Chapter 18: Pleasuring
Sapphira learns the finer points of fellatio.
PLEASURING
Many think of this as an unnatural thing to do. To me though, it came comfortably and easily as part of lovemaking, albeit with earnest encouragement from my husband. In those first eager months of marriage, I was so curious about the workings and parts of a man, and anxious to excite and please him, that I never questioned it or refused to do it. It was one of my girlish fantasies brought to life.
Some of the harem girls believed that it was possible to conceive this way and those who were fortunate enough to do so would give birth to a boy and not be pronged. Why enlighten them to the truth and remove a hope that may make it more palatable for those disinclined to do it willingly, I reasoned. But most slave girls, including myself, welcomed an order to pleasure the Master, as it gave her delightful power and control over his satisfaction. Manipulated lips and tongue easily excited him, and she was able to shorten or prolong his pleasure at will—influence and control that were rare and welcomed happenings in the life of a slave.
In the harem, pleasuring was given the admiration and respect of high art, and frequently practiced. I had done it many times with my husband to tease and arouse him, but we always finished in the way God intended. Sometimes I suspected he wanted it otherwise—there were “accidents”; I found out how seed tasted—but I didn’t volunteer to go further and he never asked. Ali, also never asked—he presumed and took for granted that I would bring him to completion in my mouth. When less experienced this seemingly simple requirement of the harem gave me difficulty. I would often gag as the contents of his sac pulsed into my mouth, however, after much practice, I was able to embrace the etiquette that required a slave girl—but not a wife—to render this service, and swallow the sometimes-salty tasting fluid.
Let me now tell you how Ali first instructed me. I remember the incident clearly—it was also the first time he had taken exception to my breaking of a harem rule.
One morning, when kneeling between my Master’s legs, his member
slipped from my mouth when he unexpectedly made vigorous finishing thrusts.
Milky white seed spluttered over his belly as his freed member pulsed
about in its final throes, its tiny mouth opening and closing as though
gasping for air.
He strode to the bath, wiped himself off with a towel and returned to the side of the bed, and I remember thinking that he would reach out for the whip on the bedpost, he looked that annoyed, but he passed it by.
Instead, he snatched away the bedclothes that I clutched tightly to myself—my illusory protection—and gazed down on my nakedness.
“Go to your room and wait for me,” he commanded, in a threatening voice that was new to me.
I picked up my clothes and hurriedly backed out of the bedchamber.
If he was looking for reason to have me whipped, he had found one. Spilling his seed, although a simple thing of little consequence to him, was nevertheless an offense according to the rules of the harem, so indelibly carved into the erga wall to remind all. Would Talil soon be readying his whip, feeling its heft, and gauging his stroke against a pillar in anticipation of my bared back?
My heart surely missed a beat with the knock on my door. I should have known it was not Ali, he never knocks. It was Yasmeen looking for me, as I had missed the first meal of the day. I told her my woes.
“It’s nothing,” she said.
“Nothing?”
“It’s not the first time for him and likely not the last. He always reacts angrily to a veiled insult.”
“Veiled insult?”
“Yes. It comes from the belief that only weak-minded men and naughty boys spill their seed. You insulted his ideal of manliness, that is all.
“It’s not precious or wasted, there is plenty more to spill where it came from,” she chuckled.
“Do not worry anymore. I will talk to him when he comes back. He has gone along for the ride with a hunt and will be back before noon. I will bring you some food and then wait near the pool for him.”
I heard the sound of the gong resonate over the gentle splashing sounds of the fountains and followed his footsteps, briefly halted while Yasmeen spoke to him, then resuming and growing louder as he made his way to my room. For a moment, he stood in the open doorway, silhouetted against the light, dressed in riding breeches, a long thin riding crop in hand. Fear passed a tingling hand over my body and my heart pounded fiercely as he continued towards me without speaking a word.
Abruptly sitting down on the bench, he placed the leather-covered crop by his side, within easy reach, and removed his riding boots and shirt and gave me what I saw as a roguish smile.
“Stand up and turn around, face away from me,” he ordered. Reaching around me, he unbuttoned my choli and pulled it off my shoulders and down my arms, the short sleeves gathering about my wrists, entangling my arms behind me. My breasts protruded, exposed and vulnerable. I hunched over to diminish them, to shield from his eyes the obvious, causing my bared back to tense in readiness for the prescribed strokes—nine for spilling his seed read the decree.
“Master, this morning, it was an accident, I was careless in my enthusiasm to please you,” I said, pleadingly.
“That is what Yasmeen said and that is my thinking also. You did not lose me by intent or with disrespect—it was an accident. As I have told you before, you are a delight to have in my bed; however, you have shown a small shortcoming since you arrived here, a small forgetfulness on your part that revealed itself again this morning. I thought you might learn on your own, but seeing that that has not happened I will take this opportunity to give you a short lesson. That is all I am here to do.”
A flood of relief washed over me with the lessening of earlier fears, fears that saw him putting the crop to me or ordering me to the erga. My body and mind softened as the stiffness of fright left me, helped by the gentle manner with which he pulled me close so my back rested comfortably against his fleecy chest, his hands closing over my breasts.
“I can feel your heart, it trembles and flutters like a captive bird. There is no need to be afraid when you are with me; no need whatsoever to be fearful of me.”
Further relieved and encouraged by these words, I shook the loosened choli free from my wrists, raised my arms above my head and clasped my hands behind his neck. I settled my back against him as he leaned forward over my shoulder, his head beside mine in a loving manner.
Palming my breasts, he lifted them upwards as though measuring their weight or assessing their firmness, circling the nipples with his fingers, teasing them to awareness. His searching hands traced downwards, sweeping over the swell of my hips to find the side slits of my harem pants. There they slowly burrowed under the silk, seeking my bare thighs and smoothed mons for a while before retracing their way back to my waiting breasts where my nipples again awakened to his caressing touch, tightening and tingling deliciously, as I relaxed and luxuriated in his attention.
Firmly, he turned me around to face him, and with his broad musky hands on my shoulders, gently pressed me down onto my knees.
“Close your eyes,” he commanded, though kindly. “Sangara is better learned with the eyes closed. Do nothing until I tell you.”
I disobeyed. I cracked my eyes open ever so slightly, unsure, even after his kind words, whether he would reach for the riding crop. But all I saw was the blurred shape of his hands as they worked their way down the buttons of his riding breeches, the silence broken by the sound of dropping clothes and his belt buckle hitting the floor.
His soft warmth pressed lightly against my lips, my face flushed as though in reply.
“Take me, Sapphira. Give your Master full pleasure.”
This I did while kneeling before him in bare breasted submission. His hand held lightly and firmly behind my head gave me no choice but to swallow his seed when he came in my mouth. And when he came, he came quickly, with abundant enthusiasm, which told me that during the morning he too had been writing this chapter of my life in his mind—with an ending different from the one I was expecting—and I was more than thankful to be acting out his version.
“Tonight I will test your learning,” he said, while dressing.
He left quietly, leaving me on my knees with my thoughts. Although he had always treated me coolly and always sated his lust with nothing warmer than indifference, I felt a warming towards him. He had not come with crop in hand to punish me, but with understanding and forgiveness even if for only a trivial offence. I stayed on my knees for a while, thankful and pleased for the opportunity to redeem myself, then I lay down on my back, stretched out my legs, and thought of unattainable romantic things, and the night to come when, if I had my way, he would do more with me than just test my learning.
Swallowing his seed was neither an unpleasant nor a gratifying experience. It certainly satisfied his inclination to excessive indulgence, so I would oblige him in the future.
Were Mustafa’s eggs “incredibly realistic”? No. A man is not that bountiful.
Yasmeen told me that had my morning insult taken place in his father’s harem I would surely have spent time between the columns in his erga while he witnessed his cruel eunuchs laying whips to my bared back.
Many considered the art of pleasuring a man to be at its peak when a girl was able to swallow completely his member so her lips briefly touched his bush. Four of his girls could bury the sword—Paeonia called it “bobbing for apples”—but I was not one them, and not driven to join them, as I felt it added little to the experience for either lover, although I had tried to do it on occasion and failed. It made me gag.
Once I watched in fascination and awe as Briar Rose pleasured the Master. She was decidedly skilled in her movements, always faithful to his changing rhythms. With her hands behind her back, thumbs hooked under her waist chain, she dipped down on him as he thrust upwards, and drew away as he fell back. As his pace mounted towards the moment of release, she buried the sword, her tight black hair springing down and splashing over his belly and thighs.
Hortensia, Paeonia and even tiny Yasmeen were the other girls remarkably adept in this way.
I was told, and now believe, that receiving pleasure by the mouth is the highest form of erotic pleasure for men, and it must never be interrupted or denied to masters—or husbands and lovers if you like.