Frog rose
1.
No, truly, the All-Merciful, All-Wise Allah has turned away from Him. What a dog's ass of a day!..
It must be the evil eye of the market fortune-teller. Hers are yellow, with cataracts — just remembering them is terrifying. Or perhaps He did catch sight of the young moon over His left shoulder. He tried not to look, but it forced itself into His eyes…
His beloved mare Aisha injured her leg. One.
A sick raven fell into the fountain, where He so sweetly brooded in solitude, and died, emitting a stench. Two.
A large ruby chipped off His favorite dagger. Three.
In broad daylight, a flap tore off His turquoise caftan. Four.
The contemptible Sefer-aga, a vile bearded worm,
dared to smirk upon seeing Him with the torn flap. Five. (Now Dil'ya would never have smirked. Because Dil'ya respects Him as a man.) Five sorrows, and all before noon. What will happen by evening, merciful Allah?..He had already kicked the third slave, spat in the eyes of the fourth, tripped the fifth, not even smiling at his funny contortions. He wanted to wail like women mourning their husbands. But He is a man. He is a warrior, whatever Sefer-aga might think. He simply needs consolation, that's all…
— Maaaaaaaamka!
— Yes, my lord? — a hoarse voice responded.
— Go away, — He immediately shouted.
It was Çemberci-hanum, His wet nurse, or simply "Mamka".
— But I was just coming to you, my fragrant one. I see, I see you are in low spirits. But look who I've brought you!
He was already staring wide-eyed at the naked girl Mamka was dragging by the hand. Of course, His gloom knew no bounds… but the girl was so beautiful that He didn't even say to her what He said to everyone — "Is your father a jungle cat? Where did you get this mangy cat, Çemberci-hanum?"
— There now… Lie down, my sweet. Like this, like this, — Mamka lowered His trousers, exposing His member, licked the head, tickled His testicles with her tongue, eliciting a sweet shudder, and led the girl to Him:
— Remember what to do? Get up here, — she pushed her towards the bed. — Your leg like this, and here… like this… She doesn't understand a thing. Fresh, brought just a week ago… Like this. Good girl, my sweet!
Mamka was affectionate with all the slave girls. Sometimes it irritated Him ("as if they are more worthy of love than I am"). But now He was staring wide-eyed at the girl, who, with Mamka's help, had climbed on top of Him and was kneeling, head bowed.
— Hurry, — He said hoarsely.
— Wait, my fragrant one, let the young blood come to a boil. She's very young, no older than eighteen… What's the matter, my little bird? — she asked the crying girl, bent to her chest and began sucking her nipple, while her hand kneaded the furry mound, frozen a finger's breadth from His member. The girl whimpered like a puppy. — That's it, that's it, — Mamka mumbled with the nipple in her mouth. — And now sit down. Sit!
She took His member in her hand and began to lower the girl onto it.
— Aaaaoooh, — He groaned as His member plunged into the sticky flesh. The girl closed her eyes. Her breasts trembled, tears streamed from under thick lashes…
"Why has she frozen? Is she made of stone?", He wanted to shout, but couldn't — she was so beautiful. "At least Allah has bestowed something good upon me…"
— Come on, come on, move! I told you what to do, — Mamka fussed, anticipating His anger. — Come on, come on… like this, — she pushed the girl's hips, and she finally began to move slowly, eyes still closed. — Not like that! Here, and a little up, and then here… She doesn't understand a thing! — Çemberci-hanum justified herself, turning to Him. — She's learned maybe five words in our language… Forgive us, O fragrant one!
— Is she a virgin?
— Yes, my beautiful one. Don't worry — she won't soil you with her blood. I broke her hymen myself, washed her womb myself… She is as pure as your gaze, my precious…
The honeyed syrup enveloping His member was so exquisite that He writhed and growled like the chained bear Gyr. All the sorrows of this day vanished as if they had never been. Mamka kissed the girl's nipples and guided her hips, while her other hand caressed His testicles. The girl wept bitterly, but the hips impaled on His member danced faster and hotter. Her cheeks, streaked with tears, flamed like wild roses; her breasts, ripe, firm, sweet as heavenly fruit, seemed about to burst from the heat and pour forth streams of sherbet and syrup… Lust suddenly boiled up in Him, and He seized the supple body like a hawk, threw it down on Himself, cried out, dying from the fountain bursting from His loins, and buried Himself in the dancing hips so as not to spill a single drop of seed. The girl screamed with Him, choking on tears…
— No, no, no, no, — He muttered, pressing the body to Himself, which Çemberci-hanum was trying to pull away by the hand. "My Sweet Rose, my Tatly-Gül… I won't give you to anyone," He thought.
— The poor thing might conceive… I need to wash her womb with a vinegar solution… — Mamka said.
— No, no, no! Let it be. I don't care… — He whispered, bathing in her hair.
But Mamka still dragged the girl away and led her off, bowing and muttering apologies.
He wasn't even angry: He didn't have an ounce of strength left for it. He had never known such bliss before. He had known His first slave girl half a year ago, and Tatly-Gül was already the seventh, but all the others were next to her like the bony bitches from His kennel…
I'll execute them all, He thought, so they don't insult with their appearance the fragrant trace of Her beauty. Truly, the number "seven" brings happiness…
2.
Viscount de Cardillac frowned, sighed, but still put on his wig.
The powder was shedding from it considerably, and there was nowhere to get fresh. The damned steppe sun turns the head under a wig into a cauldron stuffed with boiled brains. And the body, packed into a waistcoat and coat, stews in its own juices like a saddle of lamb.
But there was no way out: he had to keep up appearances. Here he was not just Dil'ya, the friend of the kalga-sultan; he was the representative of His Majesty Louis XIV, the Sun King, and more broadly — of the entire civilized world. There are things more important than comfort, though not everyone in Paris would understand that.
He had to go and save the life of the kalga-sultan, the frenzied Ayaz Giray, may his restless tongue wither for at least a year or two… The boy was nineteen, but cruel as a Marmaros pirate, and lustful as a stallion. He dotes on his Tatly-Gül, a young concubine from Podolia, and fucks her in public like a mare. Made a painter cover her hands and feet with henna, personally gilded her nails, forbade her to wear clothes, hung her with jewels and flowers like a living doll… The poor thing walks around the house naked and cries from unquenched lust, because the young whelp doesn't know how to satisfy her, and the caresses of the wrinkled Çemberci-hanum are no substitute for a man's hands…
The girl is wondrously beautiful, and his heart bleeds for her (or perhaps not his heart, but another organ, to be honest with himself). He, Viscount de Cardillac, had been granted the great honor — to enter the private chambers of the kalga-sultan and see his concubines in their birthday suits. Actually, only Tatly-Gül remained of them: the lovesick Ayaz was about to chop off the heads of all the others, and only his, de Cardillac's, intervention saved the unfortunate ones from certain death. The poor girls were lucky: they were merely sent to the slave market in Kaffa…
It was good the boy listened to him, regarding him as his closest friend and mentor. The old fox de Cardillac dispensed advice sparingly, diluting them with flattery in a 1:10 ratio, but in return, galleys with duty-free wine and spices sailed from Kaffa and Gözleve to Marseille.
However, everything has its price. For business's sake, he was forced to spend days and weeks in the company of the young Giray, this baboon hung with pistols and daggers, and listen for hours to his bragging, humbly nodding in response. Moreover, the heir to the Crimean throne was afflicted with the sin of King Candaules, and the bragging often merged with the slapping of royal testicles against the sticky mound of Tatly-Gül — right in front of him, de Cardillac…
When he entered, the fragrant Ayaz, red as a pomegranate, was slapping the bare buttocks of Tatly-Gül, who was on all fours.
— I called you, my glorious friend, to share with you the sweetness, uh, of the finest fruit of my garden… She is yours! I give her to you! Not forever, of course, but today… now she is yours! She is yours… until sunset! No, until noon! Take her! — he waved his hand generously and moved away from Tatly-Gül, inviting de Cardillac to sin with his concubine.
He had expected anything but this.
To be honest, Ayaz's proposal aroused in him, besides surprise and disgust, quite different feelings. The sinful appendage had long been straining his stockings at the sight of Tatly-Gül's swollen breasts. "You are not married," an inner voice whispered, "and the girl has been fucked by no one but Ayaz, in whom no disease nests except stupidity… You risk neither soul nor body… And a refusal is tantamount to an insult…"
— I thank you, my royal friend, — said de Cardillac. He hesitated, adjusting his wig, sighed, and approached the girl.
His conscience scratched at his liver, but his mind and body had already said "yes."
— Turn towards me, — he ordered, touching her.
The girl didn't move, and he gently turned her onto her back, grasping her stomach. The beauty Tatly-Gül looked at him indifferently, tormented by unfulfilled lust. Her cheeks burned, her slightly open mouth gasped for air. She was so beautiful it took his breath away.
— Poor thing. Forgive me, — de Cardillac said in French, threw the wig to the devil, knelt beside Tatly-Gül and began to caress her mound. His fingers dipped into it as into hot oil.
The girl moaned. Her eyes widened, her little face stretched in surprise, as if asking "what are you doing to me?" The moan intensified when the viscount began to caress her breasts and whole body.
He tried to put into his touches not only lust, but also tenderness and compassion, and the girl felt it. Raising herself on her elbows, she gratefully offered herself to his caresses, in which de Cardillac was a great master. He kneaded her firm body like dough, passing her nipples between his fingers, and massaged the oiled mound more and more vigorously. Then he bent down and pressed his tongue to one hot nipple, then the other. Tatly-Gül practically choked on a moan and arched like a cat, offering him all of herself — "here, take, eat, and quickly!"
The young Giray heir watched the scene gloomily.
— I offered you to enjoy the finest rose of my garden, and you play with her like a doll, — he said.
— There is no greater pleasure… than giving it to a woman, O fragrant one… — it was not easy for the viscount to speak: his tongue was occupied with more important business.
Having kissed Tatly-Gül's breasts thoroughly, he crawled lower, to her hips. The astonished Ayaz watched as Dil'ya kissed her right on the mound, as if on lips, while at the same time kneading her breasts, stretching his hands forward.
The slave girl screamed as if in great pain, writhing and rolling her eyes. Dil'ya's skillful hands roamed all over her torso, and his lips smacked at her mound as if he were eating out her womb. Tatly-Gül's scream turned into a squeal, the squeal into a deafening shriek, during which Dil'ya suddenly deftly jumped up, bared his member and thrust it into the gaping cave, spouting streams of fluid. With strong, rapid movements he began to fuck Tatly-Gül, holding her by the hips, while she squealed, writhed like a lizard, and thrashed her henna-painted legs against the carpet.
This went on for quite some time, until her cries began to weaken, mingling with Dil'ya's groan as he released his seed.
Pulling away from the slave girl, he did not slap her buttocks, pinch her breasts, or draw patterns on her with crushed cherry juice, as Ayaz loved to do. Dil'ya lay down with her, resting his head on her shoulder, and began to stroke her whole body, tickling the heated skin with his fingertips.
Tatly-Gül's lips spread into a blissful smile, her eyes closed, and a minute later she was asleep, smiling in her sleep.
— Well, that's all. Don't wake her: such sleep is sweeter than honey and sherbet. I thank you, O fragrant one, for your great mercy, — the viscount bowed courteously, picked up his wig from the floor, pulled it on, and, bowing, left.
He hadn't even reached his quarters when a slave caught up with him.
"Damn baboon," thought de Cardillac, turning back. "I knew this would end badly…"
He was right, though it had nothing to do with Ayaz. When the viscount returned to his chambers — something pink and hot rushed to his feet, tossing her hair, fell to her knees and began kissing his hands.
— Thhank you… oh thhank you… — whispered Tatly-Gül.
— She never thanked ME. Rejoice, O Dil'ya, — Ayaz said gloomily.
A few days later, the viscount, passing through the courtyard of Ayaz's quarters, suddenly came upon Tatly-Gül. It seemed she had been waiting for him.
— Thhank you… — she fell to her knees again.
— Get up… get up, come now… — said de Cardillac. He wanted to embrace her, let her bury her face in his neck… and he did just that. Glancing around, he grabbed the girl by the hand, dragged her into the deep shade of the grapevines and pressed her to himself, feeling her hot nakedness through his coat.
Tatly-Gül desperately clung to him.
— Wait, wait, — de Cardillac muttered, dodging her licking lips. — Don't. Not here…
He wanted her desperately, but to fuck here, in the courtyard, was tantamount to suicide. Gritting his teeth, the viscount caught Tatly-Gül's hand, placed it on his sinful property — and a second later he howled, burying his face in her hair. Understanding fingers drew a fountain of seed from him as quickly as water spurts from a drainpipe.
— You… you… this can't be, — the viscount muttered, covering the back of her head with kisses. —