Chapter 12: First Night
Mariyah is called to the masters bedchamber for the first time. The outcome perhaps not waht she had hoped for. She will have to wait for chapter 22!
FIRST NIGHT
As you can well believe, my first calling that evening was an unsettling experience, for although I had been forewarned and had learned much about what could be required of me, I was worried. I had no idea of what this stranger, my new Master, had planned to take from me for his pleasure that night. I nervously left the hall in the company of another chosen one, a black Nubian slave with the harem name of Black Pearl.
I followed her lead in readying myself, glancing at her from time to time to make sure I was not missing or forgetting anything.
“Did Mustafa show you how the Master has us show ourselves?”
“Do you mean how to crawl to his bed and present yourself?”
“Yes. So tonight let’s show him our bums—he hasn’t seen mine for a while,” she giggled, irreverently, while standing with her hands behind her back, oiling her buttocks and the back of her thighs. “Are you a believer?” she inquired, but before I could answer she said, “I’m not.” I joined her in preparation, oiling only my shoulders and chest.
“You will see that there is bare marble floor around the kneeling mat. Kneel close to the edge and bend over low enough to let your breasts brush the marble; its cold touch hardens and raises the nipples. It makes him think he has inspired desire in you, even if he has not.” She grinned, adding, “Tonight he inspires me. I don’t have to pretend.”
She rang a small hand bell. “Mustafa’s moment,” she said. “We stand here with our legs wide apart for this,” pointing to a spot on the floor. Mustafa appeared with a small bowl. “Pessaries,” she whispered. Mustafa inserted a small sea sponge soaked with pomegranate juice into us. “Here, wipe off the dribbles, he always makes them too wet,” Black Pearl said, handing me a small cloth.
“Will you be using any of those?” she asked, casually pointing to the jars and bottles clustered on the table.
“Yes, ylang-ylang,” I replied, confidently.
“I use nothing there, I’m sweet enough for him,” she said, followed by another of her girlish giggles.
Yasmeen quietly appeared with a bundle of clothes and silver body jewelry.
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Sexy Chain Bra and Collar |
“I have chosen these for you, Sapphira.” She handed me a pair of diaphanous chalwars laced with silver thread, silver embroidered slippers, and a handful of silver chain. I held the chain up and let it unravel. It fell into a lovely chain breast bridle.
“It is important that the upper garment is not too tight on you. Unlike cloth, it has no give; it leaves no room for your breathing. Too tight and it will snap if you take a deep breath. Wear it loose.”
She cupped me in to it. It did nothing for me. My breasts looked like two dead fish in a net. “Too loose,” I thought, and after she had left, I tightened the clasp at the front by two catches, and tied a small loop in the shoulder links to shorten them. The fish came to life.
Peeking through the screen, I saw him waiting for us, sitting up on the bed, leaning back comfortably, without expression, against a pile of cushions.
While crawling towards him, my breast bridle broke at the back—as Yasmeen had warned it would do if drawn too tight. My breasts dropped free, the silver mesh slithered down my arms, gathered about my hands and then scrunched under my knees as I passed over it. I didn’t look at her, I was too intent on keeping my head down and staying on the carpet, but I know I heard a giggle from Black Pearl.
As we had planned, we knelt on the small mat in the center of the mosaic circle and prostrated ourselves before him, taking advantage of the cold marble floor to raise our nipples. Still kneeling we turned around—it was all overwhelmingly exciting to me.
He clapped his hands once to tell us that he was ready for us, and patted the bed on each side of him to show where he wanted us. I followed Black Pearl’s lead, kicked off my slippers, stepped onto the raised dais, and clambered onto the bed, contrary to what Mustafa had told me about crawling up from the end.
In turn, we passed him back and forth between us. Unsure and uncomfortable about what to do, I followed Black Pearl’s lead, coming over him on hands and knees, and dropping down on him to pay attention with my lips and hands to his startling erection, but without her enthusiasm and confidence. Our deliberations brought him to a peak of excitement and anticipation—and somewhat satisfied my curiosity—before I was motioned off the bed, leaving Black Pearl entangled about him.
Deftly, he untied Black Pearl’s chalwars, pulled them off to bare her offering, and determinedly stroked her legs apart. With powerful impressive authority, he sowed his seed, while I stood in the shadows ready to sponge away the musk and love juices with perfumed water and moist towels. However, my afterwards attention was not required. They withdrew to the bath leaving me standing at the side of the bed, giving time for my thoughts to cool and subside.
Later, a quick flicker of Black Pearl’s eyes and a slight tilt of her head told me to join them in bed. I put out the lamps, slipped out of my pants and slid into bed, on the other side of the Master.
I awoke to a room painted by the watery light of a breaking dawn. For a moment, I was unsure of where I lay, as I looked up at the unfamiliar underside of the elaborately carved and painted bed canopy.
Shortly I felt him stirring. I pushed down the coverlet to my waist to uncover my breasts, thought better of it, pulled it back up, and lay on my back pretending to sleep—waiting for the expected. Even so, it gave me quite a start to feel the touch of his hand on my breasts, the everywhere sign of what a man’s thoughts are leading to. Lazily, I turned towards him, to give him better access to his interests, and pretended to awake. My eyes opened to the warm smile of an invigorated and rested Master, gazing upon a shy and apprehensive slave girl about to receive her first bedchamber command.
How should I respond to his touching? Just lie in listless indifference and let him have his way with me, or acknowledge his touch with mine? He answered my unspoken question. With gentle firmness, he took my arm by the wrist and guided my hand down to his member, which I duly encircled with my fingers, at the same time being startled by its rigid abundance. It seemed even harder and larger than I remembered from the evening before when I attended to it and saw him thrust it into Black Pearl.
“Pleasure me, my pretty one, I am eager to savor one of your talents,” he whispered, as though trying not to awaken sleeping Black Pearl, the firm press of his hands on my shoulders leaving no question as to which talent he expected to savor. Fortunately, and not to mention Mustafa’s lessons, I had done this on occasion to my husband, although more in teasing play and never all the way, so I was knowledgeable, and surprisingly willing even in the absence of affection. I slid down under the silky bed coverlet to face my task, eye to eye, so to speak. “No need to fan the fire of desire, just put out the flames,” I thought, before taking him into my mouth.
Caressing hands and fingers on my ready breasts urged me on with a slowly rising tempo. I stroked back and forth as though moving to the quickening beat of a drum, before slowing to match the pace of his lustful rhythm. His thrusts deepened, sounds of fulfillment were uttered, and his issue came.
Disregarding Mustafa’s instructions, I discreetly spat out his seed and rubbed it into the bedclothes. There was no swallowing or burying of anything.
Despite these possible shortcomings, ignored or not noticed by Sheik Ali, he was pleased saying, “For a girl of little experience you were delightful in your ways, not at all hesitant, and that makes for a good companion. You are well suited to serve me. Tonight you will be with me again. There are more ways for a slave girl to delight her master.”
Many who are opposed to slavery will have to forgive me for writing this, though some, no doubt, will understand. To many, I know it will sound trite and condescending, but it was the truth. Although the women were his slaves and lived daily under his whim, they understood and accommodated, even enjoyed, this relationship with him and lived contently with it, rarely lamenting their position or openly wishing for something else. Even those indifferent at times to his advances served graciously. I saw emotions that swept through love and respect, boredom and enthusiasm, but never through fear and hatred.
In their small world, defined by the four walls of the harem and Sheik Ali’s callings, this was what life had to offer, and they grasped it gladly. They saw nothing extraordinary in their presence and purpose in a slave harem—it was their vocation, their duty and their purpose—just as I understood the terms of my commitment and held no complaint.
This softly spoken sentiment of Yasmeen may be an exception to generality: “I have one regret in my life—that Sheik Ali has not taken me as his wife, for I have loved him from the beginning. However, that silliness I know, does not entitle me to be a wife, and besides, I am too old to be seeking the affection of a young man. He has never taken a wife,” she said, sadly.