The Circassian (closed)

Marcel sighed as Samara entered the tent carrying his food. Anger flared in his face as he realized Katirah had made arrangements with Samara for her to bring him his food.

Answering her question, the words were a little harsher than perhaps they should have been, but the sentiment no less true, "Not from you."

He sat eating while Samara backed out of the tent. Outside he could hear the dull slapping of flesh to flesh and assumed some of the men or chevaliers were partaking of the whores. A wry smile crossed his face as he shuddered at who would be the second on in each of the women. He would go with out the pleasures of a woman for his entire life before he was the second to lay with one in a night.

Arrogance or what ever one may call it, it was the way he was.

His thoughts were interrupted by singing, and he instantly recognized Katirah's voice. It was a fast paced bawdy song, something one would sing to commoners in an inn.

SHaking his head he turned to the maps muttering, "Nope, not yet."

Samara wondered if she had done wrong in interrupting the Comte to give him his dinner, but his response made it clear why he looked at her in anger.

"Many pardons," Samara said with a bow and scurried out of the tent. She threaded her way past tents hearing the noise of rutting.

Samara hurried to the food tent. Katirah was singing for the slaves and anyone else in earshot. She waited impatiently for the bawdy song to be over. She shook her head, such a beautiful woman, such a beautiful voice, such obscenities coming from that mouth. The incongruity of it all made her smile a little.

When Katirah finished singing, Samara went to her. "The Comte was not happy to see me with his dinner."

Katirah shrugged. "You should learn to serve the Comte better, then."

Samara sniffed. "That was not why. You should bring him wine."

"No." Katirah stacked up dirty dishes in a basket to take them to be cleaned.

"Do you want to be a common slave for the rest of the journey? Look at your hands--Look at your face! You will look like worn leather by the end of the journey."

"The Comte said I was to live as a common slave and that is what I am doing. The slave master thought it best that I not serve the men, so I work at the food wagon. If this can be called food." She began stacking dishes in another basket. "The Comte knows where to find me. If he wants me, he can come for me himself--or send someone for me. It is not my place. That is the Comte's point in this, is it not? To teach me my place?" She heaved up a basket of dishes and walked to the tubs to wash them.

"Go to him, take him wine, beg his forgiveness."

"I say again, 'no.' It is not my place. My place is here with the common slaves."

Marcel spent the evening listening to Katirah's intermittent singing and studying maps of the trail back to France.

Or tried to study the maps.

Despite his anger, her voice floating on the air reminded him of her moans and shrill shrieks while they coupled. The remembrance of the feel of her beneath him, quickened his heart, and frustratingly his cock.

He sighed, wondering if she was ever going to come round, and if not would he be able to allow her stubbornness to be in the way.

It was time to retire for the night. "One last song." Someone asked.

Katirah smiled. "One last song then, something quiet I think."

"A love song." Someone else said.

Katirah had been thinking of a lullaby, but a love song would be just as well.

I am a flower of stone,
What to say from my longing heart?
Where is the sun? It doesn't shine without you.
I am cold and colorless.

I am all sighs and pain
Like a storm full of dust.
A drunken wind in the desert
Lost and going in circles around you.

You don't know how I'm doing,
If you don't fall on me like rain,
I lose my petals in two days
Is your stone heart softening for me?
I am a stone flower
What to say from my longing heart?

She sighed. She wished she understood the Comte. What he wanted from her. Samara said she should go to him, but he was the one who cast her out to be a common slave. Would that not be too forward of her to approach him first? Or was that what he expected? What he wanted? That she should go to him and supplicate herself before him and beg his forgiveness? Samara did not displease the Comte. What did Samara do that she did not? She would think on it. And think how best to approach the Comte if she did decide that was what she should do.

She walked back to the women's tent and crawled to her bedroll. Her mind might be in turmoil, but her body knew what it wanted. Her body wanted him. Funny that she had gone for so much of her life with so very little contact with men and now that she had experienced so much with the Comte, even though he sometimes caused her pain or humiliation, she wanted to couple all the more. With him.

She laid on her back and pulled up her shift. She imagined his hands upon her as she touched herself. She wished she had her carved box with her. She could imagine the jade pillar was his hard cock. She had to settle for satisfying herself with her fingers. After a time, she rolled onto her side. Unsatisfied.

Yes, she would go to the Comte and hope she found the right words to show she had learned the lesson he meant to teach her.

Marcel listened to the faint strains of Katirah's voice as she sang her last song of the night, a smile on his faded as need erupted in him. A need for her.

To bend her over something, perhaps herself, and hammer away at her like a blacksmith on a horseshoe. Deliberate, hard, controlled thrusts to make of her the woman he needed her to be.

His manhood hardened at the thought of her screams of pleasure ripping the night air apart. He licked his lips in anticipation, in need. But knew he had to wait it out.

She had to understand first.

The absolute ache between his thighs caused him to moan, a despairing feeling that maybe she never would learn.

((Whoo hoo! You made my night by posting!))

The caravan moved on the next day. The soldiers seemed happier for having the prostitutes brought into the camp.

Katirah walked along with the slaves. her feet were healing but the constant walking was slowing it down. She still limped. At this point she was not sure if it because her foot still hurt or if it had become a habit. She needed to dance to assess the extent of the damage and to see how far her skills had fallen.

She thought about the Comte for most of the day. She did not want to go to him like this, dirty, her hair in disarray, and in a slovenly dress. There was no help for it.

She thought about what she would say to the Comte. She rehearsed it in her mind over and over. Discarded it and thought again. By the time they stopped for the evening meal, her stomach was in knots. If what she said displeased him? Would he devise new punishments for her?

Samara came carrying the tajine with dinner for the Comte. "Will you go to him tonight?"

The lump in her stomach grew heavier. "No. Perhaps. I do not know."

"Pish." Samara said stamping her foot a little. "You are both stubborn, but you, Katirah, cannot afford to be stubborn. A slave cannot be stubborn. Go to the Comte and bring his meal."

"I cannot, I am dirty. I smell like a camel."

"I am sure the slave master will allow you a few minutes to wash so that you are presentable for the Comte."

Katirah huffed. "Then I will take it to him. leave it for me.

She went to the slave master and asked if she might wash herself be fore going to the Comte. he gave her permission. "But do not dawdle. You are not in the baths of the harem. Wash your face and hands and go." And if she did not come back in a short time, then he would know that the Comte was taking his pleasure of her. Of course, her screams of passion would let him know that as well. It was difficult to keep the lecherous smile from his face.

Katirah bowed and went to fetch water for herself. She went to the slaves' wagon and washed her hands and face then she did her best to wash under her arms and privates reaching up under her shift. Oh, how she wanted a proper bath.

She hurried back and picked up the tajine. The lump in her stomach had returned. She took a deep breath, she sang to herself the tune she had sung the night before.

...What to say from my longing heart?...

She went to the Comte's tent and cut off her quiet singing. "I...A thousand pardons. Is the Comte ready for his meal?" She set the tajine on his table.

Before he could speak, she went to him and knelt before him. She placed her cheek on top of his foot. "A. Thousand. Pardons, Sir. This slave has displeased the Comte greatly. The Comte's word is law. The Comte gave this slave an order and this slave disregarded it. This slave begs the Comte's forgiveness."

Katirah stayed as she was. She hoped this was what the Comte wanted from her. She dared not look at his face.

Marcel looked down at the top and back of Katirah's head, a small smile spread across his lips, a smile that was reflected in the twinge in his loins as well. He could feel the heat of her cheek soaking through the top of his boot, warming his foot.

For a moment he said nothing, just stared at her, slowly working his way down her body along the curves that mesmerized him, seemingly called out for him day after day. Curves that haunted and filled his thoughts to the exclusion of much of everything else.

He hadn't felt this way in more than a decade. A feeling he couldn't place a finger on, but, knew that warmed his heart, mind and soul. "Don't move," he whispered softly and then drew his foot from under her face and freeing his ankle from her hands.

He left the tent for a few minutes, issuing some orders and making sure the men were situated for the night.

He arrived back at the tent just ahead of two porters that were carrying a brass tub between them. Behind them a series of women, headed by Samara, were bringing jugs of hot water.

He directed where the tub was to go and had the water placed next to it. He turned to Samara and said, "Keep bringing water until I say otherwise."

As Samara turned to leave he turned to Katirah and said softly, "Bathe yourself, I will watch. As you do so, think of your past life and how it needs to be washed away like the grime on your skin, and how the new life you have will be as pristine."

The Comte was gone for a long time. 'Don't move.' He had said. How long must she stay like this? Was he going to her wagon to get the box? Would he beat her with the silk flail that was inside? Or treat her like he had before when he bound her on the table? She swallowed hard and shifted a little. The floor of the tent was cold and hard. Was this another test? She would not move. Even if the bandits attacked again.

Katirah heard the Comte return followed by other people. She could not see them the way her head was turned on the floor. What did the Comte mean to do now? Then she heard water being poured into a tub and the Comte spoke again.

"Bathe yourself, I will watch. As you do so, think of your past life and how it needs to be washed away like the grime on your skin, and how the new life you have will be as pristine."

Katirah was confused, her old life? Did he mean the last few days? Yes, she would like to wash that all from her mind and body. Or did he mean her _entire_ life before this? How could she do that? Those experiences and memories were a part of her. She could not cast them aside so easily.

She sat on a cushion and took off her shoes and her bandages. Then she stood and pulled the shift off over her head. She kept her back to the Comte, she did not want him to see her face, to see the confusion there. She did not want him to send her back to the other slaves.

Samara has left towels and oils and shampoos by the tub. Katirah smiled. She wondered if her fellow slave had been availing herself of these luxuries. She frowned again. Was she supposed to be washing away her life as a slave? The Comte could not do that, could he? Free her? She was meant to be for the Baron... She squelched that thought. Both of those thoughts. She was a slave and would always be a slave, and she would be given to the Baron. She did not understand what the Comte meant. Perhaps in time she would.

She stepped into the tub which was placed so that she was in profile to the Comte. She inhaled sharply at the heat of the water, then exhaled into a sigh as she settled herself. She leaned back in the tub and closed her eyes for a few moments, then began washing her hair. She could feel the Comte's eyes on her. It made her feel self-conscious. She thought of this bath as a performance of sorts and it helped a little.

She washed her face and arms and then ran the cloth over her breasts. She squeezed the cloth to let the water run down her chest and her back. She held up her leg and ran the cloth back and forth along it.

Finally, she knelt in the tub to clean her privates. She stood, her body glistened from the water and skin softening oils. She picked up a towel and bent over to dry her hair somewhat before wrapping the towel around her head. She stepped out of the tub and took another towel to dry her body.

Every movement was full of grace. Her skin still showed signs of being sun-kissed, but was no longer tender.

She looked around the tub and did not see any fresh clothes.

((You can cut into any of the above if the Comte wants to do or say anything and I can edit from there. I don't know how much self control he has at this point.))

Marcel watched as Katirah washed, his eyes roaming her body, both in appreciation of the natural wonder before him, and to make sure she suffered no lasting marks of the last couple of days.

At least no physical ones.

The water cascaded down her body, a loving warmth that did nothing to detract from her beauty, more, it enhanced it to a point that it was nearly painful to watch her. It certainly showed in his loins, as his manhood strained against his tunic and pantaloons-like-trousers.

He could see the uncertainty in her eyes. He thought a moment saying more, then decided against it. At some point she had to be responsible enough to ask clarification if his words confused her. Better to learn that now, than in France, where the gaff could be quite costly.

As she stepped from the tub and looked around he ordered, "Empty it, bring more water," his head turned toward the front of the tent.

Samara headed up a procession of two men and a handful of women. The tub was quickly taken out and returned a couple of minutes later. The women placed new pitchers of hot water around the area where the tub sat and then withdrew quietly.

Marcel's eyes bored into Katirah, hotly, possessively, he could have taken her then and there, ravishing her whilst the others set up the tun again. But he waited instead.

As the last of the women, Samara, withdrew, Marcel stepped to the tub and poured a pitcher into the bottom of the tub and said, "Step in, I shall clean your feet one more time. Then you shall wash me."

Katirah stood aside from the tub. She was accustomed to be nude among the women in the palace. But this parade of men and women with water made her uncomfortable because of the looks that were cast her way. People of the West felt differently about nudity. They made it taboo. They made it lascivious and wrong. She held her towel to block the front of her body from their glances.

More than the looks of the others, she could feel the Comte's eyes on her. He could scorch her with such looks. She could see the lust and greed in his eyes. She had to look away. The force of his passion was like a living thing in the tent.

"The Comte does me honor." Katirah was going to say there was no need, but that would be considered questioning the Comte, would it not? But she did have questions. However, seeing how the Comte looked at her, she decided now was not the time for them. Perhaps later, when then were lying in each other's arms warm and sated the Comte would be in a mood more disposed to answer gently if she made a mistake in asking.

She stepped into the tub unsure if she should sit again or not.

Marcel stepped behind Katirah and helped her bend at the waist holding onto the edge of the tub. Taking her ankles one at a time, he cleaned each of her feet and applied the poultice to them.

Nodding, he said, "You should suffer no long term effects from walking barefoot."

He saw a brief flash of anger in her eyes and he arched an eyebrow, his face set in a manner that almost dared her to retort.

After a second she suppressed the anger and he helped Katirah from the tub.

His eyes were on her, consuming her, ravishing her, as he undressed slow then stepped into the tub. "Now, wash me please."

Katirah thought if the Comte's eyes could do what his manhood could, she would already be bent over his table screaming for mercy.

Why did she feel like this was some sort of test? As if the Comte was waiting for her to make a misstep and prove that she had not learned her lesson?

"As the Comte wishes." There was no way to ignore the Comte's twitching manhood. Katirah knelt by the tub and poured in a little oil scented with sandalwood. She picked up a cloth and began to rhythmically wash the Comte's back. She remembered when she had first washed him. It seemed ages ago.

"Shall I wash the Comte's hair as well?" She said as she moved the cloth to wash his chest. The oil in the water made his skin glisten accenting his musculature. She held out his arm so she could wash it.

Marcel quietly enjoyed the feel of her hands on his body as she washed him, "I suppose the hair depends on whether or not you want to smell horse when we lie together."

His eyes watched her face closely, her eyes seemingly very intent on the job at hand. He cupped her face and caressed it gently as the cloth moved down his arm, across his torso.

The feel of her breath across his skin reminded him somehow of her voice, of her song, a feathery touch, pleasing, teasing. HIs hand trailed down her face and neck, caressing her shoulders, hinting, teasing at the promise of touching her, of pleasuring her.

Katirah was rapidly losing the wager she had made to herself. The Comte, although clearly not disinterested, was controlling his urges. When he touched her it was gentle, like a lover and not like a conqueror wanting to rut with his conquest. She smiled a little as gooseflesh raised on her skin.

"I shall wash the Comte's hair then." She finished with his other arm then picked up a pitcher, "If the Comte would lean his head back, please." She picked up a vial and poured some of the liquid into her hand then began massaging it into the Comte's hair. She knelt behind him and pressed against his back for leverage. She could tease as well.

Marcel squatted enough that Katirah could reach his head more easily and craned his head back slightly for her. A sigh of pleasure rolled through him as she massaged his scalp with her fingers. More, his body warmed with a growing need as her naked breasts pressed against his back, the flat plain of her stomach against his ass cheeks, which seemed to be unable to stop flinching.

His hands wrapped backward and cupped her hips, pulling her tight against him, the warmth of her body suffusing him. Quietly, so soft it almost couldn't be heard he whispered, "I missed you."

Katirah massaged the Comte's head hearing him nearly purr with the pleasure of it all. She would have though her had not been touched in weeks the way he was reacting.

She heard him whisper, "I missed you."

Katirah was glad the Comte could not see her face because she could not hide the curl of her lips into a smirk. In truth, she had missed the Comte as well. And the luxury of her own wagon. She missed the way he treated her that night at the inn when he brushed her hair and touched her like she was his lover and not someone to bury his cock in for relief.

She moved away from him to pick up a pitcher to rinse his head. "I shall work very hard to not displease the Comte and force him to send me away to live with the common slaves again." She said sincerely. She rinsed his head again. The moved to wash the Comte's legs.

"Do not worry, I have learned I will not deprive myself of you with future punishments if they are needed," he said. He could feel her hands hitch at the statement, a momentary pause then she slowly began washing his lower body again.

His body reacted as she began washing his loins. His cock hardened immdiately in her hand, and the now familiar aching need appeared in the pit of his stomach and permeated his being. Slowly she washed his manhood, perhaps staying over long there, perhaps not, before she rinsed him off.

He didn't bother covering up as he called for the tub to be removed, instructing Samara to bring him some wine. He sat at the table near the front of his tent and began eating the food Katirah brought him. "Have you eaten yet?" he asked.

So, Katirah thought, Little has changed. At least he has said 'if.' The Comte was such a difficult man to know and Katirah has never spent so much time in the presence of one man, or so many men as she had since he had purchased her.

She breathed out. The Comte's word was law, she did not need to know anything else.

She moved up his legs to his orbs washing them gently holding their weight in one hand. Then on to his manhood which twitched and grew in her hand as if by magic. It was a most splendid organ. Holding it sent a thrill through Katirah and heated her own sex. She made sure she washed it thoroughly reluctant to let it go.

She dried him as he called for the tub to be removed. He stood in his glory for all to see. Samara and she passed a look as the woman left to fetch wine. He settled at his table and began to eat.

"Have you eaten yet?" he asked.

"Sir, no, I have not eaten since breakfast." She took the pitcher of wine from Samara and poured some for the Comte. Some soldiers passed the tent and acknowledged the Comte. They tried to conceal their looks at her and hurried along.

There was a period of silence as the Comte ate. "Does the food please the Comte? Samara has made arrangement with one of the merchants." Katirah looked down at her feet. She probably should not have spoken. Slaves were only supposed to speak when spoken to. When she attended the pasha and his guests, part of what was expected was conversation. Conversation that she should spur on if need be. She would be very upset with herself if she had blundered into additional punishment so soon.

Marcel wave Katirah over and sat her on his lap. SHaring his food with her, giving her a bite, then taking one himself, he ran his hand over her hips, luxuriating in the feel of her skin. "What sort of arrangement has she made?" he asked.

The meal was bordering on too spicy but was delicious. His hard cock was pressed between Katirah's thigh and his stomach, the heat of her skin, the burgeoning heat of her core, against his was distracting him slightly.

Katirah was happy that the Comte seemed to be in a magnanimous mood. She was afraid his need for physical release might make him swift to anger.

"I saw the Comte was not pleased with the camp food and had Samara make arrangements to get meals from the merchant for the Comte. The Effendi Henri said it was permitted. I did not wish to trouble the Comte with such trivia. If it does not please the Comte--I will make other arrangements." After eating gruel with the slaves for days, for her, this meal was like the Food of the Gods, what did the Greeks call it? Ambrosia.

She could feel the heat from his manhood trapped against her thigh. She imagined she could feel the throb of it. Samara had said the Comte had been with no other woman since he sent her away for her punishment. A bad punishment it was that also punished the punisher. The thought made her smile a little. She shifted on the Comte's lap. Her hair was still wrapped in a towel. She could feel his breath on her neck. It made her stomach flutter with anticipation. She wanted to kiss him and feel his hands on her.

It seemed each time Katirah moved, her womanhood was a little hotter, a little wetter. His cock was certainly not get any harder, if it did, it very well could burst like an overstuffed pastry.

He rearranged Katirah where she was facing him, one foot on either side of him. Her heat was poised just above his balls as his turgid member was pressed between their stomachs. Clenching his ass cheeks, Marcel drove the shaft of his cock along her clit a moment, before relazing again.

"what did you learn from the other slaves while you were with them, Katirah?" he asked while one hand stroked and caressed her breast.

The Comte moved Katirah on his lap in a way that made it clear he wanted her to straddle him. His member pressed against her. He let it rub her sensitive spot once. Then stopped. Her nipples went hard as she sucked in a breath. She rested her hands on his forearms. She hoped the chair was a sturdy one.

What? The Comte wanted to talk? He was a most confusing man. "I..." She took a breath to compose herself and to think. When the Compt had asked before what she had learned, he sent her back to remain with the common slaves longer. Is that was he intended again? Take his pleasure and send her back? That was worse than being a whore.

"The slaves work hard. Have no time to themselves. They are treated harshly, although, I must thank the Comte a thousand times, since the Comte spoke to the slavemaster things have improved." She gave him a genuine smile. "Slaves are to be invisible when they go about their work. Slaves are not to speak unless spoken to. Slaves must do as they are told and not question their masters." She hoped this is the answer the Comte wanted.

Marcel listened and watched her face closely, his hands idly tracing patterns in her thigh as he did so. "What of their attitude towards their masters? What do they think and feel about the ones who own them?"

As he asked the question, Marcel ground his hips up slightly, his member pressing against her sensitivity again, eliciting a small gasp from her.

Katirah's nipples were hard. She could feel herself getting wetter as the Comte teased her with his hard cock.

"They do not like the slave master at all. I should rather say, most hate him. And fear him." She said trying to compose herself. What was this game the Comte was playing? Toying with her body and expecting her to think and carry on a conversation at the same time. Truly the man was a puzzle.

"Things improved after the Comte spoke to him, but still...he is a harsh master." She touched a scar on the Comte's bicep as she thought more about the slaves she had met. "The cook treats his slaves very well. The young ones are something like his children. Some of the men treat slaves very badly, taking what they want from them--the women and the young boys..." Her voice trailed off, she remembered the soldier who rudely handled her and how the Comte had dealt with him. She quivered a little at the memory. She did not want that image in her head as she sat astride him.

"I think most slaves do not like their masters. Even if their master is kind, they may still be sold to another. Told to do that which they do not want to do else they will be beaten or worse." As she was because the Pasha first wife decided Katirah was was too much respected by the Pasha. She stared across the tent at the flame in the lantern there lost in thought. As much as she could be with the Comte teasing her sex and touching her body.

The liquid fire that made up Katirah's core was beginning to seep across the bottom of Marcel's cock as she answered his questions. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself into her, to drive the last couple of days from his mind, from hers.

Shifting his weight, his cock slipped left and right within her Mons, settling within her lower within the folds of her lips, which caressed him ever so gently. "And you? Do you not like your Master?" he asked.