Bertrice Small - Adora

Now he stood with his mother before the empress. He thought to himself that Helena had fine, big tits. He wondered how it would feel to suck on those breasts and then bite down hard on the nipples, causing her to scream with the terrible pain he would inflict. He stood silently, mentally stripping his royal benefactress naked, wondering if what they said about her was true. He imagined her bent over, begging for mercy while he raised red welts on her round, soft bottom with a horse crop. Then when her plump, pretty cheeks blushed rosy red for him he would ass-fuck her! Beneath his elegant robe he grew hard and erect.

Looking at the unconcealed lust on the boy’s face, Helena knew roughly what he was thinking and wondered whether he would be worth the risk. There would be hell to pay if John found out. But if she were very, very careful he would not find out. In this very palace was a secret, windowless room outfitted with a couch for such occasions. The boy and his mother would be leaving in the morning. Perhaps-No! Yes! Later this afternoon she would have the boy brought to her for a few hours. She had heard he was insatiable. She forced her mind back to what the boy’s idiot mother was saying.

“You’re sure,” Mara quavered, “that Murad will welcome us in Adrianople?”

“Of course!” snapped Helena. God, the woman was driving her crazy “How many times must I tell you he will be delighted to have Cuntuz by his side. His other sons are but babies. As a warrior, Murad is in constant danger of being killed. Do you think if that happened the Ottomans would welcome my sister’s mewling infants as Murad’s heirs? They would far prefer Cuntuz, who is virtually a grown man. Your son could then protect his own succession in the Ottoman fashion by strangling his half brothers. You, dear Mara, will be a most powerful woman when your son succeeds to his father’s throne.”

Mara licked her lips nervously. “Sultan Murad has never seen my son. When I told him I was pregnant he gave me gold, but I never saw him again. He never even acknowledged the boy.”

“Neither has he ever denied him,” said Helena. “Rest assured, my dear Mara. All will be well. If, heaven forfend, Murad sends you away, there is always a place for you among my ladies. You have my protection.” It was a promise easily given for Helena didn’t believe the sultan would send them back. If he did, it would be with an income. And the damage to Theadora would have been done. Her sister would not feel so inviolate then!

Rising, the empress smiled down on the fat woman. “I will bid you goodbye now, my friend, for you will be leaving early in the morning. Prince Cuntuz, if you will attend me in an hour’s time I will give you your final instructions on how to deal with Ottoman court customs.” And Helena glided from the room.

When she had gone, Mara turned to her son. “You know, of course, that the bitch lusts for a quick tumble with you.”

He grinned. “I’ll give her a ride she’ll not soon forget, mother dear. She’ll be groveling for mercy by the time I’m through with her. Be sure you are as kind to my friend, Andronicus. He swears you are the best piece he has ever had. He tells me your mouth does wonderful things that can drive a man mad with delight.”

“Small praise from a lad of fifteen,” returned Mara sourly. “Don’t burn all your bridges with the empress, Cuntuz. Despite what she says, we may need to return here. I do not really believe that the sultan will welcome us. I will try for your sake though, for I owe you that.”

“Am I really his son?”

“I believe so. When a man kept me as he did, I fucked only him. I even fancied myself in love with Murad. Ah, Cuntuz, you should have seen me then. I was a tiny little thing with fine breasts and skin like the best white Bursa silk! A man could span my waist with his hands!”

He looked unbelieving. He could not imagine this mountain of flesh petite and desirable. But then, she must have had something other than an open and willing hole to attract his father even for so short a time. He disliked her less now than when they had first joined forces. He realized that she had tried, even as she was trying now, to do her best for him. Awkwardly he patted the beringed hand.

“We had best go now, Mother, lest we be late for our appointments.”

A week later Sultan Murad found himself face to face with an almost-grown son and that son’s mother. He had not even remembered their existence. The peasant girl he had kept for his pleasure in the Gallipoli Peninsula had been of no importance to him. She had attracted him with her golden eyes and big breasts. She had been no stranger to men, and he hadn’t known or cared if she was faithful to him. She was simply available when he wanted her. That had been enough, for he had ached with the terrible loss of Adora to his father. When Mara announced her impending motherhood he hadn’t questioned it but had given her gold and ridden off for less involved company. He had not even known the child’s sex, or whether it had lived or died. He hadn’t cared enough to find out.

From the beginning, there was antipathy between the man and the boy. Murad looked at Cuntuz. The lad was soft, uneducated. His mouth already showed signs of dissipation. The eyes were cruel and shifty. Cuntuz looked at his “father” and saw a hard, successful man whose feats he could never hope to equal. He hated Murad for this.

The sultan would neither confirm nor deny his paternity. Nor would he make Cuntuz his legal heir. That position belonged to four-year-old Prince Bajazet, to be followed by his twin brothers. To solidify his decision, Murad called in the ulemas, the Muslim lawgivers, to debate his judgement, and to confirm or deny it. He would abide by their decision. After long and careful consideration, the ulemas agreed with the sultan. They had no wish to cast doubts upon an innocent boy’s birth, but Mara’s reputation was poor. No one, not even his mother, could be absolutely certain of Cuntuz’s paternity. And where the descent of Osman’s line was concerned, there could be no doubt whatever. Prince Bajazet was confirmed as his father’s heir.

The sultan agreed to settle an allowance on Mara-but she must return to Constantinople. There was no place for her in Adrianople. Murad laughed to himself. Adora and his harem were solidly united for the first time since he had become sultan. Adora was well aware who had sent Mara and Cuntuz to Murad. And she was outraged that her own sister would try to replace her beautiful and bright little Bajazet with that horrible boy whose eyes had undressed her on the two occasions that they had met. Adora refused to believe that Murad had fathered such a son.

The other women of the harem simply wanted no additional competition. Adora was quite enough.

Cuntuz was to remain in Adrianople. There was always the possibility that he was Murad’s son, and Murad felt he owed the boy something if that were true. Cuntuz was to be educated in both academic and martial subjects. If he had talents, then perhaps the boy could be of use to the empire.

Cuntuz did not wish to remain. He wanted to return to Constantinople and pick up his life of drinking and wenching with his friend, Prince Andronicus. His mother quickly disabused him of the notion. “With the money your father is settling on me I can open my own house of pleasure,” Mara told her son. “I know what the rich men and women of Byzantium like, and I will cater to their lusts. There is no further place for you in my life. Remain with the sultan and your fortune is made. If you do not wish to do that you may return to your grandparents. I do not think you would enjoy it.”

“I can stay with Andronicus,” replied the boy. “He is my friend.”

“Do not be a fool!” replied his mother. “Do you think the empress will allow that association to continue if you are of no use to her? You have already served her purposes by coming here. It is either stay here or return to your grandparents.”

It was no real choice. Cuntuz remained. He hated it, for the sultan had given orders that he was to be treated like any boy in the Palace School. Thus, he was beaten for his errors, which were many. There rose in the already warped boy a blazing hatred for Sultan Murad and for the sultan’s acknowledged sons.

Cuntuz was forced to bide his time. He was young. But eventually he would have his vengeance.

The tsar of the Bulgars had died at a vast old age, leaving his three grown sons to squabble among themselves over his kingdom. To the northwest, Prince Lazar held sway. To the south, Prince Vukashin. Caught between them was their eldest brother, Ivan, who believed it should all belong to him.

On the other side of the Balkan mountains the sultan waited to see which of them would come to him for aid. When they all did, he carefully evaluated the positions of each and decided that when the time came for choosing he would side with the eldest, Prince Ivan. Vukashin was a poor general. Murad defeated him and quickly annexed the southern part of the late tsar’s kingdom.

Prince Lazar now found himself besieged by an army of Hungarian crusaders who, with the Pope’s blessing, sought to take over his kingdom. Two hundred thousand Bulgarians were forcibly converted by the Franciscans from the Orthodox to the Latin rite. The sultan marched and was welcomed by the persecuted Bulgarians as the savior who would restore their freedom of worship. And he did-under his usual conditions. The Bulgarians were too happy to be rid of the minions of the Latin Church to care that their sons were now open to the Janissary draft.

Tsar Ivan now found himself free of his rivals but faced with a formidable opponent. He would continue to rule-but only on Sultan Murad’s terms. Following the example of the emperors of Byzantium, Ivan became the Ottoman’s vassal. His daughter, Thamar, joined the sultan’s harem.