by Colette Gale
He was still on his hands and knees, their faces even and his head tipping to the side to better fit his mouth to hers. His arms bumped against her legs, and his weight on the divan cushions caused her to lean gently toward him, so she reached out to steady herself. Her fingers clashed with his among the fur.
The slick tangle of tongues, the sucking and nibbling and sliding of lips, the heat of his proximity, a spicy smell in his hair, the sweetness of mango and wine threaded through the kiss . . . a ferocious kiss, saved up for ten years. It was as if a door had opened and sensation burst through her body, awakening it.
Sinbad pulled back. “Enjoy,” he told her, gesturing at the younger man and woman standing before them.
He moved back to his place, and Mercédès stared at him in the dim light, her lips parted, her eyes fastened on him, her breath still coming in little surprised pants. Dios mio, what he’d done with a mere kiss!
Turning away, Sinbad clapped his hands again, and Neru and Omania began to dance.
Mercédès watched as the couple’s bodies began to undulate sinuously, gliding, shifting, rolling. At first, they stood next to each other, facing the divan, toes pointed toward their audience. Neru was in front of Mercédès, close enough that she could smell his musky scent and see the fine hairs of his brows, and Omania moved opposite Sinbad. Neru’s eyes were closed, and his body moved as though drawn by the drumbeat, easily, sensuously . . . moving to the low throbbing that began to match the drumming of Mercédès’ 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 Mercédès 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.
Mercédès’ 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 Mercédès could do not to gasp at the sight of the other woman’s hairless sex, rising smooth and beautiful, framed between Neru’s 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, Mercédès felt her own sex beating dully between her legs. When Omania gave a soft gasp as Neru tasted her, Mercédès 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. Mercédès’ 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 Mercédès 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. Mercédès 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, Mercédès 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. Mercédès 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 Mercédès had an unencumbered view of the way she slid the length of his member into her mouth. The girl’s 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.
Mercédès 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, Mercédès 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.
Mercédès
became aware of Sinbad’s 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. Mercédès 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. Mercédès 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 Mercédès 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, Mercédès 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.”
Mercédès 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.” Mercédès 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 Mercédès, 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.
Mercédès watched as Omania removed Sinbad’s shirt with deft brown fingers, and then knelt to slide his trousers down, leaving him bare except for the gold cuffs at his wrists, and, to her surprise, a single ring on his right areola. A shock of lust spiked through her again—had he worn that ten years ago?— but then Sinbad reclined on the divan, settling in the shadowy corner on his belly, leaving the lovely muscular curve of his ass bare to the chamber.
Omania knelt next to him, and after dipping her fingers into the small pot, she poured oil from the corked bottle onto his broad back and began to rub. In the low light, his flesh glistened and moved under her hands, the ripple and shine of muscle and the dip and curve of his shoulders glowing. Mercédès wanted to shove the servant girl out of the way and touch him herself, but before she could make such a move, Neru knelt on the divan next to her.
She looked at him, suddenly feeling light of head, yet incredibly free and loose. Before she knew it, he bent his face to hers. His kiss, with those full, sensual lips and strong tongue, left her breathless and shaky; but then he sat back on his haunches and began to tug at the hated tunic.
It was her only covering, and she knew it would be so daring to remove it, her last shield. But she was the only one clothed, and her skin yearned to breathe, to rid itself of the heavy, damp cloth. She didn’t protest as he lifted it up over her legs and hips, and before she quite knew it, she raised her arms so that it came up and over her head.
Relief . . . Her skin breathed once uncovered, yet felt warm and supple in the cooler air. Her heart beating strongly, Mercédès looked at Neru, wondering what was to happen next. But instead of kissing her again, he gestured for her to recline on the divan. Her skin tingling with apprehension and anticipation, she stretched out on her belly.
His hands were large and strong, and they moved over her skin with long, sure strokes from shoulder to buttock and back up again. The oil he used created a heated friction,
and sent off that same orangey-floral scent she recalled from her bath. Mercédès closed her eyes, giving herself up to the feel of this man’s hands as they closed around her waist, sliding up to her shoulders and down along her arms to the tips of her fingers, and back. She felt glorious, alive, and aroused.
When Neru brought his hands back up from a long stroke to her hips, they slipped around between skin and fur, to cover her breasts. Mercédès caught her breath when his deft fingers veed around her tight nipples and wove them back and forth and side to side. His hot skin brushed up against her hips, his breath and the proximity of his torso warmed her bare back. Neru’s fingers were rhythmic and relentless, tweaking and twitching her nipples against the ermine as her sex lifted and stretched again. Warm wet pooled in her quim; Mercédès shifted her legs so that they fell apart and buried her face into the soft furs near her restless fingers.
Before she knew it, Neru had rolled her onto her back and reared over her, his mouth descending to one breast as the other pulled the heavy, clinging strands of her damp hair away from her torso. When he closed over her nipple and sucked hard, she could no longer contain a gasp of pleasure. It came out like the long, low moan of wind before a summer storm.
The world moved and shifted, like pieces of colorful glass in a kaleidoscope: hot, dark skin touching her golden flesh; full, red lips opening over her nipple and sucking it into a long point; strong fingers sliding through the slick seam of her quim, flicking at her pip like a gentle tease. She closed her eyes, arching her hips and letting the pleasure overtake her.
Dimly, she heard a voice, a deep, sharp command from a great distance. Then the roaring sensations changed. . . . The heat shifted away, then returned. . . . The slickness of mouth and tongue disappeared, leaving one nipple hard and wet and cold, thrusting so tight it must be burning red. She opened her eyes as someone separated her knees, gently but firmly—but she had no desire to keep them closed. Her feet came off the divan, resting on the floor in front of it as large, warm hands stroked the insides of her thighs . . . lightly, so delicately, like a nasty tease, that she jerked and trembled in her sprawled position, trying to shift her hips, her thighs, her feet around . . . to find some kind of deeper touch that might lead her to what she needed.
