Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets

by Camille Anthony

  "Through the efforts of a Jewish ‘bundle-woman', the Duke managed to infiltrate the harem hoping to find someone to help him get the two sisters out. Asheed, who was still grieving over his Sultana's death, and feeling guilty about the part he had played in bringing it about, was willing to help the daughters of the Sultana's lover escape their fate. It helped that the Duke was paying a large sum in reward. They made their plans, choosing the night of a holy day celebration; one that with all the chaotic partying and noise would suit their purposes well. None of them took into account that the Sultan, who had been ill, would choose that same night to die."

  "The small group of your teyze, anne, Asheed, and the Duke, had almost won free of the harem courts when they heard the tumultuous roar of a thousand voices rocking the palace. Asheed quickly found out what was happening. Seems the Captain of the guard—thinking to please the new Sultan, Abdülhamid, who was away from the capitol that night, engaged in a skirmish on one of our many troubled frontiers—had taken it upon himself to rid the throne of any contenders ... one of whom was myself. It mattered not that my uncle had not ordered the execution; the deed would have been accomplished before he returned, and there would have been nothing he could do to reverse that action."

  The Sultan shifted uneasily. “What I tell you now, I could myself, never understand: after all I had done to her, Emily insisted that Wyndmere turn back and rescue me from where I languished in the Kafes, a helpless target for the overzealous captain. The Duke fought with the men sent to strangle me, killing two before the others broke and ran. He took me with them as far as the city gates, where I decided I would go no farther. You see, though I was grateful to have had my life spared, I was angry beyond belief that Emily had contrived to leave me. Ah, Jamal,” Selim drawled, a half-smile crooking his lips as he shook his head over his remembered folly, “the arrogance of the young. She could not leave knowing I was doomed, soon to be dead. And so she attempted to help, driven by her tender heart. She had every intention of leaving with her beloved Wyndmere, and there was nothing I could do to stop her. That night was the last I saw or heard from her until her letter reached me almost three years ago. Did I ever tell you how it read?"

  Jamal silently shook his head, dazed at the things he had heard.

  "She wrote: ‘Selim, I saved your life. Please save my son.’ Because of that night—and what she had once been to me—I was pleased to help Emily's son. I cared not what you may have done; your crime mattered not at all. Whatever your transgression, you would have found a safe refuge here in honor of my debt to your mother and father. Her letter explaining the true facts of your birth did not reach me before your ship docked, so you may imagine my shock when I first beheld you. I believe her when she says she did not know of you the night she fled. I also know it would not have made a difference for her. And Wyndmere ... I tell you truly, I have never seen a man so deeply in love with a woman. Emily could have been dragging five children behind her, and he would have accepted them all to please her. Your anne was, and remains to this day, a remarkable Lady. You owe her much ... the least being respect,” Selim finished softly.

  Jamal nodded wordlessly, unashamed that his father saw the tears that were blurring his vision. “I have been so wrong,” he admitted his voice pained. “I have misjudged her so—” his tones were filled with self-loathing, “—hurt her so. Anlamadim.” Jamal grated out in an anguished whisper.

  "Well, you should have understood,” Selim sternly admonished. “You, raised beneath her hand, should not have had to be told what manner of woman your mother is. Still, luckily for you, she is the forgiving type. It is not too late to make amends."

  Jamal stood up. “With your permission, I am going to write her at once and grovel at her feet, figuratively speaking. God. I wish I could tender my apologies to her face-to-face—"

  His long strides took him across the wide expanse of the Divan. At the doors of the audience hall, Jamal turned back to gaze for a long, still time at the man who was his father. Selim straightened under the perusal. Jamal's voice was quiet, manner-of-fact, when he said, “If you weren't my Baba, I'd have to kill you for what you did to my mother."

  Selim, the third Turkish Sultan to bear the name, sat still and silent under his son's stern gaze. Before Jamal turned again and exited the through the doorway, he called out, “Jamal."

  He stopped. “Yes?"

  Selim shocked him by bowing to him. “I believe you would, ogul, for there is much of myself in you. I feel great pride inside.""

  * * * *

  Jamal reclined in his chair. There, he thought triumphantly, the letter is done, to be carried off on the first available ship to England.

  With his apologies to his mother finished, he felt light and carefree, as if a great weight had fallen from him. Above all, he was thankful to right the wrong he had done his mother by his biased judgment of her. He had spared himself no contrition, and he knew his mother would be surprised when she read his missive, for he had been very unrestrained in his written outpourings, which was not his wont.

  Now that he allowed himself the luxury of thinking kindly of her, Jamal realized how much he missed the dowager Duchess. She had always been available to him, unlike most society mothers of the day who tossed their children into the nursery and forgot them until special occasions. He fondly recalled the times his mother had boldly stood between himself and his father, reminding Randolph of the mayhem and mischief he, himself, had gotten into when he was their son's age ... and beyond. It was still widely known among the ton that Randolph, seventh Duke of Wyndemere, had once been an outrageous flirt; an avowed rake who had earned the risqué title: Randy Randolph. A former rake who proudly announced that he had been tamed by the best of women...

  Jamal smiled at his memories. Yes, his mother fit the above description. Deep inside, he had never lost sight of that. His memories of his mother and father's marital relationship had him aching for a similar one for himself. And he couldn't help wondering if his mother had been manipulated in her loneliness. He had asked her to wait on the matter of the Duke of Raeburn's proposal. He felt uneasy, fearing he might be succumbing to jealousy, yet he could not shake off his concerns regarding this romance of his mother's.

  A knock at the door brought his head around, jarring him out of his circular thoughts. Seuliman moved to the portal, his cat-sleek walk making it seem as though he floated along the ground, and Jamal wondered anew over the grace exhibited by the hulking eunuch. The servant bowed slightly, stepping aside to allow entrance to the person standing in the doorway.

  Jamal tightened his jaw in disgust, an aggrieved breath blowing out. His eyes went cold and brooding as he viewed the slim woman bowing before him. So far, he had managed to circumvent his father's plans without endangering the women being sent to him. He had three women occupying his harem; women he had not touched. Now his father sent this girl, and as far as Jamal was concerned, she was the last straw. The girl was slender but curved in all the right places. Her dark hair fell straight as a shadowed waterfall to below her trim waist. Taller than the other girls had been, she looked older, and her eyes were huge and sultry with sensual knowledge. Obviously, she was virgin in flesh only.

  He beckoned, and as he watched her walk towards him, Jamal felt heat kindle in his blood. Every one of her separate parts moved in concert with the others, creating a lilting symphony. The thin garments that barely covered her rippled with the wind of her movements, and Jamal's eyes were drawn, all unwillingly, to the jutting peaks of the girl's generous breasts. She had rouged her nipples, and their seductive, scarlet color was easily discernible through the semi-transparent silk.

  Feeling overly warm, Jamal swallowed to ease his dry throat. Tearing his gaze from the luscious sight before him, he gestured for Seuliman to draw nearer. “Escort the young lady to the quarters prepared for her,” he commanded hoarsely.

  "My Lord, I beg you—” The young girl prostrated herself before him. “I have not been with my Lord for a
n hour, and the Sultan—may he live forever—will know this. He will have me killed for not attempting to please my Lord.” Her fear was apparent in her trembling limbs.

  Jamal cursed, rescinding his order. In his haste to rid himself of this girl, who should not have been a temptation, he had forgotten his father's wily manipulation. And he could not deny that this girl was proving to be a strong temptation. He had been celibate for almost two years, and his normal urges had just woken up, becoming immediate and urgent. Besides this woman's obvious maturity, she was displaying nothing of the fright and timidity the three earlier women had suffered from. This bold lass stood eyeing him so hungrily, Jamal almost expected her to lick her lips. What could he do to pass the required time without giving in to his growing need?

  "What is your name, girl?” The question came out roughened by gritty determination.

  "If it pleases my Lord, his humble servant is called Elma, though it is your right to give me a name of your own choosing."

  Jamal felt her voice flowing over him like warm milk. Her name: Apple, was appropriate, for her cheeks glowed with the healthy color of the ripe red fruit, her lips and jaunty nipples echoing the attention-grabbing color. He found himself clearing his throat again, before he could say, “Serve me tea, Elma."

  The girl jumped up, smiling, to run do his bidding. Too quickly, she returned with a large silver tray laden with fresh, hot tea, and food items designed to tempt the most fickle palate. Settling the tray carefully upon the low tripod next to Jamal's chair, Elma sank gracefully to her knees, painstakingly pouring a delicate porcelain cup half-full of strong black tea. Glancing up with a coy flick of thick eyelashes, she purred, “Does Master desire something ... sweet with his tea?” Her lips caressed the words even as her hands caressed the tea cup.

  Jamal started to squirm and caught himself. A slow burn ignited beneath his skin at the girl's suggestive tone. His pulse quickened, and his tight-fitting pants became tighter. He inwardly cursed his habit of wearing Western-style clothing in his private quarters, in contrast to the loose, flowing, concealing Eastern garb. It would be undignified to adjust the fit of his pants, which became tighter still when Jamal's sideways glance caught Elma's knowing gaze fixed avidly on his crotch.

  "Thank you, no,” he barked, “I take it black."

  Elma, who had almost forgotten the question, jumped in alarm, unable to control her momentary fear in response to the harshness in her new master's tones. Upon reflection, she rallied in understanding; the Master was racked with a desire he fought to deny. The Mistress of students had informed her of her Master's barbarian weakness: his inability to feel normal desire. She had been filled with disgust when told what was needed to bring his ivory pillar to attention, yet she had consented to forgo the proper preparations, that she might better drive him to his lust's completion. If she was able to bring this gavûr to bed, she, though but a slave, could yet attain a very high position—

  Raising herself slightly off her heels, Elma turned her torso towards Jamal to present the cooling cup of tea. In this practiced position, she exposed the creamy tops of her breasts to his hungry view. The Mistress of students held that no red-blooded male could resist such a view.

  Jamal was male. Jamal's red blood was boiling. Ignoring the tea cup in the girl's out-stretched hand, he came up out of his chair. With a preemptory gesture, he gathered Seuliman's attention. “You are dismissed. Await my summons in the outer chambers."

  Hard put to hide a smile, Seuliman gravely bowed before his troubled master. The door closed silently behind him.

  "Get up,” Jamal ordered the still kneeling woman. He felt an anger that grew at the same rate as his burgeoning desire, and it colored his voice. He was irritated and frustrated over his inability to control his impulses better. However, he had recalled a sure-fire way to quench this wayward desire. Eastern women shaved their pubes, resulting in them appearing childlike and immature. He would have her remove all her clothes. Surely her girlish, hairless mound would dampen his rampant ardor...

  Elma gracefully came to her feet and stepped close to Jamal, awaiting his next orders. When he curtly gestured towards the sleeping alcove, she turned, still without a word, and proceeded him into the next room. She did not smile until her back was to him, and the smile was gone by the time she turned to face the glowering man standing at the foot of the bed.

  "Strip."

  The garb for Eastern slave women was simple in function. It was to entice, and at the same time, facilitate quick access once the enticement was successful. To that end, there were few items, and those were generally sheer and brilliantly colored. And easily shed. Elma slowly released the ornate catch that held her bolero-like over-garment. It fluttered to the floor. Before it had settled into a rosy puddle, the skimpy, beaded bra had landed beside it, and the breathing houri stood exposed to the waist. Her breasts rose high and firm, her large crimson nipples were swollen and pointed with her own need.

  Jamal felt targeted. Those berry-bright nubbins were aimed directly towards his mouth. His mouth watered, and he swallowed twice, inwardly begging her to hurry with the unveiling. Surely her little naked mound will remind me of a girl-child's, he thought, desperately, and I'll be able to end this madness.

  Elma smiled as she slowly pulled on the drawstring holding up her baggy pants. The cloth slithered lovingly down her lush thighs as though reluctant to leave the fragrant flesh it had encased.

  Damn it. She was unshaven. Her pubic hairs were curly and so short that her pouty pink nether lips were clearly visible within the tender nest. The hairs glistened in the afternoon light, already wet with her ready juices of desire.

  Jamal could not bring himself to deny longer that this was no child before him, but a ripe, willing woman. His eyes bulged and his manhood rose higher to push stiffly against his pants, straining the material until there was no concealing his massive arousal. The feel of the woman's hot stare on that jutting part of his anatomy only heightened his desire. He stood, turned to stone as Elma approached him. He felt powerful, yet at the same time, he felt she stalked him like prey.

  Her smile was the smile of eternal Eve as she came to him, placing her hands on him, her palms lightly resting on his chest. She walked her fingers over him through the linen weave of his shirt, pinpointing his flat broad nipples. She stabbed them with a playful finger, playing hide-n-seek through the cloth. Quickly tiring of this, she pried the edges of the finely made shirt apart to delve into the swirls of hair decorating his muscular upper body. Searching out the male buttons that had swollen in need, she tugged on them, delighted at their instant responsiveness. She rose on tiptoe to lave a pert peak, then ran her tongue around and around the perimeter, defining, delineating. She tightened her tongue, made it a spear and stabbed sharply at the center of the masculine nipple. She flicked the other nipple with a fingernail, then urged it to rise by repeatedly lapping it with her tongue, and using her full lips to suction it into her voracious mouth.

  Jamal groaned, then exploded into action. His hands came up to grip her shoulders and pull her into his arms, against his chest. His mouth covered hers, his tongue aggressively parting her lips to delve deeply into her honeyed, dark interior.

  She moaned as Jamal's mouth worked on her, her limbs melting as heat flashed through her. Her hands swept down his chest, coming to rest on the closure of his straining pants. She boldly stroked his hard arousal through the cloth, squeezing, measuring its length, and was rewarded by the tortured sound that tore out of Jamal's throat. Then it was her turn as he administered a series of nibbling bites so intensely pleasurable they bordered on pain. His mouth moved lower, still nipping at sensitized flesh. One arm nestled in the small of her back, arching her up as his head lowered to nuzzle her bountiful breasts. He took one distended nipple into the hot cavern of his mouth, and swirled his tongue over and over the tip, wetting it thoroughly, lifting his head to examine his handiwork. The bright crimson was gone, replaced by a pale residue of pink, and the
plump tidbit stood up proud and erect, mutely begging for more. The colorful state of the unattended nubbin drew his attention, and he cupped it, bringing the tip up to completely encompass it with his mouth, drawing on it with a strong suctioning action as if to devour it whole. A gasping sigh trembled on Elma's lips; her hand convulsively tightened on the pillar of flesh rising strong and full between her master's wide-spread legs.

  Jamal was beyond thought now. He pushed at the woman, knowing the bed was behind her, and was shocked into growling anger when she somehow twisted out from under him, leaving him to sprawl on the mound of pillows. Before he could come up on his knees, intending who knew what, she was there, stroking his shoulders, soothing and arousing him anew. Breath almost lost in passion, she managed to gasp out, “Please, Master. I would ready you—"

  Jamal laughed, choked out: “Any readier, and I shall explode.” He worked at his pants buttons. Again, she was there, her hands taking over the task, and his clothes fell away under her expert handling.

  "All right.” He conceded.

  Elma licked her lips. At least this would be right. She removed the rest of Jamal's clothing, making sure to brush against his straining body at every opportunity. When he lay totally naked, one leg bent at the knee, she moved to the foot of the bed and stood there contemplating the man that would take her virginity.

  Oh, but he was beautiful. He was big, taller than the average Turk. And his skin was a pale honey that rarely saw the sun. His eyes almost frightened her, so clear a yellow were they, like a tiger's, or an eagle's. Dangerous. And the fathomless black of his pupils, dilated now with passion, so that there was only a thin rimming of the yellow about them, set deep in his head. Thick brows, thick lashes. His dark hair silky on his head, and thicker, curlier on his broad chest and around his sex. His muscular arms and legs dusted with short black swirls, a few on the backs of his hands. The unacknowledged son of the Sultan. A manly man. A powerful man. Elma felt a gush of liquid at her thighs. Power excited her. Now she would excite him...