The Circassian (closed)

Marcel leaned against the cushions on the floor, forgoing the lounge in the room. The smaller room had little in way of furniture, and though unseemly as it was, the cushions were a damned sight more comfortable than the ancient lounge. Marcel always eyed it suspiciously, like the thing would leap up alive one day and swing at him.

"Does Sir have a preference for the mood of my playing?" Her eyebrows gave the appearance of surprise or disdain, Marcel wasn't sure which.

"Play something more along the lines of the first song, not the second."

Somehow when the Comte stretched out on the cushions he seemed taller, well, longer. Larger somehow.

"You prefer the love song." She smiled at him. "Did I hear your manservant say you have a wife at home? You must miss her to want to hear love songs. It must be a hard thing to be separated from the one you love."

She tuned the tar, making it turn into the song. It was not so much a song as a recitation of a poem with the tar as an accompaniment. Then she played an instrumental song.

((http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eVdYeUd4nWE&feature=related followed by http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QclnG8s-gQ&feature=related))

If I met you face to face, I would retrace, erase my heartbreak, pain by pain, ache by ache, word by word, point by point.

In search of you--justify your face! I roam through the streets lost in disgrace, house to house, lane to lane, place to place, door to door.

My heart is hopeless, broken, crushed! I heard it pound till blood gushed from me, fountain by fountain, stream by stream, river by river, sea by sea.

The garden of your lips, your cheeks! Your perfumed hair. I wander there, bloom to bloom, rose to rose, petal to petal, scent to scent.

Your eyebrow, your eye! And the mole on your face, somehow they tie me, trait to trait, kindness to kindness, passion to passion, love to love.

While I grieve with love, your love! I will reweave the fabric of my soul stitch by stitch, thread by thread, warp by warp, woof by woof.

Last, I Tahirih, searched my heart, I looked line by line. What did I find? You and you, you and you, you and you.

She did not look at him as she played, but lost herself in the recitation and the music. She had never known love, but she understood longing. She yearned for something she did not understand. Like a desert that dreamed of rain.

((We can have Samara bring lunch to them, or Samara and Henri bring it in.))

Marcel listened to Katirah as she recited the poem, plucking the tar in accompaniment. Her voice carried a note of yearning a longing for something, or someone, unnamed. For the briefest of moments, Marcel's anger flared that Katirah may yearn for a man.

Reason kicked in soon there after, of course she must have had a life, a man, prior to his purchasing her. She was after all quite beautiful and talented.

Silently sighing, Marcel saw the inkeeper delivering lunch to Samara as Katirah finished the song. He looked at the siren and said, "No. That is Henri's wife we were talking about. I have managed to stay away long enough to avoid that so far."

"Oh," Katirah said. She thought of many other questions she would like to ask, but that would be too familiar. Did he have concubines instead? Or was it boys he preferred? Though she doubted it. He had a look in his eyes sometimes, she knew that look. Men often looked at her that way. She expected he would want her to couch with him, perhaps as soon as after lunch. She had laid with men far older and uglier than the Comte.

Katirah stood and went to a corner of the room, she opened the base of a table and set it in front of the Comte. Samara placed the tray on top of the base. "Thank you Samara." The girl left to go eat with the servants downstairs.

Katirah knelt at the Comte's feet again. She poured Turkish coffee for the two of them, then offered him a small basket with bread. "Do you know what they say about Turkish coffee? "'Tis black as night, hot as love, sweet as sin, and powerful as damnation." She smiled.

She waited for him to begin eating. There was the traditional Khachapuri, cheese pie, and a wonderful spiced lamb stew. The food smelled very good. Or perhaps she was simply very hungry. Breakfast was a vague memory after all the doings and stress in the slave market.

((It's a low table, so if the Comte leans forward, he can easily reach everything and eat. I don't know much about Russian Georgia. I keep picturing things from Moroccan Restaurants.))

Katirah sat at his feet again, so close he could wrap his calves around her and yank her oh so close. Uncomfortably, delightfully, close. For a moment he considered the fact that she was toying with him, and that it would only become more pronounced as they traveled west.

The prospect of wintering with her was maddening. Titillating.

I thought that was Circassian women. Marcel thought, as he reached out for a piece of bread. Their fingers somehow touched, the fires of hell, or the breath of heaven, erupted in his hand and flooded his system. "God, help me," he prayed silently.

Bowing his head he prayed over the meal silently, invoking the Almighty for strength to not betray his liege, and of course heaven itself. Beginning to eat, he watched Katirah as she ate, mimicking her actions with the unfamiliar food. It was a good hearty meal, unlike what he ate in France, the unbidden, his mouth asked, "Do you cook?"

His mind raced trying to rationalize why he had asked such a thing of her.

Offering the Comte bread, their hands brushed and Katirah saw a fleeting expression cross his face. It seemed he did not like boys after all. It also seemed to her he had been long without a woman. She thought that was very unhealthy for a man. perhaps he had taken some vow as the holy men do. but that made no sense to her, especially since the Comte was a man of standing in his native France.

If he wanted her, she did not understand what made him hesitate. She waited while he silently prayed over his food. She was not a daughter of Islam, nor A Christian. She remembered little of the beliefs of her people and over time due to her treatment at the hands of some of her masters, she had decided that if there was a God, he was not interested in the likes of her.

She watched the Comte begin to eat rather clumsily. it made her smile a little. She should ask him to instruct her in the use of the utensils she knew were used to the West. She had heard they did not generally eat with their fingers. She quickly took one of the large napkins and placed it over his lap, or tried to. Then she took one for herself.

"Do you cook?" he asked her. She smiled and looked down at her plate. Her hair fell forward veiling her expression. "The slavers who stole me from my village determined almost immediately that the kitchen was not the room I was best suited to serve in. Sir." She spoke matter-of-factly. She wiped her hands in her napkin and reached for her coffee.

Marcel laughed at the abrupt answer to his question, and admitted to himself that it was indeed the right decision on their part. Indeed, she seemed to be so much more than a mere slave.

Whatever that was.

Marcel ate in silence, his mind occupied by thoughts of Katirah's voice, idly he wondered what her sigh would sound like.

Startled at where his mind was going, Marcel turned his thoughts to the upcoming trip back to France.

Beloved France, the smell of thyme, sage and parsley always in the air, strolls through vineyards, succulent grapes on the tongue.

So very much like this land. This dusty, dirty, rank land. He hated it here, and could not wait to leave.

Deciding, Marcel knew that he would make the caravan leave in two weeks, whomever was not ready, would be left. Much longer than that would ensure they would have to winter along the way.

A winter that would hell.

Or heaven.

The Comte did not seem to want to have a conversation, so Katirah kept silent. She passed more bread to the Comte and offered him more coffee when he finished his cup.

She found the man to be an enigma. He seemed attracted to her and yet, he did nothing. Was she displeasing him in some way? She decided that she did not understand Western men at all.

When they both finished eating, she piled up the dishes and put them on the tray. She put the tray on a table by the door. She removed the small table they had been using. Samara would return and take their dishes away.

She sat down at his feet. Her arm brushed his leg as she turned to ask, "Would Sir like me to play for him again? Or bathe him? Sir, seems tense, perhaps a massage?" She had offered these things before, why did he not accept them? how could she possibly please him if he would not let her? He was the Baron's agent and until she was delivered to the Baron, she was the Comte's slave. She was relying on him to teach her what she needed to know in order to please men of the West.

Flashes of pleasure roared through Marcel as Katirah's hand brushed his leg. Visions of her on top of him, her hip rotating powerfully, grinding his cock like a millstone of pleasure. Visions of him on top of her. Her hands pinned above her head by one of his hands, his cock ravaging her pussy like a Hun along Danube. Visions of both on their knees, he behind her, hand twined in her hair pulling with all his might as hip rammed against ass, pussy and cock juices flying every where.

All unbidden, in the one second that her flesh touched his, his body reacted powerfully. His breath caught, eyes narrowed in lust, and noticeably, his cock roared into its full glory, pressing his tunic and doublet out, a miniature lance, ready to joust.

His voice was heavily laden with lust as he responded, "After dinner, a bath, perhaps a massage, but for now, I must return to my duties."

Standing Marcel didn't bother hiding his body's reaction to the woman, he knew that would merely draw her eyes there if she had not seen already. It was not sobering, in the least, that as she was kneeling, looking upi rather quizzically, that her mouth was just about perfectly aligned in elevation with his balls. A thought which sent another wave of desire through him.

"I will see you at dinner, do stay within the confines of the inn, if you must leave let me know and I will send an escort with you."

((Ooh what a wonderful post. I love 'millstone of pleasure.'))

Katirah smiled to herself. So the Comte was not made of stone. She took note of his rather impressive erection. This was something she could understand. She wondered how he would take her. He seemed to like her on her knees right where she was. That would be where she would begin and perhaps he would leave it at that.

"I will see that a proper bath is made ready for you. Sir." Leave? She had no idea why she would leave. Where would she go? Although a walk might relieve the boredom of waiting until dinner. But that could be more trouble than it was worth. Disturbing the Comte to ask permission, waiting for her escort. She was accustomed to being able to walk freely in the women's garden when she belonged to the Pasha.

((Should we fast forward a little to dinner?))

Samara told Katirah that it would be at least a week and probably two before they would leave with the caravan to get them closer to her new home in France. Samara told her of other news and rumors. Katirah wanted to know all she could about the Baron, and also the Comte since they would be traveling together for so long.

She told Samara of the Comte's enormous erection and they giggled like virgins.

Katirah spent time organizing some of her things, things she would need over the next week. She spent the rest of her time practicing.

As dinnertime approached, she reapplied the kohl around her eyes and carmined her lips. She applied scented oil massaging it into her skin.

She called for Samara then sent her to have someone bring up a tub and put it in the room the Comte had given to Katirah. It would give him privacy and Samara would not have to come through the room if she was needed elsewhere.

She gave the girl instructions that water was to be heated and the bath was to be ready when the Comte was done eating. Also, that once the Comte was taking his bath Samara was not to interrupt. Sir might want a massage. or something else. Samara should be prepared to spend the night in the outer room.

Marcel stopped at the top of the stairs, regaining control of his body, specifically his cock which was still straining to gain its freedom. After a couple of minutes it relaxed to a state half way between turgid and flaccid.

Marcel headed downstairs to the laughing eyes of Henri. "Does the Comte have a problem?" Henri kidded.

Marcel glanced at his companion of many years, "Indeed. This will be a long trip. It is imperative that we leave next week."

A roar from the merchants traveling with them ensued. One, a rat faced merchant, with black greasy hair roared, "That is impossible!"

Marcel looked at him, in a whisper that cut through the din around him, "If I were you, I would secure your goods, and not wallow here in this in whetting your whistle and cock."

The merchant, Paien Jobin, replied, "But sire, if the spices are not here to be bought, they are not here."

"Then if I were you, I would apply pressure on your supplier, or have a secondary plan. One week from Friday, we leave."

The din continued until Marcel shouted, "ENOUGH! If you are not ready, you will be left. No discussion."

Henri looked at his liege biting his tongue. Once the merchants began clearing out, "Sir, is it wise to leave before the Rat is ready? It is his cargo that will pay for Katirah, and the rest of the journey, allowing the rest to profit you directly, and substantially."

Marcel looked at Henri, for a moment struggled against blowing up at his friend, then settled, "Wintering with her would be too much, I would not be able to not sample the Baron's wares."

Henri nodded in sympathy, "Well, my lord, you have an available option, and plenty of options are readily at hand in the market."

Marcel looked at him questioningly. Henri smiled and said in a low hushed voice, "Although she is not the Circassian, she is comely enough to sate ones baser needs."

Marcel looked at his friend and shook his head, "I am not sure about that plan. Whoring about has never been my style. Or yours."

"That is why we are such good comrades, my lord." Henri replied. "But I would not have you lose a great deal of money, your heart and your principles all in one trip." A smile ripped across his face, "So if all else fails, let us make money, my liege."

Marcel clobbered his friend playfully and then said, "No. That is not the way, you know it. We have a creed by which we must live; regardless of my peers, I will honor the oaths sworn when knighted."

Henri looked at his friend, face somber, "Then I will pray for you, because you will need the help."

Sometime later, Marcel turned to Henri, "You are right about the Rat, we need his spices so that this trip is profitable, and not a break even proposition."

Dinner quickly approached. Trepidation and anticipation warred within the Comte, anticipation winning narrowly.

As dinner was served, Marcel went up to his room, his heart racing, his mind wheeling.

Katirah still had on the same dress. But she had freshened her makeup and her perfume for dinner. She was seated on a cushion on the floor. The same spot she had sat in when eating lunch with the Comte. She was trying to translate a song into French and switched back and forth between Turkish and french when she did not know a word. She accompanied herself on tar. Perhaps The Comte or one of his people could help her find the words. She was forcing herself to practice French as much as the words felt strange in her mouth.

The Comte could hear her song as he approached the room.

I must not love you. You are bad for me. But I want to swim in the sea of your eyes.

I must not love you. I know what kind of woman you are. But I want to soar on your sweet breath.

I must not love you. But you torment me. You give me no relief. I try to resist, but I know. I know it will take but one kiss...

And I shall be undone.

She made a face. She stopped singing but continued to play. The French did not rhyme. The lines did not scan. She would have to rework the song in French. The Turkish carried so much more meaning. So much subtlety.

Samara had already set the low table with their dinner. The tub had been delivered to the other room.

For dinner, there was wine and kebobs of ground spiced lamb with rice and vegetables. Small cakes made with honey and nuts were piled on a plate along with some fruit.

Katirah continued to play when the Comte entered the room. She smiled. "Good evening, Sir. Dinner is served and the hot water will be brought for you bath when you are ready." She set the tar aside. "I hope your day was..." She did not know the word in French. She frowned a little. "Productive? Constructive? Profitable?" She tried a few words hoping she pronounced at least one of them correctly so she would be understood. "Please pardon my poor skill with your tongue. I have difficulty wrapping my lips around the words. I am sure with practice and the Comte's help I shall become more proficient." She gave him a coy smile.

Marcel stopped at the top of the stairs listening to Katirah struggle with translating what was obviously a love song. He pondered the significance, if any of the song selection, then slowly put thigns together in his mind.

It meant nothing. The second song she sang in Persian and French which was a bawdy song. The first was in Persian and at the time though he didn't know all the words she sang, he should have been able to put together it was a love song.

Having instructed her from the bawdy song, Marcel realized now that she was singing another love song. She was merely following instruction, it didn't mean anything.

Stepping into the room he saw her sitting, kneeling, in the same spot where he had seen her last. His heart raced as he tread his way to the cushions. The dinner, unlike lunch, was an array of food that he had some exposure to and didn't figure that it would have the same level of surrealistic unfamiliarity, despite the company.

Her lips, as red as a Cabernet, smiled coyly as she talked about becoming more familiar with French. Smiling he said, "Why of course, I would be happy to help with your French, but I suspect you will be okay, we have a long trip a head of us."

Clearing his throat, Marcel figured he might as well get it out of the way now, and said, "About the bath, Samara will bath me tonight and for the foreseeable future. You are not mine to use that way, whereas she is."

"Sir is very kind. 'Tis a difficult thing to be a stranger in a strange land." Katirah set the tar aside and poured wine for the two of them. "I have never traveled so far. I had never thought I would see so much of the world. I always thought I would live and die inside the Pasha's harem."

Katirah looked at the Comte when he mentioned the bath. It was as if he had struck her. She looked down at her plate. "I do not understand. Samara is but a serving girl. She has never attended to anyone's bath. I know I belong to the Baron, but you are his man. I look to Sir to instruct me in your ways. If I do not attend Sir, how will I learn?" She traced an arabesque on a dress with a finger. "If I have displeased Sir, tell me so that I may correct my behavior."

Katirah was very confused. Or perhaps it was the Comte who was confused. Samara had no training whatsoever in how to attend to a man. Katirah was also hurt. Perhaps the Comte thought her ugly. He liked her music well enough. A lump formed in her stomach. If the Comte did not find her pleasing, would the Baron?

Marcel watched as Katirah's face fell; giving every appearance that he had hurt her by his announcement. Her explanation firmed his resolve though every part of him wanted to tell her that he had changed his mind.

His heart SCREAMED for him to change his mind, his body SCREAMED at him to shut up and allow her to touch him, caress him, to show him things that he hadn't even dreamed of before this very day.

In each case of his internal war, not once did his urges appeal in an argument that would hold any sway.

"You have not displeased at all. In fact, I doubt one could be any more pleasing than you. Your voice is like that of the angels of heaven. Y-your touch..." Marcel's voice trailed off slightly as his resolved wavered.

"At any rate," Marcel said, "I do not know my Liege's intentions for you; until I do, I will have to assume he wants you for himself."

Katirah looked up at the Comte as he spoke. His compliments said that she had not displeased him. She had been so long in captivity that her self worth could only be measured by the way other saw her, desired her. Finally, she thought she understood.

"The price you paid did not include my virginity, Sir. That was sold long ago. Your Baron will not be the first man to lie with me. The Pasha presented me often to his honored guests. But I see, your ways are different from what I am accustomed to. So long I have done nothing to offend." She paused before continuing. "Samara is only a kitchen maid. She does not know of the Book of One Thousand Delights, nor The Perfumed Garden, nor the Discipline of the Kama. I pray you, do not beat her if in her ignorance she displeases you."

As Marcel understood what Katirah was talking about his eyes went wide, and his jaw hung agape. "No, no, no. Nothing like that Katirah, you or her." His agitation at the situation was clear, his face was blushed and his hands wrung like an old banker's.

"I do not know the works you mention, nor can I imagine what is contained in them, but nothing along those lines could be allowed."

He tried turning back to the kabob, but his eyes lingered on Katirah, a brief moment he wondered at the wonders she could show a man, and with a deepening blush looked passed her, considering France was so very far away.

The Comte seemed to be red from embarrassment and not from anger. Blushing as red as any virgin, in fact. Katirah found it amusing. Except for the Pasha's eldest sons, she had never been with a virgin. She looked down at her hands and let her hair fall to veil her face from him lest he see her smile. The Comte was not an old frail aesthete dwelling in the mountains, living off of bread and water and spouting his crazed wisdom to any who would listen. He was a nobleman and a warrior from the looks of him. And virile. This made no sense to her.

"The Baron expects you to remain celibate for this entire trip? That is not healthy for a man. It causes an imbalance in his humors and can lead to melancholia or worse. Are all the men in your command expected to be so as well? Are you part of a religious order?" She picked up a fig from a plate and bit into it slowly showing her white teeth. She savored the sweetness while she waited for the Comte to explain.

"No, Katirah, it is a choice I made years ago. There are plenty of noble bastards roaming the countryside of France, and Palestine. No need for me to add to the burden of the peasantry."

Marcel watched as Katirah bit into the fig her teeth flashing gloriously. He continued eating, driving images of her mouth and its suspected joyous bliss from his mind. "Not to mention, if God wills I have children, I would rather they know mother and father alike."

A smile crossed his face as Marcel said, "As far as the Baron goes, he has urged me to plant my seed often, I think he is beginning to give up."

"We know of herbs and of..." Katirah searched for the French word and failed, so she chose another, "ways of making sure a woman does not conceive. It is done in the harems all the time. The First wife does not want any other wives to have sons. Nor the concubines. I was sold because the First wife thought perhaps the Pasha was becoming too fond of me. All of the Pasha's children live in the palace. And all of his women." She took another sip of wine.

"But... is not the Comte then in constant...I do not know the word...discomfort?" Katirah frowned. "If your liege tells you to do something--How can you disobey?" She picked up a piece of the spiced meat and ate it delicately.

Marcel laughed at the thought of the Baron ordering him to have sex. "I imagine depending on his tone, that yes, I would disobey." Katirah looked up sharply, a momentarily lapse. Marcel smiled and said, "Some parts always belong to a man, regardless for whom he bends a knee."

Marcel suddenly looked at the pricey slave and asked, "Was the Pasha your only master prior to my purchase of you today?"

Katirah nearly huffed at the Comte's comment. She turned it into a delicate cough. "And no parts belong to a woman." She said quietly. Nearly to herself. The Comte could choose or not choose to have sex and with whom.

She ate another morsel of meat before speaking in a rather flat tone, detaching herself from any emotions that might be attached to the subject. "Does it make a difference? The number of masters I have had? I was taken by slavers who realized my worth. They sold me to another of their kind who saw to my training. I was taught music and dancing and other skills. He sold my virginity to finance my tutors. I was sold to the son of a Khan. He found my skills in the bedchamber lacking and saw to my education in that regard. He had many gambling debts and lost be to the Pasha in a game of cards." She took a sip of wine.

"The Pasha was greatly enamoured of my skill on the oud--like your lute. He had me sing love songs night and day. He was a kind and generous master and rarely had me beaten, and even then only with straps that left welts that disappeared in a day or so. She shifted where she sat on the cushion by the Comte's feet. This conversation made her uncomfortable. It was true the Pasha rarely beat her, but First Wife took great pleasure in finding a reason to beat or torture. The woman was diabolical in the many ways she could inflict pain that left no marks. So long as her skin remained unharmed and her voice remained capable of singing, there was no way for the Pasha to know. She took a long drink of her wine this time. She realized her shoulders were tense at the memory and made an effort to relax.

"Are you nearly finished your meal? I shall tell Samara to send for the hot water for your bath."

Marcel nodded at Katirah's question. Pushing the table away slightly, he leaned back against the cushions, looking down his legs seeing the beautiful woman at he feet. It was still an erotic sight, his body reacting, his cock lengthened, hardened slightly.

His eyes did not stray as she stood to give Samara instructions regarding the bath. Her hips rolled seductively with each step. Her scent lingered after she left, Marcel breathing it in deep.

The bustle of the room as bath water was brought in, filling the tub with steaming hot water. Marcel watched his eyes not missing any movement, especially Katirah's. He contrasted Katirah with Samara and poor Samara didn't compare with Katirah.

Katirah had it all. Beauty, skill, grace and a seemingly ease with her place. As the tub filled, Marcel walked into the other room and stripped, neither hiding nor accentuating his manhood.

Sinking into the hot water, Marcel felt the water envelop him. Leaning against the wall of the tub, he closed his eyes, relaxing with a sigh.

Katirah helped Samara prepare the bath for the Comte. She chose the scented oils that she thought smelled masculine. She doubted the Comte would wish to smell like roses. She chose a spicy scent with sandalwood. She gave Samara more instructions about how to bathe the Comte. He entered the room and did not tell her to leave, though he had said she was not to be the one bathing him.

She picked up her oud and sat by the window. She tuned the instrument and tried not to be obvious as she watched him remove his clothes. He was a handsome specimen. His body had no fat, just muscle. And his shaft, though not fully erect was a magnificent ivory projection growing out of his nest of dark curls.

Samara should have helped him remove his clothes. Katirah sighed to herself. She would have to train the girl in how to attend to their master. Perhaps by the time they reached France the girl would have some skill and would be ready to take a position better than the scullery.

Katirah plucked the oud and began to play and sing. First in Persian and then in French, as she again tried to translate as she went.

You shine in darkness with a thousand secret flames
The sun sees you and runs to hide in shame. Oh my love.

Had I the power, I would cause the winds to blow
And bring to you the perfumes of the gardens.
Had I the power, I would cause the rain to caress your face. Oh my love.

I would be the air you breathe, and the wine within your cup.
Walk upon me, I shall be your road.
If you desire me, I shall be your slave. Oh my love.

Samara knelt by the tub and took a cloth. She began washing the Comte's Hand and arm. She ran the cloth over his broad chest. If a girl with skin so brown could blush, she would have. Instead she kept her eyes averted from his face, and indeed from most other places on his body.

"The Comte should for me to come forward to wash the back." Samara said in abysmal French.

Katirah played a verse without singing so she could repeat the request for the Comte so that he would understand what the poor girl had said. It was all she could to to stay seated and play. She wanted to leap up and take the cloth from Samara and show her how to properly bathe a man.

"Do not forget the Comte's legs. Nor neglect his jade pestle." She said in rapid Turkish hoping the Comte would not understand. Samara stifled a giggle.

The rough cloth ran across his body, Marcel listened to Katirah's playing the contrast between the cloth and the dulcet voice which caressed his ears lulled him to a near sleep. Samara's halting French, asking him to lean forward brought a smile to his face.

With Marcel leaning forward, Samara washed the back and listened to a rapid fire exchange between the two women. Pushing it out of mind, for Marcel really didn't care what they were talking about, he leaned back as Samara pressed against his shoulder slightly.

His eyes fired open as he felt Samara washing his feet, left then right. He lolled his head back listening to Katirah, sing the same song, from the tune, but in French. "Sing in your language," he whispered.

His eyes remained closed as Samara washed up his legs and did not open until her hand wrapped around his turgid manhood. Her hand was timid in its grasp as she stroked him up then down. His hand snatched hers at the wrist, "Non. I will wash that part."