Hi there! I'm Prince Buffoon. I write dirty stories, mostly on deviantart. These stories were too dirty for deviantart, so I put them here instead!
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A Cure for Heat
”Can you cure him?”
Dr. Wu corrected the incense sticks meticulously, waving her hand so that the smoke swirled and coiled around her fingers. She inhaled the scent of them, pondering the old man's question for a moment.
”Yes, Lord Ouyang. It's a high fever, but it is not incurable. With time, it should go down.”
”And if I want it done quickly?”
”...there are ways.” Dr. Wu said dispassionately, though she could not mask a little smile. ”You want your son fit for battle?”
”No.” Lord Ouyang said gruffly. ”Worse. Imperial exams. They're coming up soon, and he needs to be well enough to travel. And study. This illness comes at an inauspicious time.”
Dr. Wu inclined her head, her long eyelashes fluttering. Red lips were now curled into an obvious smile, hidden behind her peacock fan. The young master was, indeed, too ill to travel. She cast an eye towards him where he lay in the bed, cool water dripping from a cloth on his forehead. He was a handsome man, thin and limber, a scholarly gentleman well versed in calligraphy, judging from his fingers. Straight-nosed and pale, clean-shaven and with hair let out to flow around his shoulders. The young man was perhaps five years her junior, only starting his career.
”I can make his fever go down tonight.” she said. ”In three days, he will be well. But you must leave me alone with him. My fee is seven strings of coins.”
”Done.” Lord Ouyang said, and without another word, he turned and left. He was taciturn, the old man, and not so very handsome; but his son took after the mother. He was beautifully angled, androgynous and fine. She turned, knowing the Young Master had been listening in.
As the door closed behind her, the Doctor spoke.
”Young Master Ouyang,” she said with a deep bow. ”I have been tasked by your father to cure your illness. You understand I must obey his command.”
”Yes. Doctor... what's wrong with me?”
”You are filled with a great excess of fire. With incense, and water, and vegetarian diet, this imbalance can be corrected.” she smoothed her skirts, brushing off some invisible dust from the dark embroidery. Black threads on green, her dress hugging her figure, constraining her curves. ”But that will take many days.”
”You said... tonight.”
”I did.” she confirmed. ”This excess of fire can be drained.”
”Acupuncture?”
”You are indeed a learned man, Young Master,” Doctor Wu said, with another bow. ”I am afraid this method, too, would take too long. I bid you sit up.”
The young man pulled himself half-sitting in the bed. The covers slipped from his chest, and Dr. Wu observed with some delight that it was bare. Limber muscles played across his pectorals. He was blushing from the fever, but by now quite awake, looking curious.
With practiced, nonchalant movements, Dr. Wu lifted her hands behind her shoulders, and began untying her dress.
The young master blinked, for a moment not comprehending what he observed. The embroidered silk shifted around her shoulders, until it fell open in the back and the woman, with practiced movements, slipped out of the garment and bunched it in her arms, carefully folding it. Beneath, she wore a chemise suspended from her neck, pale arms revealed, the garment bulging around her hips where her underpants were tied. She had silk stockings and practical leather shoes.
”I don't- I don't understand.”
Dr. Wu pulled the fabric of her chemise up, so that the long silk stocking was revealed all the way to the garter tied about her thigh. She put her leg on a chair, running a hand towards the knots and slowly untying them. In the half-light of the candles, her breasts were teasing through the thin chemise, unsupported and almost uncovered.
”To get this fire to leave you,” she said, and her voice was honey-smooth now, ”it must first be permitted to rise to the surface.”
The man blushed, and now averted his eyes as the stocking came untied. Down her thigh it slipped, revealing the ivory color of her leg.
”This- this is quite indecent, miss-”
”Doctor.” she said, interrupting him. ”Not miss. Doctor.” Her other stocking came down, and she undid her shoes, taking them off and the sunken stockings with them. Bare feet came down on the fur carpet of the Young Master's chamber, and her chemise fell into place reaching barely to her knees. She reached for her hips now, and beneath the fabric undid the bows that held up her underpants.
The Young Master closed his eyes as they slipped down her hips to pool at her feet, nude entirely beneath her thin chemise. It seemed the slightest breeze in the room caused the silken garment to shift and ripple, so that a different part of her body could be seen. Here, it clung tightly to a breast, then sighed and relaxed to a film across her stomach. It slid between her legs, outlining the lips of her sex, the shape of her thighs where they met. Her nipples showed through the garment now, stiff and eager.
”I'm afraid I must ask you to look.”
”Must you?”
”I must.” she insisted.
”But miss, you're-”
”Doctor.” she said firmly again.
He opened his eyes. The Doctor was untying the chemise around her neck, and letting her hips sway absent-mindedly side to side as she did. He swallowed, and the blush on his face intensified as the silk slipped over her shoulders, flowing like meltwater over her collarbones and down to her breasts, generous, perky, tipped with dark red like poppies in the bud. She smiled at him then, and approached, letting the garment fall away from her completely. Between her legs, he made out a dark triangle of hair, a pair of soft velvet thighs, and then she came to him so that she stood by the bed. Her hand went, unabashedly, to the covers.
”When the fire is drawn out,” she almost whispered, her voice lower now. She smiled, and her eyelashes danced before her gaze, ”it can be drawn out. It runs hot in a man. Hot and...”
Her hand found what she sought. She gasped a little, playfully.
”This- this is surely improper-” the Young Master protested, a hand around her wrist. She shivered at the touch, but batted his hand away.
”Doctor's orders,” she smiled. ”How can such a thing be improper?”
”But- you're a <i>woman</i>.”
”Very much so.”
Her hands, gently, folded away the cover. She smiled as she climbed up above him, her thighs grazing his, her hands gently pushing his shoulders so that he was lying in the bed once more. She leaned down and grazed her lips against his nose, and let her hips sink so that her lips grazed also against the fire rising in him.
”And as a woman, I will draw your fever out.
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On Humans
Elliseraë rolled up on her side, her gentle hips backlit by the crackling campfire. She'd been studying her spellbook but it now lay abandoned, pages still open by the fire, her raven familiar hopping across its pages. It let out a soft crow, nudging her with its beak.
”Shhh, Sildreth.” she voiced at little more than a whisper. ”Let's not disturb the humans. I want to see where this goes.”
The bird looked where she was looking, at the two humans in the camp, some distance away from the fire. They weren't asleep. Mumbled words escaped them, in a tone too hushed for human ears – but Elliseraë, of course, was an elf. She could hear and see them very well, despite their silence and the heavy moonless night.
”Among my people,” came the first voice, a woman's, strong and somber like the rolling of the sea. She cleared her throat. ”Among my people, to do what you did merits the greatest honor.”
”Thanks, Kauri. But among my people,” replied the man, ”my people being back-alley bastards of Blackgate,” he clarified, ”it's Tuesday. Give it a rest, will ya?”
The woman sat up from where she was lying, and Elliseraë squinted. Kauri was a barbarian of the Isles, oak-skinned and tall-framed, her red hair like a blaze of fire where it fell around her shoulders. Worgskin armor, black as midnight, draped around her chest and continued down into a loincloth, disappearing between her naked thighs. She had taken off her greaves and her pauldrons for comfort, the beast-bone plates glowing dully by the fire.
”I will not. Redrick.” She spoke his name, and Elliseraë heard a strange thing in how she said it. It was like a wind on a hot day. Once, she had heard such a tone in the neighing of a mare, on the rolling summer fields of Etharine, as a girl, a hundred summers or more in the past. It was strange to catch it here. Kauri's voice was like ice and thunder, not like hot summer's wind at all.
”That's my name,” quoth the man, pulling a blanket over his head. ”Don't wear it out, kay?”
”I apologize.” Kauri said, taken aback. ”I was not aware names could be worn out. My... my friend.” she said. ”Listen to me.”
”Look, it's been a long day,” Redrick replied, ”you, uh, you buy me a beer next time we hit town, alright, and we'll call it even.”
She shook her head. Red curls danced around her tattoed cheeks. The dim light shone off her forehead and her nose – she was blushing. ”It won't suffice. You saved my life.”
”You would've done the same for me. Actually you have. Remember that damn shark-ogre?”
She laughed. It was a soft laugh for so big a woman, almost a giggle. ”You were so frightened!”
”It was the size,” Redrick sighed, ”of a dead king's ego. Including the podium. Of course I was afraid, you crazy wench.”
”I'm large too,” Kauri said, and her eyes twinkled like stars against the night. ”You don't fear me.”
”Well, you're on my side.”
”Yes.”
The word made Elliseraë blush. ”Yes”, that was all, but the way Kauri had said it, it was as if it burned the air. Redrick, it seemed, had noticed it too. He looked up from his bedroll. Only the gold rings in his ears glinted against the dark of his midnight hair. These and his searching eyes, scanning once around the camp. Elliseraë saw them, and feigned sleep, backlit by the camp-fire.
”Yes.” Kauri said again. ”Of course I'm on your side. I swore it.”
”Yeah, well,” Redrick relaxed. It seemed he had heard obligation in her voice, nothing more. ”I'm Blackgate. We don't swear, and when we do, we're lying. Not really familiar with the concept.”
”And still you saved me.”
Redrick shrugged. ”You cook good stews. Would be a shame to lose ya. You're great, Kauri, now let me... sleep.”
He paused before the last word.
Kauri's arms were behind her back. She was stretched out now, sitting on her knees, back arched. Her face towards the moon, she was whispering something, mouthing, perhaps, a prayer. Or perhaps indeed just a silent wish, passed over her lips like a hot summer wind. Elliseraë blushed, feeling something suddenly fierce and animal inside her that was nothing like magic and yet everything like it. Gods, what was Kauri doing – was she-?
She was. The worgskin fell heavy from her body, away from her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. They were bound beneath it, of course they were, held in place with a broad linen band. Still, so much of her was visible now, her oak-skin abdomen, her magnificent strength, she was a lioness, Elliseraë thought, a lioness, a panther, a rock.
”I'm glad you like my cooking.” she said, and now her voice had yet another wind in it, but this not a summer's wind, more a gale. Yes. Elliseraë heard it, there was strength in her body and now also in her voice, untamed strength, fierce and howling though hidden yet, and hushed.
“But there is more.”
”Kauri, uh...”
”No. Shush, Blackgate.” she said. ”I won't use your name if it's at risk of being worn. You care for me. Do you deny it?”
”Course I do. We've been traveling together for what, three months? You don't spend that long with someone and not... y'know... buy them a beer. But come on, we save each other all the time, it's the horking business. We're adventurers.”
”It is different.” she said. ”You have no obligation.”
”I don't got no obligation to nobody, no,” Redrick said. His voice stumbled over negations, and Elliseraë heard in it a kind of... strange fear. He was normally so confident, but now he sounded like a buck on the run. Panting. Powerful, still, antlers raised in defense. The lioness smiled.
She leaned down, on all fours. Crawled over him, on top of him. Elliseraë drank in her form in the weak fire-light, thanking the gods for her elfin night's sight. Kauri was in her underwear, her breast-wraps and a loincloth, and her form was magnificent. Muscle and thew on a large, oak-brown body, decorated only by snaking sinuous ink. Tattoos played over her powerful thighs as she crawled, like the stripes of a tigress. Elliseraë's heart raced, and her throat tightened, and something else inside her tightened also. She felt a second heartbeat in an unfamiliar place, between her legs.
Summer winds blew over the entire camp now, and it was very warm.
”You care for me, Redrick. Deny it. Lie.”
”You corner me like a rat and expect me to lie?”
”You've done it before. Use your words, thief.”
”Fine. I care for you. There’s a truth.”
His eyes met hers, and Elliseraë stifled a gasp. It was like lightning, like storms. Like the crackles from her fingers at a powerful spell. Her robes were too warm. She hoisted up the skirts, slipped them over her pale, thin knees and paler thighs. Just for cooling. Just for relief.
”True. But more.” Kauri smiled, searching his eyes. ”You want me.”
”I- I do. Also a truth. I do want you.” he confirmed. ”But forget about it, right? You're like... two stories tall. You want men built like mountains, with arms like tree trunks and cocks like-”
Elliseraë gasped at the word, but Redrick, for once, was lost for words. He struggled. ”Like... I'm not saying I'm <i>small</i>, but-”
”Show me.”
Redrick, now, blushed. It didn't seem he could think of anything to say.
”All right.” Kauri nodded. ”I will show you first.”
Kauri rose to kneel above him, stretched tall like a wave. Her arms went behind her again, and Elliseraë saw the flexing of her muscles, the bending of her back. Then the first garment fell, and her breasts were revealed, large, heavy, imposing, silk-smooth and dark brown and empty of tattoos. Nothing decorated them like the rest of her body, nothing to draw attention from her proud, mahogany nipples. Without pausing, she began to untie her loincloth.
Elliseraë felt her own breasts. Her nipples were proud and perky too, hard through her silk robes. It felt good to touch them, play with them, and she squeezed herself, letting out a whispered moan. But the best, she knew, was still to come. She must watch. Silently she unlaced her robes at the front, opening them, letting summer kiss her breasts, but she must watch all the while. She inhaled in silence.
Redrick's blankets had come off him now. It was warm, and he had slept without a shirt. His chest was slim, lithe, almost hairless, he was built like a thief and an acrobat. He was resting on his elbows, eyes on Kauri, eyes on her loincloth which presently fell. Untied at the hip and thrown to one side. Soft curls between her legs, hair – hair <i>there</i>. Humans had body hair, Elliseraë reflected. She felt herself there, curious, trying to imagine it. The touch was... rewarding. She touched herself more.
”You can't tell what cocks I want, Blackgate.”
”Then you-”
”I want yours. You. Now.”
Redrick glanced around. ”We're in camp,” he whispered nervously, ”surrounded by our friends and fellows! Here? Now?”
Her voice fell an octave. ”They sleep. If you want me – take me. Now. I offer me. Or are you not so skilled a thief?”
At the insult, finally, he perked up. ”I'm the best horking thief in Blackgate, wench. But can you stay quiet?”
”I can try.”
Her hands were at his trousers now, she was impatient, hungry. At this, he batted at her hands, grabbed at her wrists that were thicker than his forearms. His eyes met hers, the challenge received, and now a hot wind was in his voice also, and a fire in his eyes. And a fire was also tingling inside Elliseraë, a fire that demanded to be touched, teased, played with. Her robes were open, her hands inside them.
”All right. Yes. I want you. Wanted you for weeks. But hands off the goods. That's not how Blackgate fucks.”
”You don't use your cock?”
Her surprise was innocent, her eyes round. He, for his part, smiled at her, and then slipped closer to kiss her, taste her lips, his hands on her shoulders now. His fine, athletic body pulled up without effort, his excitement plainly visible through the rough linen trousers. He pressed his crotch against her and she groaned silently, then he bit her lip and pulled away.
”Not until you're ready.”
”My people fuck-”
”Like animals.” Redrick interrupted her. ”Let me fuck you like a man. A man,” he instructed, ”is patient. Methodical.” A hand slipped from her shoulder to cup her breast, touch it, knead it. She shivered, a single droplet hanging from her red lower lip, her mouth open. Two fingers grasped her nipple, and tweaked. ”A man plays his woman like an instrument.”
Her hips rocked helplessly in midair, grinding against nothing. Redrick was standing now, she was still kneeling, though barely much shorter with her great impressive height. His hands were in her hair, and he kissed her passionately, on her lips, on her eyes, on her neck, directing her this way and that with the gentlest touch of his soft thief's palms. Elliseraë couldn't stifle a moan, wishing for soft thief's palms on her own body, anywhere really, but preferrably where her own hands now touched her. One on her breast, the other teasing the dewdrop in her folds.
”Then fuck me,” Kauri whispered, ”like a man.”
”I am.” Redrick said. ”Moreover, like a thief. You know what a thief's greatest asset is, wench?”
She shook her head.
”His fingers.”
Kauri inhaled. Her breath was stopped, only a little whimper escaping her now, her whole body tense like a bowstring. Then a long, low groan escaped her the likes of which Elliseraë had never heard, like Mother Earth herself, a low, rumbling earthquake. The sound made her desperate, hungry for something primal, something far beneath her dignity as a noble pure-bred elf. Without care or concern she parted her legs, drove her fingers deeper in, touched, felt, rocked her hips. What was that dirty thief doing to her, to make a woman put forth such a sound?
Redrick kissed Kauri, again and again, showering her face and her breasts with attention. She was snorting and panting, breathing heavily again, frustrated and angry. His fingers had stopped. She had seized his hand.
”Not like this. I want more.”
”But you were-”
”Close. Yes. It is good.”
”Then why not continue-? You can't deny you enjoyed it.”
She pulled his hands away, effortlessly, lifted him, threw him down on the ground. Again she crawled on top of him, pinned him against his bedroll. Her eyes were steel, locked with his.
”Your way of fucking is good. You may show me more later. But this is not fucking like a man.”
”Like a civilized man!” he protested. ”Like a-”
”No.” she said. ”Women have fingers also. You...” she leaned down, and her hips met his, her wet, aching sex rubbed against the firmness in his trousers. ”...have this.”
”It won't be like you're used to.”
”It will be better.” she said. She put a hand to the strings of his trousers and untied them, with surprising dexterity. He squirmed against her, playfully fought, but she wasn't having it – his trousers came down. Elliseraë leaned forward, a hand leaving her breasts to balance her where she lay. She wished to see more.
He was hard indeed. Large, proud, and eager, his cock kissed the midnight air. It pulsed and twitched as Kauri ran a hand across it, admiring it only just a moment. Elliseraë did not see it for long before Kauri climbed atop him. She sank down on him easily, but slowly, inching her hips as she enveloped him in her folds, claimed him for her own. It was his turn to groan.
”Gods, woman, what... what feeling is this?”
”Strength.” she said simply. He bit his tongue as she tensed. It was almost invisible how her body tightened, but he could feel it. Elliseraë saw it, saw it in his eyes, his jaw, his whole body, saw how he squirmed as she held him inside her. The scent of them both filled Elliseraë's nostrils now. Rich, sweaty, primeval, <i>human</i>. Inside her. Yes.
Then, Kauri began to move her hips. She moved slowly, cautiously, up and down, clenching around him. The man trembled, hands digging into his bedroll first and then her arms, her skin, almost fighting her to stop. Kauri grinned, enjoying the sight, her red curls like a waterfall of flames around her face. She drank in what she could see of him, his helpless expression, his ragged breath, his soft hands clawing at her body. Every fiber of her being was engaged in his pleasure.
”Woman, I can't- it's so- fuck me, it's-”
”I am fucking you.” Kauri said simply. ”What is the matter? I thought you were patient.” she teased, ”Slow. Playing me like an instrument.”
”But- but this is-”
She increased her pace. Redrick's words spilled into a voiceless gasp, a breath. She rocked on top of him, claiming her pleasure, softly declaring it in little hums and mms.
”It is my turn to play you. You have a lovely cock.” she said. ”Release it inside me.”
”Damn you,” Redrick's hips bucked, his eyes intense, almost angry. ”I'm not- I won't- I was going to make <i>you</i>-”
”Yes.” Kauri said, and there was such heat in that word that Elliseraë gasped audibly now. Nobody heard her. The two were ensnared in each other. ”You were. And you will. Later. But I want you to come. Now.”
”I promise nothing.” he said defiantly.
”You don't have to.”
She smiled, and tensed around him. Her hips moved, her buttocks clenched. He couldn't stay silent. A loud grunt as his whole body raised off the ground, pushed inside her, pushed and thrust and rocked and came defiantly, angrily, swearing all the while. Elliseraë heard his voice and heard him come and her body reacted automatically, yes, yes, receive him, be ready for him, yes Yes and her whole body was Yes and she came as he did. Fingers reached their goal. Pleasure rolled through her body, the musk of them the heat of them and summer winds and howling gales and she was wild and untamed and she came again. And again.
And again.
The stars twinkled above her, silently. The campfire crackled. Her familiar was somewhere in a tree, embarrassed of the whole affair. Her robes were torn about her body, her breasts exposed, her legs parted. Fingers still rested there, glistening wet. She breathed without words. She had learned a lot about humans today. She heard their voices, distantly, as through water, as through a great ocean, and slowly, rising to the surface of her skin, she felt a blush.
”...Ell? Are you... watching?”
She closed her eyes. If she said yes, she hoped, they might teach her even more.
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In the Garden of the Gods
Outside the din of celebration drifted in through her open window, the night alive and ripe with promises. Cymbals crashed, and brass horns reverberated over the exultant cries of the commoners. If she closed her eyes, she could still imagine the images of carven gods, carried on their litters over the commoners as they sang the praise of Zeus and Athena and Apollo, each image shrouded in flowers and in gold. They would pour milk and sweet wine over the idols, and share it all with the populace, and there would be revelry and dancing and music and storytelling, and she knew it all because she remembered it from girlhood.
Eunike was a woman now, and girlhood seemed infinitely far behind. Now she had sworn her service to those selfsame gods, and it was, she told herself, for the better. Life in the temple gardens was good. She had never to go hungry, never to worry about kidnappers or thieves, never fear that she would get evicted from her comfortable quarters above the temple doors where she lived, a servant of the gods, nineteen years of age and four years a priestess. She was holy, and that meant never having to worry.
Of course, she reflected as she rolled over into bed, she was no more holy than the gods. And they, of course, were part of the revelry, their feet kissed and anointed by common men and women, given thanks for the victory they had granted over the barbarians. Outside the garden walls, the gods were toasted along the soldiers and got to be every bit as part of the fun as ordinary girls, and ordinary women too for that matter. Most of the priestesses were with them, singing their praise and dancing the sacred dances, their sandaled feet pattering over the petal-strewn marble flagstones. But she was the youngest priestess fully grown; and someone had to stay behind tending to the gardens. Now her work for the day was done, and her only remaining duty was to sleep.
Yet she found that she could not. Closing her eyes only seemed to make the images of revelry more vivid before her eyes, and she found herself unable to stop thinking about the dancing priestesses, the triumphing crowd, the trumpets and the dancing and the drinking. She cast off her covers, naked feet touching down upon the floor. The night was too hot, and too alive, to simply lie in bed. She could not join the revelry, but at least she could walk through the garden. Instinctively she tiptoed out the door, even though, she reminded herself, nobody was present; and with that in mind, there was little point in donning the long heavy robes that were part of her attire, either. Eunike felt the night air kiss her skin through the linen of the chemise that ran down to her thighs, her legs as naked as her feet. Her black hair was let out for the night, and she left it that way, rolling down her back in waves and ripples, still faintly scented with oil. The temple was eerily quiet as she descended the stairs, the high walls drowning out some of the noise of the city. When she stepped out into the gardens, the droning of the cicadas seemed suddenly louder and nearer, and the songs of the city further away, as if she had dreamt it all. But of course, she was not dreaming; the city really was celebrating, and the garden really was empty.
It looked very different at night. The sky was cloudless, and under the pale face of the moon the glossy leaves of the olive trees seemed gray. The cypresses sighed and rustled in the winds, the faint smell of jasmine and citrus filling the air from the orchards over by the temple baths. In the distance she could still hear music, faint and ephemeral, but in the garden the music of nature reigned supreme, the cymbal-players cicadas, the pipers the wind through the trees. Eunike made her way down to the statues of the gods, carven from white marble, the ones that were too heavy to take out for celebration. Eunike felt grass between her toes, inhaled the scent of citrus trees, and heard the music distant beyond the walls. All was still and silent – until suddenly, she heard the droning of a voice.
Eunike had almost reached the marble gods, a great swath of flagstone cleared before them where the priestesses could worship in singing and in dance. Without looking out for company, her steps had almost taken her past the row of rose-hedge out into the open. But the voice she was hearing wasn’t just a strange one – it was the voice of a man. Eunike blushed, ducking in behind an olive tree, her gaze falling at the very feet of Aphrodite. There was, indeed, a man there. He was kneeling, cloak trailing behind him, his head adorned by a feathered bronze helm, and he was reciting the sacred songs faithfully, knowing them by heart as well as any priestess. His voice was so low it seemed to blend with the rustling and the playing of the trees, a deep voice, quiet, cautious. He was a warrior, come to pray.
Why was he away from the feasting? And who had permitted him entry into the sacred garden of the gods, where only the holy may enter? Eunike felt puzzled, almost angry, but she did not need entertain these thoughts for very long. Another voice cut through the night, and the girl pulled further into the dark behind the tree, keeping still – for she was still in but her underclothes. And she knew the other voice only all too well.
“Your men miss you, General Jahanbin.”
The blazing-white form of the high priestess Roxana came down the path. Only her arms were bare, her body shrouded in layer upon layer of snow-white linen, even her face concealed by veils hung from a jewel-stained tiara that decorated her brow. She was striding slowly down the path to the temple gates, carrying still a basket of petals. Scattering the last of the contents over the marble floor before she entered, she stepped into the presence of the gods. At this, the general rose, and turned. Eunike did not recognize him – he was clearly a foreign-born man. Where the priestess was clad in dreaming white, this man was black and all too real. Black eyes glittered in a face as carved from ebony, his nose and lips prominent, his countenance serious. A scar ran from eye to lip, faded yet shockingly pale against the darkness of his face. He wore breast-plate, a belt, a long leather kilt. At seeing the priestess, he seemed briefly flustered, and took off his helm. His hair was black as pitch, tied in a bun above his head.
“I will not be long,” he said awkwardly, “tell them I will not be long.”
Roxana stepped towards the benches that lined the plaza, gracefully sitting down with her legs folded aside.
“I am not your errand-runner.”
The man fidgeted, looking nervous. His helm was tucked under his arm, a posture he was comfortable with, but he seemed strangely out of place here, so far from the fields of killing and glory. In fact, to Eunike he seemed almost flustered like a teenager, though he must be at least forty years of age.
“I am sorry, your Holiness,” he managed. His speech was accented, though carefully measured, slow and deliberate. “I merely wished to give thanks to the gods.”
“Most choose to give thanks at the festival,” the woman retorted casually, playing with a bangle on her wrist, “yet the man we celebrate most of all is here, in seclusion. Asking specifically for it, even.”
The man lowered his gaze. “I am not comfortable being celebrated,” he said curtly. “Our victory owes just as much to the gods and to my soldiers as to me.”
“Yet it does owe to you, General.” Roxana said casually. “True, the gods gave you fortune, and true, your men fought bravely, but it was your wisdom in the end that saved us from disaster.”
Jahanbin said nothing. Eunike breathed quietly in her hiding-place behind the roses, coming to understand just who this man was, and what had given him the right to ask a personal audience with the gods themselves. She had not heard his name, but she recognized his deeds. Even the High Priestess seemed impressed with him, by how her gaze wandered his body, by how relaxed she was in his presence. She lifted her legs up on the bench, lay down on her side, and Eunike was struck by how girlish she appeared. The motion caused her robes to slip away from her legs; they were olive-skinned, bare but for her sandals. General Jahanbin averted his eyes.
“You are a great man, General Jahanbin, though your humility hides it well.”
“Great man or no,” the general answered slowly, “I do not feel comfortable being thanked as a god might be.”
“That is fair,” said Roxana, her posture relaxed. “But you are quite a man, and it isn’t more than right you be thanked as a man might be.”
He turned, his eyes suddenly back on the priestess. Her robes had shifted further. Her legs were bare halfway up to her thighs, her feet had slipped out of her sandals. She rubbed her naked foot slowly against the edge of the bench, and Eunike felt a sudden stirring in the pit of her stomach that she could not explain or understand. Jahanbin looked away, still coy.
“The happiness of the people is the only thanks I require,” he said, almost mumbling so that Eunike had to strain her ears to hear him. “I would not wish for anyone to feel indebted.”
“That is well,” she said curtly, a hand now resting on the side of her leg, where the thigh curved upward into the slope of her hip. Slowly, she let her fingers travel upward, parting carefully the curtains of her robes so that more of her olive flesh came into view. “But I am High Priestess. I owe nobody any debts. Not even you, General.”
“Good.” he said. “It would not be proper.”
She laughed. “No, Jahanbin. It is never proper for a man to think a woman indebted. What is he then, a moneylender?” She slowly sat up, let her robes fall back into place, let her hands travel slowly up her body to her veiled visage. “Does he think a woman’s affection is something which can be owed, bought, sold? Let me tell you, Jahanbin, it cannot even be earned. It can only be freely given. But I’ve a mind to give it.”
With that, she lifted the tiara from her brow. Veils fell from her face like snow from a rooftop, and Eunike stifled a gasp as she saw the bare face of the priestess, thirty-eight summers having barely touched her regal face. True, she had the stately beauty of a woman rather than the peach-faced shape of girlhood, but her olive countenance had the features of a goddess, her eyes black, her profile sharp, her lips narrow and her neck long. Tresses of brown hair were tied behind her head with linen ribbons, and these she now methodically undid, her eyes never leaving Jahanbin. He, for his part, stood as a man transfixed, unable to move or look away, as still and silent as the marble gods.
“Now remains just the question, Jahanbin, will you accept my giving thanks?”
“You are the High Priestess,” he protested, but there was an undertone in his voice as the growling of a lion. Eunike had never heard a man make such a sound before, and it made her knees weaken and her heart beat faster. She leaned against the tree, fingers inadvertently seizing around a firm, stiff branch. Her breath seemed wet against the bark, and the summer night seemed suddenly hotter than the warmest day. She could not understand what she was witnessing – or perhaps she could, but she was not yet willing to admit it. Her grip around the tree branch softened, her fingers unconsciously caressing it. She was as hypnotized as Jahanbin, and she could not look away.
Roxana’s long dark hair escaped from its confinement. Chestnut-brown, it fell in thick curls around her shoulders and her back.
“So I am,” she said only to Jahanbin’s protest. “But if a hero is merely a man, am I not merely a woman?”
The man grunted in response, his words failing him. She stepped closer, hips swaying, and he finally cleared his throat, the rough, ragged cough of a man whose voice was more suited for barking orders than for courtship.
“It is different.” he said. “I cannot accept a High Priestess. Not in this way.”
“Then call me Roxana,” she said. The man fell silent. His eyes sought hers, traveled over her body, but he still stood unmoving as a statue, unwilling to act. She saw, and her hands resolutely moved to the golden brooch upon her breast, unpinned it, let the linen shift to uncover her shoulder and her neck. Jahanbin’s mouth fell open, his breath ragged, loud enough that Eunike could hear it all the way from her hiding-place.
“Would you have me, Jahanbin, if I were but Roxana?”
He swallowed. “I would,” he admitted. “I very much would.”
She smiled. “Then see me as the gods do.”
Her robes slipped down her body. The flimsy garments fluttered in the wind for a moment, before they flowed over her olive skin and ran like milk over her breasts, her stomach, her hips, her legs, her feet. Wind played in her hair, her lips pursed in a confident smile, her eyes seemingly brighter than the moonlight, lively, confident, twinkling. Her breasts were bared, as proud as her face, sloping to a point almost sharp in relief against the garden, crowned by nipples like dark gems. Her hips, full and wide and unadorned, framed a temple garden of her own, wild black grass over its warm exultant entrance. She placed her hands on her hips, eyes meeting his, and then her hands went to his belt, softly brushing against the buckle along the sides.
“Is it a woman you see?” she asked, again.
“Yes,” he admitted, and the lion’s growl in his voice was stronger now, deeper, more aggressive. Glints of white teeth could be seen as he spoke.
“Then will you have me?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, very much so. Roxana.”
She unbuckled his belt, slowly, seductively, her eyes never leaving his. Eunike could not tear her gaze from Roxana’s body. To see an older woman - and a high priestess - nude and lascivious, in public, in the garden of the gods? It was unthinkable, and yet Eunike didn't need to think it. She could see it plainly, as Roxana sank to her knees atop her fallen garments, the moonlight playing in her chestnut hair so that rivulets of silver seemed to pour down her shoulders, glinting in the mass of brown. Eunike’s legs failed her; she sank to her knees with a breath as a soundless moan, her eyes spying over the edge of the roses, her thighs wide apart. Her gossamer-thin chemise seemed suddenly unbearably hot, even in the chill of the garden, and her skin was afire and begging to be touched. Roxana unbuckled the belt and let Jahanbin's kilt fall to his knees. He was a proud man, prouder than any Eunike had seen or even imagined. He was hard as cast iron, a soldier erect for inspection. Hunger filled Roxana's eyes as she beheld him, a hunger that spread like fire over her cheeks, her breasts, her body. She leaned in, kissed him vigorously. The hooded tip greeted her lips with a shivering from Jahanbin; he was an uncut man. She clasped her hand around him, opened her wet shining lips. "You tasted victory in battle, Jahanbin. Will you let me taste the victor?" He swallowed. His hands went to her hair, played with the long dark tresses. The man stood straight, quivering, tense and hard all over as a bow pulled taut, begging for release. He merely breathed his response; Eunike could not hear it. She did not need to, for Roxana's actions made it clear. Breathless, Eunike watched the High Priestess wrap her lips around him. It was too much for the girl - her breath escaped her and she moaned in frustration, her hands balling into fists, dug into the fabric of her clothes. If the two lovers heard anything, they made no indication. Roxana was moaning too, a deep, muffled satisfied sound as she tasted the man, ran her hand up and down him, licked and tasted him with hot, fierce desire. Eunike pulled, and the chemise came down her chest, exposing her sleek small breasts and her little brown nipples. The feeling of the fabric across them made her whine, a sound that was utterly drowned by the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by feelings too powerful to resist, sensation that crashed and roiled through her like water against a dam. It was dangerously close to bursting. Her hands found her bare nipples, touched them, squeezed them, and she threw her head backwards, struggling to keep quiet. Yet through it all, curiosity still had her in its iron grip, and it would not let her go to satisfaction quite so soon. Fists again grasping the flimsy fabric of her only garment, she opened her eyes again and breathed deeply, the heady scent of roses filling her nostrils and her lungs. Her brown eyes glittered behind the roses, hungry and eager to share everything she could of Roxana's forbidden liaison. Jahanbin's hands were in Roxana's hair now, gripping her dark luxurious tresses, but he wasn't pushing her down on his member - he was pulling her back. "You-" he panted, his thick raspy voice sending hot ripples across Eunike's skin. "You have... herbs, right?" Roxana smiled, and it was as the gaze of a predator, a tigresses' smile, a demon in the form of a woman. She stretched out kneeling, a single salty pearl dripping from her lip. It splashed onto her breast, rolled down over her nipple, not milky white, just a taste of Jahanbin's readiness. "Against your seed? I do.” A low growl broke out from the man's throat, reverberating in the garden and in Eunike's chest, and in her groin. She whined and winced again, and pulled at her garment, and tore it. The lovers noticed nothing, but the man's voice seemed to have just the same effect on Roxana, for she sank down where she kneeled, hands over her breasts, her stomach, her neck, and soon thereafter Jahanbin knelt too, and kissed her where she had shown him. Eunike watched, mouth agape, as he licked her, bit her, manhandled her with his big rough fingers, scratching at her olive-skinned back. For the first time now, Roxana was free to moan in pleasure, and she did - crying out as his teeth closed, as he tasted her skin, her lips, her nipples. He sucked on her breast eagerly, his hands on her hips and then on her bottom, groping, kneading. And then his roughness ceased for a moment, and he gingerly grasped her by the hair and led her, like an animal, down on all fours. She giggled as his hands passed over her, stretching out like a cat and spreading her legs.
“Take me,” she purred.
He did. Eunike’s heart caught in her throat as she watched them, the High Priestess on all fours, her breasts bare, her thighs apart, the man’s cock between them. He stroked it cautiously against her mound before he entered her, but did it roughly, decisively, without hesitation. Eunike felt pangs of lust that could not be silenced, and her hands twisted around her flimsy garment and finally, inevitably, ripped it from her body. She was naked, naked as Roxana, the hot breath of the garden on her breasts, her thighs, her bottom, her sex, and her body begged for attention, begged to be fucked as wildly as Roxana, whose rhythmic moans of pleasure seemed to cut the night in half. The High Priestess was blushing, her mouth wide open, her eyes closed. Her whole body rocked and rippled with every thrust of her lover’s hips, and she sank down towards the ground, nipples almost brushing the marble. Her fists were balled, and her moans seemed like music, like prayer.
Eunike’s fingers found their way between her legs. Her left hand clutched her breast, squeezing it, teasing it, and then ran across her stomach as she breathed in the air, tasted sex and musk from but a few paces away. She spread her thighs as Roxana had spread hers, leaned forwards to reach, tickled and teased until finally her fingers slipped firmly in between the petals of her pleasure. Her lips parted, her face flushed, but she did not close her eyes. They were firmly on the couple, Roxana’s tousled hair, Jahanbin’s clenched jaw, the moonlight playing over sweaty bare skin. He thrust steadily, slowly, enjoying every moment, and Roxana did the same, rhythmic moans escaping her that Eunike breathlessly echoed. It was almost as if she could feel his cock inside her, feel his great big hands now gripping her by the waist, now tangled in her hair. She felt it build inside her, stronger than anything she’d felt before, forbidden ecstasy that had become all but unstoppable-
-and then Roxana came, screaming out loud as her body twisted in Jahanbin’s grip, and he relaxed and exploded inside her, his dark leonine voice into a long, low roar. He shuddered as he came, thrust after final thrust into the priestess, who twisted still in his hands, almost fighting him but not quite. Eunike’s throat felt dry and she closed her eyes, leaned forward on her left hand, legs apart, her nostrils filled with the scent of roses. She was close, too close to stop, and Roxana’s gasping moans were still in her ears as she fucked herself eagerly, fingers moving in steady rhythmic beats. The world disappeared around her, and she knew only pleasure, only hot fire on her naked skin and a stronger, pulsing heat inside her that she dared not and could not name, but it would soon consume her.
And then finally, it did. The heat in her belly exploded through her body, heat and light and pleasure consuming her, and she screamed and collapsed into the grass, rolling over on her back, fingers not stopping, her whole being filled with divinity and bliss. On her back, she came again, and then again, hips rocking against empty air, limbs thrashing in the dewy grass, until at last, at last, the sacred fire subsided and she slipped back into the world. Above her shone the stars. Around her, in the distance, were the sounds of the festival. Below her was the soft, wet grass, as sweet a bed as ever she’d known, and to her sides stood Roxana and Jahanbin. The heat subsided; she felt suddenly cold.
“Eunike,” said the High Priestess, still glistening and nude. Her robes were in her hands, bunched before her sex, and she was flush with orgasm and a warm, peachy blush. Jahanbin wore his kilt again, a towering military man, once more quite fully dressed and averting his eyes from the girl on the ground. A new sensation shot through Eunike. It was a deep, horrible shame unlike anything she had felt before, a shame that shot to the core of her being and reignited into hot, forbidden flame. She was naked, totally naked, before the priestess and a stranger, and it was shamefully obvious exactly what she had done. She dared not speak; she could not speak, but the shameful spark played inside her and she knew she must have more of this, more and more for ever and ever.
“You will not speak of this. To anyone.”
Eunike shook her head. “I- I will not,” she managed. “B-by Zeus, I will not.”
“Good.” Roxana smiled. “Then I will not reprimand or punish you. This will be our little secret,” she said playfully, throwing the length of her robe about her waist as a skirt. It was pointless for her to try and dress properly here, with her clothes in disarray. “Although if you are curious about soldiers…”
“Yes!” Eunike snapped, before she could stop herself, “Yes, yes please, your Holiness.”
Jahanbin said nothing. But Roxana smiled, and looked down at the naked girl in the grass, and Eunike knew then and there that she would know this shame again, the shame of dark, forbidden, desire, and she also knew that in that moment it was all she desired, or ever would desire so intensely.
“Well,” Roxana said. “As General Jahanbin pointed out… there are other men we owe thanks. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll let one of them enter into the Garden of the Gods.”
And a hot wind blew through the garden, and Eunike heard the dancing and the music and the storytelling, and the memories of girlhood became nothing more than a dream.
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The Story of the Three Blossoms
The Story of the Three Blossoms
When Haroun ibn Hassan married his fourth wife, she was well of age; she was nineteen summers old, but fairly innocent. The wedding had been brief, for Haroun ibn Hassan was traveling, and had only made the arrangements on the road. His fourth wife's name was Maryam; she was of a fine family, but one fallen on hard times. When Haroun passed through her village, he had married her as an act of compassion, to ensure she had a future in comfort. Even though she was beautiful as a flower, Haroun was not moved by her; for he was only fond of men.
At their wedding night, Haroun did not make love to her. Instead he took her hand, and said:
”I am Haroun ibn Hassan, and men speak far and wide of my wisdom. I know you to be a woman who is fond of other women.”
At hearing this, she blushed, and withdrew, embarrassed, but Haroun held her hand. ”For this reason only have I married you. I am bound on a long journey, and cannot accompany you home, so I will tell you now – I wish for you to be the playmate of my three wives. They are beautiful, and they will take good care of you. But be warned, they are lecherous women. Do you accept this?”
Maryam nodded at this, and secretly her heart leapt with joy, for she had desired women her entire life. And so she lay next to Haroun ibn Hassan, and he did not touch her, and the next day their roads were parted. But before Haroun ibn Hassan left, he gave to her a signet ring, and he said: ”This is proof you are my wife. Present it before my wives, and they will accept you as their younger sister.”
He continued: ”My first wife is named Halima. She is stern and proud, and the other two fear her. You must show her you are brave if you wish for her to accept you.”
Maryam said, ”I understand.” And she remembered this.
”My second wife is named Ruba. She is plump and playful, and with a lecherous mind. You must be prepared to seduce her if you wish for her to accept you.”
Maryam said, ”I understand.” And she remembered this.
”My third wife is named Safiyya. She is clever and quick, and with a mind for trickery. You must show her sharpness of mind and make her yield if you wish for her to accept you.”
Maryam said, ”I understand.” And she remembered this. And so Haroun ibn Hassan pressed the ring into her palm, and he continued on his journey to India. Maryam packed a camel with her goods and gold, and brought along only a single servant, her stableboy Hakeem, who was a quick-witted lad and a good man for the journey.
After a few days they came to the big city, where Haroun ibn Hassan lived with his wives. They had gone through the desert, and were hungry and thirsty, so Maryam said to Hakeem:
”Let us stop by a caravanserai, so that we can eat and drink, and I may change to my prettiest clothes before I meet the other wives.”
”Is this wise, mistress?” asked Hakeem. ”There are many thieves in the city.”
”It is unwiser still to appear before my sister-wives all dusty and unappealing,” she said. And that was that, and Hakeem could not object, so they went into a caravanserai, and Maryam ordered a room and a bath to be drawn, and Hakeem set to guarding the camel. But as Maryam was laying out her clothes, the glittering signet ring twinkled, tied into her garments. A servant woman saw the glittering ring, and she did not think twice about stealing it, and Maryam did not notice. So when Maryam had scrubbed herself, and rose from the bath, she got dressed in her finest clothes, but she did not have Haroun ibn Hassan's golden ring tied into their folds.
There is not a one in fifty miles who does not know the splendour of Haroun ibn Hassan's mansion, with its white walls and climbing ivy, its broad balconies, its shining turrets. But Maryam had never seen this mansion before, and when she came before it she was overjoyed. She walked to the door and announced who she was, and the servants let her into the presence of the wives.
In the middle sat Halima. She was indeed a stern and handsome woman, wearing a green kaftan robe with with a gold finish. To the left sat Ruba. She was indeed a plump and busty woman, and wore a red kaftan robe with a gold finish. To the right sat Safiyya. She was indeed a sly-looking woman, dark-skinned with fine athletic forms, wearing a blue kaftan robe with a gold finish. Maryam came before them in her light pink robe, as young and rosy as a pomegranate blossom. She knelt down before her sister-wives, and said:
”I am Maryam, fourth wife of Haroun ibn Hassan. I am pleased to meet my older sisters and beg of you to shelter me.”
Halima said, ”If you truly are our husband's fourth wife, take out the golden ring he gave you as proof.”
Maryam fumbled in her robes – but she couldn't find the ring. And the three wives looked at each other, and their hearts were downcast, for secretly all three desired this beautiful young woman. But without proof, they feared the others would reprimand them. So Safiyya asked her older sister, ”Do you say she is our husband's wife?” and Ruba, in turn, asked her older sister, ”Do you say she is our husband's wife?” and Halima said nothing. And before long, the servants were showing Maryam the door.
And so, once she was outside, Maryam put her face in her hands and wept – for what could she do? The proof of her marriage was gone, and Haroun ibn Hassan was halfway to India! But Hakeem heard her cry, and he came to her, and she explained her predicament to him. Hearing this, he put an arm around her shoulder.
”It is written, 'falseness lasts an hour, truth lasts until the end of time.' Surely there must be a way to persuade your sister-wives of the truth. I will take employ with the servantry, and find some opportunity. In the meantime, go to the caravanserai and see about your ring.”
And so Hakeem became a stableboy at Haroun ibn Hassan's mansion, and Maryam went back to the caravanserai. The maid who had stolen the ring was long gone, but the caravanserai put two and two together and figured her for the thief, and apologized deeply. And he let Maryam stay under his roof for free.
The First Blossom
Now, Hakeem soon noticed that Safiyya – the third wife – had a penchant for alchemy. Every day she would visit the bazaar to see the fire-eaters, the astrologers, and the potion-mixers, and she would often buy some medicine or brew. Having learned this, Hakeem reported it to Maryam, and Maryam took a third of her pink robes and sold the fabric. For the money, she bought three clay pots. In the first, there was honey. In the second, sticky sap from an African tree. In the third, hot water. Armed with these three, she dressed herself as a peddler, rubbed dirt on her face, and put two of the pots under her clothes. Thus, she went to the house of Haroun ibn Hassan, and called to be let in.
Hakeem had made sure the other two wives were busy. And so Safiyya came to the door.
”My good woman,” said Maryam, in disguise. ”I have here a magical kind of honey, which prevents the telling of lies. Will you buy a little?”
Safiyya raised an eyebrow. ”I have never heard of such a thing,” she said.
”If you let me in, I will demonstrate.”
And Safiyya rested her eyes on the peddler-woman, and though dirty she was undeniably beautiful, and Safiyya couldn't help but let her in. And so the two of them sat down in the study together, and Maryam opened the pot to show glistening amber honey. ”Try it,” she said. And she took a dollop of honey up on her two fair fingers, and reached them out, and Safiyya couldn't resist but put her mouth around them. Maryam's fingers tasted sweet, and they were soft and gentle.
”Now,” said Maryam, ”Tell me your husband's name.”
”Haroun ibn Hassan,” said Safiyya, with pride. Maryam nodded, knowing that even as Safiyya wished to test the honey, she would not resist bragging about her powerful husband. ”A truth.” she nodded. ”Now,” she continued, raising two fingers again, ”tell me whose fingers these are?”
Safiyya smirked, accepting the honey, licking it from Maryam's dainty hands. ”They are the fingers of a princess'.” she said. ”A lie. Your honey doesn't work.”
But as Safiyya had licked her fingers, with her other hand, Maryam had switched two pots. She had anticipated such an answer. Now she raised two fingers covered in sweet sap. Eagerly, Safiyya took them in her mouth once again.
”Is it a lie?” Maryam wondered. ”Now tell me whose fingers you want between your legs.”
Safiyya blushed. She was outraged. Such a brazen question! She parted her lips to object – but the sap in her mouth had all but glued her teeth together! She blinked, eyes wide as she chewed the sticky, gummy stuff, tried to clear it so that she could speak. But she could not!
”You cannot lie.” Maryam smiled. ”You want my fingers between your legs. For I really am a princess, and you have never been with one so beautiful before.”
Saying this, she cast off her peddler's robes. Underneath it, she wore a short skirt that began over the navel. This garment was white, embroidered, the finest under-garment she owned, and truly one befitting a princess. Her breasts were bare, small, blushing, crowned by little nipples. Her hair was like dark gold, tossed over her shoulder, a cascade down towards her collarbone, and her slender legs were covered only by sandals, which she kicked off, brushing her thigh. Safiyya's eyes grew wide.
”Here,” she said, taking one of the two pots in her naked lap. ”Drink this potion, it will cure you.”
And so, she set forth the third pot, filled with hot water. As Safiyya drank it, the sticky sap dissolved, and she could once again speak. Her face was flush, and her eyes were on Maryam's body, and she had never seen so beautiful a woman before. Still she didn't recognize her face.
”How- what-?” she wondered, and Maryam leaned backwards, scooped up more honey from the pot. Safiyya had not noticed the deception. ”Say again,” she commanded, ”whose fingers do you want between your legs?” And with this, she extended, slowly, seductively, her hand towards Safiyya, her fingers dripping with golden-yellow honey. Safiyya was hypnotized, unable to see anything but the honey that dripped, slowly, onto Maryam's bare legs. She leaned in, gently, and took the fingers in her mouth.
”...yours,” she admitted as she tasted the honey.
”A truth.” Maryam smiled. ”But a princess doesn't do such a thing easily, does she?”
Saying so, she pushed the pots aside and lay on her back, spreading out in all her youthful glory before Safiyya, her arms above her head, her thighs apart but her legs crossed at the ankle. The little skirt was all that covered her, teasingly hiding her womanhood and her thighs. Safiyya could only keep looking, as Maryam dipped her fingers once more in the pot of honey, this time licking it off herself, parting her fingers, running her tongue between them. ”I am a princess,” she said assertively. Safiyya would believe her even without the honey. Lazily, almost with disregard, Maryam lifted her skirt and put two honey-covered fingers on the inside of her thigh. She dipped her other hand in the jar, smeared it over her breasts. Then she stuck her fingers in her mouth again, licked her hand clean. ”You are my subject.”
Safiyya leaned forwards, kneeling over the supine princess. With a reverent bow, she leaned down over Maryam's naked breast, and kissed it. ”I am your subject,” she said.
”A truth. Do not dare to lie. I have need of your tongue, and the antidote is out.”
”I will not,” Safiyya said. Hearing this, Maryam lazily turned, lifted her breast toward Safiyya's mouth, indicated for her to lick it, to taste it. Safiyya did, licked the dainty breast clean, and then the other, as Maryam groaned her satisfaction. She lifted her skirt even further, all the way, revealed her sex to her lover. Safiyya understood, and her head sank down between Maryam's thighs, eager to taste her, to please her, to receive her reward. But Maryam stopped her.
”You'll first be naked.” she said. ”Undress for me.”
Safiyya nodded. She got to her feet, eagerly, let her robes fall. Underneath, she wore a plain white gown which did little to hide her lithe body, her firm, athletic forms, but Maryam was still not satisfied. So Safiyya must pull the gown over her head, and reveal her nude form in its entirety – with her small, proud breasts, her fine hips, her naked feet, the curl of black between her legs. Only then was Maryam satisfied, and spread her legs again, lifting the skirt. Safiyya leaned down, kissed her inner thigh, overcome with desire for the beautiful princess. Hungrily, she continued up Maryam's thighs as the younger girl groaned, parted her legs, welcomed Safiyya's lips against hers.
Safiyya's tongue slipped inside her folds, and Maryam shook with pleasure, not used to so talented a lover. But she kept her confidence, and let her leg up over Safiyya's shoulder, pressing herself against the older woman's face. The soft, wet tongue was unbearably pleasant. Safiyya was eager, licking her hungrily but steadily, nails digging into her thighs and her bottom. Slowly, Maryam grinded against Safiyya's face until her young body could take it no longer, and she arched her back and accepted it, let waves of pleasure flow through her body. It was her first real orgasm.
Dazed, she leaned back, panting. Safiyya withdrew her face, her lips dripping, her eyes still hungry for more, yet she smiled pleasantly. ”Was it good, your majesty?” she asked.
”It- it was.” Maryam managed, trying to compose herself. Her plan wasn't finished. But Safiyya wasn't, either.
”Please, put your fingers between my legs.” she said. ”Please, let me enjoy you as you enjoyed me.”
Maryam smiled, still panting. She pulled herself up with all the strength she could manage, took Safiyya's fallen robe and tore it. Gently, delicately, she put a fold of the cloth over Safiyya's eyes. ”No peeking.”
Safiyya only nodded eagerly, hot, wet, perfectly naked. Maryam nudged one of the pots with her foot, and the sticky African sap spilled over the floor. ”On your knees”, she commanded. ”Legs wide.” Safiyya could nothing but obey, enslaved by desire, and sank down to her knees. The gummy sap clung to her, but she noticed nothing, her breath hot against Maryam's bare body. Maryam permitted Safiyya to kiss her on the stomach, moaned at the touch, wished she could continue but knew that she could not, not yet. She took another strip of cloth and bound Safiyya's hands behind her back. Then, and only then, did she put her hands on the other woman's body, trailing them over her breasts.
”You're a very good subject,” she said. Her fingers trailed down between Safiyya's thighs, and she found her wet, hot, willing. Eager. Her index finger slipped in, met the pearl of her sex, rubbed it. The effect was explosive; Safiyya wailed, whined, helpless. Surely by now the household would have heard her. Knowing this, Maryam leaned down and took the honey-pot, smeared its last contents lovingly over Safiyya's naked breasts. Let it trail and drip down her stomach. Then, she leaned in to Safiyya's ear.
”I am Maryam, fourth wife of Haroun ibn Hassan. I have outwitted you, Safiyya, third wife of Haroun ibn Hassan, and if you want me for your lover, you must accept our marriage. Only then will I finish what I started.”
With that, Maryam threw on her peddler's robes, opened the door wide, and stepped outside. Safiyya was left helpless on her knees, glued in place by the sap, coated in honey, naked and dripping her juices on the floor, denied the orgasm she so badly wanted. And in this shameful position her serving staff found her.
The Second Blossom
Safiyya did not dare tell her sister-wives that Maryam had bested her. And so Hakeem kept working in Haroun's mansion, and Maryam went back to the caravanserai. But she had learned much, and she recalled Safiyya's lips between her legs for many nights as she bathed. She was determined she would not rest until she had convinced the other two.
One day it happened that Ruba went on a journey to see her mother. Hakeem heard of this only after she had left, but he knew she was due to be gone for three days, and then return by the way through the southern desert. Knowing this, he went to the caravanserai and reported to Maryam. And Maryam took a third of her pink robe and sold the fabric. For the money, she bought a length of rope and a bowl of sweet dates, and she traveled with a merchant to a southern oasis. There, she slept beneath the open sky through the night.
The following day, Maryam rose early and secured the rope high on a date palm by the waterline, and made sure it had a loop on the end. She ate some of the fruits from the oasis, but she did not touch her bowl of dates. Instead, she stripped off her traveler's clothing, and hid them in a bush, and slipped down into the oasis to bathe. Washing herself, she was a sight to behold – her skin fair, her long golden-brown hair floating around her shoulders like a mantle, her cheeks fresh and rosy, her form youthful and lithe. She paddled in the water for a little while, until a cloud of dust became visible in the distance. Seeing this, she went out of the water, dripping and nude, and began drying her long dark hair between her hands.
On the caravan, the caravan leader turned towards his mistress, and said: ”By God, there is a naked woman in the oasis. Could it be a trap, so close to the city?”
”A naked woman?” asked Ruba, returning from her visit. She climbed out from her litter, where she had been carried and shaded, and saw that it was so – a beautiful naked woman, washing her hair on the shore of the oasis, oblivious to their presence.
”Take us closer,” she commanded. And seeing this, Maryam turned and scattered the sweet dates over the water, then slipped back into it, her cheeks flush. Soon, the caravan was close enough to see her angelic head, sticking out of the water, and the outline of her lithe young body, barely blurred beneath it. Ruba walked out from behind the caravan master, and seeing Maryam's young body so barely concealed beneath the waters, she was filled with desire and knew she must see more. ”Why don't you come out of the water, girl?” Ruba asked, with lechery in her voice. ”We'll dry you off and feed you.”
”With so many men nearby?” Maryam giggled, her cheeks genuinely flush, for she knew they could already see more of her than she wanted. ”Send them away first, and I'll come up.”
Ruba turned to her men. ”Return at dusk,” she said. ”I'll spend the afternoon here.”
The caravan leader could only obey his mistress, and so off went the men and the camels, to stay behind a sand dune some distance away. Only once they were safely out of sight did Maryam emerge from the water, holding one of the floating dates. She was a miracle to behold, water flowing from her fair, nude form, her little breasts rosy and pert, her hair flowing around her shoulders, and her sex barely covered by gentle, dark strands. She was still blushing, but showed herself off without fear to Ruba, and Ruba felt her heartbeat quicken.
”Here,” said Maryam, ”the dates that fall from this tree are delicious.”
Ruba took the date and bit into it. The sweet juice trickled over her chin and spattered on her great breasts, for Ruba was well-endowed. Oh, how sweet! How delicious! Yet her eyes stayed on Maryam, for now the girl flipped her head backwards over her head, so that droplets of water scattered, and stretched to her full height, showing off her slim, girlish body in all its naked beauty. And Ruba felt overcome with desire, and reached out to touch her.
Maryam giggled as her hand brushed her breast. She looked at Ruba, and felt hot and hungry for her large breasts, her generous hips, but she fought her urge. Instead she slipped away. ”So friendly,” she teased, as she danced back towards the waterline. Ruba followed her, stepping down into the oasis so that her shoes got soaked.
”Why don't you take those off?” Maryam said. ”There aren't any men nearby. Come bathe with me.”
Ruba looked around. She had never been naked outdoors before – it was so shameless and brazen, and not something she would ordinarily dare. But there wasn't a soul in sight but Maryam, and now the younger girl submerged again, slipped beneath the waters, swam through them like a dolphin, and Ruba could not resist. She slipped off her shoes and her socks, and let her heavy traveling robe fall from her shoulders, until she was wearing only her white linen gown. In this, she slipped down into the water, and the filmy gown clung to her, revealing the outline of her nipples, flowing around her thighs.
”Silly,” Maryam giggled and swam up to Ruba, kissing her gently on the cheek. ”Your clothes will get all wet. Here.” and she bunched up Ruba's gown in her hands and made to pull it over her head. But Ruba protested, batted against her, and instead seized the naked woman in her arms and kissed her lips, eager to claim her, to have her in whatever way she wanted. Maryam gave in, answered the kiss, and it was so hot and soft that she for a moment wanted nothing more but to continue kissing Ruba, to continue pressing her naked body against the other's swelling breasts, to float with her in the oasis forever. But she knew she must be careful. Instead, she pulled herself from the kiss and seized another floating date, seductively slipping it into her mouth and biting down on it. She floated away from Ruba, and the other woman followed, hypnotized. She chased her down; each time, they kissed, and then Maryam slipped away. Eventually Maryam swam for the shore – and there, she crawled up into the sand on all fours, displaying herself fully to the woman behind. She was excited now, properly – her sex was swollen, dripping. Ruba could not bear it – the sight of the girl's slim bottom giving way to gentle hair over her eager pink sex was too much. She crawled forwards, still in her undergown, and seized Maryam's thighs, kissing her between the legs. Maryam moaned.
”Fingers,” she cried, ”Fingers, please.”
In response, Ruba slipped two fingers into her mouth, licking them eagerly. Teasingly, carefully, she slipped them up between Maryam's thighs, and in between her folds, into her. Ruba curled her fingers this way and that, and Maryam moaned, louder and louder, still on all fours as Ruba kissed and fondled her bottom and her thighs. She was too expert a lover, and Maryam couldn't help herself – pleasure built up until hit her like a hammer, and her walls trembled around Ruba's fingers, pressing against them as she came. It was her second real orgasm, and it was far more powerful than the first.
She panted, hot and exhausted, still on all fours in the sand.
”My turn,” Ruba said hurriedly. ”Your mouth.”
Maryam rolled over in the sand, displaying her naked body from the front – her breasts, her stomach, her blushing, exhausted sex. ”Undress, first.”
Ruba pulled the gown hastily over her head. She was naked now, as naked as Maryam, and as her body came into view it was truly a blessing. Each of her breasts was large, almost as large as her head, yet firm and bouncing with her movements. Her stomach was generous, and her hips even moreso, and in between her legs, her sex was plump and inviting. Maryam gently pushed her back into the water.
”Float,” she said, and Ruba laid back. She could easily float on the calm oasis waters, and as she did, she spread her legs, and Maryam swam in between them, kissing her thighs, licking them. Slowly, slower than Ruba wanted, she worked her way up between her legs until she could taste them. She remembered how Safiyya had done it, slipped her tongue between the folds, licked slowly and gently, and Ruba purred. Carefully she worked her, gently licking the pearl between her legs, sucking on her folds, teasing her slowly towards orgasm. They floated through the water toward the palm tree, and Maryam stopped there, pulling her head out from between Ruba's legs.
”Continue,” Ruba whined, but Maryam did her best, seductive smile, and swam back, away from her lover. Seeing it, Ruba was infuriated, wanted to catch her, wanted to tame her. She went after Maryam, who giggled, and went up on the shore. Ruba scowled, but her look was still playful as she clambered out of the water, naked and dripping wet. ”Oh, a game of catch, is it?” she said. Maryam nodded, and headed for the tree – climbing it as easily as a monkey, despite being naked and barefoot. Ruba laughed.
”Such an evasive girl. I don't know if I can catch you up there.”
”Try.” Maryam smiled, and so Ruba reached up her hands, standing on tippy-toes by the shoreline... and Maryam pulled the loop of her rope around them, tying together Ruba's wrists. The woman gasped in shock, and then Maryam tugged on it, and Ruba swung out over the waterline, until the water was over her knees. She was suspended from the tree by her arms, her wet hair fallling over her eyes, clinging to her ample forms, her thick thighs thrashing in the water. But Maryam soon slipped down from the palm, and grabbed her feet, and used the other ropes to tie her in place. Ruba was flush all over, sputtering.
”What- what is this?” she cried in shock, as her legs were pulled apart, and she was left on brazen display, her sex wet and red, her breasts heaving and her nipples firm. Maryam put her hand between Ruba's legs and teased her, and the woman gasped, too worked up to resist. ”Is this how you want me?” she asked. ”Take me, then! Please! Your lips, your fingers, anything!”
But Maryam withdrew her hand. ”I am Maryam, fourth wife of Haroun ibn Hassan. I have outwitted you, Ruba, second wife of Haroun ibn Hassan, and if you want me for your lover, you must accept our marriage. Only then will I finish what I started.”
With that, Maryam gathered her clothes and the remaining dates, and disguised her face with dirt, and went to Ruba's caravan posing as a simple woman picking dates, and told them what she had seen at the oasis.
Ruba was left helplessly displayed, legs apart, hands in the air, bare breasts bobbing as she struggled. She was dripping wet from her body and her sex, denied the orgasm she so badly wanted. And in this shameful position her caravan found her.
The Third Blossom
Ruba did not dare tell her sister-wives that Maryam had bested her. And so Hakeem kept working in Haroun's mansion, and Maryam went back to the caravanserai. But she had learned much, and she recalled Ruba's fingers between her legs for many nights as she bathed. She was determined she would not rest until she had also convinced Halima.
But Halima was a woman of habits, and she rarely did anything out of the ordinary. And so, for some days, there was no news from Hakeem. One day, he came to the caravanserai looking defeated.
”I am sorry, mistress,” he said. ”Halima has no flaw I've been able to find. She enjoys gardening, poetry and tea. She keeps to herself or is with the other sister-wives. Her room is a sanctum, and I have never even been inside it, though I have spied her in the window from the garden, which is just above her rose-beds.”
Hearing this, Maryam was emboldened to her most daring plan thus far. And so, she took the last third of her pink robe and sold the fabric, and for the money she bought rope, and men's clothing, and a knife. Having gathered these things, she went to the mansion of Haroun ibn Hassan and met Hakeem by the stables. She was dressed now as a young rake might be – with a turban, a pair of wide trousers, a vest. And she said to Hakeem: ”Hide me in the hay-stacks by the camels.”
Hakeem worried, but he did not dare object to his mistress, and so he did what he was told. And Maryam waited in the haystack until it was night. When the moon rose over Haroun ibn Hassan's mansion, only then did she creep out from under the hay, and went into the garden, and looked up to Halima's window. The shutters stood open against the heat. Patiently, she waited until all was quiet, and then she took the rope and threw it over the shutter. She let the other end come back down, and tied it about her waist. Now she tested the weight. If she had truly been a man, it would not have carried her, but her light and slender form was not enough to pull the shutter from its hinges. And so, she carefully climbed to Halima's window. Inside was a rich perfume of roses. A curtained bed lay along one wall, and in this, she could see a woman sit up. A single candle burned on the bedside table.
”Who is it?” asked Halima, for she was quite keen-eared. Maryam crept into the window without a word, and closed the shutters. Halima pulled back the curtain, and she gasped at the sight of a stranger in her room! Likewise, Maryam was momentarily awed by Halima. Sleeping in her linen gown, she was a beauty of perhaps forty years, regal and stern-faced, with night-black hair in a bun. Her profile was like a Greek woman's, sharp and elegant, with elegant lips and powerful eyes, and her build was likewise heroic, with firm shoulders and sloping, handsome breasts on her chest. She swung her leg out over the edge of the bed, but Maryam brandished her knife.
”I am a thief,” she said with a flourish, ”a master thief. Stay quiet.”
At this, Halima's eyes turned sharp, and in the candlelight they glinted like steel. She turned them on Maryam, but Maryam did not flinch, and she spoke:
”I am Halima, first wife of Haroun ibn Hassan, and you should fear me. I have dozens of guards at my beck and call, and they will surely kill you if you lay a hand on me!”
But Maryam answered the gaze with a steely glare of her own. Unafraid, she strode forward and grabbed Halima's gown, and put the knife to the fabric. ”That may be,” she said, ”but I fear no-one, and I will have you naked, now. Do not cry out.”
And with that, the knife cut through Halima's gown, and her breasts came into view. These were gently sloped, pointy, ending in perky dark nipples, and her stomach was firm and taut like a heroine's. Maryam felt her heart beat faster at exposing the older woman so, but then she grabbed the fabric of the gown and tore it open completely. The hair between Halima's legs was night-black as on her hair, a triangular darkness between her bare, powerful thighs. Maryam put a hand on Halima's head and undid the band in her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders.
”Take off the robe,” Maryam commanded. But Halima did not. Instead, she lunged at her attacker and pushed Maryam backwards! The girl was so surprised by Halima's fierceness, that the knife fell from her hand and clattered against the table. The torn robe fell like a curtain around her, and she was face to face with Haroun ibn Hassan's first wife, in the pale light of the candle. Halima inhaled to yell for the guards, and Maryam did the first thing she could think of to silence her. Their lips met.
Halima, puzzled, pulled back, but she smacked her lips in confusion, and did not yell.
”By God,” she said, ”You are a woman!”
”It is true,” said Maryam. ”Will you still call for the guards?”
Halima seized the knife from where it had fallen. ”Maybe I will. But not if you stay quiet, girl.”
Saying so, Halima brought the knife to the front of Maryam's vest, and cut it open. Her young breasts came into view, pert and perky, nipples stiffening as her chest rose and fell. Seeing these, Halima smiled, a cruel and wicked smile. She put the knife to Maryam's trousers and cut the rope at the waistband. Then she slid off her victim completely, but still held the knife where Maryam could see it. ”Stand”, she commanded, and Maryam got to her feet. The trousers slipped from her body, exposing her curving hips and her young, gentle thighs. All she wore was a loincloth, a turban, and a pair of shoes. Halima pointed the knife at her.
”Take off the turban,” she ordered, letting her eyes wander over Maryam's body. Maryam did so, and her long golden-brown hair fell out over her naked shoulders.
”Take off the shoes.” Again, Maryam obeyed, slipping her dainty little feet out of the garments.
Then Halima stepped up closer to Maryam, so close she could feel her breath, and slipped the knife between Maryam's hip and the loincloth. Her eyes were locked with the prisoner's. ”Amuse me, wench, and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you get away.” The last garment fell from Maryam's hips. She was naked. Halima pulled her robe together and stepped back, admiring her captive, the way her gentle hair decorated the slope beneath her mound, the way her hair caught the moonlight, the way her little breasts heaved as she breathed. Yet the girl did not seem afraid.
”How?” she wondered. In response, Halima cautiously opened a drawer in her bedside table, and under this, a secret compartment. From it, she withdrew a long, slender golden object; it was gently curved, and it bulged at the top. She gave it to Maryam, and Maryam accepted, knowing what she was expected to do. It would be easy, for she was already excited.
Spreading her legs for her captor, Maryam moaned as she pushed the golden toy between her legs, between her folds, yelping slightly as it entered her. She reached for her breast, squeezed it, tweaked her nipple, let Halima see how much she enjoyed the treatment, and it was no acting, for she was. The golden toy felt firm and slippery inside her, and pushed against her in all the right ways. Soon, she was hot and flush all over. Halima smiled, and still holding the knife, advanced on Maryam. But now she no longer held her robe together – she let it fall open, and instead she put a hand on Maryam's, the one between her legs. ”On your knees,” she commanded, and Maryam could only obey, sinking down with her thighs spread wide. Halima leaned down and began to work the toy inside her captive, letting it slide in and out of Maryam with careful, expert rhythm. Maryam, in gratitude, lapped at Halima's naked breasts, kissing them, licking them, sucking them, and Halima purred in approval. The toy mercilessly slipped back and forth inside Maryam, and the girl could not take it for long, for Halima was her most skilled lover yet. Soon, a heady rush spread through her body, and she felt herself surrender completely as wave after wave of pleasure slammed through her, and her body convulsed and tightened around the toy as she moaned, whimpered, helpless in Halima's hands. It was her third real orgasm, and it was greater than both the other two combined.
”Good.” Halima said, smiling. She withdrew the toy from Maryam as she convulsed. Maryam sank down on her knees completely, drained, weak, surrendered. She was naked before Halima, and orgasm still shuddered through her body. ”Now I'll have you apprehended. You'll be dragged out into the streets like that, and put in the stocks.”
Maryam bit her lip. She couldn't let it happen. She was not yet finished. She inhaled, her body exhausted. But she would not admit defeat.
”No, please, mistress... madam... please,” she begged. ”Let me do you first. Let me please you.”
Halima froze, looking over the nude girl. Maryam contorted herself, leaned backwards to display herself, her breasts, her sex, her thighs that were covered in her juices. She opened her mouth, panting, ran her hands over her breasts, squeezed them, played with herself even though she was exhausted. ”Please... mistress... please,” she managed, and then she got down on all fours, crawled towards Halima and kissed her naked feet. ”Please let me serve you.”
Halima, without a word, lay back over the bed, let her robe fall open. She displayed herself regally, did not deign to touch her breasts or her thighs, simply consented to Maryam's presence. One hand still clutched the knife, the other, the golden toy. Maryam kissed her feet in supplication, then continued up her ankles, her calves, her thighs. There she stopped, and turned to the other, and continued up this one. She showered Halima with kisses, her hands brushing over the older woman's stomach, her breasts, before she reached up to kiss her hips, her bellybutton, and then sank down between her legs. She wetted two fingers and slipped them inside. She kissed, and lapped, and licked until she found the pearl between Halima's folds, and worked it with her tongue as her fingers worked inside, frantically, trying to use what she had learned. Halima simply softly purred, inhaling, exhaling. Her endurance was amazing. Then, just as Maryam thought she could not carry on any longer, she lowered her hand and presented the golden toy.
Maryam took it, kissed it, showed how worshipful she was, and Halima climbed up on all fours, showing Maryam where to put the golden toy. Gratefully, Maryam pushed it in between Halima's folds. Only now did the older woman moan, groan in pleasure, but Maryam knew she had done well so far. Halima was unbelievably wet, the toy slipping easily into her, in and out, in and out. The knife, in Halima's other hand, fell on the bed beside the pillow. She put her hands in her hair, groaned, almost screamed into the pillow as her face as her hips convulsed. She was close, getting closer, and her whole body rocked and shuddered as her hips swayed lewdly, mere inches from Maryam's face. Maryam stopped only as she was on the very brink of orgasm, and quivering like a leaf.
”No,” Halima protested, ”No, no, go on. More.”
But Maryam, quick as a weasel, snatched the knife from beside the pillow. She pushed it through the sleeves of Halima's robe, and down into the bedding, and pinned her there. It was quick work, but solid – Halima tugged and tugged against the robe, but the fabric would not give. Just to be sure, Maryam tied her wrists together with a strip of her turban.
”What – help, help,” Halima began to pant, but Maryam reached down and stuffed the torn loin-cloth in Halima's mouth. Then, she pulled up her rope and fastened Halima's feet to the bed-posts, her legs spread, the golden toy still slick between her lips. Maryam pushed it in further, and Halima's whole body quivered as, for the second time, she very nearly came. But she did not. Maryam leaned forward and whispered in her ear.
”I am Maryam, fourth wife of Haroun ibn Hassan. I have outwitted you, Halima, first wife of Haroun ibn Hassan, and if you want me for your lover, you must accept our marriage. Only then will I finish what I started.”
With that, Maryam screamed for the guards, kicked aside her ruined clothes, slipped out of the window stark naked, and returned to the stables, where she hid in the hay until morning.
Halima was left in her torn-open robe, her body on display, on all fours with her bare bottom lewdly in the air and the golden toy still sticking out between her folds, dripping with wetness, denied the orgasm she so badly wanted. And in this shameful position, her guards found her.
The Fourth Blossom
On the following day, Maryam sent Hakeem for a plain white robe. In this she dressed, still dirty from hiding in the hay. She looked no longer like a wealthy woman; her pink robe had been cut apart and sold, and her precious golden ring had been stolen. In this plain white robe, and with her hair tangled and full of hay, she stepped out of the stables and went around the building to Haroun ibn Hassan's mansion. And there, she called for the servants.
”Tell my sister-wives that Maryam, fourth wife of Haroun ibn Hassan has come, and that she aims to finish what she started.”
The servants frowned and crinkled their noses at this dirty woman in her simple clothes, but Maryam insisted, and so the servants went before the sister-wives. And before long, Maryam was called into the room. She stepped proudly, with her dirty robes swishing, her feet bare on the cold marble of Haroun ibn Hassan's floor.
In the middle sat Halima.To the left sat Ruba. To the right sat Safiyya. Before them stood Maryam, in her simple peasant's clothes, and she did not kneel or bow. Instead, she spoke.
”I am Maryam, fourth wife of Haroun ibn Hassan. I have bested each of you, and left you humiliated. Safiyya in your study, on your knees. Ruba, hanging from a tree in the desert. Halima, on all fours with a golden toy between your legs.”
And all three of the women turned hot red, their faces flush.
”From you, Safiyya, I learned how to use the tongue. From you, Ruba, the fingers. From you, Halima, the golden toy.” With these words, Maryam cast off her dirty white robe, and stood naked before them, and undeniably beautiful. ”With all these will I please you, and not betray you again, if you accept me as the fourth wife of Haroun ibn Hassan, and take me into your household. And only then will I finish what I started.”
And Safiyya, Ruba, and Halima all agreed she was their husband's wife. And then, right there, naked and dirty in the master's grand hall, Maryam fulfilled her promises.
And all four of Haroun ibn Hassan's wives slept well that night.
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