Bertrice Small - Adora

Cerika’s hands strayed downward and stroked the insides of Theadora’s thighs, playfully touching at her womanhood. Theadora sighed deeply, trembling when her friend lowered her blonde head and kissed her within the soft, sensitive cleft of her sex. Now the three women held a cup of wine to Adora’s lips, urging her to drink. When she did so her feeling of wellbeing increased.

Then, from the darkness, Alexander appeared. Naked, he looked like the marble statue of the ancient God, Apollo. Tall, with well-muscled legs and a flat torso, he was deeply bronzed by the sun. Between his powerful thighs was a triangle of gold hair, and springing forth from the tight gold curls was a long, swollen manroot.

Theadora felt no fear, for she wanted him. And as this was but a delightful dream, she felt free to indulge. Two of the other women spread her legs wide. Smiling, Theadora opened her arms to him. For a moment he stood spread-legged above her, a smile of triumph on his handsome face. Then, kneeling, he straddled her so that he might enjoy the full breasts, and she felt his maleness against her belly. Gently he played with her, pulling the long nipples out, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. She tingled all over with the full pleasure of it, and rubbed her navel against the pulsing muscle that throbbed against her.

He nibbled on her lips, placing little kisses at their corners and on her closed eyelids. For the first time, she heard his voice, and for a moment she was frightened. She did not recall ever hearing a voice in her dreams. But the sensations assailing her were so intense they banished fear. “What do you want me to do, beauty?” he said.

Slowly, she opened her heavy-lidded eyes and said in a sweetly serious voice, “You must make love to me, Alexander. You must make love to me,” and then her eyes slowly closed again.

She could feel his hands grasping her buttocks, and she smiled with delight as she felt him drive deep into her willing body, raising her to the pinnacle of passion. He was enormous. He filled her to overflowing, and she thought she would surely die, for in truth she had never been so satisfied.

But soon the sunlight was in her eyes, and the sound of Iris’ voice woke her from her deep sleep.

Her mouth was sour, and her head ached horribly. She had had such a strange dream…but she could not quite remember it. When she tried to concentrate, her head ached.

“Draw the drapes,” she ordered her servant. “The wine that Alexander sent me last night has come close to assassinating me. God! My head hurts unbearably.”

“You should not have drunk it all, my lady,” scolded Iris. “You are not used to strong wines.”

Theadora nodded regretfully. “I will stay in bed today,” she said, “for to tell the truth I do not think I can get up.” She lay back amid her pillows to doze in the cool, darkened room.

But sleep was restless, with wild and obscene images floating through her troubled mind. A dark room with flickering golden lights. Alexander’s three favorites-nude, caressing her naked body. Cerika kissing her on the mouth and on the- Oh, Christos! No!

Now she lay back, her clear camellia skin a startling white against the rainbow pillows. Above her, the ceiling was of Venetian glass, and she could see Alexander between her spread legs. She moaned desperately, trying to escape the dream, but she could not. In the dream he took her once, then took each of his favorites in turn, dismissing them afterward. She watched with amazement as he performed with his women. The man was a stallion and did not seem to tire. Alone now, he took her a second time, and turning her onto her stomach took her again in that manner.

She struggled to escape these images and woke to find that it was already late afternoon. Her headache had gone but she felt confused and tense. Although her skin was now cool, the sheets were soaked with perspiration and were badly tangled. Again, she knew she had dreamed but she could only remember that it had had something to do with Alexander. They had made love together. She blushed with shame. How absurd!

Shrugging, she called to Iris to bring her a carafe of pomegranate juice and some food. After she had eaten she entered her bath, and the skillful fingers of her slave soothed away the last of her tensions. When Alexander arrived for their chess game she greeted him warmly.

“I missed you last night,” she said. “I enjoy our games. Instead I drank that vicious wine you sent me, and I spent a restless, impossible night. When I awoke today I had a monstrous headache. I have been in bed all day.”

He chuckled. “I should have warned you. The golden wines of Cyprus are deceptive, beauty. They appear to be sweet and mild but in actuality are wicked and potent.”

“Could you not have warned me?” she said somewhat sharply. He chuckled again.

While they played she stole little looks at him from beneath her lowered lashes. He behaved no differently toward her. Surely if what she had imagined had really happened, they would not be carrying on in the usual manner! No! It had been a wild dream, brought on by the strong wine. What was the matter with her, to make her imagine such things? But she knew the answer to that: she longed for a man’s love, and as long as her elderly husband lived, she was not apt to get it. Sighing, she made a careless move and heard her captor say, “Check and mate, beauty!”

She looked down at the board and made a little moue with her mouth. “Oh, Alexander, how stupid of me!”

He laughed at her distress. “It is not like you to give me a game, beauty.” Then in a more serious tone, “What is it that troubles you?”

She shook her head. “Bad dreams, Alexander. Such very frightening bad dreams.”

“Can you tell me? Talking often puts such dreams in their true perspective.”

“No, my friend. It is far too personal. I behaved in a way most unlike myself, and it troubles me. I hope never to have such dreams again!”

He looked at her gravely, and his conscience nagged him painfully. He had drugged her and then seduced her in order to satisfy his own craving for her. She had been absolutely magnificent, for although she did not know it, she was made for a man’s love. She had pleasured and had been pleasured.

His problem now would be to let her go, for he had fallen deeply in love with Theadora during the period of her captivity. One thought consoled him. When the old sultan died, she would be returned to her family in Constantinople. When that happened, he intended to have his father, who was a vassal of the emperor, ask for Theadora for him. His father would be delighted that he finally wished to remarry and give the family legitimate heirs.

“I do not think that you will be troubled further by such dreams, beauty,” he said quietly. “And I have good news for you. Your ransom should be here shortly. Your captivity is almost over.”

Smiling, she leaned across the chessboard and touched his hand. “I have been neither uncomfortable nor sad, my friend. Captivity in your house is very pleasant, and your kindness to my son and me will not be forgotten.”

He rose. “I am sorry, Theadora of Byzantium, that your sense of duty is so strong. Else you might have remained here with me.”

“Had I been childless, Alexander, perhaps I might have been tempted. But though my son can never be sultan, he is an Ottoman. I will not deny him his heritage.”

He nodded with understanding. “You are an admirable woman, beauty. What a pity the men in your world will never really understand or appreciate you.”

She smiled ruefully. “Nevertheless, my friend, I shall survive, and perhaps in the end I shall even triumph.”

He laughed. The big, even teeth seemed a white flash against his bronzed face.

“Yes,” he said. “If any woman was meant to triumph, beauty, I believe it is you.” Still chuckling, he left her.

Murad, the third son of Orkan, had ridden hard from the coast. He had left behind his escort several hours earlier, allowing his big black stallion to move as fast as it wished. The horse, barely winded, clattered into the tiled courtyard of Bursa Palace. Sliding from the saddle, the prince flung the reins to a slave and walked quickly into his father’s house.

He was shocked by the old man’s appearance. Orkhan looked his full seventy years. His hair and beard were snow white. His dark eyes were faded. His hand quavered slightly. He seemed to have shrunk, and his body even smelled of age. Yet, Orkhan’s voice was strong.

“Sit down,” he commanded his son. The prince obeyed silently. “Coffee?”

“Thank you, Father.” Murad waited, as good manners dictated, for the boiling hot coffee to be poured into the eggshell-thin cups. A slave handed him the coffee which he politely sipped before setting it upon the round brass tray table. “How may I serve you, my father?”

“Theadora and her son have been kidnapped,” said Orkhan. “She took the boy to the Springs of Apollo in Thessaly. Returning home, the ship got caught in a severe storm. Praise Allah that they were saved! But the ship was badly damaged and virtually helpless when it was attacked by pirates. They are being held for ransom in Phocaea by the pirate lord who calls himself Alexander the Great. I want you to take the ransom there and bring my wife and son back safely.”

“I hear and obey, sire,” replied the prince with a calm he did not feel. Orkhan went on to explain the financial arrangements, but Murad heard only a few words.

He had seen Theadora only once since her marriage to his father, and then they had sniped at each other. He had been hurt and had wanted to hurt in return. He grimaced. It was just like her to have gotten herself into this situation. She could not, of course, accept the fact that her son was a cripple. No! She must take the child across wild seas to a supposed healing place.

Murad listened with hidden, impotent rage as his father babbled on about his precious Adora and the importance of her safety. Orkhan spoiled her! She had always been cosseted and spoiled. But if she had been his woman he would have taught her obedience! Suddenly the memory of her swept over him with a force that stunned him. He remembered a lithe young body with soft breasts; a heart-shaped face with amethyst eyes that looked so trustingly up into his; a sweet, kissable mouth that quivered beneath his. Allah! She was a temptress, he thought bitterly. Given the chance, she would probably be a whore like her two scandalous sisters in Constantinople. Sophia had been killed recently with her latest paramour, and the empress Helena openly took lovers. He gritted his teeth and forced his mind back to what his father was saying. “And you will personally escort them back to Bursa, my son. My poor Adora will undoubtedly have suffered greatly. And little Halil, too.”

Pah! thought Murad, sourly. The witch will undoubtedly have been made quite comfortable. All she need do is dazzle the pirate chief with those fabulous eyes. As for my little half brother, he is probably treating this whole thing as great adventure.

It did not help Prince Murad’s temper to find, on his arrival in Phocaea, that his predictions were apparently correct. The sultan’s third wife was quite elegantly housed, and Prince Halil was obviously doted on by his captor. In fact, the pirate seemed on excellent terms with both of his royal captives.

Murad arrived in Phocaea in late afternoon. It would have been impossible to complete the business of ransoming before nightfall. It would have also been an appalling breach of manners not to accept the pirate chief’s hospitality. To Murad’s surprise, this hospitality was not only lavish but in excellent taste.

First, however, he was taken to see that Theadora and Halil were safe, and were being honorably treated. Murad had been troubled all the way from Bursa. He had not seen her in nearly eight years. Had she changed? Probably. Byzantine women could run to fat, and his father liked women with meat on their bones.

It didn’t help Murad’s troubled mind that she was still willow slim, or that when she looked up her eyes were filled with an emotion he did not comprehend.

Then she stood and came toward him, her slim hands outstretched in welcome, her face a polite mask.

“Prince Murad. How very kind of you to come to our rescue. How is my lord Orkhan? I pray we have not distressed him greatly by our unfortunate situation.”

He bowed curtly. “My father is fine. You have been well treated, Your Highness?”

“Lord Alexander has been the soul of courtesy from almost the first moment of our capture,” she replied.

Was there a hint of laughter in her voice? Why did that big blond buffoon who called himself Alexander the Great look so uncomfortable? “I will complete the ransom negotiations tomorrow and come for you and Halil then,” Murad said gruffly. “Be ready.”