Bertrice Small - Adora

They danced well, but suddenly the tempo of the music shifted subtly and the six girls disappeared. One veiled dancer appeared, swathed in black, silver, and gold silks. She clicked her brass finger tals in a challenge to the hidden musicians. Slowly and sensually, the woman’s body weaved to the music. The sultan realized, as the woman discarded the first silk, that she was about to do the dance of the veils.

The first veil had covered her hair which was in itself a long, dark, shining veil. The second and third veils bared her back and then her breasts. Snowy, coral-tipped cones of firm flesh moved provocatively as she danced.

The sultan’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the twin temptations and he leaned forward, completely unaware that his hands were hungrily kneading a breast belonging to each of his companions. As the dancer excited him further he felt his manhood rising hard and throbbing beneath his luxurious robe. He cruelly pinched the nipples of the breasts, but the young slavegirls dared not cry out for fear of displeasing their master.

The music became more insinuating, and the dancer writhed her beautiful body in an obvious imitation of aroused passion. Beneath the shimmering veils that were falling one by one, her legs were becoming visible.

As his desire mounted, he wondered who she was and why she had never danced for him before. She must be new in the harem. Was the face as fair as the body? Releasing his two companions from his cruel grasp and sitting cross-legged, he allowed his hunger to take complete possession of him. The two maidens were dismissed with a wave of his hand, and he was alone with the mysterious dancer.

The music began to mount in intensity. The dancer whirled, the remaining silks billowing out like the petals of a flower about its stem. The woman moved nearer, teasingly brushing him with the nipples of her full breasts. He could feel the heat of her lovely body, and smell her scent. It was hauntingly familiar. Her eyes above the black veil glittered like jewels in the flickering lamplight and he reached for her. With a low laugh, she eluded him.

His black eyes narrowed dangerously, but then his mouth twisted in a smile. He would let her finish her performance. But then… The woman’s lush body weaved the taunting final movements of the dance. Suddenly all the remaining veils but the one that hid her face were gone. She stood proudly naked above him for a moment before sinking to the floor in a gesture of submission.

He rose, his whole body throbbing with lust. Walking over to the dancer, he raised her and tore the dark veil from her face.

“Adora!” His ragged voice was incredulous.

“Did I please you, my lord?”

He pushed her to the cushions and, tearing his robe open, flung himself on her. Her warm hands caught at his aching organ, and guided it home. He drove deep, his hands beneath her buttocks, kneading them. “Bitch! Sweet! Tempting! Little! Bitch!” he murmured, thrusting into her again and again.

She opened herself wide to him, reveling in the bigness, the hardness, of him. She had been too long without him, and if he were hungry for her, she easily matched his passion. From deep within her she felt the cry well up and, sobbing his name, she yielded herself totally.

Aware of her surrender but completely lost in the warmth and sweetness of her, he groaned his delight and set about to reach his peak. They were both so keyed-up that the blazing climax left them drained and shaken.

They lay, exhausted, breathing heavily. Finally Murad managed to find his voice. “Woman!” he said fiercely, “You are a never ending source of wonder to me. Is there no end to your variety, Adora? When, in Allah’s name, did you learn to dance like that?”

She laughed shakily. “There has been a troupe of Egyptian dancers in the city for some weeks now. The lead dancer, Leila, taught me here in the palace. She says I have a natural talent. Did I truly please you, my lord?”

“Allah! Could you not tell?”

“Do you ravish all the dancers who please you so?” she teased.

“No woman ever danced for me as you have, beloved. I will allow you to dance for no one else. Not even the most honored guests will ever see you perform.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her, his tongue gently thrusting between her teeth to caress, to rouse, to stoke the fires of her passion. She sighed deeply and returned the kiss, her mouth soft and yielding, provocatively sucking on his tongue.

When at last they breathlessly ceased their kissing, he murmured into her little ear, “There is no one like you in the world, Adora. You are unique among women, a priceless jewel among the many grains of worthless sand. The others I desire occasionally, for a man requires variety. But I love you, my darling. I must never be without you.”

She was trembling with joy, though she hid it from him. He must never know how vital he was to her very existence. She now loved him as she had never loved any man, even her beloved Alexander. But he must never know, lest he use that special power to control her. She rose from the tumbled pillows and held out her hand to him. “Come to bed, my lord,” she said softly. “Come to my couch, my love. The night is young.”

His dark eyes burning like live coals, he swept her up into his arms, burying his hot face in the scented tangle of her silken hair. “Woman!” he whispered huskily. He carried her through the short hallway that connected their courts. “Woman! The memory of this night will haunt me if I live to one hundred years!”

Helena, empress of Byzantium, looked with hidden glee at the woman before her. The creature was short with large, pendulous breasts. Helena had secretly observed her in the bath and knew that beneath the rich robes were heavy thighs, a sagging belly, and enormous hips. Both the woman’s very white skin, and her dull, brown hair were coarse. And though her eyes were a rather fine topaz color they were made small and piglike by her plump cheeks which had been reddened in an attempt at youthful color. She was gowned in purple brocade, trimmed with brown martin fur at the neck and sleeves. The sleeves were slashed and cloth of gold showed through.

She was Mara, daughter of a Greek priest named Sergius. Mara was the mother of Murad’s first son, Cuntuz. It had taken Helena some time to trace Mara for, though she was the daughter of a holy man, she was also a whore-by nature and by profession. Murad had not been her first lover, though she had always maintained that he was the father of her son.

Forced from her village on the Gallipoli peninsula by her angry parents, she had become a camp follower of the Turkish army, servicing any man who would pay the price. Her child had remained with his grandparents who, though embarrassed by their daughter’s morals, housed her child.

Cuntuz had been continually reminded of his mother’s evil ways, of his wicked infidel father, and of his own bastardy. The children of the village had been merciless. His grandparents, no more thoughtful than others, were forever telling him how lucky he was to have their charity. He was forced to spend a great deal of time in the church praying that God would overlook the shame of his very existence, would burn his vile parents in eternal hellfire, and would bless his wonderful grandparents who had taken him into their home.

Cuntuz was now twelve and a half. Suddenly, his mother-richly dressed and with a full purse-appeared to claim him. He could remember seeing her only three times in his life, the last time four years ago. He barely knew her, and he didn’t like her. But faced with the choice of remaining with his carping grandparents who pleaded with him to remember his immortal soul and remain with them, or go with his mother who promised him that he would be a prince, the choice was easy. It was made especially easy, when his mother, her eyes knowing, said slyly, “Soon you will be a man, my son, and I will see that you have many fine girls to satisfy you.” He had lately felt urges and longings strange to him and had taken to spying on the village maidens when they bathed in a nearby stream.

He and his mother had gone to Constantinople where they remained for several months in a small palace, guests of the empress. Cuntuz had been coached in elementary manners, the rough, country edge worn off his tongue by a diction teacher. And he had made a friend, the first he had ever had. This was Prince Andronicus, the empress’s oldest son, fifteen.

The boys became inseparable, much to the irritation of the empress, who was forced to grit her teeth and accept the situation. Only the fact that she would soon be sending Cuntuz and his mother to his father in Adrianople prevented Helena from taking firmer action. She did not feel that Cuntuz was a fit companion for her son.

Andronicus was very much like Cuntuz. Being older, and having been brought up in the city, Andronicus had had better opportunities to develop the unpleasant side of his nature. He was nothing like his handsome and charming younger brother, Manuel, who made friends easily. Andronicus had been virtually friendless. The open admiration of the new boy won him over.

On Cuntuz’s thirteenth birthday Prince Andronicus took his new friend to an exclusive brothel. There, the boy became a man. A man who, like his royal friend, had an appetite for cruelty and perversion. The boys began spending more and more time in the whorehouses of the city. Singly, each was obnoxious; together they were dangerous, for their cruelty knew no bounds. Their arrival each evening at a house of pleasure was apt to set the madame fretting nervously, wondering if she would lose any of her girls. Andronicus and Cuntuz made life unbearable torture for the young prostitutes of Constantinople, for they never patronized the same house two nights in a row and no one ever knew where they would strike next. Fortunately, before they could kill anyone, the time came for Cuntuz to go to Adrianople.