Seraglio Ch 05

The drive back to the Palace didn’t take long, even creeping through the narrow streets around the souk. I held myself stiffly, fighting the sexual tension that simmered in my belly and still-warm bottom. Adrian, infuriating man, lounged in his corner watching me like a cat at a mouse hole. Once he even stroked himself through the thin silk of his loose drawers and I had to avert my eyes. When I glanced back, he was smiling.

By the time we pulled up in front of the Palace, I was at a low boil. The car pulled away with the attendants still inside and Adrian unlocked the gates with a flourish, bowing me through. I swept past the doorman and through the divan, into the hall.

“Where do you think you’re going, hey?” Adrian asked, catching me by the shoulder.

I looked quickly up and down the hall, not seeing anyone, and pushed him against the wall in answer. I ripped my face veil down, twined my arms around his neck, and drew his face to mine. His eyes widened in surprise, but he returned my kiss enthusiastically. Our tongues dueled and mated, our hands busily gripping and mauling. I rucked the back of his kurta up and slipped a hand down the back of his drawers, digging my fingers into his muscular butt, before he finally pulled away.

“Not here, you mad wench,” he said breathlessly.

“Where then?” I asked, kissing him again. “You have about thirty seconds to fuck me or die.”

He groaned into my mouth. “Well, if you put that way—I don’t know about thirty seconds, but I’ll do my best!”

He scooped me off my feet and carried me through the halls. I’d realized earlier he was stronger than his build suggested, but was still astonished. The only reason he was short of breath was because I kept busy on his neck and available ear. At last he fumbled at a closed door, nearly dropped me in the process, and flung me up over his shoulder, butt in the air and veils dangling as he groped for the latch.

I squeaked as he slung me back down, barely getting a glimpse of the room we entered. Only an impression that it was similar to Hadad’s salon, but on a smaller scale; a rectangular room in the eastern style, with a leewan—the all purpose combination bed and divan—occupying an alcove at the end. Adrian dumped me on that deeply padded surface. I struggled to my knees and reached out to pull his shalwar down.

He stripped out of the kurta and finished shucking his drawers, kicking off his slippers, as he reached out to pull the Khimir over my head. Before we were both naked, he had a knee up on the leewan, and between my thighs. My chains clashed together as I reached for him.

He twisted away. “Just a sec—the keys are in my pocket…”

“Never mind,” I gasped. “Your time’s up! Come here.”

He fell on me, slim, wiry, and naked. His hands sought my breasts and his mouth took mine like a striking snake. He lay over me, pinning me down, his tongue stabbing into my mouth, his penis like an iron bar between my thighs. So close, but still not where I wanted it, needed it.

“Please, please!” I writhed under him.

He tore his mouth from mine to suckle my breasts, first one then the other, as I squirmed under him mindlessly. Then he spread my thighs ruthlessly and fastened his mouth on my center until I bucked like a mad thing. Before I could climax, he rolled me onto my belly and slapped my ass sharply several times.

I shrieked and arched up, as the heat of the earlier paddling came roaring back. I wriggled, twisted, not to avoid the smacks but in an excess of sensation. Adrian seized my hips, jerking them up into position as he squeezed his knees between mine, forcing me to open to him on all fours.

I felt his rigid cock bumping against my bottom and remembered his talk of using me anally with a little thrill of fear. Then I felt the blunt end of his cock against my vulva as he nudged in a little, testing himself against me, then pushed into me in one long, hard thrust.

I froze for that first shocking moment, when his cock seemed too big, too much. I felt stuffed, stretched, and tried to pull away a little to control the depth of his penetration. This he didn’t allow, his hands gripping my hips as he rocked into me. Then the little miracle happened, and my body adjusted. His cock still filled me completely, but I no long felt like I was splitting open.

Now instead of pulling away, I pushed back against him, and he pounded into me. I could hear as well feel Adrian’s hips and belly slapping against my bottom. His balls rubbed and bounced against my swollen, defenseless clit, and the head of his cock was touching things no one ever had on every stroke.

He reached under me to caress my free-hanging breasts, tweaking and pulling my nipples until I squealed. The chains, still linked to my collar, swung and jingled. All the sensations seemed to merge into one, and I teetered on the edge of the precipice, panting, “Please, please, please,” like a mantra.

I spread my knees even wider and arched my ass up into his stroke, then reached back through my legs and his to touch his jostling balls. Adrian gasped and speared me even deeper, then put his hand on my shoulders, pushing my face into the embroidered coverlet, arching my back down and my ass up. His free hand smacked my ass hard, and again, and I came like a freight-train, screaming into the bedclothes, and clutching fists-full of it as I throbbed and clenched around his cock.

Adrian convulsed then, head thrown back, but never stopped. He impaled me with every spurt, groaning on every stroke. Even as he curved over my body, bearing me down into the bedding until I lay flat, his hips moved in short involuntary strokes.

I lay on my belly with Adrian sprawled over me, legs alongside mine and his cock still in me. He was heavy but I didn’t mind, even though my hair had fallen over my face and stuck to my sweaty cheeks. He drew his arms in and touched the outside curves of my flattened breasts, down to my waist, and I trembled. I felt the ghost of a laugh against my neck and shoulder before he took the weight of his upper body on his elbows.

“Sweet, sweet Russet,” he murmured, nuzzling the tresses from the back of my neck. He kissed my nape and bit it softly, until my pussy clenched around him again and I moaned.

Laughing, Adrian rolled onto his side, pulling me with him so that we stayed connected. The cool air felt like heaven on my slick belly and breasts, and when I tried to paw the hair off my face he helped, smoothing it back. His chest against my back and his hips cupped against my butt were sweaty, too, sticking and sliding as we spooned.

“This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he said, squeezing my breast and kissing my shoulder. “But thank you.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, pushing back into him for the pleasure of feeling his cock glide in the silky slick of his semen. Though softening, he was still firm enough to pump me a few times more, his hand over my vulva to hold me steady.

“Yes, really.” He pulled out then and rolled onto his back, drawing me towards him to lie in the curve of his shoulder. “I had it all planned out—I was going to send you to the hammam for a bathe and massage, and then we’d have dinner. Exotic food, excellent wine, an elegant seduction…”

“I would never have made it,” I said regretfully. “I’d have attacked you over the hors d'oeuvres.”

“That was the idea, really. I have oysters on the half shell, and was hoping to get you on the table and eat them from—”

“Stop!” I said, poking him in the ribs. “You horrible man!”

“Well, it’s better than champagne from your slipper,” he said, grinning. “I always thought that sounded rather nasty. No way to treat good wine.”

“Hard on the shoes, too,” I agreed “ and impossible with sandals. You’re not a romantic, obviously.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, “If one can be a sybarite and a romantic all at the same time. I have privileges in the hammam, and we still have to eat, so…”

“Maybe we’ll follow the program and see what comes up?”

“Precisely.”

We showered in Adrian’s apartment and went to the hammam, swathed in silk caftans, where we took a steam bath and lay side-by-side on marbles slabs for massage. When we were done I would have risen, but Riana motioned me back down and produced her razor.

‘Adrian!” I said, shocked. “Please tell her, no. Not tonight.”

“But why, darling?” he said, sitting up.

“Well, for one thing, she’ll be able to tell—I mean, I’m still swollen down there.”

Adrian grinned at me, his hair falling over his brow instead of being combed back as he usually wore it. It made him look younger and more boyish, mischievous in this case. He addressed Riana at some length and she answered him, giggling and flashing dark eyes at both of us.

“She says it will make it easier if the ‘Gates of Paradise’ are firm. So, you see, you’ll get a better shave.”

“Oh!”

“Well, I had to explain why you were refusing her services, darling.”

“No, you didn’t, you bastard. You could have told her thanks but no thanks!”

“Now, now, there’s a certain amount of doubt as to whether I am the Old Man’s get, but I’m definitely not a bastard. They had banns and a big wedding, so Mummy would be narked. Besides,” he finished simply, “I’d love to watch.”

I knew that voyeur crack would come home to roost. “But anyone could walk in.”

“No, they won’t. Miryam runs the girls out if I’m using the facilities since I can occasionally look at them, but they mustn’t look at me. I bathe in solitary splendor.”

“Oh,” I said, weakening. “That sounds lonely.”

“It is, actually. That’s why it’s such a lark to have someone to frolic with. Be a sport, darling, and let a poor Peeping Tom have his thrill.”

I suppose that after having a slaver-trader’s thumb up your butt, it isn’t much of a stretch. I lay back down and let Riana shave me, holding my breath as she did the trickier parts.

And Adrian watched. He sat on his own marble slab with the towel draped decorously over his lap, but he watched with the same half-smile and air of calm absorption that he’d watched me suck his cock. His gaze was exciting enough that I blushed for that alone. When Riana put her cool thumb on my heated clitoris to push it aside, I shivered. It was all I could do to hold still.

“Thank you, darling,” Adrian said, when she was finished. We went to the pool then, and he swam laps with more vigor than I would have thought possible while I paddled around in the tepid water. I didn’t have the energy to emulate him, so I admired the buoyant bobbing of my breasts and the astonishingly intimate touch of the water on my naked pussy and hairless limbs, wondering why anyone would ever consent to wearing clothes to swim. The water was like a secret and subtle lover’s caress.

Then we ate, clad in the luxurious towling robes. The oysters were marvelous, fresh and succulent, though my inhibitions had roused enough to keep the meal decorous at least in front of the servers. I couldn’t help thinking about Adrian’s threat to eat them from my body—from my pussy, since that was obviously what he’d meant—and blushed each time he slurped one from the shell. The rest of the meal, seafood from the port, was equally good; crisp fried fish, cold boiled shrimp, and spicy couscous.

Before long we were back in Adrian’s rooms, and he pulled me out of my robe and down onto the bed again, kissing me long and deep. His knowledgeable hands trailed fire across flesh that should have been thoroughly sated.

“Again?” I murmured.

Adrian raised his head from my breast. “You have the Lazarus touch, my pet. You could raise the dead. My cock is definitely coming back to life—or maybe it’s rigor mortis. It definitely died happy.”

Blasphemous but rather thrilling, I thought, and then I didn’t think at all for a long time. We made love very slowly, savoring each touch, kiss, and lick. Adrian put pillows under my head and shoulders so I could watch as he lay between my thighs and spread my pussy gently. He slid the hood back from the bud of my clitoris and delicately touched the tiny exposed head with the tip of his tongue, as I sighed and shivered.

My sighs had turned to moans before he lifted himself over me and positioned his penis at my eager entrance.

“Watch,” he whispered, holding himself up on rigid arms so we could both watch the slow disappearance of his cock into my pussy. I could feel the muscles inside me clamping and flowering open, as if they could grip him and draw him in deep. He sighed himself, a long sigh that was almost a groan, but was still sternly in control as he began to toy with my sensitive tissues; two or three shallow strokes, only just penetrating me with the tip of his cock, then a slow deep stroke that brought him hard up against my clit.

Involuntarily, my body rose to his thrusts, trying to make the shallow strokes deeper, trying to urge him to quicken his maddeningly deliberate pace.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Little pleading, panting cries on the shallow strokes and long moans on the deep thrust came from my throat, and I twisted beneath him trying for more, needing more. The tension built in my loins and belly, cresting higher and higher, as his rhythm slowly increased. I kissed and sucked at his neck, stroked his sides and gripped his muscular, flexing buttocks.

Each thrust carried me higher, up into a stratosphere where it was difficult to breath, though I gasped for breath, up the pinnacle of a mountain that rose and rose, straight up now, until I burst like a roman candle, like freefall. No sooner did the first sensation begin to subside that another began. And another or maybe they were all one.

Adrian never faltered, all smooth, deep, driving strokes now, though his forehead was dewed with sweat and his face had the set expression of a distance runner, half ecstasy and half pain. He dropped from his extended arms down to his elbows, and then finally flat on me, his hands snaking under my bottom, lifting my hips to fit me more exactly him.

His climax started somewhere deep inside him, with a groan that escalated into a rasping shout. I felt his balls draw up tight to his body and then he convulsed against me, racked by hard shudders that shook him like a flag in the wind. Every shudder drove him into me again, drove me on in seemingly endless climax.

After what seemed like forever, we’d both wound down to small shivering thrusts and counter-thrusts and soft moans as we fought for air. Adrian dropped his head into the hollow of my neck and I could feel him pant against my shoulder, feel the sweat of his face against my throat. He struggled back up onto his elbows, taking his weight off my chest, but his neck drooped from his shoulders as he kissed my face and throat. When he fastened on my mouth, we both puffed like bellows through our nostrils and I had to break the kiss to breath.

“Am I squashing you? Sorry, darling,” Adrian said. He rolled off me so suddenly that I clutched for him with arms and vulva—grasping for the weight and cock instantly gone. The cool air hit the portions of my body where sweat had glued us together like chilled wine. I rolled towards him, my mind admiring the graceful, sinewy line of his back and outstretched arm.

He was gorgeous, too—even without lust gilding my perceptions. When I‘d first seen him, I’d thought ‘dancer’ but Adrian was too tough and collected for the androgynous grace that implied. Adrian was an athlete—not the muscle-bound weightlifter type, but a runner or a swimmer—a sexual athlete, for sure.

He turned back to me with a silver goblet beaded in condensation and helped me sit up enough to drink The water was as pure and sweet as the soma of legend. I drained it in a few gulps. He refilled it from the pitcher and drank in turn, and I watched the motion of his throat, the cords of his neck, as he swallowed.

“More for you?” he asked.

I shook my head, subsiding back into the pillows and bolsters. He set aside the goblet and rolled back to kiss me again, a leisurely kiss, plundering my mouth as he’d plundered my vagina. His tongue mimicked the thrusts of his penis until I moaned again.

“That’s better,” he said, heavy lids half hiding his piercing eyes. “I didn’t even have enough spit left to kiss you properly. You’re a succubus. You’ve reduced me to a spitless, juiceless, dick-less egg.”

“Oh, really?” That inspired me with enough energy to scoot down, trailing kisses across his tight belly to his crotch. He caught his breath in a long inhalation as I nuzzled my face into his pubic hair, rubbing across his relaxed testicles and half-hard cock. He smelled of semen and of me, moist and slippery and warm. When I mouthed his flaccid penis it began to plump again, twitching in my mouth.

“None of that, you insatiable wench! You’ll wear me down to a nubbin and them where will we be?” Gently but firmly, he detached me and drew me up to lie in his arms.

“I don’t think I could,” I murmured. “Wear you down to a nubbin, I mean. If I’m a succubus, then you’re an incubus. I’ve heard of fireworks before, but I thought that was something out of cheesy romance novels.”

“Your first multiple orgasm?”

I nodded.

“Du vrai? I’m honored.” Adrian kissed my brow. “But you had the capacity all along. Hadad valued you highly, but what he couldn’t see is your passion. No one will ever have to ginger you up, my sweet.”

“Ginger me up?”

“Get you going, get you hot.”

“Mmm…but why ginger?” I settled my head more comfortably into his shoulder. Adrian often said things, used figures of speech that I didn’t really understand, though I’d been able to gather their meaning from context. ‘Quim’ for instance, was pretty clear when he had his hand on my pussy.

“Ginger means spicing something up, I suppose, though it’s got a long dishonorable history. Rather lewd, though it’s passed into the common vocabulary—people use it without having any idea what they’re saying.”

“So it’s dirty?”

“Most definitely. It’s also called figging—to rhyme with ‘frigging’—and comes from horse-trading.”

“So, what does it mean?”

“Well, ginger is a spice—it comes from a root—and it’s hot in its original form, though most of us associate it with sweets, like gingerbread and ginger beer. Arab horse dealers used to peel a bit of the root and push it up a horse’s bum to make it step lively and hold its tail high.”

“Ouch. And they use that on people?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. In the days when the sun never set on the British Empire, it was applied to both horses and men. You’ve heard of the English disease, haven’t you?”

“What, the Pox?”

“No—or at least only the French called it the English Pox—We called it the French Pox, others called it the Spanish Pox or whatever—it always came from somewhere else. No, I’m talking about caning. Corporal punishment.”

“So spanking is the English disease?”

“Well, they caned in the schools, even in the universities, and kept it up in the military,” Adrian said. “Those naughty Victorians, so repressed in every way, had to put their energy into the things they knew—the things that were allowed to them. Anything close to the erogenous zones—caning, being buggered by the upper formers in schools, enemas because that was healthful. Actual sex was for duty not for pleasure.”

I squirmed a little. “So what did that have to do with figging?”

“Because they’d peel a stick of ginger and shove it up a man’s arse when they were going to cane him. Ginger is slow acting, it doesn’t feel like much at first, but it builds. When it starts to burn, to produce heat, the hapless subject will thrust out his arse and waggle it about. If you lay a stripe on him and he clenches his arse, it burns even more, so he sticks his arse out again for the next stripe. Victorian Papas learnt it in their service and brought it home for disciplining their young, or playing naughty games with women of a certain class.”