by Anne Rice
But it was a very long time before nightfall. I didn’t want to be on this cross, suffering, waiting—seeing the gleaming torsos of the others, their primed cocks—no, this was too much, I thought. I can’t bear this.
Our tall, elegantly haughty Master led us to the very center of the garden. The air was warm and sweet, just a little breeze. There was Dmitri, already mounted; and another, fair-skinned European slave with dark red hair, probably a Prince taken from our benevolent Queen; and two empty crosses waiting for Tristan and me.
The grooms appeared and lifted Tristan as I watched, and mounted him efficiently and quickly. They didn’t insert the phallus until they had his thighs comfortably fitted into the curve of the brass hooks, and when I saw the size of the phallus I winced. In an instant, his wrists were chained to the end of the thing, with the upright wood of the cross between them. His cock couldn’t have been any harder.
As the grooms went to combing his hair and binding his feet in place, I realized I had only seconds to do something rash if I was going to do it. I looked up at the Master’s still face. His lips were parted as he studied Tristan. His cheeks were slightly red.
I was still on all fours. I moved closer to him until I was against his robe, and then slowly, deliberately, I sat back on my ankles and looked up at him. A strange expression crossed his face, a prelude to rage that I had dared to do this. I whispered without moving my lips so that the grooms couldn’t hear me.
“What have you got under that robe,” I said, “that you torment us like this? You’re a eunuch, aren’t you? I don’t see any hair on your pretty face. That’s what you are, aren’t you?”
I thought I could see the hair of his head stand on end. The grooms were polishing Tristan’s muscles with clear oil and carefully wiping away what the skin did not absorb. But that was just a little blaze in the corner of my eye.
I was staring up at the Master.
“Well, are you a eunuch?” I whispered, barely moving my lips. “Or have you got something under those fancy robes worth ramming into me!” I laughed with my lips closed, a real evil-sounding laugh. I was really amusing myself. And I knew that it could well go awry. But the look on his face—the pure astonishment—was worth it.
He colored beautifully, the rage cresting, then melting under his control. His eyes narrowed.
“You’re a handsome bastard, you know, eunuch or no eunuch!” I hissed.
“Silence!” he thundered.
The grooms were startled. The word echoed throughout the garden. Then his voice crackled as he gave some quick commands. The grooms, terrified, finished with Tristan and hurried off silently.
I had bowed my head, but now I looked up again.
“You dare!” he whispered. And it was an interesting moment because he was whispering exactly the way I had. He couldn’t dare speak to me aloud any more than I could speak to him.
I smiled. My cock was pumping with juice, just ready to spill.
“I’ll cover you, if you prefer!” I whispered. “I mean if it doesn’t work, that thing you have—”
The slap came so fast I didn’t see it. He knocked me off balance. I was on all fours again. I heard a whistling sound, something that struck fear for reasons I couldn’t remember. I glanced up and saw he was pulling out a long leather leash from his girdle. It had been wound around his waist, hidden in the folds of velvet. It had a little loop on the end of it, just big enough for a regular cock, not mine, I didn’t think.
He grabbed me by the hair of my head and pulled me up. I felt the pain like a burn. He smacked me twice, hard, and I saw the garden in flashes of color as my head turned. Tumult in paradise. I felt his fingers raking my balls, pulling them up, and the cock strap went round and was buckled tight. Good fit, actually. And the leash dragged my whole pelvis forward, my knees scraping on the grass, as I tried to gain my balance.
My head was forced down by him until he could get the almighty slipper on the back of my neck, and then it was down to the ground again, though the leash ran under my chest, and he pulled it roughly, forcing me to hurry on all fours after him.
I wished I could look back at Tristan. I felt as if I’d betrayed him. And I thought suddenly I’d made a hideous mistake, that I’d wind up in one of the corridors, or something worse. But it was too late now. The strap tightened on my cock as he pulled me harder towards the doors of the palace.
BEAUTY: THE WATCHER
BEAUTY AWAKENED in a half swoon. They were gathered all around her still, the wives of the harem, talking idly.
They had long, beautiful feathers in their hands-peacock feathers and other brightly colored plumes with which they now and then stroked her breasts and her organs.
A little pulse throbbed in her moist sex. She felt the feathers lazing on her breasts, then stroking her sex more roughly but slowly.
Did they want nothing for themselves, these gentle creatures? Sleep took her again, and then again released her.
She opened her eyes, saw the sun pouring through the high latticed windows, saw the tentwork above aswarm with bits of embroidery, bits of mirrored glass, gold thread. She saw their faces near her, their white teeth, their soft rose-dark lips; heard their low, rapid speech, their laughter. From the folds of their garments perfume rose. The feathers continued to play with her as if she were a toy, a thing to tease idly.
And gradually from this forest of beautiful creatures, she fixed upon one stately figure-a woman who stood apart from the rest, her body half hidden by a high ornamental screen, one hand clutching the border of cedar wood as she stared down at Beauty.
Beauty closed her eyes, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun, the bed of cushions, the feathers. Then she opened them again.
The woman was still there. Who was she? Had she been here before?
Remarkable face, even in a sea of remarkable faces. Lush mouth, tiny nose, and blazing eyes that were somehow different from the eyes of the others. Her deep brown hair was parted in the middle, and it fell down below the shoulders in heavy banks of curls that created a triangle of darkness around the face, only a few ringlets on the forehead suggesting disarray, human imperfection. A thick circlet of gold wound round her forehead to hold in place a long rose-colored veil that appeared to float over her dark hair and fall behind her figure like a rose-tinted shadow.
Heart-shaped the face was, yet severe, very severe. The expression was one of seeming rage that was almost bitter.
Some faces would be ugly with this expression, Beauty thought, but this face was enhanced by the intensity. And the eyes-why, they were violet-gray. That was what was so strange. They weren’t black. And yet they were not pale eyes; they were vibrant, and searching, and suddenly full of conflict as Beauty looked up into them.
The woman drew back a little behind the screen, as if Beauty had driven her back. But the move defeated her purpose. All heads turned now to see her. No one made a sound at first. Then the women rose and bowed in greeting to her. Every one in the room—except Beauty, who dared not move—bowed to the woman.
“She must be the Sultana,” Beauty thought, and she felt a tightening in her throat to see the violet eyes focused so sharply on her. The clothes were very rich, Beauty realized this now. And the earrings the woman wore—two immense oval ornaments heavily carved with violet enamel in relief—how lovely.
The woman didn’t move or answer the greetings murmured to her. She remained half hidden by the screen, and she stared at Beauty.
Gradually the women resumed their former places. They sat beside Beauty and once again laid the feathers on her, stroked her. One of them leaned against her, warm and fragrant like a giant cat, and let her fingers play with Beauty’s tiny tight pubic locks idly. Beauty blushed, her eyes glazing over as she looked at the distant woman. But she moved her hips, and, when the feathers stroked her again, she began to moan, knowing full well that this woman watched her.
“Come out,” Beauty wanted to say. “Do not be shy.” The woman attracted her. She moved h
er hips ever more rapidly, the broad peacock feather lingering in its strokes. She felt other feathers tickling her between the legs. The delicate sensations were multiplied and became stronger.
Then a shadow passed before her eyes. She felt lips kissing her again. She could no longer see the strange watching one.
It was twilight when Beauty awoke. Azure shadows and the flicker of the lamps. Smell of cedar, roses. The wives caressed her as they lifted her and took her to the passage. She didn’t want to leave, her body awakening again, but then she thought of Lexius. And surely they would send word to Lexius that she had pleased them. She went down on her knees obediently.
But just before she entered the passage, she glanced back at the shadowy room and she saw the watcher standing in the corner. This time there was no screen to hide her. She wore violet silk, violet like her eyes, and her high gold-plated girdle was like a piece of armor encasing her narrow waist. And the rose-colored veil hovered about her as if it were a living thing, an aura.
“How do you open the girdle—take it off,” Beauty wondered. The woman’s head was a little to the side, as though she was trying to disguise her fascination with Beauty, and her breasts seemed to visibly swell beneath the tight bodice of embroidered cloth, that too somewhat like a piece of armor. The oval rings dangling from her ears appeared to shiver, as if they marked the secret excitement the woman felt, which she would not otherwise reveal to anyone.
Maybe it was the flattery of the light-Beauty couldn’t know-but this woman seemed infinitely more alluring than the others, like a great, purple tropical bloom set among tiger lilies.
The women were urging Beauty on, though they kissed her as they did so. She must go. She bowed her head and went into the passage, her flesh still tingling from their touch, and she came quickly to the other side, where the two male servants waited for her.
It was evening, and all the torches were lighted in the bath. And after Beauty had been oiled and perfumed and her hair brushed, she was led by three of the grooms to the broadest corridor that she had yet seen, a passage so splendidly decorated with bound slaves and mosaicwork that it gave the impression of tremendous importance.
Yet Beauty became more and more frightened. Where was Lexius? Where was she being taken? The grooms carried with them a casket. She feared she knew what was inside it.
At last, they came to a chamber with a pair of massive doors to the right, a sort of vestibule with the ceiling open to the sky. Beauty could see the stars, feel the warm air.
But when she saw the niche in the wall, the only niche in the chamber, placed directly opposite the doors, she became terrified. The grooms set down the casket and hurriedly removed from it a gold collar and a mass of silk wrapping.
They only smiled at her fear. They stood her in the niche, folded her arms behind her back, and quickly snapped the high, fur-lined gold collar round her neck, its broad rim cradling her jaw, tipping her chin up slightly. She couldn’t turn her head, look down. The collar was hooked to the wall behind her. Even if she lifted her feet off the floor, the thing would have held her.
But they were lifting her feet for her, winding each tightly with the long silk strips. They worked up her legs, leaving her sex bare, the wrapping getting tighter and tighter. In a moment, the wrappings were binding her stomach and her waist, sealing her arms to her back, and crisscrossing her breasts to leave them naked.
With each pull of the silk, she was bound more snugly. She had plenty of room to breathe, yet she was utterly rigid, utterly enclosed, and she felt hot and compact and weightless again. She seemed to float in the niche, a tight and helpless thing unable to shield her naked sex or breasts or the patch of naked flesh where her buttocks were pressed together.
Her feet were now positioned well apart, straps binding them to the floor. The high metal collar and its hook were given a last adjustment.
Beauty shivered all over, whimpered. The grooms paid scant attention. They hurried. They brushed her hair down over her shoulders, gave a final touch of wax to her lips. They combed her pubic hair, ignoring her moans. And then she was given a last round of kisses on the lips, a last round of admonitions to be utterly silent.
And off they went down the corridor, leaving her in this torchlit alcove, a mere fixture like a hundred others she had seen earlier in the passageways.
She stood still, her body seeming to grow under the wrappings, seeming to fill them, to push out at them over every inch of her snugly held body. The silence rang in her ears.
The torches flaring across from her on either side of the doors seemed like living things to her.
She tried to be still, quiet, but suddenly she lost the battle. And her entire body struggled for freedom. She tossed her hair, tried to free her limbs. She effected not the slightest change in the little sculpture that had been made of her.
And then, as the tears spilled down her face, she felt a marvelous, sad abandon. She belonged to the Sultan, to the palace, to this quiet and inevitable moment.
And it was a great honor really that she had been given this special place, that she was not in a row with others. She looked at the doors. She was thankful they held no pinioned slaves in decoration. And she knew, if and when they were opened, that she could cast her eyes down and try to be utterly subservient, as was expected of her.
She luxuriated in the bonds, though she knew the frustration that the night would bring, her sex already remembering the touch of the women of the harem. And she began to dream, though she was still awake, of Lexius and that strange woman, the Sultana perhaps, who had been watching her—the one who hadn’t touched her.
Her eyes were closed when she heard a faint sound. Someone coming. Someone to pass her in the shadows. Not to notice her. The steps drew closer, and she breathed anxiously in the tight constriction of the wrappings.
At last, the figures came into view: two beautifully dressed desert Lords in shimmering white headdresses, their foreheads bound with plaited gold, the linen forming neat folds around their faces and over their shoulders. They were talking to each other. They did not even glance at her. And after them a servant came on silent feet, with his hands clasped behind his back and his head down. He seemed frightened, timid.
The hall was once again quiet, and her heart slowed its pace, her breathing returning to normal. Little sounds came to her but they were from far away—laughter, music, too faint to annoy her or soothe her.
She was almost dozing when a sharp clicking sound awoke her. She stared forward and saw that the double doors had moved. Someone had opened them just a little. Someone was watching her from behind the doors. Why didn’t the person show himself?
She tried to remain calm. After all, she was helpless, was she not? But the tears sprang to her eyes, and her body grew feverish in the wrappings. Whoever it was, he might come out, torment her. Her naked sex was simple enough to touch, to tease in any way he might choose. Her naked breasts shivered. Why did he remain there? She could almost hear his breathing. And it crossed her mind that it might be one of the servants, who might spend an hour unobserved as he toyed with her.
When nothing happened, when the door merely remained ajar, she cried softly, the light dazzling her, the prospect of the long night ahead far worse than any whipping she had ever received, her tears dripping down her cheeks silently.
LAURENT: A LESSON IN SUBMISSION
WE WERE back in the palace, in the cool darkness of the corridors, with the smell of burning oil and burning resin from the torches and no sound but Lexius’s pounding feet and my hands and knees on the marble.
I knew when he slammed the door and bolted it that we were back in his chamber. I could feel his anger. I took a deep breath, staring at the pattern of stars in the marble. I hadn’t remembered them. Lovely red and green stars with circles inside them. And the sunlight made the marble warm. The whole room was warm and quiet. I saw the bed in the corner of my eye—I hadn’t remembered that either. Red silk, piled with cushions, lamps on chains h
anging on either side of it.
He had crossed the room, taken down a long leather strap from the wall. Good. Now we had something. Not those stupid thongs. I knelt back on my heels again, my cock pumping under the tight circle of the cock strap.
He turned and held the strap in his hands. It was heavy. It would hurt nicely. I might even be sorry before it was done, very sorry. I looked at him levelly. “You’re going to cover me or I’m going to cover you before we leave here,” I thought. “I make you that wager, young and elegant and silver-tongued Master.”
But I just smiled at him. And he stopped, staring at me, his face suddenly blank, as if he didn’t believe I was smiling at him.
“You cannot speak in this palace!” he said between his clenched teeth. “You will never dare to do that again!
“Are you a gelding or not?” I asked. I raised my eyebrows. “Come, Master.” I smiled again slowly. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”
He appeared to be trying to regain his composure. He took a deep breath. Maybe he was thinking of something worse than whipping, and I wasn’t being clever enough. I wanted the whipping!
Around him the little room seemed to glow in the slanting sun—the patterned floor, the red silk bed, the heap of cushions. The windows were covered with enameled and filigreed screens making them into thousands of little windows. And he seemed very much a part of it in his narrow velvet robe, his black hair swept back behind his ears, the little earrings glittering.
“You think you can provoke me into taking you?” he whispered. His lips quivered slightly, revealing the tension in him. His eyes were glittering with anger. Or with excitement. Hard to tell which. But what is the difference, really, whether the source of the light is burning oil or burning wood? It’s the light that matters.
