Bliss River

by Thea Devine

  So, if she offered to pay him—the only way she knew how—he couldn't refuse her. It was all a matter of presen­tation. Without a doubt, he was enthralled with her breasts. So that was the point of approach.

  This time, though, all the pleasure must center on him and his needs. And no fucking. Fucking was the root of all problems, and he'd been absolutely right to deny them that.

  But there were other ways, other things. She would focus wholly and completely on his penis. Draw petals around its head, if necessary. Draw on him until he was bone dry.

  Two weeks on board ship instead of on board a camel. Payment for his time and expertise.

  Oh yes, especially his expertise—compensation the only way she knew how. Keep him satiated the whole voyage long so that he wouldn't have time to think about any­thing else.

  That she could do. With him.

  That should work.

  She broached it that evening as they sat on a curb out­side of a vegetable market and ate some fish for dinner.

  "It seems to me that you've been amply paid for the first part of this journey, but we have yet to discuss the terms to continue on."

  He felt a moment of shock. Now what? Or now, who?

  "There were no further terms," he said stiffly "We agreed at Dar el Rabat that was payment enough."

  "I'm thinking it wasn't, cadi. We have so many more miles, so many more weeks to travel. And I will not be be­holden to you in any way. If we continue on, then I must give you more."

  He felt a rill of arousal. "More—what?"

  "More pleasure, cadi. For these two weeks on board this boat, I will own your penis, to do with as I will. No fucking though. We cannot have fucking. But otherwise, I will give you all the pleasure you can handle as payment for your taking me this far and on the next leg of this jour­ney."

  "No fucking?" he said faintly.

  "By your own terms, cadi."

  "That was then, khanum."

  "That's as may be, but that is my proposal. Or we may do nothing. Or you may well determine to leave me here. It seems to me those are the choices. And that is what I have to barter."

  "And no fucking."

  "Too many problems involved with that. You might find you like it too much, and then where would I be?"

  Oh, the pure carnal certainty of the courtesan that he would be the one to become enslaved. He must consider. This was what she knew best: taking a man in hand and manipulating him. It was all of a piece to her. No matter where she was in the world, she could always play this card and win.

  It was working with him. Just the thought of her han­dling him for two weeks, just the thought of touching and fondling her sent a bolt of erotic need through his vitals.

  How hard had he tried for the last couple of weeks to train himself to live without it? Lying to himself that he could live without it—

  And now this.

  Ever a whore, using everything physical to lure her prey.

  He had never been immune from the first time she had pressed her nipples against his bare back that first night in the valley.

  "Where would you be?" he said, in answer to her ques­tion. "On your back, with my penis between your legs, in­stead of in your hands. But I know from experience that can be almost as good. You're right, khanum, it is a long journey and I am but a man. And I am hot for a woman"— her faint smile of triumph did not escape him—"so I'll take those terms, and put my penis willingly in your hands."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Malabar put into harbor two days later, a blasting horn heralding its arrival. Passengers, luggage, sundries, and cargo were efficiently ferried ashore on surfboats in the ensuing hours until dusk, and those embarking on the return trip weren't allowed on board until early the next morning.

  Space was limited, but Charles had managed to secure a cabin on the lower deck. They bought a trunk and filled it with food, fresh and tinned; bottles of water; tea and cof­fee; a small portable cooker; soap and a bucket for wash­ing; some bedding; candles; matches; a teakettle; and a frying pan.

  And they waited, to be among the first on line for the surfboat the following morning. Even then, after they'd settled everything in their tiny cabin, they still had to wait. They spent several hours above deck watching the crew load in cargo for the return trip.

  Charles watched Georgiana eyeing the men who were climbing up the ladder onto the deck. How did a man ever know what a woman was thinking? Especially her. Par­ticularly after her brazen offer of two nights ago.

  And she was still looking for fairer game?

  Or were they looking at her, now that she had leave to bare her head, wondering who she was and whether she was free and if they could somehow effect an introduction.

  That was easy enough on a voyage like this. The quar­ters were small, the gathering spaces even closer quarters; there would be no avoiding conversation or questions. Travelers would share experiences, meals, entertainment, a beer.

  He'd done that. He'd had any number of women throw themselves at him, hoping for a night in his bed. Being se­questered on a voyage was much like a trip into the desert: a world of its own, with its own little ciosed-in society, and the same unspoken rules. No one would know, no one would tell.

  Georgiana prowled the deck for possibilities.

  Let her.

  Only two weeks more, given decent weather, to En­gland.

  Two weeks more and he would be home again. Home.

  Had there ever been a home? Certainly not in the tents of Jalal Bakhtoum, the uncle who had raised him. There, his thirst for vengeance was fomented. There, he had learned the hard lessons of the life of a Bedouin prince who must uphold his family's honor.

  But there, too, had been fostered his love of horses; his uncle bred them. Horses brought prestige; they were a symbol of power.

  He had grown up with them, lived with them, and trained them alongside his uncle. The horse had been his release, his companion that slept in his tent like a brother.

  No wonder he had chosen the horse as his pathway to the road of revenge, the currency by which he had planned to avenge his father's death. And on top of failing to do that, he'd abandoned a damnable amount of money in horseflesh in the Valley.

  Someday he'd start over again in England.

  Another lesson learned at his uncle's knee. All you needed was a plan.

  His uncle had simmered his plan for years, seasoning it and testing it, testing him.

  yom must always have a plan ...

  And here he was, afloat on the ocean in West Africa, re­deemed, in the company of the courtesan of courtesans, with no plan at all except to let her get her hands on his penis that night.

  How far he had fallen from grace.

  You must always have a plan .. . the enemy is cunning, always moving, ever-changing.. .

  And so it had been: the wheel had turned and his mother had died anyway, just not by his hand. And in the end, who would know, who would tell, that he had not dealt Lydia the final blow? And that all the money spent, all the years he'd spent in England had yielded nothing but this one result: he never wished to return to Syria and his father's family again.

  Argentina had seemed a good compromise. Close enough to be reached, far enough away that he wasn't accountable to anyone, and a climate perfect for raising the ponies.

  But not England.

  And now England was close enough to touch, to taste. In the traitorous body of the wanton Georgiana, he would feed on memories of England, and the part of his soul he'd never wanted to face.

  Now Olivia remembered why she hated London. It was cold and foggy and inhospitable. Everything was behind closed doors, no matter what you wanted. Everything was contained, controlled, and restrained, from where you slept to the traffic on the streets.

  She hated London. She'd hated the whole trip, fast as it had been. Moreton had been a whirlwind, lifting them up and transporting them almost to another time and place. To memories she'd never wanted to revisit.

&
nbsp; And yet here she was, on the wings of Moreton's desires once again, wondering if there was ever a time she hadn't done exactly what he wanted.

  "Come, come, old girl," he chided her as they took din­ner at their hotel. "We've had the best and fastest ship coming over, the best accommodations, the best food, the best fucking really."

  "You've had the best," Olivia retorted. "My dear, you're just not seeing the larger picture. Look around this dining room. All those young things with their proper dresses, and hidden bosoms, and dainty manner­isms—can't you see how they are aching to burst out of all constraints? These are your doves, my dear. These little beauties just screaming to be sexual under their excellent good manners. Trust me. I've had many like them, and they are just waiting for the invitation."

  "Ummph," Olivia grunted. "I grant you ..." "How many bedrooms at Aling?" "Oh, I've forgotten after all these years. Ten? Fifteen? Something obscene like that."

  "Exactly," Moreton said, "Something obscene. A golden egg. Don't think these nobs would pay a pretty ha'pence to fuck them? Because you know, my dear, they are going home drunk and dry. Those tits won't give a morsel without some payment in kind. So our pickled prickles will be regular cunt hounds tonight. Watch."

  It was their first night in town after the arduous journey from the coast. They were in the hotel restaurant, and Olivia was fiddling with her food, and wanting desper­ately to bathe and recreate.

  And instead Moreton wanted her to play the voyeur. Not that that didn't have its charms. There just wasn't much to see when people couldn't be free to be naked and sexual.

  Still, there was some fascination in watching the subtle mating dance going on among the idle and beautiful who had nothing better to do.

  They ate and drank with abandon. They touched, they flirted, they stared deep into each others' eyes. He brushed her breast. She squeezed his knee. He dared to kiss her. Her hand disappeared under the tablecloth.

  Oh yes, oh yes, those mantraps would give only so much away. Then their lip lovers would get tired and retire to some nearby cake house and get it all off on a stale piece of pie.

  Not at my house... things won't go like that at my

  house.. .

  Moreton's eyes lit up watching her. If there was one thing about Olivia, it was her immediate grasp of all things sexual. Only a suggestion needed, and the thing came to her full-blown, already a plan.

  She hated those women, and she loved those strutting cocks and all the possibilities they represented.

  "They are very wealthy and very bored," he added in­sinuatingly just to reinforce her ideas further. "And look­ing for novelty and safety—and discretion. What would they pay for that, I wonder?"

  "While we get the pick of the pit. Yes, I see it now. All that lovely money melting into our pockets. My dear Moreton, you were right all along. This is our next step, exactly."

  She was licking her lips already. Nothing could be bet­ter. He wanted to implement their plans that very moment.

  But with Olivia, it paid not to rush her. To let her believe she was in control.

  He pushed down his excitement. "Well, my darling, it's up to you."

  She took a deep breath. He was right. There were things to be settled. Henry. Aling. She couldn't get there fast enough now. "A sling is close enough, my darling. In fact, just within our reach. We'll leave first thing in the morn­ing. Won't Henry be surprised?"

  The Malabar had shoved off at noon, and set a rigorous course northward. The crew provided tea and biscuits at four. After that, the travelers were on their own until to­morrow when the ship would break for native vendors farther up the coast.

  You always had to travel prepared. He wasn't prepared, Charles thought. Not since he first stepped foot into the Valley had he been prepared. And everything about Georgiana and this misbegotten adven­ture had knocked him upside down.

  And there she was, already in their cabin, already naked, waiting for him, her breasts so full and proud, the petal paint ever so slightly faded, which made his penis im­mediately come to attention.

  Just as she'd planned.

  "So. It's time." She was as businesslike as a madam. He had the feeling he had only to hand over his crown and she'd crown him.

  No. Yes. This was something he could not deny.

  No fucking... That remained to be seen.

  "You can just lie down. I'll do everything else."

  Practiced words. Words she had said to a dozen men dozens of times. Nothing personal here. Did he want there to be? A penis is a penis. Once you knew how to handle it, a man is clay in your hands.

  Who knew that better than she? This was just payment for passage; nothing more, nothing less.

  And he would take it that way. He deserved it. No com­plications. No emotions. Just pure jack-off pleasure at the hands of a well-schooled tart.

  He removed his clothes slowly, watching her face, and then stretched out on the bed, his expression impassive, his body speaking eloquently for him.

  She climbed over him and straddled his legs so that his penis poked up between her thighs, reaching for that deli­cious hollow between her breasts.

  He'd been there. He remembered, so did she. She grasped him with both hands, and his body jolted as if he'd been shocked.

  In a sense he had been. Her hands were electric, golden. Firm, gentle, purposeful, slipping and sliding her fingers, massaging the whole of his shaft and pulling up meaning­fully against the head.

  A man had to be stone not to spurt his guts. He felt it coming, a rill of pleasure sneaking up on him when he most wanted, most needed to control himself.

  But these things were beyond control, beyond sanity, es­pecially with her and that body, and those breasts, and the petal-rimmed nipple he had sucked and fondled. He couldn't fight it; he couldn't contain it.

  His whole body gathered. He reached upward to try to hold her breasts. Her magic hands pulled him up and up and up, and he exploded into her hands.

  Somewhere in the dizzying spiral of pleasure, he heard her low growl of triumph. But all he felt were her hands, and his body reaching for them, reaching upward, out­ward until he exploded all over her.

  She let him down gently. How easily she had taken him. But then, he was only a man, and she was as naked and enticing as Eve, as she coated her nipples with his ejaculate, watching him watching her with that knowing femi­nine gaze.

  Was there ever such a woman?

  "How was that, cadi?"

  "It went very well, for starters." No need to let her get too full of herself when he was desperate to fill her.

  "I'm thinking so myself." She squeezed a drop more from him. "Only, I think—no breasts."

  "What?"

  "Umm. No breasts. How can you enjoy the benefits of my experience if you are constantly trying to upend me and hold my breasts. And if you do that, what won't you do next? So, cadi, no breasts. No nipples. No sucking. Well, that doesn't include me. I must make certain I owe you nothing at the end of this voyage."

  "I would keep our bargain in any event," Charles growled.

  "But this way is so much more enjoyable, don't you think?"

  Enjoyable? He didn't know what to call it. Prisoner of those hands maybe. Besotted over those breasts, abso­lutely. He would have kept the bargain, no matter what she thought, and taken less than this, because she was so green, he could not let her stumble around by herself in the real world.

  When had he started feeling responsible for her? No. He wasn't. It was just those breasts ... and her hands which were idly exploring his scrotum and between his legs.

  He drew in a sharp breath as she insinuated her fingers deep under his scrotum and began to stroke him there.

  "Ah, cadi likes that..." she murmured. She shifted her body so that he could spread his legs and she could delve deeper. "Umm. I like that..."

  His body went soft, fluid, stiff as a pole. Who had made the rule about no fucking? He felt her pushing his legs apart still farther, and then suddenly her h
ead was buried between his legs, lapping and sucking at his scrotum and the flesh below.

  He bucked; he writhed. He sank into the wet hot draw of her voracious mouth.

  Courtesan's tricks ... as she worked her way from be­tween his legs back to his scrotum, and then up along the underside of his shaft with her practiced tongue, and up still higher until she engulfed his penis head in her mouth.

  Molten gold. Ribbons of hot gold undulating, flowing, faster and faster, erupting hot and hard and deep into her mouth.

  And she kept pulling, endless, deep, pulling him until he came crashing down, and violently, pushed her hot greedy mouth away.

  "I can do more," she whispered.

  "No more." He could barely get the words out. He felt as though every pore in his body had been sucked dry. She was too good at what she did, at what she knew. And if he even imagined how much of his seed she had swallowed, he just might go again, except he didn't think he could squeeze out another drop.

  "There's always more."

  "Fine, there will be more. Just not now."

  "Ah, so even cadi can have an excess of sex."

  "Talk to me in an hour."

  "As long as an hour?"

  He looked at her. She lay propped up beside him, her free hand threaded through his pubic hair at the very root of his penis. She looked unutterably complacent, certain of her talents and her ability.

  And he had played right into her hands. Still, he couldn't move one languid muscle just for looking at her mouth and imagining it closed around his penis and sucking. Just imagining the taste of his essence on her tongue.

  Imagining too much in this situation that was solely a completion of their bargain. She would do fine, no matter what happened. With just that one bedroom trick, she would have men salivating after her, willing to give her anything she wanted.

  It could be her specialty. She could sell tickets, take on— oh, how many men a night? Five? Ten? Fifty?

  He went rigid just thinking of it. Imagining her, the queen of cocks, sitting on her satin and gilt throne, naked, and men lining up, dropping their pants, and handing her hundreds of pounds in payment.