The Slave Sultana 4. The Seed Cask

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.

From within the pouch, the black hand fished out a rough basalt figurine of a turbaned man nurturing a tiny potted tree. An ancient object that she had learned long ago was dated from the time of Osman Bey, the first Ottoman Sultan from two centuries past. This was a blessing to her! She watched in familiar pride as the slave twist the bottom of the fond figurine and opened a secret lid.

Like a stoic magician, his hand worked out an object, teased it before her excited expression, then from his leathery, coal colored hands produced out an ornate vial of black glass that was endlessly carved with Turkish script, familiar Qur’an blessings of fertility. Waxy swirls twisted inside of the vial, gold flake danced in the thick misty churns within that enchanted object.

The slave bowed as she took it with only her fingertips in a perfect bearing of a supplicant.

It was like trapped smoke, his royal seeds- produced daily between his busy scheduled and sealed so as to reward her a diet of his blessed royal being- and nourish her with this mighty favor. It was His promise, and her lone privilege in a harem of another thousand hellcats, hers alone, and even after those three years of giving her this- as her meal, it felt like hope dancing. She knew well that other women of the harem, when heard of this favor again, would mew in anger and salivate with envy.

“He- he would come tonight?”
The slave nodded.

“So he has not- ”
The slave shook his head.

“Is...is he just late then?...with his court affairs?”
The slave nodded again.

She gasped, a thrill of love.

With an eager twist the delicate head of the vial came off in her hand and while she moved, the Mosul silk slip which had awkwardly masked her rosy curves drifted down on the onyx tiles.

She didn't mind the black slave's widening gaze as she stood triumph in her nude with the Sultan's promise in hand. She didn't mind anything now that she knew tonight will simply be like all other ones. Her heart had finally stopped its toxic worries, she'd won again tonight. He had knew every one of the other sluts of the harem before he met her, and knew the taste of all their tongues. But, these three years, he had only known her- day and night. Feathers, feathers tickled her heart as she thought of her duty, and in her thoughts, she seemed to hear the distant echoes of his coming footstep again.