Crystal Dreams

Fandom: The Mummy
Rating: FA
Genre: het
Characters: Ardeth Bay, original characters
Pairing: m/f, m/f/f
Warnings: choose not to warn
Started/published: March 2002
Disclaimer: Ardeth Bay is the property of Stephen Sommers and Universal Studios. All other characters and situations created and owned by me.

This is something I’ve been working on for a long time now. It’s definitely a darker portrayal of Ardeth than we’re used to seeing, and there are sensitive themes some readers might not wish to read. Pay attention to rating and codes. A complete departure from my usual Ardeth & Angelina universe.

Rubicon – A line that when crossed permits of no return and typically results in irrevocable commitment.

Part 1

Night spread over the nameless oasis like a blanket, painting the shrubbery in inky shades of bruising black and blue. The flickering light from torches held by mounted guards cast grotesque, eerie images on the line of slaves trampling wearily along the scarcely used jungle trail. Every now and then someone would trip on a fallen twig or an out-prodding root, and would stumble, holding up the line. Whenever this would happen, the lash of a horseman’s whip would hiss through the air, and everyone would instinctively flinch as they waited for the scream, as if the crack of leather landed on all, not just one.

Afterward, the silence would be strangely intense.

At the rear of the roped line, someone missed a step, stumbling in the darkness. A mounted guard, holding his flaming torch high, cursed and moved his looming horse back towards the offender.

“God damn these rebels,” Taweel muttered. “More trouble than they’re worth…” Then he saw who had fallen, and smiled slowly.

The prisoner, who was desperately scrambling up before he could reach her, was female. The flickering light from his torch danced mockingly over the tangled curls tumbling down her back, and the plain brown gown that clung to her slender figure, was torn and stained with dirt. She was one of the little prisoners they had taken from the convent – the convent sheltering those cursed rebels.

“Pick your feet up, convent vermin!” His voice was silky and slow as he fingered the leather whip in his belt. “Or I’ll give you reason enough to move…”

The prisoner looked up at him in sharp fear as the thick, coarse rope dragged her along. Her delicate wrists, he saw, were already rubbed raw from the coarse rope. His thin lips curled, and he leaned across the pommel of his saddle; his dark, lean face keen with sudden interest. He breathed to himself – this one was a little beauty… her features were delicate and regular; the wide, horrified eyes looking up at him were such a deep, sultry brown that in the flickering light of the torch they looked like round, fathomless black pools. And her mouth… he moistened his own lips, feeling a sudden tightening in his loins… her mouth was full and ripe. He let his gaze travel across her bound figure from head to foot; even the drab brown of the hideous convent gown couldn’t hide the high, rounded swell of her breasts, or the feminine flair of her hips. A nun? Oh no – a disguise, most likely… yet more evidence of the rebels’ cunning ways.

“I pray your forgiveness, Sire. There was a branch across the path,” the girl humbly pleaded, her voice low and meek. Taweel laughed roughly.

“Save your prayers, little sister,” he leered, his white teeth gleaming in his dark face, “You’ll need all the prayers where you’re going – to the stronghold of Khaleel the Ruby!”

He saw her shudder and touch the delicately carved wooden cross hanging from the leather thong around her neck. Her fear was nearly a palpable force as she scrambled onwards. He smirked; so she’d heard of the lord Khaleel, the devil himself… but it was the Lady Nur she truly should fear – she was a Christian, and a rebel; the Lady Nur would delight in destroying her.

His eyes narrowed as he rode alongside her, and he licked his dry lips – damn the Ruby and his Lady and their games! Hadn’t their fine lord started out as a lowly mercenary himself – no better than the rest of them? Would he miss one of the convent sluts they’d picked up along with the rebels? Why, with a bit of luck he wouldn’t even know she was missing! Surreptitiously, he adjusted his constricting clothing, stroking himself briefly as he did so… a secret promise for later, as he let his gaze linger for a moment more on the swell of her breasts. Later, he would show this little slut what a real man was made of.

Safiyyah watched the guard ride off, his flickering torch held high. Her heart was pounding with relief and anxiety – relief because she had not been whipped, and anxiety because she knew this was at best a brief respite. She could not forget the way the man had looked at her – the hungry light in his dark eyes, in the lean angles of his face. Though gently bred and brought up in the bosom of a loving family, she was not a complete stranger to sexual appetites of men… several of them, in that other time, had looked upon her with desire in their eyes – but they had never made her feel filthy, wishing she could hide… or to taste the cold, metallic flavour of fear that dried her mouth as she watched him take his place in the procession. She swallowed, fighting down the sudden nausea that shook her, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of another with furious desperation – she would not fail before she had even had a chance at retribution… She would not.

By removing his hateful presence from her immediate vicinity, the guard had also taken the meagre light his torch offered: Safiyyah could barely see where to set foot. Her wrists felt as if they were on fire where the roughened weave of rope had burned the skin away, and her thin leather shoes, never meant for a walk in the desert in the first place, were almost worn through. Her feet were cut and bruised… another pain to be pushed into the back of her mind, along with the hunger gnawing in her belly. They had not been given anything to eat since the midday, only precious little water. It was a struggle to merely stay on her feet; she did not know how long she could go on… not for the first time, Safiyyah wondered if it was not sheer lunacy to want to go on. To the vile stronghold of the self-proclaimed king, ruler absolute in his realm, Khaleel the Ruby.

In the little convent where she had sought food and shelter in exchange for physical labour while she contemplated her next step – how to get into the stronghold of the Ruby – she had heard more rumours. The nuns whispered of unspeakable happenings, as if the volume of their voices alone would summon it, of some strange, dark evil that she could only guess at. The nuns said that the Ruby and his dark Lady had a personal reason to hate all rebels with a hard, relentless fury.

Part 2

The twisted black branches of the jungle reached out to grip her as the path narrowed, like angry fingers tearing at her face, before flaring out into a small, grassy clearing near a half-ruined hovel. The commander of the warriors barked out an order to make camp, and Safiyyah gracelessly dropped down on the grass with the other slaves, hungry and tired, huddling together with some other women from the convent… almost not caring when their ropes were untied… almost . The sweet sense of freedom, illusionary as it was, injected her with a measure of new spark for life.

Safiyyah wasn’t the only one; as soon as his ropes were untied, a man tried to run off into the woods. She watched in sick horror as a guard on horseback made swift pursuit, dealing him such a vicious blow with the heel of his whip that the slave slumped unconscious to the ground. The guard leaned over to check him, then shrugged and left… the man either lived on his own… or died on his own. Either outcome was of no concern to him.

The guards moved around on foot, tossing out ragged hunks of dry, coarse bread. Safiyyah bit into her chunk with ravenous hunger, ignoring its stale taste. The water went quickly, and by the time the leather water skin made it to her grip, it was painfully almost empty. The water was warm and brackish… but she savoured it as if it were the nectar of the old gods themselves, washing the day from her throat. Then, looking around quickly to make sure no one was watching, she hid it beneath the folds of her gown.

The other slaves were huddling together in apathetic little groups, sharing the few blankets and their body heat in hopes of fighting the cold. Safiyyah eyed them, disgust and pity mixing in her gut, each emotion fighting for supremacy. Khaleel the Ruby’s men had raided the convent, killed their husbands and wives, daughters and sons in a swift and bloody battle; burned down their homes and the little church attached to the convent; then taken those who survived carnage into slavery… and this was the best they could do? She was appalled at them, their lack of spirit, their absence of pride.

Most of the slaves weren’t paying attention to what was going on around them, evident from the glaze of listless despair in their eyes. The few that were livelier refused to meet her gaze and studiously ignored Safiyyah when she got on her feet, silently moving towards the edge of the clearing, searching in the shadows of the overhanging trees for the man who had tried to escape. In a way she understood and felt the compulsion to hide, to come what may… and the peculiar feeling fluttering in her stomach wasn’t all fear or outrage or contempt… it held a disturbing resemblance to envy. See no evil… hear no evil… not to bring undesirable attention to oneself.

It was… tempting. But she was Medjai… blood demanded blood; she did not have the luxury of inaction. The man who had shown spirit deserved more than this. And perhaps… if Khaleel’s men were correct and he was a rebel… then perhaps, there was help to be had… a new alliance to be made.

She found him where he had fallen, a congealed rivulet of blood matting his long, dark hair and running down the side of his face from where the handle of the whip had caught him. He was conscious now, but even in the shadows she could see the sickly pallor of his face as she knelt beside him. He looked up at her, dazed.

“Here… water,” Safiyyah whispered, quickly glancing behind her shoulder. The guards were still around the fire, passing around vine jugs. Apparently they were not averse to the pleasures of alcohol. “Please… you must drink it.”

He managed to raise himself carefully on one elbow, with Safiyyah’s help, even though he grimaced at the resulting pain. She held the water skin to his parched lips, and he swallowed feebly before falling back to the ground, watching her with wary eyes.

“I’ve seen you… you are from the convent.” He looked behind her, his features stark and relentless in the shadowy moonlight, alive with a fiercely controlled emotion as he watched the guards. He reminded her of her father at that moment, young as he was. Her father, a warrior and leader of armies, had borne that look many times when he watched outsiders venture where they did not belong and were not wanted. “I’ve brought this upon you, and now you’re going to the devil’s lair. May Allah help you, sweet maid…”

The memory swept through her, overwhelming and unexpected… uninvited. Sweet maid … only one man had ever called her that, and for a moment the now was superimposed with then and the voice she heard was that of her beloved Ghalib, her betrothed – his cherished face instead of this other – alive with humour and intelligence as he teased her mercilessly — No! She would not think of this, not now – not here! It would soften her, dissolve her, and now was not the time for softness, an unaffordable luxury as of late. She swallowed convulsively past the constriction in her throat; forcing her mind to focus on that other thing he had said… the devil’s lair?

“What do you mean?” She whispered fiercely back, a tight knot of tension coiling in her belly. In past weeks, as she made her way closer to Khaleel the Ruby’s stronghold, she had heard rumours, insinuations and whispers… but not hard facts. She wanted hard facts – tangible knowledge to arm herself with.

Suddenly the man turned his head in alarm. “Shh! Go now before –”

Too late… Safiyyah heard the crunching of boots through the undergrowth behind her. Swirling around in alarm, she was caught, a rough hand gripping her shoulder. It was the guard who had spoken to her earlier and watched her in such a disturbing way who now held her in his grasp. With a sudden jolt of fear she struggled, twisting this way and that in a futile effort to free herself. He was strong and muscular, and his strong hands dug into her shoulder; he controlled her easily.

“Let go of her, you bastard!” The slave was now struggling to get to his feet, his pale face twisted with fury. But he was still weak from the blow to his head, and the kick the guard delivered to his stomach had him double him up on the ground, grunting with pain. The guard turned back to Safiyyah.

“Well, well”, he said softly. “If it isn’t the little convent brat. Like to explain what you’re doing here? With him ?”

“I brought him water!” She retorted defiantly, the tremor of fear in her voice not pretence. She was fully aware of the precariousness of her situation. “He is injured – I could not just leave him there!”

She shivered in equal measure of fear and revulsion as his calloused fingers fondled her shoulders through the meagre barrier of her clothing. He seemed to be breathing strangely and his hot, dark gaze made an icy fist of terror squeeze in her chest.

“A soft little heart, eh?” He said, grinning slowly. “I’ve heard all about you convent brats – eager for it, aren’t you? Well, sweetheart, you won’t need to make do with a rebel scum –”

“I do not know what you are talking about! Let me go… please ! You are hurting me…” Safiyyah nearly gagged as his hot mouth covered hers; his eager, rasping tongue groping the inner tenderness of her lips. She twisted violently against him in desperation, struggling to push him away, but her struggles served only the purpose of escalating his excitement. He clutched her wildly struggling body hard against his, she whimpered beneath his fierce kiss and twisted free to claw his face, but his rough hands gripped her already sore wrists. The added pain incensed her and she doubled her efforts, sinking her teeth into his flesh. He cursed and she felt a brief, fierce surge of elation as she drew his blood and tasted the bitterness of it in her mouth. I am mad, then, flashed quickly through her mind as she savoured the small but elusive triumph, how else to explain that I deliberately began on a path that I knew would likely bring me to this… or what might be worse than this? It is fitting then that the destroyer will pay for this as well… But mad or not, she would not surrender; would not make the rape easy for him.

Part 3

“Here’s one juicy prize our fine Lord Khaleel won’t get to first!” The guard muttered thickly, reaching for the neck of her gown. He ripped the coarse wool and it parted easily, as did her white linen shift beneath it. The easy surrender of the fabric stilled him briefly, his ruthless grip on her slackening involuntarily as he gazed with hungry eyes at her exposed flesh. Seeing her opportunity, Safiyyah took it, wrenching violently – and with a surprised gasp staggered backwards, propelled by the force of her movement as he abruptly let go. Not waiting to see why he had released her, she turned to flee.

She hadn’t gone five steps when the guard caught her again and, uttering a vile oath that six months ago, in that other life, would have made her face burn hotly, jerked her around and threw her to the ground. The hard impact stunned her; she lay there half dazed and gasping for breath even as he pinned her down. The heavy pressure of his muscled body pressed on her, his weight making it even more difficult to draw air into her heaving lungs. Then he shifted, holding her wrists against the ground on either sides of her head and straddled her, his steely thighs easily trapping and controlling her own – effectively ending her attempts to kick him. Breathing hard, he looked down at her, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, white teeth flashing as he slowly grinned, watching her bared breasts with lascivious eyes.

“Ah, my little beauty, what you hide beneath that ugly little gown…” he muttered, his voice husky as he watched her bared breasts with a brazen stare as repulsive as his filthy grip. With a sudden groan, he plunged his head down and Safiyyah stiffened, her eyes widening with disbelief, as she felt the hot, moist rasp of his tongue on her nipple. Rage, fear and fury melded hotly within her, and she shrieked out her outrage.

“Get your filthy mouth off me! You bastard –” Safiyyah bucked wildly, trying to dislodge that rough, wet mouth from her breast. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her breath coming in harsh gasps, aware that she was losing control. It was slipping from her – not only control of self but the control of the situation… And a part of her, a dangerous part, did not care – did not care if this man whipped her, or killed her, or, God help her, if this was the end of her mission – anything but having to endure his invasion of her body!

“You can stop pretending now, little one”, he chuckled. “You’ve put up a good fight, but I know how you convent sluts are. The women at the stronghold beg me for this, just as you would if I were to stop now!” He gazed at her heaving breasts with adoring eyes, then bent down to suck one nipple into his filthy offending mouth. And Safiyyah went mad beneath him. Several times she managed surprise him with the ferocity of her rage, making him grunt with the effort of holding her down…but she was no trained warrior – though she now wished she had followed that path – nor did she have one’s strength. Sooner rather than later, her strength began to fail and her struggles grew weaker. It was then that he pushed up both of her arms up and together above her head, holding both her wrists in one large hand against the ground so that he had his other arm free. He fumbled with his robes, somehow managing to pull them up and reach under them. He seemed to be stroking and rubbing himself feverishly; his gaze locked on her exposed flesh as a strange, glazed look entered his eyes. Safiyyah swallowed the bile rising in her throat, and desperately closed her eyes tightly, as if she could shut out reality itself, trying to steel herself as she awaited her doom.

“Ah, my little nun… I have waited for this since first I laid eyes on you,” he sighed, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, praying for a quick release from this nightmare. But the protective darkness behind her eyelids served as nothing but an illusion as her imagination quickly embellished every sigh and groan the bastard made; every unknown rustle of clothing only served to heighten her fear.

Snapping her eyes open, Safiyyah felt the blood drain from her face at what met her eyes… a rigid, swollen shaft of flesh. She had never been faced with a naked, adult man before and to her, he seemed huge. Abruptly she regretted with bitter intensity that Ghalib had been so honourable and conservative; she had been willing, more than willing – if only Ghalib had made love to her instead of wanting to wait for their joining ceremony, she would now have a memory to hold close to her heart, rather than the vision of this — this huge, ugly, purplish thing that the man gripped in his hand, stroking it in a some private ecstasy and gazing at her breasts, his breathing laboured. He briefly looked up at her face and seeing how her eyes had widened in horror, went very still, watching her, letting her get the full impact of his turgid penis.

“Haven’t seen one of these before, my little nun?” He whispered cajolingly. “There’s many a fine lady like yourself, I tell you, who begged me for the sight of this… so take a good long look…” He rubbed his hand slowly, luxuriously, along the shaft for his captive audience; a drop of clear moisture gleamed at its opening and to her horror, dropped, glistening on the swell of her breast. Adoringly, he bent to lick it of her skin… Safiyyah screamed, against all instinct and training… the remaining thin layer of her control had finally shattered.

But the sound was choked as the man lunged forwards and covered her mouth in a devouring kiss. Darkness engulfed her, and she was aware of his abrasive hands as he tore at her clothes, the heat of his flesh seemingly zinging hers as he forced her legs apart with his own. Suddenly, another sound slashed through the stifling, intense silence of the forest – a harsh, whistling crack.

The man above her let out a howl of pain and for a second, he arched rigid above her – then slumped to the ground, moaning and whimpering. Safiyyah blinked and stared at him, jerkily pulling the remains of her tattered shift and gown in place to cover her nakedness even as movement in the periphery of her vision pulled her attention away from her would be rapist. There, in the shadows, was a group of men… and the one in the front carried a whip. Swathed in shades of the night, she couldn’t make out his features as he raised his hand in a cold, calculating gesture: with deadly accuracy the whip cracked out, cutting into her would-be rapist again. He let out a thin cry and doubled up.

“Take him to the camp. Tie him up, and wait there for me.”

The words were delivered in a smooth, velvety voice that failed to disguise its unmistakable ring of authority… A voice she recognized with a sense of shock – and intense sense of relief… both instinctual and habitual… a throwback to a time long ago, and far away. Then reality snapped into place, and a new dreading began in the pit of her stomach; a new bout of shivers danced down her spine with a feathery touch as she remembered that there was no cause to feel for relief – not now. Of all the people, why did it have to be him?

Slowly Safiyyah scampered to her feet as men hurried to carry their leader’s orders, lifting the guard from the ground and half-dragging, half-carrying him off towards the fires of the guards’ camp. But her attention was focused on the leader as he stroked his whip softly – as if it was a friend – as he turned his attention to her, stalking towards her and in doing so, bringing himself out of the shadows which hid his features from her eyes. A gasp died on her lips; a shock of recognition widened her already widened eyes before she could control herself, vision finally confirming what her instincts had already told her.

Still tall and intimidating and darkly sensual, Ardeth Bay was as she remembered him – in fact, his image in her mind paled compared to the reality standing so close to her… it was so often usually the opposite. So devastatingly sexual that at right this moment, she wanted to shrink from him even as she wanted to reach for him, now and then spiralling together for a moment and she had to sink her nails into the palm of her hand to focus herself.

He still wore dark colored robes – although the Medjai blue was forbidden to him… the moonlight glinted wickedly off the twin scimitars strapped on his hips. Hooded dark eyes studied her with cold scorn as he surveyed her from the top of her head down to her toes; a full, sinfully sensuous mouth pursed disdainfully as he perused her tattered self… and so clearly found her lacking. Abruptly, Safiyyah became aware of how she must look – clothing torn and drooping from one shoulder, barely held together at the front by her shaking hands; skin rubbed raw and bruised.

Bay reached for her – hard, warm fingers dug into her cheeks and he tilted her face upwards with a controlled jerk, studying her eyes, her mouth. Safiyyah stood there, torn between meeting his eyes defiantly and cowering, her heart thudding in agonized expectancy: The shadows no longer hid her own features from him… surely Bay would now recognize her as the woman who had spurned his courtship to take her as his second wife – not only once…

But twice.

Part 4

Something elusive and puzzling flickered in the dark depths of Bay’s eyes, then he stiffened – suddenly, the elusive and puzzled expression gave way to a pure, hot fury… a very personal fury. The air fairly crackled with the force of it, and Safiyyah quivered in reaction, the fine hairs at the back of her neck bristling. Oh, he remembered her; she knew without doubt now… and just as surely, she knew neither time nor distance had made his heart grow tender.

“Stop.”

She’d been trying to jerk herself free; instinctively attempting to escape that seething attention, but the single word was enough to freeze her to spot.

Briefly taking his eyes off of her, Bay scanned the darkness beyond her as if he expected… what? Someone to emerge wraith like from the inky darkness – coming to her rescue? Whatever he saw, or did not see, satisfied him, for he turned his attention back to her. Safiyyah breathed deeply and shoved her fear aside, trying not to flinch as she met his stare. She would not allow her own turmoil to make her weak – or Bay to see it.

“I know not what it is that has brought you here, my lady…” Bay sneered the last words – words that he had before spoken with respect he had accorded to every woman, words that now dripped with disdain. “But I assure you…I will. And know this, Safiyyah of Medjai, mistress of lies: You made your second grave mistake when you left your father’s protection,” his voice rumbled low and ominous from his chest.

“Lies? What lies?” Safiyyah asked, dismayed. When had she ever lied to him? But something else had already caught his attention.

Reaching up with the handle of his whip, Bay touched the delicate wooden crucifix, toying with it. “You deny your faith now and seduce strange men?” His face twisted with loathing. “Clearly, I was mistaken to consider you worthy of being my wife. You must be most desperate, Safiyyah – degrading yourself with a common soldier like Taweel there.”

“Seduc — You think that I wanted his touch?” Safiyyah sputtered, incredulous. Had he gone soft in the head? “You think I wanted him to do what he did? I would rather he killed me!”

“Ah…such fire,” he mocked silkily. He released her face and Safiyyah breathed in relief. His touch, his closeness was… disturbing. The alluring heat of his body made her wish for the security of his strong, capable arms around her… a luxury that she would have accepted as true, without question. Now knowing it would be a lie she could not afford. Here, the only strength she could trust was that of her own will and character. And the only security to be found was her own fortitude – and what she would make of it.

“It is no wonder poor Taweel was inflamed. You told him another one of your lies, did not you not, Safiyyah? What did you tell him – that you were in the holy orders?”

“I did not!” Safiyyah choked out, shivering as much from the cold as Bay’s closeness, his scrutiny. The look in those dark eyes unnerved her, made her feel too much… remember too much…evoking emotions that were too much for her to handle right at this time. “I worked there, in exchange for food and bed!”

Bay narrowed his eyes, the tone of his voice sharpening. “Room and board…yes…in a convent that served as a nest for rebels!”

“I did not know!” She denied fervently. “Though if this is the kind of treatment the people here experience, then no wonder they rebel! I would rather meet the most violent of deaths than be treated like this!”

“Do not tempt me, my lady – it would give me certain… satisfaction, to grant such a request.” Hot fury gleamed in Bay’s eyes, all the more terrifying because it was so carefully banked and controlled. “But it shall not be that easy for you… Here, in this place, you are far from your father’s council fires. Here, you are in my power. Here, they can offer you no protection.”

Colour drained from her face, her heart speeding up its already anxious thumping. She looked up at him, quivering and anguished as two conflicting wants warred within her – one screaming for her to beg for his mercy, and the other screamed to her to keep her mission intact… whatever it took.

Bay’s eyes were as cold and uncompromising as the harsh steel of his scimitars; his face hard and forbidding. Cold scorn was mixed with the heat of rage, and looking in his eyes made her want to cringe and hide – even if she had chosen to beg for his mercy, that look alone might well have frozen the words on her lips. The weeks since she had left ancestral lands of the Medjai had taught her to trust her instincts – now she had the distinct impression that any plea she might make would serve her ill.

“That fool Taweel – did he violate you?”

Safiyyah bristled anew, incensed by the memory. “Of course he did! He put his hands on me without my consent. His very touch was a violation!”

Bay sneered mockingly. “I see I shall have to be more precise. Did he penetrate you?”

Safiyyah sputtered with outrage; no man, except for her father, or betrothed – or a healer – had the right to ask a woman that. And most assuredly not the man she had rejected!

Bay had no time for her hurt sensibilities: he gripped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Answer me. Did he penetrate you?“

“No!” She spat out.

He studied her dubiously; knowing the ways of her people, sensing the true depth of her ire. She met his stare with every bit of bravado she could muster.

“Even so,” He released her again. Realizing she was shivering now more from the cold than anything else, Safiyyah wrapped the remnants of her torn gown around her. The cold night air seemed to breathe right through the torn arms and bodice of her gown, raising her skin on goose bumps. “He will know soon a lashing he will not forget.”

Safiyyah’s head jerked up, surprise flaring in her eyes. After the spiteful things Bay had said to her, he was going to punish one of his own men because he had dared to assault her – a woman he obviously despised… a woman who was only another slave to the rest of them?

Seeing her surprise, Bay smiled – a chilling smile; one that completely failed to put her at ease.

“You misunderstand, my lady. He will not be punished out of deference to your feelings,” he said in an oddly blended mix of sarcasm and charm, “but because he dared to defile the property of Khaleel the Ruby.” He paused, openly deriving pleasure from her reaction. “Ah, I see from your face you are familiar with the name… I suggest you learn the rules well – many do not get a second chance. No one tampers with Ruby’s personal property. No one.“

Part 5

At the clearing, the man Taweel had been stripped to his waist and fastened by coarse ropes from his wrists to two trees. The ropes were pulled tight enough to keep his arms stretched out taut… tight enough to keep him upright when his legs would give out under him.

Heavy, nervous silence ruled among the slaves, roughly awakened from their apathy or sleep.

“This is the consequence had by those who disobey orders.” Bay paused, letting his gaze travel from one face to another, insuring each and every word sank deeply into each and every person present. Satisfied, he saw that he commanded their complete attention. “Break the rules, and you shall pay. By death, by whip… by whatever means you master desires.”

There was a woman standing apart from the others; he let his eyes gaze rest on her, not bothering to mask his fury, when he gave the order to begin. With satisfaction, he sensed rather than saw her disquiet as he took up a position behind her, close enough to feel the heat of her body.

The first two lashes the man Taweel endured in silence, clenching his teeth against the punishing pain while bound body jerked under each slice of the whip. When it cracked a third time, a muffled scream escaped him.

Bay looked on darkly, displeased with Taweel’s actions – how foolish of him, thinking to get away with mauling a new slave before the Lady Nur had decreed what was to become of her. The Ruby and his Lady could be generous – but the price owed for disobedience was swift… swift and lasting. This man would wear the mark of the whip on his flesh for the rest of his days… a lifelong reminder of his stupidity and insolence.

Bay would have preferred to postpone the punishment until they reached the fortress. His master sergeant was most skilled with the whip – the man Taweel would find himself after his sergeant’s lashing most assuredly, though functional, in too great a pain the next days to be effective in combat. Though this was Ruby’s realm, well guarded for the fortress itself was a half a day’s journey away; the passage through this bit of dense jungle, and the crossing of the desert stretch tomorrow was not without danger. The past fortnight, however, the rebels had stepped up their attacks along the southern border, raiding the Ruby’s villages, destroying crops.

And now she was here… helping the rebels! Bay fixed his gaze on the woman in front of him, this unexpected stranger who was not a stranger at all. His brain was still reeling from the shock of finding her here, of all places. What had brought her here? And, was she alone? Almost from the moment he had recognized her, he had been shifting through what he knew of her – searching for an educated guess as to any plausible reason that could bring a Medjai noble woman here.

The whip again cracked sharply across Taweel’s back, and the object of Bay’s thoughts flinched and made as if she would turn away as the man’s cry of main assaulted her ears. He narrowed his eyes and gripped her shoulder, checking her movement before she made it.

“Watch, my lady,” he hissed, letting his hand rest heavily on her, feeling the delicacy of her bones, the coolness of her skin. Feeling how she tensed, holding herself stiff and still under his hand. She was absolutely silent – hardly even breathing, it seemed; certainly not favouring him with so much as a glance at his direction – yet he could feel how her entire attention focused on himself. “Watch…and learn. You did pay attention when the rules were explained to you… did you not?”

After a moment of hesitation, she bowed her head. “I did… My Lord.” The honorific was added as an afterthought, with total lack of usual fear and respect that should have accompanied it. And that infuriated him – everything about her infuriated him. Bay glared at her bowed head, the hot fury in him clawing to be free. Did she think it was she who controlled the situation – controlled him? Did she not realize that he saw through her?

Standing proud and regal as a queen in that torn, ugly brown gown which, to his eyes at least, completely failed to hide what she was: a noble woman, born and bred to wield power of her own. A hard, grim satisfaction filled him – she was proud, heart whole and as much alive as he ever had seen her. And she still desired him… as much as she tried to mask her desire, he only had to look into her eyes – dark, hungry eyes – and he knew. Just as he knew that there was one other thing that remained unchanged… her eyes still hid secrets from him.

Despite the surface coolness of her flesh, he could sense the hot vitality of life in her, quietly yet violently boiling, the unbending will of her ancestors… and he knew that, despite her apparent meekness, he should trust it less than ever. Safiyyah of Medjai, daughter of a Chieftain and descendant of long line of warriors, was as far removed from meekness as he himself. She was accustomed to going after what she desired, and obtaining it. Once, she had wanted him… even after he had married his wife – that beautiful, ambitious bitch – Safiyyah had looked at him with hunger in her eyes… yet never had she made a move to take him. It had baffled him… such inaction seemed a contradiction to what he had come to know of her. It certainly was contradiction to his own nature: he did not understand it.

She was shivering now under his hand, and for a moment he wondered whether the motion was from his nearness, or from cold. Her torn gown revealed too much of her soft flesh; he saw the subtle – and not so subtle – looks his men were giving her. He frowned – he did not want more trouble from the men tonight. Scowling, he stalked to his horse and extracted one of his tunics from the saddle bag. When he got back, Safiyyah had hardly moved, staring as her attacker was cut down and dumped on the ground. She jerked, startled, when he thrust it into her hands.

“Sleep,” he ordered roughly, pointing to where the other slaves were shuffling, huddling together to retain as much as warmth as possible.

Calculatingly he let his eyes study her as she pulled his tunic on and settled for the night, considering how to best use her desire against her. Shortly before he was so ostracized, cast out… before that foolish Carnahan woman had raised the Creature, he had learned of Safiyyah’s engagement to Ghalib ibn Hikmat Abouhalima – but he had also heard that she lived in Alexandria, under the watchful eye of her grandfather. Had she married Abouhalima? Did she love him? Was she experienced in the carnal ways of men and women?

He must learn why she was here – a sanctioned mission? Blood revenge? Those were the reasons he could think of that would bring a lone Medjai woman this far from the home fires of her tribal village… if, indeed, she was alone. She was beautiful enough to rouse a man’s appetite – but in a harem full of women, beautiful and exotic, she would have been one of many. Her will, her spirit and violence in defending herself from being raped would assure the Lady Nur’s interest – for he himself would bring it to her attention… or someone else would, either unintentionally… or by purpose.

Part 6

“Shaima!” Nur pulled herself up in her warm comfortable bed. She pulled at the delicate, filmy linen gown she had worn to be, in an effort to untangle it from her body. “Are you there, Shaima?” Nur called out angrily. She had been tossing and turning for more hours that she cared to think of, unable to sleep – and if she could not sleep, neither would her maid. She reached for the table near her bed; it was short work to entice the oil-lamp to generate its golden glow to illuminate her way.

Shaima, who had been fast as sleep in the adjoining chamber, took some moments to answer Nur’s summons. In that time, Nur had brushed her hair, and pulled on her new robe of simmering, deep blue silk. It was a precious gift from her lord… but tonight its cool, smooth surface did not bring a rush of pleasure as Nur smoothed her hands over it.

As her maid stumbled in, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Nur eyed her unkempt figure with contempt. Good God, Shaima was ugly – face pockmarked from a childhood disease and her scrawny, thin body lacking every grace of womanhood. But she was a loyal servant, and knew her mistress’s needs well. She had been Nur’s for some years now… more years than she cared to remember.

“Fetch me wine, Shaima,” she said curtly. “I can’t sleep.”

Shaima hurried over to the table by the door, and poured deep-ruby wine to a golden goblet from a decanter while Nur wandered through an archway to an adjoining chamber. The plushly carpeted floor under her bare feet felt luxurious, soothing. It was dark here, the glowing golden circle of light given by the oil-lamps in the bedchamber only barely braving the darkness here. Flickering light filtering in through the elaborately carved wooden shutters lured her to the window. “Look out here, Shaima,” she commanded.

Rubbing the sleep from her pockmarked face, Shaima hurried to where Nur had opened one of the shutters. She handed Nur the wine, and gazed out into the blackness. “I see nothing, my lady,” she muttered, wishing she were back in her bed.

“Over there,” Nur rapped sharply, “Beyond the brazier – that soldier on guard duty. The one who has wondered away from the others – do you see him now?”

Shaima nodded surly – she could just make out the shadowy outline of a soldier leaning against the wall. “I see him, mistress,” she muttered sullenly.

“Then go out and fetch him,” Nur rapped. “He will be pleased to get in from the cold.”

“Bring him up here? Now?” Shaima’s voice was incredulous.

“Did I not just say so, you fool?” Snapped Nur, annoyed. She sipped her wine and began to pace the floor, her fine silk robe trailing behind her. “Go, and quickly, or you will face a flogging in the morn.”

Shaima hurried off. Nur unhurriedly returned to her bedchamber and paused in front of the heater, deep in thought. She hardly felt its warmth seeping into her weary bones – she needed to sleep … but she could not. She even knew why – it had to do with that dark cavern the men had found two days before, while mapping the underground dungeons. One of the men had discovered its entrance in a corner of a faraway cell… by abruptly falling through what had been thought to be solid stone floor… but had, at closer look, turned out to be sand and grime covered wood, rotten through. It deeply disturbed her that she had not known of its existence… or her lord Khaleel; she had ordered trusted men to guard it, and to explore. Where the cavern lead, was still unknown – if, indeed, it led anywhere. Several stone passageways led from it, but thus far the men had reported only dead-ends.

When Nur herself had descended through the dark hole in the floor of that tiny cell, and found herself standing in the far corner of a spacious cavern, an unexplainable shiver had gone through her. Never in her life had she heard even a rumour of such a place existing within the stronghold – and she had lived here all her life – first with her family in one of the little surrounding farms, then in the stronghold itself when her father sold her to then ruling sheikh… later still, when her Lord Khaleel had murdered the old sheikh… and freed her.

In the morn, she would go down into the dungeons again… but until then… Nur put down the goblet, and gazed thoughtfully into the mirror. She was still beautiful. She was thirty-three years old. All her childhood playmates had long since lost their youth and beauty, burdened by childbirths and the hard labour of the farms. Many of them were gone, having died in the childbed. But Nur… her ivory skin was as soft and flawless as ever, her lips as enticingly, richly red. Her hair, black as sin, still fell in thick, glossy waves to her waist without a touch of grey. Beneath the silk robe, her breasts still rose firm and high, and daily exercise kept her curvy body firm yet lushly feminine. Childbirth had never been her slot in life, for none of the men in her life wished issue from her – she was, peasant stock, after all. Nur laughed quietly – she did not mind; she preferred her life, and body, the way they were.

“My lady,” Shaima said. Nur turned around. Her maid stood there in the archway to the other chamber, the young soldier behind her. Nur surveyed him at leisure, and then said, “You may go now, Shaima.”

Her maid’s face fell with disappointment, and she shuffled past Nur to the small adjoining chamber, which served as her bedroom, and closed the door behind her. Nur poured herself more wine, and gazed at the soldier as she drank, letting the silence thicken. He soon became nervous under her regard, shuffling his feet as he stood there, obviously feeling baffled and out of place.

He was just as she remembered from this morning: not tall – hardly taller than her – but sturdy and strongly made. The muscles in his shoulders and upper arms, hardened by daily combat training, bulged enticingly beneath the rough fabric of his black robe. She sipped the wine and said, “I saw you this morning, soldier. You were pleasuring a kitchen wench behind the granary.”

The soldier opened his mouth to protest. Nur said sharply, “Do not try to deny it. You were on duty, were you not? Just as you are now? Shall I report you, soldier?”

“No. Please, my lady,” He started forward; “I’ll be punished for it. It was just a bit of harmless fun, my lady – that wench was begging for it.”

“You have a high opinion of yourself,” Nur raised an eyebrow. She let her gaze drop to his crotch. “Let me see.”

He paled. “My lady?”

“Show me,” She laughed scornfully. “I want to see this incredible weapon of yours that has girls pleading for a taste of it. Go on, show me.”

“My lady, if I’m caught…”

“If I report you for this morning, you will be punished any way,” She reminded him silkily.

Part 7

Nur watched, fascinated, emotions chasing one another across the soldier’s young, broad face as he darted a look about, stunned by her order, instinctively looking for a rescue from this strange situation. For a moment she thought he would balk, his soldier’s training and an innate wariness of taking orders from a woman colliding with his wariness of her. Fear, excitement, curiosity… how delicious he was!

His fingers at first stumbling, the young soldier began to make himself unstrapped, unbelted and unhooked of his outer layers of clothing, until he was standing there in a simple tunic and trousers, his overrobes in an untidy pile at his feet. Nur sipped from the golden goblet she still held in her hand, and slowly circled behind him on silent feet, to the table… to the wine decanter.

Weary of not seeing her, not liking it that she was out of his sight, the young man unbelted his soldier’s tunic and dropped it, and the linen undergarment he wore next to his skin, on the floor at Nur’s instruction – she had no intention of letting this lowly soldier’s sweat-stained garments touch her delicate, finely made furniture or precious fabrics. To allow anything such as this would equal a kind of blasphemy she was never willing to be guilty of. Now he was standing in front of her in his draw-string pants, and leather boots, a crude simplicity that somehow suited him… and her. Still behind him, noticing that he was hesitating, Nur said sharply, “All of them.”

Hesitating, he tried to crane his neck to see where she was, but Nur stalled that movement with a reproachful tut.

“You’re not done yet,“ she reminded him. Men were such odd creatures – eager to drop their pants at most inopportune moments without a second thought. But put them in a position where the woman held the power… sudden wariness and outright shyness!

She admired the play of light and shadow across the man’s back – stripped of his protective shielding created by weaponry and layer upon layer of clothing, his was a youthful body, lithe and muscular, marred by fewer scars than she expected.

“How long have you served Lord Khaleel?” She murmured absently.

“M-my Lady?”

“You heard me,” she slipped her fingers under the waistband of his trousers when he took too long to undo the knot on the string, startling him, and gave a single, stern tug. Reminding him that his task was not done yet.

“Just this past year, My Lady,” the soldier said and drew deep breath to fortify himself, then shoved his trousers down his flanks just as she stepped back in front of him.

“That seems ample enough time to learn the rules, soldier,” she raised an eyebrow, “more than enough, I should think.” Further thought afforded her a smirk as she added, “Perhaps a reminder is in order.” The soldier’s face flushed red, but Nur could not tell whether it was as a result of being reprimanded, reprimanded by a woman, or the fact that he stood there so vulnerable, naked as a newly born baby.

Up until now she had kept her eyes solely on his face, extracting more pleasure from its discomforted reactions, but now other reactions commanded her entertainment; she let her gaze follow the lean line of his body downward. His hands briefly twitched at his sides, as if battling the desire to cover his genitals from her probing gaze… and she saw this, enjoyed this. Black, coarse hair matted his chest, its thick tufts growing even more so on their trail down his abdomen, reaching its pleasantly densest around his organ. His manhood showed promise, even dangling as it was between his muscular thighs at the moment – and she could also see that at least some part of him found this exciting, despite his wariness, that perhaps his body refused to engage in the kind of modesty this soldier’s mind were attempting to display. For his cock was slowly thickening, encouraged by nothing more than her gaze.

“Not bad,” Nur eyed him critically, “not bad – but not good, either. Come now, surely you can do better than this… much better!” And with effortless grace and confident domination, she knelt before him, slipping her hands up his hairy, muscular thighs; smiling with cynical amusement when she felt his body go rigid under her touch’s command. Her smile widened, the amusement heightened as her continued fondling produced a heavy lengthening, a steady hardening of his flesh. And perhaps her enjoyment reached its pinnacle when she heard his sudden, sharp inhalation and felt, rather than saw, the way he frantically looked about in hope, in fear, of rescue.

Pleased with both responses, still holding his penis, Nur pressed close, rubbing her breasts lightly against the solid hardness of his thighs. She took a deep breath, feeling her nipples peak and harden under the silk and a dark, heavy throb of arousal started to gather in her belly.
Nur took another deep breath, to calm herself – enough time to see to herself later. Tainting this young man was her only focus now, his cock swelling into a rampant erection as her busy, knowing fingers found success with each stroke and manipulation. Running her hand along its length, feeling her own senses build with excitement, Nur reached to cup his testicles, their weight and building tightness proving nothing less than rewarding. At her intimate caress, the young man took a deep, searing, almost despairing breath and went very still – then, slowly…

Nur felt the fight drain away from him.

Satisfied, and yet at the same time disappointed that he had given in so quickly, Nur re-took his bone hardness in her hands and gently stroked it, feeling the veined ridges of its jutting shaft and the velvety smoothness of the swollen tip as it reared and jerked like some live animal. She closed her eyes, breathing in the musky maleness of him, mixed with the still faintly lingering scents of leather and sun and male sweat. As if his musk were cue, she started to rub harder, exacting a perfect mix between faster rhythm and intensified pressure until his ragged gasps were perfectly in time with her strokes.

The soldier’s eyes flew open in surprise when she suddenly let go of him and rose to her feet, grinning as his heavy cock jutted eagerly from his hairy groin. “Now, that is better, much better,” she nodded approvingly. “Now, let’s see how you perform, shall we?”

Part 8

With a heavy grunt, the soldier lunged towards Nur, his hands reaching greedily towards her breasts. This bold action was not well received… not well received at all. Nur pulled her hand back and struck him on the cheek… hard. The man froze, staring at her, stunned.

“Fool!” She hissed, outraged. “I never commanded your touch!”

The soldier staggered backwards, his left cheek an angry red from her blow. “M-my Lady – I am sorry! But you said -”

“That I want to see you perform? Yes,” Nur said icily, “but not with me, I assure you!” An expression spread across her face with the words, an expression one could only describe as offended disgust.

The soldier seemed genuinely bewildered, and even hurt… perhaps she had wounded his pride a little. Nur softened her expression, allowing a small yet inviting smile to replace her previous grimace; after all, she wanted him aroused and under her domination, not discouraged by the trappings of the male ego.

“All who would pleasure me must first show obedience,” she said softly, stroking her hand down his chest, curling her fingers in the hair there and tucking lightly, punishingly, before continuing down and down, until she could wrap her fingers around his jutting flesh. She smiled narrowly when she felt him shiver under her touch. “To my desires, and those of my Lord.” Still petting and stroking the straining flesh in her hand she turned. “Shaima!”

The slave maid came in immediately. With an amused smile Nur saw how the woman was already flushed with arousal: no doubt she had been watching and listening all the time through the screened Moroccan doors, without a doubt rubbing and teasing herself to heighten the excitement.

“And it is my desire that you pleasure my slave,” Nur continued, almost snorting out loud with laughter when she saw how Shaima’s plain face flushed and her eyes lit up. “Take her. Do it well, and I might send for you again, soon.”
She glanced down at the massively erect cock she gripped and stroked, turning her hand just so… when ‘so’ was painfully best executed, to lightly run her fingernails up its length in a last, lingering caress. The soldier’s shivers turned into a shudder at the subtle promise of pain. “Fail to entertain me, and I will see you whipped for your transgression.”

With that salty promise, Nur strode languidly from her erect soldier and reclined comfortably on a nearby settee, nodding to her maid.
Shaima dropped to her hands and knees on the floor, positioning herself without telling for the best possible view of the Lady Nur. She pulled up her skirt and offered herself to the soldier, casting a greedy look over her shoulder at his jutting penis, the sight spurring her decision to widen the distance between her already kneeling legs, her readiness all the more apparent. She wriggled her behind at him, completely ignoring the disappointment at the soldier’s face, and instead snapping at him in her heat.

“What are you waiting for?”

He looked at the woman on the floor and then at Nur; impossibly hoping she would change her mind. Nur sighed, letting her growing impatience show. “It’s either that,” she quipped with annoyance, her gaze directing the soldier to the plain yet ready servant on the floor, “or nothing.”

The soldier looked undecided at first, then squared his shoulders and knelt behind the slave woman… not to Nur’s surprise. She looked on thoughtfully, enjoying the sight of him arched powerfully over the woman and the way he was rubbing the head of his straining cock against the damp, eager flesh greeting him. She saw with cynical amusement that evidently he had gotten over his disappointment of having this homely servant instead. He was grinning as he stroked the slave woman’s widened buttocks, and Nur smiled as he did so, knowing full well that the soldier’s mind was imagining her ample mounds in his hands in place of the servant’s. Then he gripped the woman’s thin buttocks, stilling her heated movements, and probed and pushed with his shaft’s head until he found her damp, soft opening.

Tensing his buttocks, he thrust hard, burying himself in her to the hilt. Once realizing every inch of that part of her moist welcoming softness, the soldier stopped moving and held himself very still. Shaima cried out at the pleasure of it, feeling him fill her to the point of delirium. His refusal to move drove her mad; she wriggled again in an attempt to get him to thrust, greedily drinking in the way she felt him deep inside her. Then with a groan, she pulled away from the hard, gorgeous length that filled her, retreating for a moment only to sink back against it, initiating the thrust she so fully needed to feel. If the Lady Nur wouldn’t have him, then she, Shaima, would… in her place.

“Stop!” The soldier ordered roughly, but she couldn’t; she was already quivering in mounting excitement. His hard hands gripped her by the waist and he pulled out, leaving her empty and frustrated. She knelt there still, panting with need. Then, coldly and deliberately, he re-entered her and began to drive himself to his own orgasm within her, at his pace, for his need, his thrusts increasing with devastating compulsion while she struggled to contain her own pleasure.

On the settee, Nur was breathing hard, not taking her eyes off the coupling pair. The soldier was delightfully vigorous and she almost regretted that she had not taken him herself. She needed a man just as badly as Shaima – the last time had been before her Lord Khaleel had taken up this campaign against the rebels. That was almost three weeks ago. When he was home, she could choose any of the men and the women in the stronghold, every day, for the night’s entertainment: Khaleel indulged her – and he so loved to watch, perhaps more than she did, perhaps even more than he liked to participate. But when he was away, Khaleel did not wish her to play with other men… and everyone here knew well to heed his wishes, even his Lady.

Especially his Lady.

On the floor, the woman was throwing her head back, making strangely resonant guttural sounds, uncontrolled, and as a result, entirely exciting to Nur. She licked her lips, she herself was breathing hard as if she instead were the vessel at this soldier’s thrusting mercy. In all the visual world was providing her at this moment, Nur’s hands had found their way to the physical… one hand fiercely gripping and releasing her breast with the rhythm of each of her soldier’s thrusts while the other reached beneath her garments.
She was warm and wet and ready, already hot and throbbing. With a small yet breathy sigh of satisfaction, Nur drew her forefinger down into her cleft, and slowly rubbed, up and down… A delicious heat engulfed her, and she raised her knees higher, letting them fall apart… allowing the silk and linen to slip away and expose the length of one smooth leg. Now she was only vaguely aware of the copulating pair and yet, at the same time, intensely aware her soldier’s attention shifting to her.

His hot gaze upon her flesh like a lovely, fiery caress, agonizingly following inch by inch the progress of the filmy linen up her thigh… and Nur could feel his hot frustration at her refusal to remove that maddening obstruction of delicate fabric hiding her most intimate part from his view, frustration mixing with the shock of seeing her play with herself. Nur slid a finger around her throbbing pleasure bud and moaned low in her throat, arching her back sensuously while rubbing herself towards climax, titillated. Her breath was coming in hard pants now… so close… so close… the pleasure swelled and peaked and burst in her, sweet and hard. And even in the throes of it, she knew it would not last.

Sounds intruded into her thoughts, and Nur’s lids lifted, her eyes searching through their steam for the sound’s source. On the floor, Shaima had reached her peak and was crying out happily, her hips writhing against the soldier’s as pleasure engulfed her. The soldier jerked and thrust, pumping energetically into the climaxing woman and Nur pursed her lips; she could see the slippery length of his cock driving in and out, the clenched tightness of his testicles as he spent himself inside the slave. That was what she needed, what she wanted, and as pleasant a diversion her solitary climax had been, she wanted a man’s hardness inside her; wanted to take his heavy thrusts and feel her power as he shuddered in his release.

Nur waited a few moments before lazily rising to her feet, smoothing down her garments. Taking her queue from her mistress, Shaima followed suit, rising with bowed head, not yet clearing the pleasured glaze from her eyes. The air of embarrassment returned to the soldier, and Nur took pity on him. He looked so very young to Nur as he quickly, gratefully snatched up his pants from the pile on the floor.

“You have done well,” Nur said, “You have shown obedience to me, and also proven that you perform stalwartly.”

The soldier straightened out his shoulders smugly, immensely proud of having pleased the Lady Nur. She smiled indulgently; let him have his moment. She would crush it soon it enough. Nur padded to the wine decanter, and poured herself more wine. It tasted rich and decadent, and its elegance produced in her an involuntary yet pleasurable shudder – wine was a luxury her Lord Khaleel had introduced her to.

“You will come to me again when I next summon you?” She called out to the soldier, her tone implying more expectation than request.

Evidently, the thought of being summoned by her was not as desired a thing as she had thought. She regarded the shock in his expression and wondered if it was because he was not accustomed to women like her, women who took pleasure as directly as men. She patiently waited for his reply, hiding her amusement, reading each thought from his face as it crossed his mind. Could he refuse the Lady Nur? Should he refuse? … Did he want to? Conflicting desires… how truly entertaining witnessing them can be.

Finally he shook his head in desperation at himself and looked at her. Allah, but she was an enchantress, and he wanted her badly even now, his seed freshly spilled from his body. “Yes,” he said. Then more strongly: “Yes. Will you send for me soon?”

“Perhaps.” Nur observed him thoughtfully, “There is still the issue of your breach of duty.”

The soldier stopped in the middle of belting his tunic, “B-but, but you said -”

Nur cut him short, snapping at him: “Surely you do not expect me to overlook your transgression?” She made an overly dramatic gesture of impatience, pausing deliberately afterwards, savouring every second. “But rest assured, I will not report you.” She paused again, hidden delight tickling her every inch when the soldier’s body reacted in relief, his shoulders dropping, his exhale large and audible. Just as she had expected… hoped for. “No, you will report yourself, for this morning and – you are on duty, are you not? – for your negligence just now.”

He had paled in shock, and seemed to have trouble forming words, reactions Nur found just as delectable as the wine. With a poorly hidden sneer, she assured him: “You cannot escape punishment by entertaining me. You can however affect the severity of it by owning up to your errors in judgement. The Lord Khaleel appreciates men who show such fortitude and all of his officers know that… It is your choice… However, should you force me to go to the trouble of reporting you myself, it will be worse for you… much worse.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully, as if she had just thought of something. “Of course, Commander Bay is due back any time now. And I think it safe to assume we all know what approach he would take with this matter. He does so loathe leniency. I should think you would do well to take care of this matter before his return.”

The soldier did not say a word, but then he did not have to – his reluctant movements messaged his wariness and displeasure well enough. Suddenly Nur was out of all patience with him; abruptly she wanted this lowly soldier out of her sight. A sharp dismissive wave of her hand cut through the moment.

“You may go, now. I wish to be alone.”

The fresh night air of the open window beckoned her, and she lifted her face to it, enjoying the cool that washed over her. Behind her, Shaima hurried the soldier along and soon he was gone. “Shaima, you may follow his lead.”

To be continued.