The Tahl-Mat made a quick, imperious gesture with one hand, the soft jangle of the golden bracelets adorning her wrist sounding a compelling note through the long room. Slowly silence spread on both sides of the table as one of the gorgeously plumed ladies hovering behind the seated women rustled forward to help the old empress to her feet.
Alanna swallowed, and carefully placed the piece of fruit she had been peeling on the shimmering plate in front of her. Absently, she noticed that she had managed to carefully remove every piece of the skin and white pith from only a quarter of the orange, in what had to be a record for the slowest peeling in the history of oranges. She had been purposefully drawing out removing the skin from the fruit, knowing that if she ever reached the stage of placing a segment in her mouth, she would look like a cow endlessly chewing the cud as she attempted to pulp it enough to squeeze down her tight throat.
Helene’s hand under her elbow steadied her as she rose on her shaky legs. ‘I will not look at him’, she vowed silently to herself, while Helene shook out the soft, silken folds of her gown, but her eyes betrayed her, darting shyly across the table, to where the men remained seated.
The Great Tahl was seated cross-legged, lounging on his cushions with the graceful posture of one who spent most of his life on horseback. He was leaning forward, one wrist resting on his knee, supporting the goblet of wine cupped in his right hand. His half-closed eyes met hers, and the gleam in them made a faint tinge rise in her cheeks. She blinked, looked down, and tried to distract herself from the future by concentrating on stilling her hands, making herself carefully arrange them in a graceful pose clasped before her thighs, so that she could not fidget.
As the other ladies rose around them, Alanna’s gaze remained slightly unfocussed, directed at the floor, while her mind carefully replayed, again and again, the sharp-cut memory of those lean, strong fingers cupped in a casual embrace around the curve of the wine goblet. The gleam in his dark eyes. The curve of those cupped fingers. That gleam.
A faint tingling seemed to heat the ends of her nipples and Alanna took in a long breath, turning obediently to the Tahl-Mat, who was clapping her hands for attention.
Across the table, a soft, sibilant, “Hagl-at!” of appreciation was murmured by several of the men, their eyes fixed on the swelling curve of the girls’ breasts. Xanir Tahl’s mouth twisted slightly in acknowledgement of the approval voiced by his lords, even as he felt a quick pulse race down his cock, watching those soft mounds press against the bodice of her gown.
“A pair of fresh young buds
Now swell to golden peaches,
I would that I could gather
The sweet harvest with my lips!”
Makhar, on his left, softly sang the chorus of the verse lamenting the coldness of the beautiful Northern lady, which had first caught the attention of the Tahl. Em Feliz, further behind, leaned forwards to sigh, “Our poor Xanir. Sweating over the harvest all afternoon.”
The Tahl cracked a grin as the four friends around him broke into wicked laughter, and felt another sweet pulse down his hardening cock. He could see that her nipples were already slightly erect, and he imagined sliding his fingers inside the front of her gown, to gently tweak the swollen nodes. The girls’ cheeks were scarlet now, and she trembled slightly as she gathered her dress to follow the empress. Although she couldn’t know the words in Zanim, she must surely know the tune to her own lament, and the soft male laughter was hardly innocent.
‘She will grow accustomed’, Xanir thought, amused at her evident embarrassment. He had heard that in the Northern kingdoms, women were hidden away and a man was not encouraged to covert another’s woman, a strange custom. How was a man to show his strength, if he dared not display his wealth, daring his rivals to attempt to touch what was his? Only a weakling would hide his wife away, fearing another would steal her. Only a weakling would tolerate a plain wife who woke no envy in the breasts of his fellows. Which this one wasn’t, he smiled to himself, lifting the glass to his lips. His eyes caught and held hers over the rim as he savoured a small sip, lowering the goblet and slowly licking the last drop off his lips as he dropped his eyes to the soft, full curve of hers.
She swallowed, and the tip of her tongue was briefly visible as she moistened her suddenly dry lips, causing his cock to swell still further. He lifted his eyes back to hers, but they shyly flickered away, the hot colour in her cheeks deepening. However, her chin was held high in determined pride, and despite her embarrassment, the graceful roll of her hips as she followed his mother from the room was stately. And enticing. He would enjoy this one.
The door closed behind the women, and Xanir clapped his hands to bring out the port and the dancing girls, his mind lingering on the memory of the inviting lift and fall of her chest, soft mounds pressing against the front of the gown to the rhythm of her quick, shallow breaths.
He could tell from her reactions that she was an innocent, one who had never felt a hand glide over her breast or fingers tease her nipple; never shivered to the soft brush of kisses along her neckline or over her belly. However, he also suspected that she had never been coached in the ways to please a future husband, and possibly had no idea what was expected of her. She had never seen even a model of a rigid cock, never been shown how to glide her fingers over the shaft and gently milk, never been encouraged with fingers tangled in her hair to kiss the tip and ease it between her lips.
His smile grew. Then a sixth sense caused Xanir to glance down the table, to find the Lord Sambar leaning far out across the plates, having angled himself to watch the swaying hips of the new Tahl-Maia as she left. Aware of Xanir’s gaze, the old lord turned his eyes to his leige, almost glaring at him, licked his lips, swallowed, and growled, “You lucky dog.”
The Tahl’s eyebrows snapped together and he stiffened, staring coldly along the table into the hot black eyes. Sambar was one of those who was not good at showing envy appropriately, and had once been caught in the Water Garden thrusting between the legs of one of the Tahl’s concubines. Unfortunately, as she had been a lesser girl of no family who he hadn’t summoned for months, and the Lord had not broken into the Perfumed Garden to take her, Xanir had only been able to exile Sambar for a period instead of beheading him. The girl had been executed. She had left the perfumed garden without a single Zalmat to guard her, and Lord Sambar had pleaded that the heat of lust at the chance encounter with the dark beauty, ignited further by the tantalizing sakeen the girl had danced for them, had burned away the memory of his duty to his Tahl. The loss of face had been due to the girl’s actions therefore, as finding a girl unguarded was a perfectly reasonable excuse for mounting her, even without taking into account the sensuous sakeen. Bethim had repeated the same story, as had the Zalmat who had watched the display from their guard posts on the walls. At least Lord Bethim had not been stupid enough to return to court, although he had not actually had his cock in the girl when they had been surrounded. His come had been in her stomach, and running down her legs.
The Tahl scowled, his eyes glinting with a different light, and Sambar lost colour, quickly straightening his posture to retire into the shadow of his neighbour. Xanir kept his cold, steady gaze on the vacant spot where the lord had been for a few moments longer, then dismissed him from his mind and turned to watch Bezella shimmying towards him as alluringly as she could. Her full breasts were quivering under the gauze veil, the nipples rouged and spiced to tautness. His memory flicked back to the slightly peaked tips under his new wife’s gown and Xanir’s smile returned as his cock stirred back to attention. He was not sure which flavour would taste best on her skin. But he would find out. Soon.
