Master

In Aladin's cave--two

sensuously . . . moving to the low throbbing that began to match the drumming of
Mercedes’ heart. His arms rose, his hips shifted sensually, and his belly rolled like the
waves of the sea.
The mirror movements of the two dancers were beautiful and arousing, even before they
turned to each other. But when Neru and Omania faced each other, the dance changed.
They moved closer, eyes now open and trained upon the other. Palms flattened against
each other, hips fitting together in a smooth slide, knees bent, torsos arched backward.
Omania turned away from Neru, and as she did, the scarf around her breasts unfurled,
clasped somehow in his large dark hand. The colorful silk, patterned in red and gold and
violet, wrapped around his fist and dangled to the floor. The woman turned back and
Mercedes saw that her tight, high breasts were bare, thrusting dark, hard nipples and
shifting in a sensuous, rolling movement as she kept time to the beat of the music.
Mercedes’ mouth went dry when Neru’s hands covered those two mahogany breasts with
his large dark hands, the scarf still dangling from one of them. Omania tipped her head
away, exposing the long line of her neck. The springy coils of her hair brushed her bare
spine, and then down to dangle over the fur rug as she arched her back at an impossible
angle, her hands finally reaching the ground behind her. Her knees bent, thrusting bare
through the strips of silk that acted as a flimsy skirt. Neru drew his hands down her flat
belly, over the navel that held the sparkling sapphire and around her hips, kneeling in
front of her sex, between her knees.
With a few simple movements, Neru whisked away the golden belt that held the silk
skirt. It was all Mercedes could do not to gasp at the sight of the other woman’s hairless
sex, rising smooth and beautiful, framed between Nerus thumbs, directly in front of her.
So close, if she leaned to the edge of the divan, she could stretch out her hand and smooth
it along his tight torso. His fingers were wrapped around Omania’s slender thighs as her
hips undulated in that same, easy rhythm. As Neru bent his face to the exposed quim in
front of him, Mercedes felt her own sex beating dully between her legs. When Omania
gave a soft gasp as Neru tasted her, Mercedes suppressed her own little moan. Her
nipples were hard points, her quim wet and slick, waiting, needing. . . . Her eyes fastened
on the couple as though she could never turn away.
She could see plainly as Neru swiped his thick red tongue over the deep slit of Omania’s
quim, up and then down, feeling the strokes at the seam of her own sex . . . and then, as if
choreographed, he slid his mouth up along her belly as Omania shifted her weight toward
him, balancing into his face as she pulled herself back upright. When she was tall and
straight again, he stood and the two entwined their arms, raising them toward the low,
curving ceiling, and kissed. Her breasts were flat against the black of his jacket, and Neru
pulled away to cup them again, to slide his thumbs over the jutting nipples there.
Through this all, the drum continued to beat incessantly, like the dull throb of sex.
Mercedes’ breath was coming faster; she felt as if she herself was in the midst of the
sensual play in front of her. She could be, if she moved closer. Those hands, that
tongue—that thick, strong, red tongue—could be pleasuring her.

This display of sexuality, of gentle, arousing dance and touch, was nothing like those
nights with Fernand and his playmates. That had been . . . flat, rushed, desperate. . . . This
was . .. this was . ..
Then Mercedes became aware of movement behind her, the warmth and weight of a man
on the furs. She was still sitting on the side of her left hip, her legs curled up next to her,
propped on her left hand, her hair making a damp patch on the ermine next to her—afraid
to move, for fear if she did, she would be caught up in the whole dance. Behind her,
engulfing her, his smell, that spicy scent that reminded her of one of the dishes she’d tried
tonight, hovered . . . yet Sinbad didn’t touch her.
Neru’s short jacket was gone now, and Omania’s delicate hands moved over his gleaming
chest, over the flat nipples that sported fascinating gold rings. Mercedes stared at them,
watching as Omania took one ring into her mouth, sucking and pulling on it so that the
flesh of his nipple and areola tugged away from his body. It looked painful, yet. . . yet
titillating. And if the flare of Neru’s nostrils, and the soft little sigh, was any indication,
he found it so as well. Her nipples surged and ached as she watched the rhythm of
Omania’s mouth on that golden ring.
The woman’s hands were as busy as her mouth, pulling at the loose trousers Neru wore,
and suddenly they slipped down, into a pool at his feet. Omania released the golden ring
and bent to pull the last bit of clothing away, and when she moved back, Mercedes saw
the long, proud thrust of his dark cock.
She must have made some noise, shuddered or moaned, for Neru turned and looked
directly at her. He smiled, his teeth perfect and white, and he held out his hand, brushing
the air in front of her, beckoning for her to join them. Mercedes gasped and drew back,
fascination and lust pounding through her as she tried to catch her breath. No, she shook
her head, no. But. . . yes. The lust rampaging through her made her feel as though her
body was ready to burst—her nipples, her pip, even the lips of her quim were swollen and
ripe and ready. Neru continued to look at her with sultry eyes as Omania knelt in front of
him, shifting slightly to the side so that Mercedes had an unencumbered view of the way
she slid the length of his member into her mouth. The girls jaws gaped, her cheeks looked
hollow, and her eyes closed as she gripped Neru’s hips, using him to balance her as she
moved back and forth. Her small breasts moved and swayed, lifting and falling, as she
moved, and her sleek brown haunches rose and fell in the same rhythm.
Mercedes closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing, to pull herself out of the maze
of sensations. But then there was the warmth of breath on the bare side of her neck, the
whisper in her ear: “Open your eyes, Countess.”
She shuddered and felt how close he was behind her now. And as she watched Omania
suck and lick the cock before her, moving the foreskin up to reveal the burgeoning head,
Mercedes felt two hands closing over her own aching breasts. At last. A burst of pleasure
swelled, burning through her, ripening her pearl between her tight thighs.
His palms pressed into the stone-hard tips that jutted painfully, making the silk hot and
damp over her skin. And then he released her, just as he released a long hiss of breath
into her ear, moist over the side of her neck. She exhaled in deep disappointment, opening her eyes again in time to see the arch of Neru’s neck and the pop of veins there
as he gasped, shuddering his release into Omania’s willing mouth.
Mercedes became aware of Sinbads touch again. It was light as he grasped the material of
her tunic, at the sides of her breasts, and began to shift it around and over them. The
featherlight touch circled around her nipples, over the sensitive skin there, around and
over, back and up and down . .. unrelenting in its gentle torture. She shifted, arching her
back, trying to thrust her breasts closer to the material, trying to find some relief. “Are
you greedy, Countess?” he asked at her ear. His words were not so steady as before, and
she let her head fall back onto his shoulder and felt the rampant pounding of his own
heart beneath the back of her skull. “Are you watching them? They prefer to be
watched.”
With effort, she lifted her head and saw that Omania was on the floor in front of the table
now, on a thick cushion. Her springy hair fell from its topknot, brushing her gleaming
brown shoulders and reaching onto the floor behind her. She reached her hands up and
beyond her head, lifting her breasts. Neru knelt on his haunches in front of her, his darker
hands holding her thighs open as he bent his face to her sex. Mercedes watched, her
mouth open, feeling herself panting softly, as he licked, slowly and thoroughly, arranging
himself so that she could see every swipe of his tongue.
The rhythm over her nipples had stopped, and now Sinbad’s heavy, warm hands moved
down the sides of her torso, making the silk cling to her damp skin. One hand slipped
around between her legs to feel there, through the silk. Mercedes shifted, lifting her hips
to meet his questing fingers. He used his strong forefinger to brush over the top of her
mound, pressing down over her labia, then gently stroking, up and down, up and down,
through the quickly dampening fabric. Her breathing rose, her eyes closed, and she let
herself rest back against him and felt his own short, hurried breathing.
Now his other hand had found its way back to her breast, and he slipped it through the
deep vee of her tunic, closing his rough palm over real flesh. “Open your eyes,
Countess,” he said, his accent nearly gone in the low timbre of his words. They were little
more than a breath, rough and hot now against her neck. His mouth closed over her skin
there, fiercely, suddenly, scraping with his whiskers, and she gave a little gasp, a little
jerk, and then everything exploded into a mass of shudders and jolts and long, sweet,
undulating pleasure.
When Mercedes came back to herself, she realized she was still wrapped in Sinbad’s
arms from behind. Her eyes remained closed, and she felt damp and hot, yet alive and
taut. Yes, taut. .. for when he shifted against her, his hands moving over that horrible,
sticky silk, her body tingled once more. Her breasts lifted, her pip swelled, ready, and her
mouth watered.
“Countess,” he murmured in her ear, “you’re missing the show.”
She opened her eyes reluctantly as he moved behind her, and saw Omania writhing on the
cushions in front of her.
As Sinbad shifted closer, Mercedes felt at last the ridge of his cock pressing into her
buttock. Without another thought, she reached behind, closed her fingers over it, watching as the two performers in front of her at last collapsed into a sweaty, sated heap.
Heat pulsed through the fabric of Sinbad s trousers, and the material was so thin she
could feel the shape of his head, the ridges of veins, and deep below, the hard stones of
his ballocks. Sinbad groaned when she touched him, his hands tightening where they’d
settled on her hips.
“Ahh,” he sighed, burying his face into her shoulder, his words smothered by her skin.
She probed and stroked through the silk behind her, and would have taken the moment to
pull the waistband away to slip her fingers down to touch his turgid flesh) but he kept her
facing away, kept her hand there on his cock until she felt him stiffen, and then shudder
behind her as the silk beneath her hands became wet.
His hands, tight on her shoulders, fell away, and she felt him sag back, propped up on his
palms. When she turned toward him, his eyes were closed, and for a moment, with the
bottom half of his bearded face shadowed, he looked so much like Edmond that she
froze. Her heart actually stopped. She was reaching to touch his forehead, with the thick
brows and the strong curve that led into his nose, when he opened his eyes, startling her.
He held her gaze for an instant, just long enough that even in the unreliable light she saw
a flash of what could only be agony. And then it was gone, and his expression turned
back to that of the cordial, relaxed host.
“Shall I pour you a drink?” he asked, moving away on the furs. “Or perhaps you might
like to try this.” He lifted a small bowl.
A spoon protruded from the porcelain vessel, its handle ornate and heavy compared to the
bowl of the utensil.
“What is it?” she asked, shifting, nearly groaning as her legs ached from being in such a
position for so long. The tunic bunched under her knees as she crawled closer to where
Sinbad had retreated, nearly sending her off-balance. It was hot and clingy. . . . She
wanted to remove it, but. . . “It is the ambrosia of the gods,” he told her, lifting the spoon
to his mouth and eating from it. “It will take you wherever you wish to go.”
Mercedes leaned toward him, and he fed her a bite of the chewy paste. She swallowed the
odd-tasting mixture and then sipped her wine as Neru and Omania also ate from the
spoon. “What is it called?” she asked.
“It has many names, but the one you might be familiar with is hashish,” Sinbad told her.
“Now shall we relax? Here, there is more to drink. And if you like,” he said, gesturing to
yet another maidservant, who had appeared with a tray laden with a steaming bowl, “you
may try a smoke.” Mercedes saw the thin reed of various pipes curling from the bowl.
Some form of incense began to waft through the air, making the room again smaller, and
warmer. The smell was unfamiliar to Mercedes, but it wasn’t unpleasant; it had a sort of
musky scent laced with a bit of spice. Neru and Omania, heedless of their nudity, knelt in
front of the divan and faced Sinbad, as if waiting for his next command.
He gave a short nod, and the two rose and went to the small table next to their master.
When they returned, each carried a small pot and a corked bottle.