Bertrice Small - Adora

She opened herself wide to him, reveling in the bigness, the hardness, of him. She had been too long without him, and if he were hungry for her, she easily matched his passion. From deep within her she felt the cry well up and, sobbing his name, she yielded herself totally.

Aware of her surrender but completely lost in the warmth and sweetness of her, he groaned his delight and set about to reach his peak. They were both so keyed-up that the blazing climax left them drained and shaken.

They lay, exhausted, breathing heavily. Finally Murad managed to find his voice. “Woman!” he said fiercely, “You are a never ending source of wonder to me. Is there no end to your variety, Adora? When, in Allah’s name, did you learn to dance like that?”

She laughed shakily. “There has been a troupe of Egyptian dancers in the city for some weeks now. The lead dancer, Leila, taught me here in the palace. She says I have a natural talent. Did I truly please you, my lord?”

“Allah! Could you not tell?”

“Do you ravish all the dancers who please you so?” she teased.

“No woman ever danced for me as you have, beloved. I will allow you to dance for no one else. Not even the most honored guests will ever see you perform.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her, his tongue gently thrusting between her teeth to caress, to rouse, to stoke the fires of her passion. She sighed deeply and returned the kiss, her mouth soft and yielding, provocatively sucking on his tongue.

When at last they breathlessly ceased their kissing, he murmured into her little ear, “There is no one like you in the world, Adora. You are unique among women, a priceless jewel among the many grains of worthless sand. The others I desire occasionally, for a man requires variety. But I love you, my darling. I must never be without you.”

She was trembling with joy, though she hid it from him. He must never know how vital he was to her very existence. She now loved him as she had never loved any man, even her beloved Alexander. But he must never know, lest he use that special power to control her. She rose from the tumbled pillows and held out her hand to him. “Come to bed, my lord,” she said softly. “Come to my couch, my love. The night is young.”

His dark eyes burning like live coals, he swept her up into his arms, burying his hot face in the scented tangle of her silken hair. “Woman!” he whispered huskily. He carried her through the short hallway that connected their courts. “Woman! The memory of this night will haunt me if I live to one hundred years!”

Helena, empress of Byzantium, looked with hidden glee at the woman before her. The creature was short with large, pendulous breasts. Helena had secretly observed her in the bath and knew that beneath the rich robes were heavy thighs, a sagging belly, and enormous hips. Both the woman’s very white skin, and her dull, brown hair were coarse. And though her eyes were a rather fine topaz color they were made small and piglike by her plump cheeks which had been reddened in an attempt at youthful color. She was gowned in purple brocade, trimmed with brown martin fur at the neck and sleeves. The sleeves were slashed and cloth of gold showed through.

She was Mara, daughter of a Greek priest named Sergius. Mara was the mother of Murad’s first son, Cuntuz. It had taken Helena some time to trace Mara for, though she was the daughter of a holy man, she was also a whore-by nature and by profession. Murad had not been her first lover, though she had always maintained that he was the father of her son.

Forced from her village on the Gallipoli peninsula by her angry parents, she had become a camp follower of the Turkish army, servicing any man who would pay the price. Her child had remained with his grandparents who, though embarrassed by their daughter’s morals, housed her child.

Cuntuz had been continually reminded of his mother’s evil ways, of his wicked infidel father, and of his own bastardy. The children of the village had been merciless. His grandparents, no more thoughtful than others, were forever telling him how lucky he was to have their charity. He was forced to spend a great deal of time in the church praying that God would overlook the shame of his very existence, would burn his vile parents in eternal hellfire, and would bless his wonderful grandparents who had taken him into their home.

Cuntuz was now twelve and a half. Suddenly, his mother-richly dressed and with a full purse-appeared to claim him. He could remember seeing her only three times in his life, the last time four years ago. He barely knew her, and he didn’t like her. But faced with the choice of remaining with his carping grandparents who pleaded with him to remember his immortal soul and remain with them, or go with his mother who promised him that he would be a prince, the choice was easy. It was made especially easy, when his mother, her eyes knowing, said slyly, “Soon you will be a man, my son, and I will see that you have many fine girls to satisfy you.” He had lately felt urges and longings strange to him and had taken to spying on the village maidens when they bathed in a nearby stream.

He and his mother had gone to Constantinople where they remained for several months in a small palace, guests of the empress. Cuntuz had been coached in elementary manners, the rough, country edge worn off his tongue by a diction teacher. And he had made a friend, the first he had ever had. This was Prince Andronicus, the empress’s oldest son, fifteen.

The boys became inseparable, much to the irritation of the empress, who was forced to grit her teeth and accept the situation. Only the fact that she would soon be sending Cuntuz and his mother to his father in Adrianople prevented Helena from taking firmer action. She did not feel that Cuntuz was a fit companion for her son.

Andronicus was very much like Cuntuz. Being older, and having been brought up in the city, Andronicus had had better opportunities to develop the unpleasant side of his nature. He was nothing like his handsome and charming younger brother, Manuel, who made friends easily. Andronicus had been virtually friendless. The open admiration of the new boy won him over.

On Cuntuz’s thirteenth birthday Prince Andronicus took his new friend to an exclusive brothel. There, the boy became a man. A man who, like his royal friend, had an appetite for cruelty and perversion. The boys began spending more and more time in the whorehouses of the city. Singly, each was obnoxious; together they were dangerous, for their cruelty knew no bounds. Their arrival each evening at a house of pleasure was apt to set the madame fretting nervously, wondering if she would lose any of her girls. Andronicus and Cuntuz made life unbearable torture for the young prostitutes of Constantinople, for they never patronized the same house two nights in a row and no one ever knew where they would strike next. Fortunately, before they could kill anyone, the time came for Cuntuz to go to Adrianople.

Now he stood with his mother before the empress. He thought to himself that Helena had fine, big tits. He wondered how it would feel to suck on those breasts and then bite down hard on the nipples, causing her to scream with the terrible pain he would inflict. He stood silently, mentally stripping his royal benefactress naked, wondering if what they said about her was true. He imagined her bent over, begging for mercy while he raised red welts on her round, soft bottom with a horse crop. Then when her plump, pretty cheeks blushed rosy red for him he would ass-fuck her! Beneath his elegant robe he grew hard and erect.

Looking at the unconcealed lust on the boy’s face, Helena knew roughly what he was thinking and wondered whether he would be worth the risk. There would be hell to pay if John found out. But if she were very, very careful he would not find out. In this very palace was a secret, windowless room outfitted with a couch for such occasions. The boy and his mother would be leaving in the morning. Perhaps-No! Yes! Later this afternoon she would have the boy brought to her for a few hours. She had heard he was insatiable. She forced her mind back to what the boy’s idiot mother was saying.

“You’re sure,” Mara quavered, “that Murad will welcome us in Adrianople?”

“Of course!” snapped Helena. God, the woman was driving her crazy “How many times must I tell you he will be delighted to have Cuntuz by his side. His other sons are but babies. As a warrior, Murad is in constant danger of being killed. Do you think if that happened the Ottomans would welcome my sister’s mewling infants as Murad’s heirs? They would far prefer Cuntuz, who is virtually a grown man. Your son could then protect his own succession in the Ottoman fashion by strangling his half brothers. You, dear Mara, will be a most powerful woman when your son succeeds to his father’s throne.”

Mara licked her lips nervously. “Sultan Murad has never seen my son. When I told him I was pregnant he gave me gold, but I never saw him again. He never even acknowledged the boy.”

“Neither has he ever denied him,” said Helena. “Rest assured, my dear Mara. All will be well. If, heaven forfend, Murad sends you away, there is always a place for you among my ladies. You have my protection.” It was a promise easily given for Helena didn’t believe the sultan would send them back. If he did, it would be with an income. And the damage to Theadora would have been done. Her sister would not feel so inviolate then!

Rising, the empress smiled down on the fat woman. “I will bid you goodbye now, my friend, for you will be leaving early in the morning. Prince Cuntuz, if you will attend me in an hour’s time I will give you your final instructions on how to deal with Ottoman court customs.” And Helena glided from the room.

When she had gone, Mara turned to her son. “You know, of course, that the bitch lusts for a quick tumble with you.”

He grinned. “I’ll give her a ride she’ll not soon forget, mother dear. She’ll be groveling for mercy by the time I’m through with her. Be sure you are as kind to my friend, Andronicus. He swears you are the best piece he has ever had. He tells me your mouth does wonderful things that can drive a man mad with delight.”

“Small praise from a lad of fifteen,” returned Mara sourly. “Don’t burn all your bridges with the empress, Cuntuz. Despite what she says, we may need to return here. I do not really believe that the sultan will welcome us. I will try for your sake though, for I owe you that.”

“Am I really his son?”

“I believe so. When a man kept me as he did, I fucked only him. I even fancied myself in love with Murad. Ah, Cuntuz, you should have seen me then. I was a tiny little thing with fine breasts and skin like the best white Bursa silk! A man could span my waist with his hands!”

He looked unbelieving. He could not imagine this mountain of flesh petite and desirable. But then, she must have had something other than an open and willing hole to attract his father even for so short a time. He disliked her less now than when they had first joined forces. He realized that she had tried, even as she was trying now, to do her best for him. Awkwardly he patted the beringed hand.

“We had best go now, Mother, lest we be late for our appointments.”

A week later Sultan Murad found himself face to face with an almost-grown son and that son’s mother. He had not even remembered their existence. The peasant girl he had kept for his pleasure in the Gallipoli Peninsula had been of no importance to him. She had attracted him with her golden eyes and big breasts. She had been no stranger to men, and he hadn’t known or cared if she was faithful to him. She was simply available when he wanted her. That had been enough, for he had ached with the terrible loss of Adora to his father. When Mara announced her impending motherhood he hadn’t questioned it but had given her gold and ridden off for less involved company. He had not even known the child’s sex, or whether it had lived or died. He hadn’t cared enough to find out.

From the beginning, there was antipathy between the man and the boy. Murad looked at Cuntuz. The lad was soft, uneducated. His mouth already showed signs of dissipation. The eyes were cruel and shifty. Cuntuz looked at his “father” and saw a hard, successful man whose feats he could never hope to equal. He hated Murad for this.

The sultan would neither confirm nor deny his paternity. Nor would he make Cuntuz his legal heir. That position belonged to four-year-old Prince Bajazet, to be followed by his twin brothers. To solidify his decision, Murad called in the ulemas, the Muslim lawgivers, to debate his judgement, and to confirm or deny it. He would abide by their decision. After long and careful consideration, the ulemas agreed with the sultan. They had no wish to cast doubts upon an innocent boy’s birth, but Mara’s reputation was poor. No one, not even his mother, could be absolutely certain of Cuntuz’s paternity. And where the descent of Osman’s line was concerned, there could be no doubt whatever. Prince Bajazet was confirmed as his father’s heir.