The Slave Sultana 1 Love Thing

In the pale light of languid lamps, the aroused girl, the blonde Greek, the slave dreamed of powerful caresses. It had been an impatient day and she was feeling rather wicked.

Her body had always spoke for her, and she wielded it with an esurient delight now that it had grew to her exact wishes. In that moment she felt her body could almost pass for one of twenty winters. After all, she certainly looked the part.

She smiled in her head, musing. When indeed the day comes where she would turn twenty though, she reasoned, she would long have been His...Sultana. The first woman of all Turkish lands, His crowned jewel and His light by His side, perhaps with a proud son carrying the name of an heir of Osman Bey. He- her master, the master of a thousand nations and father of their heroic brood would look back, carrying the smile of a familiar lover. His fond olive hand playing with her blonde locks and pink cheeks before his supplicating Muftis and soldiery, a realm of sighing sycophant on bent knees.

~

The heady breeze of the Malmaran Straight toyed with coils of her flaxen hair, blowing the scent of her barely concealed womanhood toward the nightly sky, where stood rows of newly raised minarets.

Of those finished in their construction came the cries of Mullahs, beckoning the faithful in their last prayer of the day. Beneath the effervescent Arabic that cocooned her ancient city, beneath the spire of each minaret, rose another song, the same call to prayers, translated in Greek, by Greek traitors, that sensually mingled with the song of their conquerors. As the last note died, so did the last ember of the sun.