Chapter 22: Between Dignity and Desire

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Lusty yearnings and strong desires are aroused (as we would say today - Sapphira is horny), but with the fierce competition between the girls of the harem her yearnings can only be satisfied with some help from a friend.


Shortly after my menses, Mustafa placed my name on his roster of serving girls for the evening. With that thought doggedly in my mind, a restless agitation stirred within me for the rest of the afternoon. I felt overwhelmingly romantic. I had lusty yearnings and strong desires, or as my mother would say, “your womb is craving his seed”. I desperately wanted the company of a man, with an intensity not felt since my early marriage years.

Between the English girl Paeonia and me, a comfortable easiness had grown as though we had known each other for a long time, and I felt relaxed and at ease discussing even my most private thoughts with her and asking for advice. She was also worldly and funny—she knew about winking, and called her night callings to the bedchamber “going to worship in the church of the holy sword”.

“I have had the thoughts of a needy woman since I woke up this morning. I want to go to church tonight,” I confided, jokingly, with a smile to hide my acute inner restlessness. “What can I do to make sure the doors are opened for me?”

Sexy breasts with nipple ringsFor the last few nights, the Master had succumbed to the seductions of Hortensia, the buxom dark beauty, and we thought that she was my most likely rival for his attention this evening. But what to do?—her breasts were truly magnificent, large, proud and firm and the rest of her was splendid. We decided to draw his eyes to my legs and the areas below my waist, which, we agreed, were at least as pretty as hers—and it was the source of my restlessness and where I wanted his attentions.

“Come along. Cheer up. We will get you to church tonight by giving his eyes a treat,” Paeonia laughed, beckoning me to follow her to the wardrobe room where she rummaged through chests and emerged with an unusual pair of harem pants, bright indigo blue, with matching top, ones she said she had made and kept tucked away for “desperate situations”. I excitedly tried them on.

With no tie ribbons running up the side of the legs, the sides were fully open from ankle to hip; they were different and eye catching, able to show a shapely thigh and leg to good effect. The waistband dipped low in the front—so low that had I not been denuded hair would surely have spilled over—and it dipped low enough at the back to bare the small of the back and the start of the divide. And the top was delightfully unusual; the front panel had two open slits running up to the nipples. Worn loosely draped over the breasts the nipples could be made to peek out enticingly where the slits ended, and the rest made for a short silk valance from beneath which my bobbling under-swells enticingly appeared and disappeared as I walked. “Perfect,” I thought.

Unfortunately, my breasts were too small and bouncy to keep my nipples peeking out as I walked, so Paeonia crocheted small loops at the end of the slits to capture them, and further adjusted the fit. Then my breasts and top moved together and my nipples stayed peeking out.

As further inducement I spread ultramarine eye color around my nipples, covering what Mustafa had so carefully darkened. The blue of the ultramarine closely matched the color of the pants and choli. “Quite fetching,” I thought, if I can induce Ali to remove my upper garment so that my artwork and more is exposed. “Yes Mustafa, I am eager to please,” I murmured, thus undoing my earlier resolve to do no more than necessary to stay out of trouble and find content for my journal.

After dinner that evening, Hortensia soon had her choli off, exposing her oiled breasts and proud nipples. Dismayed and dejected, I thought I had lost, but when I noticed that his eyes were following me as I handed around the dishes of food a little of my hopeful brightness returned. Encouraged, I made sure when I walked by or leaned over to offer him food, that I offered him more than food—a view of my charms, as much as my costume would allow. As I served him the last course—figs preserved in honey—he told me to put the dish aside and stand before him.

I did not wait for him to discover my colored circles. I proudly opened my top and pulled it aside, the crocheted loops tugging at my nipples before they freed themselves and my breasts fell free. His curious eyes drifted over my breasts, followed by his fingers as he reached up to touch me gently, taking care not to smear the blue mehndi. He lifted my feet one at a time, undid the cuffs that gathered my harem pants about my ankles, and reached for the drawstring that closed the waistband, a prelude to nakedness that sent a shudder of excitement through me.

With my arms above my head, my hands back to back in the “Turkish arm pose”, I started to swirl and circle my hips as Yasmeen had taught me, swinging the drawstring back and forth so he could not catch it. I maintained this tease for a while, amid low giggles from the other girls, before slowing my swirling sufficiently to allow him to catch the ends of the drawstring and pull me closer. I pulled back in pretend resistance, the drawstring tightened and then loosened as the knot unraveled. My pants shimmied to the floor in a cloud of blue silk. Stepping out of them, I nonchalantly kicked them to one side, and continued my hip circles, turning around slowly several times to present both the front and back of me to his gaze. Our eyes met briefly. He smiled, somewhat amusedly, and slipped his silk under my silver armband—he had called me to bed.

Upon reflection, I believe my lustful behavior tilted that delicate balance between dignity and desire—in favor of desire. I had come to know little or no shame—within the four walls of the harem—and ignored my mother’s advice—to seduce with “grace and discretion”.

Mustafa, while checking my readiness, told me that I would be the only girl in the Master’s bedchamber that evening.

I caught a glimpse of him drying himself after bathing as I crawled towards the bedchamber kneeling mat.

Abruptly, two feet appeared, one on each side of my outstretched hands, blocking my progress. “Show me your pretty face,” he said, gently cupping his fingers under my chin to lift my face. I raised myself, sat back on my heels and opened my eyes.

I was startled to find him standing so close, with his bathrobe draping open from top to bottom, and startled again to see his member, bejeweled with silver circlets and chain, slowly rising from between the bathrobe folds and protruding towards me in a softly swelling arc.

“You dressed yourself excitingly this evening, indeed a novel use for eye mehndi,” he said, smiling down at me. “As you can see, thoughts of it find favor with me. Come, Sapphira—excite me some more with your interesting ways."

Without further encouragement, I bunched his robe at the back of his waist.

Freshly bathed sweetness contrasted sharply with the metallic taste of the rings and chain, while my playing tongue and lips stiffened and straightened his member, swelling it against the rings and tightening the chain until it was no longer slack and looping down. He led me to the side of the bed, but not before turning the rings so that the chain lay on top of his member—he was not planning to take me from behind. Flitting away my remaining garments, he placed me face down on the bed, near the edge—not forcefully, but with firm determination—and I feared I had been wrong about the turning of the rings and forbidden things were about to be done.

From head to toe, he caressed and kneaded my whole body as I lay luxuriating in his attention, unable and unwilling to turn over onto my back to return his favor. My breathing grew heavy, love juices flowed, and my breasts tightened in their longing to be touched. He turned me over, parted my legs and knelt on the floor between them, and slowly pleasured me, almost to the brink, before I eased him away. I did not want his tongue—I wanted him in me, all of his rigid desire.

I slithered backwards over the silky bed sheets to the middle of the bed, drawing him with me, where, with well-practiced skill he entered me, no guiding hand needed, no hair to part. I convulsed in true ecstasy, wrapping my legs and arms tightly around him. His chain stirred exquisite sensations within me as it brushed back and forth against my bud and I relished the press of his body on mine, while deep within I felt his hard manliness stroking me to rapture. Caressing hands rewarded my pleading breasts; my probing tongue tasted my ylang-ylang on his wet lips, while he fervently plunged me to engulfing completion—but not himself.

He took me with him as he rolled onto his back, my red dappled chest attesting to the sincerity of my passion. Erect nipples called for his hands once more, and I knew as soon as he touched them and I started to ride, that I would again join him in ecstasy. He palmed my breasts, toyed with my nipples, the chain played my bud, and I contracted about him. His generous release pulsed into me, and I cried out loudly in my mind, “I love you…I love you Ali…I love you”—before collapsing onto his chest, my passion truly spent.

We lay side by side on the bed flushed of face, hearts beating strongly. Ali turned to me, curled an arm about me, and smoothed my hair back. As he slowly ran his fingers through it, he told me in a quiet voice how pleasingly I had peaked him, and I thanked him for calling me, and told him how much I enjoyed his company and the feel of his jewelry inside me.

“You are some woman, Sapphira. I enjoy having a woman respond passionately to my touch.”

It was the first time he had called me a woman, and I felt that it was the first time he had really made love to me, rather than simply using me for his own gratification.

“Let us bathe before we sleep,” he said, leading me to the bath where we submerged ourselves in the warm water and washed away our musks.

“You kissed me in a new way tonight—tell me, did you learn it from another man?”

“Oh no, Master. I learned it from a childhood friend of mine, a French girl. She told me it is the way a French girl kisses her lover when she wants him to bed her. The tongue and lips suggest those parts of a man and woman that she wants brought together. You are the first man I have kissed this way,” I answered, in part untruthfully.

“Come closer,” he said.

Our tongues played together. “I could come again with ease,” I thought, but Ali must rest and replenish.

“Are you going to mark me?” I asked, to his and my own amazement. Ali looked at me, surprised.

“I would willingly put my mark on you and claim you as mine, but as you are not mine to keep, I must return you to Sheik Ahmad just as you came to me, unmarked.”

Inwardly, I gave a slight shudder of relief, and to this day I do not understand why those words flowed from my mind to my lips, for branding was, of course, not something to encourage or speak of lightly.

“Why has Ahmad not put his tugra on you?” he inquired. “He always marks his goods.”

Quickly, I made up a lie. “After I return to Al-Ta’if, Sheik Ahmad is going to take me to Jeddah and sell me to raise money for another trade caravan to India. He thinks that unmarked I will fetch a higher price.”

Ali smiled and nodded knowingly. “Yes, that is true; no mark is seen and valued as a sign of freshness in the markets of Jeddah, however, I was thinking that maybe I will save Ahmad the trouble of a journey to Jeddah and travel back with you to his place, negotiate a favorable price for you, and bring you back here. Then I would mark you,” he whispered, his mouth tickling my ear.

“I would like to stay here,” I whispered back.

He turned to face me, placed an arm over me, and drew me close. I felt loved and loving.

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