The Slave Sultana 3. The Veil of Shame

A moment of abject disgust tortured her as she made a face to the direction of the night wind. Her sapphire blue eyes shivered, then blinked scornfully, followed by a little tantrum that kicked off satin pillow that had been artfully placed beneath her feet. She even thought she should kick him too for bringing in this accursed message, she had certainly felt like it but she stopped herself. The fact that she knew as a slave the great negro could not resist at all sent cold tremors of pity shaking through her frame.

Her eyes traced over the haunched creature, followed him as his forehead made a wet sound with the onxy tile, completing the gesture of the Sultan's message. A black, aching hollow rattled within her, perhaps as dark as the skin of this tower of dark flesh, ached her from within. For her young heart, it felt like the death of hope itself.

Then she realized that the slave was a man and thus possessed of the natural lust of men (however much castrated he was) and that he was in the present before a lone right of Sultans, she thought of her modesty. With a rebellious sigh that let out all her airs, she moved the long Mosul silk around her waist and in two twists coiled around each sets of enthralled womanhood and her shame.

Her tiny feet slapped on the tile beneath her. Then, finally, after an exhale of finality, gingerly lifted one in accordance with decorum, arched, and presented it to him to be kissed. The leathery hands took her feet reverently, and she felt the wet warmth, like those left by a babe hound. She never knew if his lips were perpetually wet or he took every chance of such encounters to suckle her pink tinged feet, either way the thought did not trouble her, they were too cold now anyway, clammy like the rest of her.

Only then did the slave rose. When he did so there was a glimmer in his eyes. She stopped, without a sound the fellow produce from his belt a pouch of century- old Chinese silk. She gasped at the familiar object and yelped, eyes stark with recognition and appreciation. A gift, a gift from the Sultan himself, and she was sure of the familiar ritual of this gift-game.