Bertrice Small - Adora

A streak of lightning ripped through her at his gentle touch, and she gasped with shock, instinctively raising her hands to fend him off. But he was too quick for her. Pushing her back amid the pillows he covered her bare breasts with hot kisses. His tongue lapped at her large nipples, sending wave after wave of shivers over her trembling body. Then his mouth closed over one hard peak, and sucked hungrily. “My lord,” she moaned. “Oh, my lord!” She was close to fainting by the time he finally stopped.

“Did you like it?” he asked. “Did you like what I just did to you?”

She could not answer, and he took her silence for maidenly modesty, which delighted him. What she could not tell him was that she had liked what he had done. She liked it as much as she had liked it when Prince Murad did it to her. This confused her terribly. Did she not then love the prince? Was love a different thing from the delicious feelings that rippled through her body when she was touched in this way? She did not understand.

What she did know was that she liked a man’s hands on her, and she was, after all, this man’s wife. So where was the harm? But as his arm encircled her and his free hand stroked her again, she remembered last night-when he had coldly ordered her precious virginity wasted upon a lifeless piece of polished wood so that he might not waste his time. He only wooed her now because of Ali Yahya’s intervention. Without that intervention, she would again have been bound to the bed and mated like an animal.

Her beloved Murad had never hurt her. He had touched her gently, with tenderness. He had wanted her for his wife, and she in turn had wanted him for her husband. She had wanted to please him. That had been love! Fragile, barely born-but love!

She did not love the sultan, but she did enjoy his attentions and, God have mercy on her, it was all she was going to get in this life. Princesses were not expected to enjoy their marriages.

Sighing, she gave herself over to his ministrations, delighting him by drawing his head back down to her breasts, and begging prettily that he do again what he had just done. He could feel his own desire rising fast, for she excited him greatly. It took all his strength to remember how very unskilled she really was. Like a green youth, he fumblingly drew her pantaloons down over her hips to where she might easily kick them off. His fingers eagerly sought for her mound of Venus, and found it already moist. Panting, he tore open his robe and flung himself on her, feeling with ecstatic pleasure her youthful warmth.

His fingernails scratched the insides of her thighs as he pulled her legs apart. To her amazement he was nearly sobbing his hunger for her. His eagerness astounded her. She had no fear of him. She wondered if she closed her eyes, and pretended he were Murad…

Moving provocatively, she whispered huskily, “Kiss me, my lord. Kiss me, my husband.” He quickly obliged her, and to her delight his mouth was firm, and strangely familiar. It was-oh, dear God!-like Murad’s. He kissed her deeply, passionately. First he was the aggressor and then, to their mutual surprise, she was. She allowed his mouth to sweep her into a purely physical world of sensual pleasures.

She was again in the orchard of St. Catherine’s. Again in the strong arms of the prince. It was his dear, familiar mouth that now possessed hers, his hands that swept over her smooth skin. With a will of its own, her young body moved voluptuously, instinct rather than experience guiding her.

Maddened with desire, Orkhan drove himself deep into the eager, willing body. He needed all of his self-control not to take his release immediately. Instead he guided her gently through a maze of passion, helping her to find her way until she thought she could bear no more.

At first Theadora fought against the force that took her higher, higher, and higher before sweeping her away with an overpowering sweetness that drove her to the teetering brink of unconsciousness. Then she stopped fighting. At last, bathed in a golden light, she felt herself shattering into a thousand little pieces. She cried out with a terrible sense of loss, and heard him cry out as well.

In the absolute quiet that followed she hesitantly opened her eyes. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, gazing down at her. His dark eyes were filled with admiration, and he smiled tenderly. For a moment she was puzzled. Where was Murad? Who was this old man? Then, as reality returned, she almost wailed aloud.

“You are magnificent!” the sultan cried. “That an innocent girl should feel so deeply! Be so passionate! Allah! How I adore you, my little bride. Thee-adora! Thee-adora! I believe I am falling in love with you!” He took her in his arms and kissed her hungrily. His hands could not stop fondling her breasts, her buttocks…and he was quickly roused. Again he sought her warmth, and she could not deny him. Nor could she deny her own physical desire. She hated herself.

Afterwards he called for refreshments. “I will see to it that you have the finest teachers, my little one. You were made for love, and for loving.” He sipped a fruit sherbet. “Ah, my sweet wife, how you delight me! I must admit that. I did not expect to find such fire in you. You are mine, my adorable Theadora! Mine alone!”

In his voice she heard the echo of Murad’s voice, speaking nearly the same words. She shivered. He put an arm about her. “I am at your feet, my lovely Adora.” The name seemed to have slipped out, and when, shocked, she stared up at him his face was a mask of delight. “Adora!” he exclaimed. “Yes! You are my own Adora!”

“Why do you call me that?” she whispered.

“Because,” he said as he bent and kissed a plump breast, “because you are an adorable creature.”

She felt tears prick at the back of her eyelids, and quickly she blinked them back. How ironic that the father should be so like the son, even in the language of his lovemaking. She sighed. She was caught like a bird in a snare, and there was no help for it.

She was the sultan’s wife. She must put Prince Murad out of her thoughts. Her energies must be devoted to giving her husband a son and her father a grandson who would link John Cantacuzene by blood to Sultan Orkhan. She was Theadora Cantacuzene, a princess of Byzantium, and she knew her duty. She was Theadora Cantacuzene, the sultan’s wife, and she knew her fate.

Theadora sat quietly sewing by the bubbling, tiled fountain. The fantailed goldfish chased each other amid the sparkling, splashing water. About her the almond and cherry trees blossomed, and the flower beds, bordered with blue hyacinths, were filled with white and yellow tulips.

Next to her sat Iris, who now hissed, “Here comes the old crow and the dove on their daily visit.”

“Hush,” Theadora gently chided her. But she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Good afternoon, Theadora.”

“Good afternoon, Theadora.”

“And good afternoon to you both lady Anastatia and lady Nilufer. Pray be seated. Iris, see to the refreshments.”

The two older women settled themselves, and Martina drew from her flowing sleeves a piece of embroidery. Anastatia, having peered at Theadora’s large belly, commented, “Such a big child! And you with two more months to go. T’will be a wonder if you’re not torn asunder at the birthing.”

“Nonsense!” replied Nilufer as she saw Theadora grow pale. “I was enormous with Murad, Suleiman, and Fatima. And it was mostly the waters, for none of them was unusually large.” She patted the young girl’s hand. “You are doing just fine, child. Your baby is sure to be a lovely, healthy one.”

Theodora sent Murad’s mother a grateful look, then turned icy eyes on Anastatia. “I have no fears for either myself or my son,” she said evenly.

Iris, returning with a tray, heard enough to be angry. She stumbled and the pitcher she carried tipped, spilling its contents into Anastatia’s lap. The sultan’s first wife leapt up as the cold, sticky liquid poured over her, seeping through her rich clothing to her skin.

“Clumsy fool!” she shrieked. “I’ll have you beaten black and blue for this deliberate insolence!”

“You will do no such thing,” said Theadora coldly. “Iris is my slave, and this was an accident. Iris, humbly beg the lady Anastatia’s pardon.”

Iris knelt, bowing her head. “Oh, I do, my lady Theadora. I do!”

“There,” said Theadora calmly as if that settled everything. Then she called to her other slaves, “Hurry, girls, or Lady Anastatia’s gown will be ruined.” And she looked up to find Lady Nilufer’s eyes brimming with laughing admiration.

If Theadora could claim to have a friend other than Iris, it was the sultan’s second wife. Once Nilufer had met the Byzantine princess she immediately revised her opinions of the girl. She saw in Theadora a substitute for her own beloved daughter who was married to a prince of Samarkand and lived so far away that it was unlikely mother and daughter would ever meet again in this lifetime. Had it not been for Nilufer’s kindness, Theadora might have miscarried her child, for Anastatia took great delight in provoking her.

The slavegirls had managed to sop up the sherbet from lady Anastatia’s gown. Cleansing it with cool water, they spread it across her wide lap to dry. It was at this moment that the sultan and his two favorite sons chose to visit Theadora. Her feelings for Orkhan were friendly now that she did not have to endure his insatiable sexual appetite. For four months after her bridal night he had visited her five nights out of every seven; the other two nights were reserved by Koran law for his other two wives.

During these months Theadora’s education had been considerably broadened. True to his word Orkhan had sent her the best tutors available in the harem. These redoubtable ladies had lectured on and demonstrated the arts of love until Theadora thought she could no longer be shocked or even surprised. But her husband, praising her new skills, had taught her things not even hinted at by her teachers, and Theadora had found that she could still blush.

As he strode across her garden toward her she felt her heart lurch painfully. Murad walked on his left. She had not seen him since their last night together in St. Catherine’s orchard. He was not looking at her, but toward his mother. It seemed to her that he was making a great effort not to look at her. Seeing both her sons, Nilufer rose with a glad cry, her arms outstretched.

On the sultan’s right was his heir, Prince Suleiman. Theadora had met this young man on many occasions since her entry into Orkhan’s house. He was a tall, handsome man with his father’s olive skin and dark hair, and eyes like his brother’s. Unlike the rest of his family, he was open, charming, and merry. He treated his father’s youngest wife as he might treat a favorite little sister.

The trio had reached the women now and, as Suleiman and Murad bent to kiss their mother, Orkhan embraced Theadora. He then turned to Murad and said, “Come, my son, and meet my precious Adora. Is this not a sweet armful for an old man on a cold winter’s night?” He chuckled and gently patted her swollen belly. “Not so old, however, that I cannot still plant a good crop in fertile ground.”

“You are very fortunate, my father,” said Murad stiffly, bowing slightly to Theadora. As he rose and raised his eyes to her she saw that they were cold and scornful. “Are you so sure it is a son my father has given you, princess?” His voice was mocking, and for a moment she thought she would faint.

She drew a deep breath to steady herself and said proudly, “The women of the Cantacuzene always breed strong sons for their husbands, Prince Murad.”

A scornful little smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I shall eagerly await the birth of my half brother, princess.”

Nilufer looked at her younger son, puzzled. Why on earth had he taken such a dislike to Theadora? She was such a sweet girl.

Later, as Theadora relived the incident, she grew angry and furiously threw several pieces of crockery to vent her temper. Her slaves, all carefully chosen by her in the open markets of Bursa, and trained in loyalty and obedience by Iris, were quite surprised. How could he be so cruel, wondered Theadora. Did he expect her to commit suicide because his father was suddenly reminded of her existence? Did he think she enjoyed the lust-filled hours she spent at Orkhan’s mercy? She sighed deeply. Men, she concluded, were but fools.

When her son was born she would devote her energies to him alone. She hoped her husband would leave her alone. She had recently taken to shopping the better slave marts with Iris for the most beautiful virgins available. She had trained the girls to perfection and then presented them to her husband. If she could keep his interests directed toward others, she might escape him. The thought of his hands on her again sent a shudder through her.