She is stretched, tight as a drum, twisted like an auger into the hard, defiant ground. All it would take is a word, a softly spoken, single sibilant word that would bring her release, and she would unravel and burst apart, and ultimately find release.
For almost an hour he has held her, spellbound, braced between this suspended tension like a crucified sufferer on the cross, taut and trembling. He is a cruel, devastating, calculating man. She has never found him so enthralling or beautiful as at this moment. She is his slave, and it breaks her. She has lost to him. Damn him.
She lies beneath the man she calls lover, husband, gaoler. With each passing moment, with each passing touch, he has twisted her body, like a corkscrew, sliding through yielding desire, allowing him to knot her into a shape of his choosing with his cruel, taunting mouth, his punishing, insidious hands.
He has done this to her, coaxed her body, pulled and knotted it until she lies shuddering, on the brink, his fingers slow and languid over her body. If, and when, he allows her to unravel, she is not sure she will be able to rise again. He is Lord of her being, and she needs this as much as she wants this, and wants this as much as she fears it.
“All it would take, my pet,” he croons, tugging at her aching, hard nipples with his lips, “Is one word.” His fingers, long and cool and thin, pluck at her waiting body, and the screw turns again, tightening her up another notch. She moans pitifully, like a victim on the rack. She cannot make herself say it, yet. The maddening, wonderful, blinding fact of the matter is that she will eventually, and she knows it and he knows she knows it. He has bathed her in the dark, spicy oils of his seduction. All there is left to do is to wait, and turn the screw again.
It started as a challenge, a dare. All his talk of harems and seraglios and heat and Turkey and Persia, and the dark beauties at his beck and call. She was jealous of them; she wanted to be unique to him, to be hisfirst in something.
She does not know that his tales of the Arabian Nights are just that – tales of exotic locales told to amuse and educate her. Yes, he has tasted forbidden fruit. He has felt it burst, ripe and sweet,on his tongue, and as a youth he reveled in the pleasures of the flesh. But a day came when he put aside his carnal delights and hid his tormented body behind sober robes of justice and judgment.
He learned early that his young wife burned with envy when he spoke of those days; days before she was born, when he was a black-haired, black-eyed youth, quite and sullen, wanton and curious; determined to sample the fleshpots of every city that offered up its secrets to him. Little did he know that one day, a young temptress would enter his life and shake the dust from the vaults of those sensual memories and bring them roaring to life, and he would find that, once again, he had secrets to share, and lessons to teach.
She is young and so rich, like cream and brandy and fine wines, dates and figs; there are times when he feels like a boy again, all eager, fumbling fingers and hair-trigger libido. There are nights when he plunders her like treasure, and five sweet, rutting thrusts are all he needs to satiate the howling beast within. But then, there are days like this, when control is called for, and he is the man who must rise and meet that need. Days like this, when the blood in her stirs hot and wild and arrogant, and he must take the reins in hand and be her Master.
She teased him beyond his capacity for tolerance all day, flaunting her sun-ripened skin, jutting her dusky, succulent nipples saucily before him, daring to taunt him in an obscene parody of the dances the gypsies used to do for money on the square.
Tonight she had no audience save him. She had no tempo except the pounding, hypnotic rhythm of her galloping heart. Tonight, she was his instrument, his tambourine on which to play, to sing, to shimmer in the air.
“You cannot make me,” she said, cruel and secure in her ability to dictate the drives of her own body. “It is something a woman allows.” She leaned toward him, her hands brushing against her dark, hard little nipples, allowing her fingertips to snag against the tart buds that she knows torment and challenge him so persistently.
For an hour, she has kept out of arm’s length, moving around his sumptuous bedchamber like Solome, seducing her king for sweetmeats served on a silver tray. “And how exactly can you make me, Sir?” she purrs, swaying like a Jezebel, beckoning him with her brazen pout, her strong, limber arms and warm, rough peasant hands weaving in the air like hypnotic ribbons of silk.
Perhaps she did allow this, but he chose his moment, as she turns away from him to provide him a glimpse of her slender back, her long, coarse black hair whipping to and fro with her swaying form.
He is a tall man. His thin frame has always held a wiry strength. In his youth, he worked his body to hone it; now it is surprisingly strong, and he captures her in his arms, ensnaring her from behind in a vice-like grip. His voice is measured and calm in her ear. He knows all too well the effect his soft, menacing tone has on his wife. It will soothe when she is agitated; it will enflame when she is indifferent. It also seduces her when she is passionate. It is like catching the wasp in a silver dish of sugared water.
“If you wish to play the wanton harlot with me, my girl,” he purrs in her perfect shell-pink ear, “You will have to play by my rules.” His fingers slide down her warm, flat belly, and she quivers beneath his touch. “And I can assure you, my pet, that if I wish to make you, you will.”
She tried to fight. “I have my own mind!” she declared proudly, but even as she spoke, his fingers slid past the dark patch of curls, and he hummed appreciatively as his long, thin fingers teased the damp slit of her plump labia. Even as her dark eyes flashed with defiance, her traitorous body felt the helpless yearning to give in to his knowing, commanding touch.
He taught her this; never had she known that her body could betray her so easily. He knew the gentle circling of that tiny bud of silk between her netherlips could send her down on her knees like a cobbled horse. He is master now; and her body will obey, and even though his satisfied laughter rings mockingly in her ears, she can feel his body follow hers to the floor.
He is a man who understands the old familiar phrase that the pleasure of power is not half as rewarding as the power of pleasure. “That’s it, my love,” he croons, even as he plays her body, his fingers plucking at her like the tense string of a harp. “You will, for my pleasure. You will, but only at my command.”
She is no longer the proud enchantress. She is the helpless, whimpering beast, slavering under the master’s touch, waiting on tiptoe for the next caress. And when she falls, he takes over.
He is no longer the hard, cold, commanding judge. He is the hard, cold, commanding lover, his experienced body moving over hers, leaving her helpless, boneless, pride-less. As his mouth whispers over her body, branding her proud breasts with his oh-so-hot mouth, she grits her teeth.
“You cannot make me!” she repeats, horrified how unconvincing she sounds to herself. He merely laughs and ties her hands to the headboard of their bed.
“We shall see,” he murmurs against her vulnerable belly, on his way to seek the haven of her sleek, pearly folds.
Why can’t she push him away? She has strong legs! She has helped men push carts before with nothing more than the pistoning of her long limbs. It would be so easy to show defiance here; he is in kicking distance. “You are thinking dangerous thoughts, treasure,” he purrs, smiling. He strokes the little damp patch of hair with the back of his fingers, like soothing a pet. “Stop your thoughts of defiance, my dove. Think of what you will gain,” he says, his lips nibbling softly, his long fingers parting her like the pages of a delicate and much-loved book.
And she is gone, gone with him to the pleasure dens of the east. She is a beloved member of the harem, pleasured by the greedy sultan. She is the slave desired by the master, and given as a gift to play with. He is masterful, because he wants her to enjoy it. His wicked tongue, so caustic and sharp edged, feels like velvet between her legs, and when he finds the little button, oh, that little bud of silk! It is in his mouth and she feels the screw turn and turn and the long fingers enter her, oh! the bed of delights, the sweet passage of desire, and his fingers curl and twist her tighter until she can no longer breathe or think –
Oh, Holy Mother and the Apostles, save me from this – it must be a sin! His mouth is warm and wet and so is she and her own hands find her bursting nipples and twist and pull and tug as his fingers beckon and pull her down to hell with this sweet-tongued devil, who even now begs, “Ah, my pet, my pretty one, come, come, come…” His face is dark like a demon, and full of lust and desire and yearning and she shudders and whimpers.
“You will, oh, yes, you will,” he purrs, and his voice takes on the same velvety edge as his tongue in her cunt. “You will come on my fingers, in my mouth, my beauty, and you will scream…”
She mewls his name… another twist of the screw, and she is so high, so high she will die when she falls….
“I will catch you, my sweet girl,” he croons, and his hands are smearing her moisture over her mouth, and she is sucking her pussy juices from his fingers like a greedy wanton, and his cock is big and hard and hot and –
“You will come now!” he growls, and the lover is gone, the master is there, and the thrust tears into her body with the force of a bolt of lightning, and the wave drops from beneath her and she falls, screaming his name in a dozen languages she does not know, languages spoken by slave girls and harem girls, and harlots and concubines and catamites and geishas and all who have given their bodies to their lovers and have come against their will simply because they could not resist the man who reared above them, urging them to unspeakable, inarticulate pleasure.
He splits her open like a scimitar cleaving into a fragrant, juicy melon, and she no longer cares who has the right to tell her anything. Only that she is there, beneath him, and he knows her and loves her and proves it every day with his fierce body and his steely gaze and his long, beautiful fingers and his sorcerer’s voice. And that he will do this again.
And finally, as she unravels, she can meet him, match his ferocity with her own, and his passion and control, and give it back to him, and their dance together is wild and untamed and only a little imperfect, as if to give them an excuse to repeat it in hopes of one day getting it right.
Soon, his expression is the same as the one she has worn, and the tightening screw is within him, and it is her turn to urge him on, to cajole and command, and his thrusts are like the raging gallop of a destrier. His hips do not merely drive; they roll, they rotate and ripple within her, leaving her breathless and exhilarated, holding on to this runaway horse, feeling his power and strength between her legs, her hips bruised and aching with that lovely pain that will make her smile on the morrow.
And then he bursts over her, like a hart leaping over the moon, proud and beautiful and silvery, and his face is a light-filled mask of pleasure that drags her along with him, holding him to her, supporting him, and even as he collapses against her body, she marvels that she has ever questioned why she tolerates his moods and his silences, his sneers and his airs. It is for those precious seconds when he Masters her, and in so doing, gives her permission to fly, to be taken to places only he has been; places he will take no other living soul, save her.