Jamie looks at the letter of commission before him and the cheque in the box on his knees and he grins.
"Of course I'm not. It gives me an excuse to draw more. I'll have to. I've got four walls to fill now."
Carrie lets out a sigh of relief and kisses his lips.
"I can't believe you showed those pictures to someone though.” Jamie runs his fingers through her hair. “You're so shy."
"I was.” Carrie nods. “But weeks of being called beautiful, of being fucked and admired and sketched and painted has made me rediscover my confidence.” She tears up, takes a deep breath and finishes, “Your love has transformed me."
Jamie pulls her into a tight embrace and kisses her forehead.
"No, Carrie, I've just restored you. You've always been beautiful and always will be."
"You are beautiful, too,” she sniffs, kissing his cheek, “but naughty."
"What?” Jamie looks confused.
"Having your phone off all day, not telling me you'd been fired, snogging another woman..."
"But she snogged me,” he protests.
"Whatever, you've still been a naughty boy and what do naughty boys get?"
Jamie smiles and winks, then bows his head.
"Punished."
"Pardon?"
"Punished, Mistress,” he repeats, his cheeks flushing, his cock coming to life in his pants.
"That's better.” She grins wickedly, her bright green eyes shining mischievously. “Now stand up, drop your trousers and bend over the sofa arm."
Jamie does as he's instructed, his hard cock digging in to the soft material and begging for release.
Carrie giggles and gently slaps his buttocks.
"Where are your manners?” She slaps him harder.
"Sorry, Mistress, Thank you, Mistress,” he replies.
"That's better.” She smacks him again, harder still seeing his flesh wobble and pinken.
"Thank you, Mistress,” he hisses, the pain warming his backside and stiffening his dick even further. Carrie spanks him a couple more times, enjoying the buzz of power flowing through her veins.
"Stand up,” she commands, shrugging out of her skirt and t-shirt. Jamie does as he is told and Carrie pushes him down onto the sofa then rips off her kickers.
"I need to fuck you,” she exclaims standing over him, one leg on either side of his legs. She lowers herself to her knees, her wet cunt hovering over his straining cock. She looks into his eyes as she sinks down onto him. He slips in smoothly like a sword into its sheath.
"Oh, yeah,” she gasps, her eyes closing for a second, then fluttering open. She is determined to watch him, to observe him as he comes. She sets up a rhythm rocking her pelvis to and fro as he holds tightly to her hips. Not a word is spoken as they fuck. Their eyes focus on one another, pupils expanded with lust, the depths filled with love.
They feel connected, completing a circuit which allows their bodies to conduct the sexual electricity with great efficiency. With each bounce Carrie's clit presses against his pelvis and sends shivers of pleasure throughout her being. With each grasp and contraction of her cunt his cock throbs and pulses, his mind and body overtaken with desire. They moan and hiss, their breath escaping and mingling as they rush on, coming closer and closer to climax.
"I love you,” he roars as he explodes,
"I love you,” she echoes as she shudders and shakes, collapsing onto his chest. Jamie wraps his arms around her, holding her close and cherishing this moment of total contentment.
She closes her eyes and listens to his heartbeat, safe at last.
Artifice
L.E. Bryce
Also by L.E. Bryce
Dead to the World
My Sun and Stars
Ki'iri
Becoming
The Golden Lotus
Concubinage
An abridged version of this story first appeared in Forbidden Fruit ezine in May 2006.
Twelve figures froze in their dance across the marble, limbs gracefully proportioned, faces serene under the ceremonial weight of their costumes. As promised, the stone carvers had delivered the frieze in six months. Jahzel was certain the goddess would be pleased by the offering.
Behind him, the High Prince could hear his courtiers murmuring in mutual admiration. One could always rely upon them to fawn over the latest royal commission, no matter how garish. Jahzel's father had possessed execrable taste, yet the utterances remained the same. Even the priests, whom Jahzel summoned to approve the work, couched their opinions behind affected gestures and smiles.
Jahzel nodded to the master carver, a stooped twig of a man who had lived through the reigns of Jahzel's father and grandfather. Despite his seeming frailty, Khemwy had lost none of his wits, a lesson which the current prince learned fifteen years ago when he sat for his first statue.
A body dried out by the desert sand lives forever, the old man said, grinning through the gap in his front teeth. Gods willing, I'll still be here in my workshop when your son follows you on the throne and wants to see himself fifty feet high in some city he's conquered.
Khemwy had not, Jahzel noted, punctuated his remarks with any of the usual formulas. When your son—may you father a hundred more—follows you—may the gods keep you in perpetual good health. Endless litanies as ancient as Tajhaan itself, and as thin as the dust blown in by the desert wind, Jahzel once spoke them to his own father as an obedient subject long before the cycles of life and death made him a living god. All he did now was attended by elaborate ritual, through which little else penetrated. For this reason, for the novelty of hearing clean, plain speech, Jahzel had offered Khemwy no reprimand.
"Once again, we are more than satisfied with the efforts of our stone carvers. Their work will please the lady Shalat even as it pleases us,” he said. Gesturing to the priests, he continued, “If the goddess’ servants approve, the work shall be formally dedicated and mounted in her temple."
With artful smiles, the priests bowed. Their spokesman made a carefully rehearsed, tiresome speech in praise of the work which Jahzel stopped trying to follow after the first few sentences. If the goddess does not shut her ears to such prattling as I do, then she is far more forgiving and patient than I, he thought.
Again nodding to Khemwy, Jahzel gave the man and his workers permission to drape the protective cloth over the frieze, which would remain until tomorrow under the watchful gaze of the sentries in the forecourt of the royal apartments.
Sensing their presence was no longer required, the courtiers began to disperse. Jahzel's wife rose from her chair at the edge of the courtyard and approached him, her ladies following at a discreet distance behind. “At least this time you did not have to go through the tiresome business of sitting for the stone carvers,” she said petulantly. “All that unhealthy dust, and they would have had you wear your royal robes."
Jahzel gently took her hand. In the early days of their marriage, he would have kissed her knuckles, but now he knew better than to touch her lacquered nails or the delicate henna designs her maids had painted into her skin. “I have already done my duty by the sculptors this year, my lady,” he replied. “I trust this dedication to Shalat is as pleasing to your eyes as it may be to hers."
Cherike drew her lips into a thin, sour line. “Perhaps as a reward her servants will find a more comely priestess with whom you can make next year's Great Marriage."
"I do my duty, lady,” Jahzel said tightly. Cherike was a Khalgari princess, for whom the fertility rites of Tajhaan seemed foreign and offensive, and from the beginning he had tried to be understanding. Each spring at the Great Marriage he sent her new jewels and silks to remind her that she was still his High Princess and the mother of his heir. “The goddess has blessed us with a great abundance. We must show our gratitude."
Had they not been in public, she might have said more, though it would have been unseemly for her as his wife to question his sexual activities. Instead, Cherike bowed to him, formally took her leave and retu
rned to the royal harem.
Mindful of his wife's peevish nature, Jahzel rarely received her in private. Her complaints were always the same: she did not like being secluded as Tajhaani royal women must be, she did not like her husband's other wives, the women who attended her, or the desert heat that even her gardens and fountains could not dispel. But for the fact that she had borne him an heir, he would have sent her back to her father's house long ago.
Late afternoon was turning to sunset. Jahzel washed, changed his robes and sat down to supper in a sitting room hung with crimson draperies. A procession of eunuchs brought in covered dishes which they laid before him and tasted; the ritual could last half an hour, regardless of how famished Jahzel might be. This evening, however, he had little appetite, giving him patience enough to wait until a eunuch of the royal harem brought his eldest son for an hour's visit.
At six, Muhal was an intelligent, handsome boy who thankfully displayed none of his mother's temperament. Jahzel delighted in his youthful conversation, asking questions about the day's activities which Muhal answered in great detail, and was sorry to see their hour together come to an end.
As the servants cleared away the remains of the meal, Jahzel retired into a private inner chamber where he often read from his collection of scrolls or, when the mood took him, indulged in more intimate pleasures. His servant Udjan, at his post in the corner, stood ready to carry out whatever wishes his prince might have, but after several moments contemplating what he ought to do, Jahzel decided he was interested in neither reading nor lovemaking.
"Pour me a cup of Besarian white,” he said, “and I will walk outdoors. The evening is pleasant enough for it."
Udjan poured the wine, tasted it and discreetly wiped the rim of the cup before offering it to Jahzel. “Do you require a guard to follow you, my lord?” he asked. Jahzel liked his unadorned manner, yet there was no engaging him in conversation. The man only spoke as many words as were needful, and Jahzel knew he would never relax his vigilance before the High Prince, even if granted leave.
Wine in one hand and a lantern in the other, Jahzel strolled through the gardens. Twilight had already fallen over the city, a rich blue dusk into which the moon rose high and full: the kind of desert night about which poets sang. Gooseflesh prickled his arms at the breeze that stirred the manicured fruit trees and hedges. Even though the rains had ended four weeks ago, spring nights remained cool.
Torchlight flickered from the sentry post by the far wall. A uniformed guard peered out, poised to issue a challenge until he recognized the intruder as the High Prince. With a crisp salute, he and the other sentries respectfully melted back into the shadows as Jahzel passed into the outer court.
The frieze, a mountain of dark draperies, dominated the space. Gingerly stepping over the ropes that pulled the cart, Jahzel approached and raised the cloth. Placing his wine cup at the base of the sledge, he lifted the lantern and gave the carvings the attention his earlier audience did not permit.
Real temple dancers were androgynous creatures, painted and choreographed in stylized movements. In his work Khemwy had captured that air, yet in places, life breathed through. Jahzel savored the details with which the stone carvers had lavished their work.
Here was a face of astounding beauty, eyes half-closed and full lips parted in ecstatic worship. Jahzel let his fingers graze the finely finished surface, lingering over high cheekbones and sliding down to trace the tendons in the neck. Khemwy always used models for his work, but without access to the exquisite bed slaves of the elite, where had he found such a lovely boy to pose for him?
Dropping the cloth back into place, Jahzel finished his wine and made his way back to his apartments, where he spent an hour reading before he had Udjan summon the eunuchs of the bedchamber to help him retire.
Workers came at midmorning to pull the cart from the palace to the temple of Shalat, where the frieze would be mounted on one of the walls. Since yesterday, no grumbling had come from the priests, which meant they either approved of the work or were indifferent.
Jahzel briefly interrupted to see how the work was progressing and exchange a few words with Khemwy. A team of eight mules was brought in through a side gate to be hitched to the cart; the overseer barking at the handlers straightened and immediately softened his tone when he spied the High Prince watching from the archway.
Khemwy gestured at him to continue before offering Jahzel an anxious bow. “Forgive the commotion, my lord."
"Noise and industry are synonymous with each other, master carver,” answered Jahzel. “I examined your work more closely last night. Your models must have been of exceptional quality."
"What's that, my lord?” Khemwy strained to hear over the noise before asking Jahzel to repeat what he had said. “Oh, yes. I'll only take the best."
Jahzel indicated that the stone carver should step back under the arch, which muffled the worst of the commotion. “I take it they were not genuine temple dancers?” he asked.
"No, not the real thing, my lord,” replied Khemwy. His eyes were still trained on the workers, and he was poised to intervene and shove the overseer aside at the first suggestion of trouble. “The priests wouldn't allow me to borrow them."
Jahzel did not inquire further about the face that inspired the figure he had admired the night before. His chief vizier appeared and swiftly ushered him away to review the day's itinerary. For three hours, he heard petitions and then presided over the trial of a physician accused of poisoning two patients. Witnesses were called, oaths were sworn and Jahzel adjourned the court to ponder the case and his decision. Once a month, the High Prince took on a judicial role to remind his people that justice and mercy ultimately resided in him.
Divine representative on earth he might be, but Jahzel found that exercising his legal prerogative was rarely a pleasant experience. Tajhaan's draconian law codes exacerbated the proceedings, particularly in this case. Whether his crime was committed through accident or negligence, if found guilty, the physician must die.
At noon, the viziers cleared the hall, freeing Jahzel to enjoy a light lunch with two of his courtiers before undertaking an excursion to the shrine of Belsha'at to perform his daily devotions. Afterward, he received a party of high-ranking silk merchants in a pavilion attached to the royal residence, where over wine and delicacies they discussed tariffs until sunset.
Business often continued into the evening hours. Frequent state banquets and formal suppers consumed most of Jahzel's leisure time. Last night had offered a rare respite from official business, and that he could enjoy two such nights in succession was remarkable indeed.
Supper was served in the crimson and gilt sitting room, yet once Jahzel decided he wished to dine, it was too late to have Muhal join him. Calling Udjan, he instructed the man to remind him to visit the royal harem tomorrow. Muhal would be honored by his appearance, and it had been several weeks since Jahzel had seen his other children or their mothers.
"What is your pleasure this evening, my lord?” asked the chief eunuch. “Do you desire music or poetry, or the company of the akeshi?"
Jahzel sighed, remembering that his five bed slaves also required his attention. Why do I keep so many wives and concubines? he wondered. It is more work than a sensible man could want. “When the meal is finished, call Theppu to the inner room. There will be no music tonight."
Theppu was a golden youth from eastern Tajhaan, with long, shapely legs he was always displaying to advantage, and the finest eyelashes Jahzel had ever seen on a boy. Upon entering the inner chamber, the akesh knelt and bent his forehead to the carpet. “What is your pleasure, my lord?"
Although the youth was a skilled partner, Jahzel did not really desire lovemaking. Udjan, poised to withdraw, paused at the signal to remain. “Come, sit beside me and speak to me."
Bewilderment furrowed Theppu's brow, but without comment he rose and climbed onto the divan to recline beside Jahzel. “Of what do you wish me to speak, my lord?"
Jahzel
ignored the light caresses with which Theppu lavished him. “You have friends in the akesh harem,” he said. “Surely you pass the time with conversation? Tell me what you talk about."
Theppu's confusion only deepened. “I do not understand,” he replied. “Such small matters would not interest you."
Because Jahzel insisted, Theppu hesitantly began to relate the day's gossip, prudently glossing over what might be offensive, until little substance was left. To offset his growing boredom, and aware that his akesh spoke only at his command, Jahzel listened with a practiced smile. Is he truly so vapid? he wondered. Does he think only of fripperies, intrigues and keeping me interested in bed?
"I had no idea you led such an interesting life,” he finally said, “but I know you are modest and would rather spend the evening pleasing me as you know best."
Despite his lack of desire, Jahzel could not send Theppu back to his quarters with so little ceremony; his disinterest would be misconstrued by the eunuchs as either a sign of illness or displeasure with his akesh, which certainly was not the case. With murmured encouragements meant for himself as well as his partner, Jahzel drew Theppu into his arms and covered his mouth with his own, deepening the kiss with his tongue until desire began to stir in his loins.
If Theppu did not want him, it did not show. Surely there must be times when he does not. Jahzel banished the thought as he undid his pleated robe, lay back and let Theppu pleasure him by taking his cock into his mouth.
After Jahzel achieved release, Theppu tenderly bathed him with the warm water and linens provided by Udjan, who had remained his corner throughout. Afterward, the akesh received a token of his master's appreciation and was led away.
His body sated, Jahzel lay against the cushions and let his eyes trace the intricate patterns on the ceiling until he recalled Khemwy's mysterious model.
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 5 Page 6
