White Slave

The bald brown head bobbed between Baraka’s legs, an unseen tongue arcing up into the delicious crease between them. She lay back on the silk cushions of the divan and sighed, one sandaled foot on the floor, the other on the divan. Her body flushed from the sensation and a white veil of passion descended over her mind. Jirash was the best of the men – so talented, so thorough in his attentions. An Indian captured in the Hindu Kush and bought by the Sheikh at a young age, he had grownup surrounded by the women of the seraglio, the harem, and knew them outside and in – especially in – as he was showing yet again for his white-skinned lover.

Gauzy images flashed across Baraka’s mind as the low hum of pleasure built: the bandit attack on Barbara’s caravan, the murder of their guides, the pillage of the desert train, the filthy renegade leader tearing at her clothing, his bent cock swinging lewdly as he tried to rape the young American collegian. Then there was the low thud, a warm splash on her face and the muted grunt of her would-be rapist. His hands clawed at arrow protruding from his neck, him falling toward her. She had barely missed being impaled, first on his grubby cock and then on the arrow. Then Barbara saw Him just as she lost consciousness…the journey to Baraka had begun.

Jirash tugged at her soft lips with his fingertips to let his tongue flick and probe more deeply into her and the fog in her head blew away for a moment. She found herself breathing as she always did with her Indian lover, in perfect rhythm with the tempo of his tongue’s attack and retreat on her sex. They moved as one: his head, her hips, his tongue, her lungs, his fingers, her hands. Jirash played a woman’s body like an instrument, his mouth the bow stroking the strings of her moist, resonating cello. His tongue stroked in and out of her, plucking the tiny drops of her dew from her. He drew out the tender, pink flesh into his lips and kissed them wetly. His tongue swirled around the place where Barbara once used to touch, before she knew the pleasures of her slave. He had shown her things about her body even she did not know, things that were not talked about even among women in her native land.

The crescendo neared and Baraka’s back arched, one leg coiling around her lover’s head and a bolt of pleasure rolling up through her body. She tugged at her nipples under the silken veils covering her. Words – English and Arabic – appeared on Baraka’s lips, swearing oaths found in neither Bible nor Quran. She felt a warm gush cover Jirash’s lips and saw a galaxy of stars streak across her sky. Her lover captured the moment as only he was able, keeping the fair-skinned girl on a plateau of bliss with his well-trained tongue and careful fingers. Careful, for the slightest slip that would rupture the writhing beauty’s maidenhead would mean certain death in the most horrid manner. That maidenhead belonged to The Sheikh. Baraka trembled and sobbed, her orgasm reverberating out from the electric spot where tongue met woman, her brown lover’s hands now on her legs. The climax now having held at a peak for almost a minute, Jirash allowed the coda to proceed, the woman’s pale body calming and relaxing.

Once Baraka had caught her breath, he could perform his duties – shaving the traces of hair from her that had grown in the last few days, al-halal, according to the manner prescribed by the Prophet (pbuh). The Sheikh would be displeased if a single hair was found on one of his odalisques.

Barbara had been taken to the Sheikh’s desert city, a collection of squat adobe buildings and tents at the edge of a large oasis in eastern Transjordan. She awoke a number of times on the journey to take water before falling back into fitful unconsciousness from the injuries she had sustained at the hands of the bandits. She had a vague recollection of being nursed by a series of young girls and women who tended to her wounds. It was the first she had heard of her new name, Baraka, which she learned later meant “white.”

When Barbara awoke some days later, she found her Western clothing gone and in its place Eastern drapes of silk and satin. She was bruised and beaten, her arm broken and one eye shut from her would-be rapist. Around her waist was strung a fine golden chain with two precious stones dangling from it. The first was an emerald identifying her as a member of the harem of Sheikh Abdul Aziz Mughrabi al Hashem bin Sultan. The other was a diamond, marking her as an adara, a virgin, claimed for the heir of the Hashemite kingdom. This was related to her by one of the nurses that spoke a few words of some Western languages that Barbara spoke, along with the knowledge that once she had been bedded by the Sheikh; her diamond would be exchanged for a large ruby. Alarmed at how they could possibly know she was a virgin, Barbara suddenly felt the naked sensitivity of her pubic mound, shaved bare by her nurses.

Her outrage at having been examined and shaved by these Bedouin women passed quickly, however, when she felt the tingle of fingers rubbing a fragrant ointment into her scrapes and bruises. A doe-eyed Arab woman not too much older than Barbara was gently applying the smooth balm into the remaining abrasion on her thighs, and Barbara thought the she had never seen a woman as beautiful in her life. Her nurse was adorned in sheer drapes and jewels, an emerald, paired with a large ruby, around her waist.

Barbara lay back and sighed as her olive-skinned nurse’s hands caressed her legs, moving up and inside her thighs. “Baraka” was all her nurse said before her lithe fingers found the freshly-shaved mound of her pink patient. A drizzle of the scented oil and the slick sensation of fingertips on her outer lips made Barbara coo and look into the nurse’s black eyes questioningly, searching for an admission that she wasn’t aware of what she was doing. When the exotic woman answered by running her finger along the center of the moist folds of Barbara’s pussy, Barbara’s eyes fluttered and she managed a gasping “no…” before sinking into the cushions of her sick bed.

Barbara’s legs spread involuntarily for her nurse’s delicate caress, her hips rocking up and down to the tempo of the fingers massaging the oil into her throbbing sex. The bruises there ached, but also added to the sensation of the delicious pussy massage she was getting. She turned her head into a silk pillow, moaning softly, her breathing coming in ragged gasps at a feeling she had never experienced before, even when she pleasured herself. A fingertip pushed gently into her damp crease, teasing some unknown button that seemed to burn white hot. “Oh god…oh god,” she whimpered as the pressure built in her, a smoldering that concentrated around the fingers caressing her pussy and flared out in all directions. The smolder suddenly burst into flame and Barbara/Baraka moaned loudly into her pillow, her hips jerking and writhing into her nurse’s hand. The fluid from her climax mixed with the oil to make a musky blend that her nurse massaged into her and then, raising her fingers to her mouth, tasted as Baraka looked on in quivering disbelief.

And so it went for the next two weeks; Barbara/Baraka in bed and the almond-eyed Arabian nurse, whom she came to know as Jamilah (“beautiful”), massaging her patient with the perfumed salve to heal her wounds and bring her to back-arching orgasms. Her nurse shaved her every three days: pussy, legs, underarm and anointed her with oil after, sometimes making her climax again. She was learning more Arabic as the days passed, and little by little Barbara was fading and Baraka emerging. She stopped thinking obsessively about leaving, escaping from her situation. It was, after all, 1905 and the Ottoman Empire had realized it needed to engage with the rest of the world. Yet, she was in the middle of nowhere, with no apparent means to communicate with someone who might negotiate her departure, something she wasn’t even sure she wanted now.

One day, Jamilah appeared at Baraka’s bed with a bowl of warm water, change of clothes, two small and ornate boxes and some tiny pots of pastel powders. Pulling the heavy curtain around her bed, Jamilah washed Baraka’s hair with henna soap, silently combing out the mysterious, exotic blonde tresses. Jamilah next lovingly took all of Baraka’s clothing off and gave her a long, slow sponge bath as she had so many times before. But Baraka sensed something different this time, a certain sadness in her nurse-lover’s manner. When she saw the tear at the corner of Jamilah’s eye, she knew that her time in the makeshift hospital was over and that she would no longer have the smoky beauty at her side. “Jamilah…,” she said, tears now welling in her own eyes. Jamilah tried not to look at Baraka, her tears now mixing with the flower-scented water dripping from Baraka’s body. Baraka sat up and pulled her nurse’s mouth to hers and kissing her lips, first in sadness, then in passion. The hours of love and tenderness Jamilah had selflessly given Barbara, the warmth, the welcome to a strange land with strange ways…all came flooding back and out through her healed body.

Her mouth covered Jamilah’s and her hands slowly peeled off her nurse’s veils, one by one until both were completely nude but for the jewels that adorned their bodies. Baraka stroked her hands over her lover, caressing the dark skin of her belly, her back, her shoulders. Jamilah sighed and sobbed softly as Baraka’s palms glided over her brown nipples, the white hands in stark contrast to the skin of her nurse. The sloe-eyed Arab woman slowly climbed onto the damp bed with her love, straddling the white-skinned beauty’s body, their breasts touching as they searched each other’s mouth with their tongues.

Baraka cupped the round globes of Jamilah’s ass and pulled her moist sex to hers. The nurse sighed and let her body lay against Baraka’s, her pussy rocking against the white girl’s leg. She felt the fingers of her patient on her own shaved mound, unsure but passionate for her. Raising her hips, the fingers of the white girl stroke the soft folds, finding the swollen bud and raking over it. Jamilah took one pink nipple into her mouth and swirled her tongue over it, moaning softly as her pussy wept tears of sweet passion for Baraka’s probing fingers. Baraka whimpered and looked into her lover’s eyes, and knew what she needed to do.

Pulling Jamilah toward the head of her bed, Baraka slid under her lover’s body, passing the red and green gems dangling from her waist, until her breath was on the folds of her nurse’s pink pussy. Barbara had never seen another woman’s sex, and was fascinated with Jamilah’s, a perfect pale pink butterfly fluttering in a field of light brown, dew on its wings. Baraka licked at the dew and cleaned the wings of the butterfly, tasting the delicious scented droplets. She eased her tongue into her lover’s moist depths, feeling the warm lips of the pussy welcome her. Jamilah cooed and moaned softly, watching between her breasts the tongue push up and into her from a cascade of blonde hair. Baraka, aroused by the touch and taste of her loving nurse’s pussy on her tongue, began to massage her own pussy, remembering how many times Jamilah’s fingers had pleasured her.

Jamilah uttered Arabic oaths under her breath that Baraka couldn’t understand, but her lover’s body told her all she needed to know. The olive-toned hips of the woman rocked and pushed onto the white woman’s mouth, letting the eager tongue lick the length of the wet, swollen lips. Baraka surprised even herself, pulling Jamilah’s throbbing pussy harder onto her tongue, her hands firmly holding the writhing odalisque’s ass. Jamilah began breathing hard, sobbing into the bedclothes as she pushed her breasts into the covers. When Baraka heard a muffled cry and felt a warm ooze cover her tongue, she knew her dear lover was climaxing and pushed deeper into the quivering slit. Jamilah grunted and covered her pale lesbian lover’s face with a clear sap that ran from her pussy. Wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her trembling body until, not able to bear more, she lifted her glistening sex off the pink, probing tongue of Baraka.

The two women embraced and kissed, sharing the flavor of their passion and the energy of their naked bodies. Like the tin and yang of the East, the dark and the light skin of Baraka and Jamilah found complement, a perfect partner in passion. Jamilah found Baraka’s pussy first, a few seconds before Baraka found Jamilah’s. The two stroked, caressed and probed each other to more climaxes than they could count, one singing the song of lust and love into the other’s mouth as the afternoon wore on. The jewels around their waists clicked and tangled; they were owned by another, but they belonged to each other.

The women finally separated, Jamilah finishing the bath and applying the most expensive and rare scents to her lover before making her face up with the colored powders. Then Baraka was dressed in her virgin’s veils. It was the night she was to meet the Sheikh.

أضف تعليق

لن يتم نشر عنوان بريدك الإلكتروني. الحقول الإلزامية مشار إليها بـ *

يمكنك استخدام أكواد HTML والخصائص التالية: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>