" he purrs. "In that case, perhaps I should sate myself with but my hand instead--"

"Don't you dare!" she says and kisses him, guiding his cock back inside of herself. And then, more seriously, her hand still clutching at his hair, she murmurs against his lips: "Do not even jest. You know how much I need you, now. I cannot bear--"

"No more teasing," he murmurs back and lifts her up, then lays her down on the carpet with gentle hands. "I swear," he says, gathering her legs upon his shoulders, hugging her tight as he pushes as deep inside of her as he can, as deep as a man can be inside of a woman. "I could never hurt you, my Yassamin," he whispers as he pulls off their clothes so that they lie skin to skin, soft, warm. "My sweet Yassamin. How I love you, oh, you must see it, you must know it; tell me you do," he babbles between thrusts, slamming into her with the violence he knows she craves, bending her double until she howls. "My Yassamin, my Yassamin," he pants, "tell me," he pleads, angling his hips so that he can hit that part behind her womb that he can only reach this time of the month, the tilt of her womb exposing secret nerve endings that now make her trickle onto his prick, trickle.

And how she gushes, now, so out of her senses that she does not know if she is wetting herself, his every blow pressing more nectar out of her, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Yes!" she moans, trying to claw at his back, his face.

"Touch yourself," he grunts. "Let me see you take your pleasure of me. Do it, wife," he barks.

With a whimper, she takes her hand to her cunny and rubs herself, and now the trickles, the squeezes of her cunny turn into violent spasms, ripples; he watches her closely, pulling back rhythmically to leave enough room for her contractions to course through her body freely. And it is the sight of him so toiling for her pleasure that now undoes her, the care in his every movement: the way he now moves his hips, labours in his love for her like a slave performs a repetitive, ardurous task for his mistress. But Jaffar, her Jaffar does it all out of his own free will: only because of his love for her, his love for her trembling in every muscle upon his face, all of him a slave to but her happiness, for her happiness is his.

His love, now filling him, her to the overflowing: as he speeds up his thrusts to meet the rhythm of her hand, his love spills out of his eyes as tears, washing her clean, clean. He sobs above her, his belly dipping as he takes her with the entire force of his hips; his tears paint her cheeks, her neck, her breasts. He falls on top of her, still calling "Yassamin, Yassamin," his kisses salty and wet from tears, and she can no longer bear it: her entire body arches, helpless underneath him, so immersed, bathed in his love, him, him. With a soft cry, he thrusts inside of her once more, transfixing her to the floor, impaling her whole: with a hopeless, hoarse howl she is undone, undone, undone.

Yet he never stops moving inside of her, never ceases rolling into her as she still trickles, rubs, shivers around him, clutches his prick with her muscles, spasming around him in ecstasies, her tears mingling with his in a kiss.

A laughter bubbles inside of his chest, a laughter terrifying, a laughter that always carries a dark promise, and even now all hair upon her body stands on end. She opens her eyes, and indeed, now he has that calculating look in his eyes that always worries her, that smirk, that smirk that tells her he has only just begun.

"Oh, yes," he nods and grins down at her, and unceremoniously, he flips her onto her belly, slicks the cleft of her buttocks with her sap and begins to press inside of her arse. With her surprise and her relaxation on his side, he manages to enter her swiftly, easily, lowering the entire weight of his body on top of her, his cock deep inside of her guts, deep.

She screams and swears and kicks and spasms and rages underneath him. "You bastard!" she stutters from between chattering teeth, her entire body stiffening from the shock of the sudden penetration. He never enters her arse this fast, both of them knowing a sudden pressure on the spinal nerves can make a person faint, but she knows this is his plan. He is not sated until he knows he has turned her body inside out, this his method of cleansing her, shocking the bad humours out of her.

She breathes shallowly, now unable to speak for the lancing pain of his cock inside of her. Why does he wait? He knows that the pain of sodomy is but prolonged if the penetrator does not move. Is this part of his plan as well? For now she swims in the pain, her body cold and clammy, her fingers clutching the carpet.

"Jaffar," she whispers.

That was what he had been waiting for, then. He melts, relents and with a soft kiss upon her shoulder, begins to rock into her, to bring to her that movement that she needs; and with this movement, slowly, slowly arrives pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.

"My sweet," he sighs, lacing her hands with his. She, in turn, now supple from pleasure and melting into the swirl of his hips, brings his hands to her heart. And there, they move until pain and pleasure blur into but one wave of power, another; both of them diving and cresting and spreading and crashing over and over until they are both but a sea of calm. He dives so deep into her that she soars into the heavens; with her love she so envelops him that he again becomes the babe in the womb.

"Why are you laughing, my sweet?" he asks as he spoons her, rolls into her, stroking her cunny, now, with one hand still clasped across her heart.

"That you were to heal me and now it is you who are basking," she laughs, luxuriating in his movements: honey-slow, treacle-soft. "I heard your thoughts. And I still have no mothering instincts to speak of!"

"It'll be our secret," he chuckles against her cheek. "But, come," he says as he turns her gently onto her belly once more. "Enough of peaceful seas, my Simurgh. I would have you fly me to Paradise upon your back."

"I shall." She sighs happily and squeezes around him, bringing both her hands to her cunny so that she may ride them. Her favourite way to come, whether he be buried in her cunny or her arse; and he loves it, too, for the sheer strength of the orgasms she always bathes him in when taken in this manner.

"Only I regret not being able to see your face," he says, "but there is a solution to that." And with a flick of his hand, he levitates her dressing mirror in front of them, propping it up against the wall. "There."

The first thing he sees reflected in the mirror, however, is Yassamin rolling her eyes. "You could have just carried it over!"

He answers that with a punitive thrust, hard enough to send her yelping. "But then I would have had to leave this tight little nest, which I wouldn't do for the world!" he says and before she can think of a retort, he is moving into her in a faster rhythm, now, truly taking her, fucking her. "That's better," he laughs through her ululations, sweat now beading upon his forehead, his hair coming loose from its ponytail. "I much prefer that look upon your face."

"Jaffar!" is all she can wail, now, her face half hidden from him as his thrusts push her into the carpet. He is hitting her deep, so deep he is dipping past the gate into her colon, and all she can see is sheet lightning, blinded by a midday white, white. With a hoarse cry, she throws herself back upon him, her cunny spraying into her hands, the slaps of his sack splashing her ejaculate everywhere, everywhere.

And at the last moment, he yanks her head up by the hair--"I must see, my Yassamin, I must see--" and she watches herself screaming, her eyes and her mouth open wide, all of her hollowed by the whiteness of her pleasure, wave after wave of it slamming through her, rippling through her again, again, again.

And then she can see no more: her eyes roll back and she gazes but inwards, each convulsion of her womb bringing with itself a new vision. What Jaffar sees now: the glistening width of his cock sinking into her arse, his red and gold flesh sinking into her pink and her white; all of it gloriously glazed with foam and sap and again white. And again her body explodes into colour, red and black upon white; and from this second peak of hers now emerges Jaffar's climax, a rise and then eruption, a flowering of white; his orgasm cascading, juddering, thundering through him as blow after blow, he empties himself, pours himself into her white, white.

With shaking, wet hands, she clasps his hands over her galloping heart once more; her hips lift to take in the last of his blows, her arse contracting around his cock. Finally, with one last, joyous cry, he collapses on top of her with all his weight.

Evening thunder, rare rain: naked, they lie upon the floor, mouthing each other's genitals without shame. She sucks her taste from his cock, the dark sweet must of it a taste so illicit she has to rub herself and to her surprise, she comes again instantly, shouting around him in her delight. He, in turn, but laughs: just as she tastes him, so does he drink deep from her arse, and now her little release but pushes the rest of his sperm out of her, purses it like cream onto the spoon of his waiting, cupped tongue. They are filthy beasts, she thinks; so filthy they will need to perform extra penances, prayers--but he hears her thoughts and slides his tongue into her mouth, completing their circle of wickedness, mixing sperm and sap and saliva within.

He hugs her close and smacks her arse. "Rosewater. You rinsed with rosewater. So you were hoping to seduce me in the first place?" he grins.

She flushes, mumbles. "I rinsed for constipation, if you must know. That always comes near the menses, too, always--it's as if the guts just stop. As if I didn't feel like I was carrying hot cooking-stones in my hips to begin with," she sputters. "As if my belly were a pot and demons were preparing a dish. If I only knew what it was they were cooking..."

He hugs her ever harder for that. "Well, I hope I gave them a good thrashing, so they will stop for a while at least. Are you in any pain still?" he asks, frowning, trying to feel for her psychically.

She shakes her head and kisses his lips. "You did well, my sweet."

He smacks her on the arse once more. "I'll warm us some water. Come."

But she is so tired she can barely stay awake as Jaffar washes her, as they change their clothes, as they say their prayers: in the end, he has to pluck her from her prayer rug and carry her to bed.

"How did I get here?" she mumbles.

"Levitated by angels," he says as he tucks her in.

"I should say you were flattering yourself, but you yourself know that you're being too modest," she says as she curls up in his arms.

"No one has ever called me an angel before," he murmurs, and even if her eyes are closed, she can tell he is smiling. "That is quite... that is quite something," he says, genuinely astonished, happy as he holds her tight.

"Shh. Sleep, now. Before I change my mind."

He chuckles and kisses her head, but she is already asleep: soft, in his embrace she breathes calm and still, dreaming of her beast and his sheltering wings.