The light seemed to emanate from the entire building, rather than coming from one window or another. One part of his mind questioned how that could be, but his eagerness to reach it quelled any suspicions he had.
He urged the horse down the incline, and beast and man half slid, half fell down the dune. The horse collapsed, dead, and Sasha stumbled towards the building. Nothing would keep him away. Now that he was closer he could see that the long ghost-white draperies billowed out from between some of the pillars, and he thought how refreshing they looked. He wanted to wrap himself in them, mummy-like, and soak up their coolness, let them soothe his fevered body.
I must be delirious, Sasha thought, as he pitched forwards into a faint at the foot of the steps leading to the building.
He awoke once in darkness, his body cradled by silk sheets, while hands, as soothing as ice, moved across his face; he cried out in pain because his skin was so roughened by the cruel sun and wind. The hands withdrew; a moment later something cold trickled down his throat, and he gasped gratefully at it. He was so parched . . . so fevered . . .
He thought he detected the fragrance of some spice . . . anise, but he couldn’t be sure, not now, not when all he wanted was the sweet water.
He slept again.
When he awoke it was still dark, yet he could see because of the moonlight streaming through the latticed windows. He tried to rise up on one elbow, but fell back; he wasn’t strong enough yet. He didn’t feel as feverish as he had before, but he didn’t didn’t feel well, either.
“You are awake,” said a voice, and he blinked as a woman slipped into his range of vision. The scent of anise drifted towards him, and that of oranges and cloves. They were pleasant bouquets, and he inhaled deeply.
“Yes.” He swallowed roughly, aware that his lips remained cracked. His voice was husky from his ordeal in the desert. “Where am I?”
“You are in Xanadu,” the woman replied.
“Xanadu?” The name seemed faintly familiar. Xanadu. Now where had he heard of that? Ah, yes from the poem by the English poet Coleridge. In Xanadu . . .
He frowned slightly. “That was just a poem,” he said. “Xanadu isn’t a real place.”
She smiled. “Everything has some kernel of truth. Have you not found that to be so?”
“I guess.”
She knelt beside him and, with his eyes adjusted to the half-light, he saw how beautiful she was. Her hair shimmered down her back like the night sky. Her face was oval, with high slanting cheekbones, and she could almost be one of his countrymen, he thought. Her eyes were smoky, liquid, dark, and he thought they held more than their share of amusement with him. She wore a kaftan-like garment, and it was almost sheer, for he could see the tip of a dusky nipple as it pushed against the material. He ran his tongue across his lips. Strings of pearls wound around her neck.
In the distance he heard the muted splashing of water. A fountain nearby. He closed his eyes and imagined the water, imagined the soothing water on his fevered skin . . . imagined the woman bathing in the fountain, the moonlight glinting off her skin . . .
“Here, you must drink,” she said, and she cradled his head against her breast and helped him to drink. The liquid tasted faintly of grapes and anise.
“What is it?” he asked her, as he lay back down on the pillow. “It’s delicious.”
“Raki. Almost like Greek ouzo. You know this?”
“Not personally, no, but I’ve heard of it. My uncle’s told me of it.”
She smiled, and her lips were red, very red, even in the moonlight. “It will make you strong again.” There was no mistaking what she meant by strong.
His body stirred, and once more he fell asleep.
Her name was Aina, she had explained, and she had lived here for many years. Before that she had lived in Greece, but that had been a lifetime ago.
“But how do you manage?” Sasha asked when he had recovered even more. Surely no woman could live by herself – much less in this barbaric country. How did she obtain provisions? How did she stay sane with the loneliness?
“I just do.”
He was now able to rise from his bed and move about the room without assistance for hours, although she always stayed with him. The corridors and rooms of this place were labyrinthine, and Aina had cautioned him against wandering around by himself, in case he should get lost. He seemed to sleep during the daylight hours and wake only at night, but in this country that made sense, he told himself. It was too hot during the day to do anything else but sleep. He was content with his schedule.
Every day he rose at dusk and bathed in water scented with jasmine, and shortly afterwards Aina would join him, bringing him a tray. The food and drink were for him only; she always explained that she had eaten before he awoke. He had no reason to disbelieve her. Occasionally she joined him in a glass of wine or raki. The food tasted delicious – he ate tangy rice with almonds and currants, tiny pastries filled with cheese or meat – borek, she named them – or leblebi, roasted chick peas.
Sometimes he remembered his camera and photographic equipment and wished he still had it. He would have liked to have her sit for him. She would make a beautiful subject. He would dress her in the sheer kaftan, perhaps with one shoulder bare, the material trailing down her white arm. Perhaps he would arrange the material sliding down past one breast, one long strand of pearls laying against her dark areola.
He wondered what she did to keep herself from boredom. “But what do you do here?” Sasha asked her finally.
“I read and study. I paint. I wait.”
“Wait?” He frowned, puzzled. Wait for what? Perhaps she was a member of a harem. His uncle had told him about such things. Of sultans and their numerous women, all given to pleasuring one man. It was, he thought, too much to hope.
She smiled, and he forgot about his camera, forgot about his uncle.
The following night Aina took him on a tour of the palace, for that was precisely what the building was. It contained hundreds of rooms, far more than he could keep straight, and he understood then how much bigger it was than when he’d first glimpsed it. Each room was decorated in the most lush of furnishings – thick handwoven carpets of scarlet and gold and cobalt upon the tiled floors, tapestries with geometric designs hanging upon the walls, latticed windows draped with delicate curtains that billowed inwards at the slightest breeze. The furniture was low to the floor, sometimes nothing more than thick cushions, although here and there he glimpsed a divan or two, and low tables whose wood gleamed darkly. Every room was lit by candles that gave off the most golden of light he’d ever seen. The scent of spices hid the smell of wax.
In all of this he heard few sounds beyond the musical splashing of the water and the occasional twittering of a bird outside.
There were just the two of them, he believed, although once or twice he thought he had heard other women’s voices, but he couldn’t be sure. He was too shy to ask the woman. He was afraid that he had simply dreamed it.
He wanted to see more of the palace, wanted to see what it looked like outside, to see the courtyards and gardens. In due time, Aina said.
Once more a warmth spread throughout his groin, and he wondered what she meant.
She came to him that night, gliding across the tiles to stand by his bed, and he blinked in the semi-darkness, almost convinced he dreamt. He wondered if she had been giving him opium; he drifted in and out of sleep so easily . . . it was hard to tell what was real, what was dream.
She pushed the diaphanous robe off her shoulders and it whispered to the floor, and shyly he studied her body. Her pale breasts jutted out, firm and full, and her waist was narrow, her hips curved, the triangle between them dark.
He had never seen a woman naked before – not beyond the etchings his uncle had shown him, and this was not at all the same. He wondered how soft her mound would be, and he put a hand out to touch her. She clasped his hand, rubbing his fingers against her triangle and the damp curls there. He moaned.
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Aina bent over him, a cool breast brushing his face. Reflexively Sasha opened his mouth, then felt the firm nipple being pushed into his mouth. He sucked at it, and it tasted of dusk and moonlight, of ice and fire, and as he licked and sucked at it, he felt her hands pulling away the silken sheet on his bed.
His penis throbbed; he was already fully erect.
Her eyes slid to his manhood, then back to his face. “You are ready, I see.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
He reached up to fondle her breasts. Twins in beauty. So perfect, so wonderful. Pleasure domes, he thought, and smiled languidly.
He fondled her cool nipples as she caressed and stroked his thighs, his stomach, his manhood, and once he thought he was about to explode, but she drew back quickly, and his body trembled but did not betray him. Then once more she was there, moving so that she was atop him, her lips kissing his chest.
He fumbled, trying to ease into her, and she breathed into his ear, “Do not be so hasty, Sasha.” He groaned, as she slid from him. She kissed his cheeks and lips, and sucked at him hungrily, as if she could draw his very breath from his lungs. For a moment he panicked and fought against her, but she held him down and soon his struggles ceased.
Then her mouth slipped down his chest, to his stomach, past, and he felt her mouth on his hardened shaft. Voluptuous pleasure rippled through him as her mouth slid up and down on him, and blindly he reached out, but hands – not hers, but another’s – pushed his away and held them against the silken sheets. He tried to turn his head, but someone held it in place. Yet another pair of hands gripped his ankles, and for a moment he bucked at being captured so, but Aina murmured to him, and he relaxed.
It was dark, too dark to see anything; he could only feel.
A breast touched his cheek, and instinctively he turned his face to it. The nipple grazed his teeth, and he licked it with his tongue, felt it harden beneath him. Aina continued to suck on him, and now he felt another mouth on his chest. Someone – something – nibbled delicately at his nipple, and the pain, mixed with fiery pleasure, shot through him. He arched his back, and cried out wordlessly, and Aina opened her mouth wide and took him inside even more.
He panted, hard, and clenched his captured hands. This was like nothing he had read about, nothing he had heard about from his uncle and the other men.
He bucked and pumped, and his penis slid moistly into another mouth, and that one licked and sucked at him, and the thin tongue curled around him, like a cobra squeezing its victim.
They murmured wordlessly as they ran their expert hands across his thighs and arms, stomach and face, and he felt satiny breasts brush against him, tasted the moistness of their cunts, and even as he opened his eyes all he could see was Aina’s face. But was that real, or only in his mind? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.
Teeth tore at his chest and groin, and he bucked and ground his hips and thrust wildly, trying to fill something, trying to come to full release, and pumped and pumped until he thought he had nothing left to give. Exhausted, drenched with sweat, his hair plastered across his forehead, he fell back onto the bed. He was now limp, and so winded that he nearly choked from lack of air.
“You are so handsome,” Aina murmured, and kissed him on the lips, and she tasted of anise and something faintly salty that was not sweat.
He woke later than usual the following night, and he was groggy, almost as if he had been drinking. But he knew he’d had nothing more than raki, and that had never bothered him. He put one hand to his forehead, and his skin was warm, almost feverish. He moistened his lips.
“Good evening,” Aina said, as she brought his tray into the room.
He managed to sit up, but all he could do was nod at her. His head ached, and he was tired, so very tired. Almost as exhausted as when he’d first arrived there. He wondered what had happened? Had he suffered a relapse of some sort?
“Are you giving me opium?” he asked Aina as she handed him a cup of raki.
“No,” she said simply.
But he wasn’t sure he could believe her. He pushed listlessly at his food with his fork.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I’m not feeling well.”
“Perhaps you should sleep.”
“I sleep too damned much,” he said sharply. “That’s why I think you’re giving me opium.” He knew he sounded petulant, but he couldn’t help it.
“There are things other than opium, dear one,” she said, as she trailed her fingertips across his forehead, “other drugs.” She kissed his lips, and he realized then how swollen and sore they felt, almost as if they had been bitten. He put his hand up to his mouth and when he stared down at his fingers, blood glistened there.
After Aina left him, Sasha drifted back to sleep. He woke to see the moonlight coming through the windows. The moon’s rays painted pale designs upon the marble, and he wondered what time it was. He realized he never knew the time, only that it was either night or day. He decided then that he ought to get up and explore while the woman wasn’t there to stop him. Where did she go at these times? Maybe he would find out.
He rose and pulled on his clothes. He looked around for a candle to light, but found none. He would have to hope there was enough light to see during his exploration.
He walked quietly down the corridor. Rooms lay to the left and right of him, but all were deserted. Once he heard the flowing water, then that went away, and he was left in the dark silence. This corridor led to another one, then still another passageway, and behind him and in front were dozens of rooms. All empty.
Finally, he thought he heard a voice – no, two – and crept forwards carefully and peered around the doorway.
Half a dozen women lounged in a chamber that seemed to be nothing more than one enormous bed that extended from wall to wall. A carpet – no, a mattress, it was so thick and luxurious, with silken sheets – covered the floor. Gossamer draperies, like webs, hung in the corners, while richly hued tapestries decorated the walls.
He saw Aina, reclining against a mound of brocade pillows. She was naked, except for the strands of pearls at her neck, and her knees were slightly raised. He realized then with a shock that a woman, her braided hair the colour of burnished copper, crouched with her head between Aina’s legs and she was kissing Aina in her most private parts. Aina moaned with pleasure, and pushed the woman’s head hard against her.
He swallowed hard and his hand crept to his crotch. Two very young women, who could have been twins so alike were they in appearance, embraced and kissed, sticking their tongues in each other’s mouths. They kissed each other’s breasts, then giggled, and turned to another woman, a blonde who lay on her stomach, as if waiting. One of the twins pushed a pillow under the third woman’s hips, elevating them, then the other twin strapped a leather belt around her waist, and Sasha blinked when he saw that the woman had grown a phallus.
The dildo was long – impossibly long – and of gold-veined marble. She oiled it with a pungent gel, her fingers rubbing in long caressing strokes, then thrust the phallus deep between the raised rounded buttocks of the blonde woman. They laughed, and the second twin reached out and deftly slipped her fingers between her sister’s legs, and the girl gasped and ground her mound down on her sister’s hand, while the woman across the pillow pounded her fists against the cushion and whimpered. The woman with the phallus thrust in and out, in and out, each time going faster and faster until finally the three cried out together, then collapsed in a heap. The twins languidly kissed each other, while the blonde buried her face in the lap of one of the sisters.
Nearby another woman, much smaller than Aina and with hair much darker, sat propped against a cushioned wall and kneaded her erect nipples. Harder and faster her fingers went as she first flicked the nubbins, then squeezed, then rubbed them hard again and again as she mashed them with her palms, and she bucked against the wall. She raked her nails down her heavy breasts, leaving angry red welts, and she
laughed, then thrust the marble phallus into her cunt, and fucked herself until blood glistened on the marble. She gave a great shuddering sigh of release, then crawled over to the others, and they began to bite and pinch her. All the while she laughed.
Sweat trickled down Sasha’s temple. His breath was short, and he could feel the hardness in his pants. His penis pulsated, pushed against the material, and he slipped his hand inside, touching his moist skin. He rubbed himself, stroked, and his breathing quickened. The room was redolent of musk, and he licked his lips. He was hot, so very hot. He wouldn’t need much more for release. At that moment Aina opened her eyes and looked at him and smiled. The copper-haired woman between her thighs never looked up.
“Come join us,” she said, extending her hand.
He did.
He was awash in a sea of curling legs and grasping arms and voluptuous bodies. Half a dozen mouths caressed him with their lips, their tongues, and he reached out, stroking randomly at breasts. There was muffled laughter, and one of the women – he didn’t know who – began licking him. He felt himself enlarge, felt the blood pumping through his body, and realized he had never felt more alive than now. Desire and something more – life, a vitality that he had never had before in Russia – coursed through him. Something soft – a feather, perhaps? – touched his arm, and a physical thrill raced down his side. The feather danced its way down to his groin, and he laughed when it brushed across his penis. A woman’s lips, hard and demanding, fastened on his mouth. He realized it was the small woman and she sucked his breath until he thought he would pass out. He reached out for someone, and one of the twins captured his hand and began licking each finger, slipping it into her mouth and sucking on it.
He exploded violently, and again he heard the muffled laughter. The blonde ran her tongue down his chest, all the while the other woman continued to run her tongue up and down his manhood. He felt himself beginning to harden again. He tried to caress Aina, touched the firm buttocks of another woman, ran his hand down her smooth thigh. He slipped his fingers inside her, and she was cold, as cold as ice, and he pumped his hands, and she ground her hips down onto his hand.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 2 Page 44
