Chapter 1

 

From my first moments of sexual awakening, I had been interested in slavery. The very name conjured up in my mind wonderful images of naked women being paraded for inspection by lascivious men in gorgeous clothes; and also of naked men being fingered by groups of women just as interested in the slaves as sexual objects.

Of particular interest to me was that brand of slavery practised in the Ottoman Empire; that huge sprawling mass of humanity headed by the Sultan at the Sublime Porte in Constantinople. Turkish slaves seemed such sexual animals. Pleasure derived from their bodies was so common; they were so openly used-and abused, that reading about it, both fact as well as fiction was a constant source of titillation to me.

I often imagined myself as a slave, forced to do the bidding of some imperious mistress. Perhaps the Sultana herself. Or sometimes I was a slave-master, in charge of dozens of beautiful women who could be made to strip naked for my inspection, and other things, at any time.

I read everything about the subject I could get my hands on. I conjured up lascivious thoughts of hundreds of naked men - stark naked - men and women toiling at some arduous and backbreaking task while the overseers lashed at their backs and buttocks with their whips and wealthy and indolent aristocrats lolled about, looking on with apparent disdain but in actuality, licking their lips at the erotic sight.

 

I don't think it was a dream. It was far too real to have been and in any case it went on far too long. Besides, I have the scars to prove it really happened.

I was asleep. I had gone to bed with one of my favourite books, the epic (at least to me), Slave Island by Simon Finch. The book had fallen across my chest as I dropped off to sleep, immediately dreaming of the scene with the Lady Iona and the huge Sudanese slave whose penis she had had cut from his body to add to her collection.

I awoke but I was not in my bed at home. Instead I was in what could only be the principal room of an eastern harem and I was making love to the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life!

She was small and slender but with full ripe curves and a skin which felt so smooth and soft under me that it made me tingle all over as my body moved over hers. She was dark complexioned with a smooth olive skin, black hair which framed her beautiful face on the pillow and the most striking black eyes imaginable. They flashed up at me as I drove my cock in and out of her body. Her nose was straight and her lips full and red. Her teeth were pearly white and perfectly even. I put her age at about twenty-five to my own eighteen years.

I was at that time a student. I was studying engineering at the Queensland University of Technology in Brisbane and I lived at home with my parents, catching the bus in to the city each day. The woman beneath my bucking body may have been small: very much smaller than my six feet two inches but boy was she was strong. Her small hands were clawing at my back like a veritable virago. Her mouth was open in a taut snarl; she was obviously in the throes of a climax of stupendous proportions.

"What the hell...?" I said but she reached up with her head and clamped her lips to mine, effectively shutting out my protests. She pulled back again (while I continued to fuck her as hard as I could) and muttered something in a language quite foreign to me and yet, as she spoke, I knew what she was saying.

"Keep fucking!" she said crudely, beating the small of my back with her small hands, now formed into hard fists.

I did.

I wasn't exactly a virgin but my sexual experiences had been somewhat few and far between. It seemed the girls to whom I was attracted did not give themselves as freely as some others and it had always taken me months of dating before they had even let me touch their breasts, let alone make love to them. Furthermore, none of them had a body like the small woman beneath me now.

She was perfection itself. Flawless skin, firm muscles and a truly perfect shape. And her face, while imperious, was so beautiful, it almost hurt to look at it.

Lying on the enormous bed which was covered in brightly covered silks and satins, her body bucked and writhed under me. She had the strength of a lion, the grace of a panther and the stamina of a camel. There was no hint of perspiration on her velvet flesh although her ripe breasts quivered each time she thrust her loins up to meet my plunging cock.

I didn't have time to wonder where the hell I was or how I had got there. She wanted me to fuck her grasping quim and fuck her I would. The questions could be attended to later.

I was exhausted long before she was. Being inexperienced, I had little idea how to regulate my libido so as to allow her three or four climaxes before I spent my seed inside her body. Fortunately, she did achieve two orgasms before I ejaculated but it was rather a result of her own highly charged sexuality than anything to do with my ability.

When it was over I slumped down on her body. "Well?" she demanded. "How long before you get it up again?" she demanded.

Good God, I thought. My breath was still coming in gasps and my heart going nineteen to the dozen. I would need hours, I thought. "Soon," I said, and was shocked to hear myself saying it in her language.

"Hmph. Weak men. I'd have been better off with one of my women and the big dildo between us."

As I recovered my wind, my mind began racing. Hundreds of questions flooded through. I tried to sort them into some order. "Where am I?" I asked the woman.

"Where are you...? What do you mean where are you? You are in my bed where you have been coming every night since the Pasha departed to search for more slaves." She looked at me stupidly but she hadn't answered my question and I must have shown my own puzzlement. "What is my name?" she asked shrewdly.

"I, er... I don't know."

"What is yours?"

"I don't know that either."

"Hmmm. I am Zeda, wife of Suleiman Pasha, governor of Egypt. And you are Jayed, second secretary to my husband."

She continued to look at me suspiciously but I had to go on. "What date is it?" I asked and she told me a number which translated into the year Seventeen-eighty, at least as far as I could work it out. She continued to look at me strangely but her preoccupation with matters sexual soon had her fondling my body, trying to arouse my ardour once again.

It was fortunate for me I had always delighted in sports. I played football and cricket in their respective seasons but my real loves were athletics, gymnastics and swimming at which (if I can be more than a trifle immodest) I excelled. The constant practice in the gym and the pool had developed my body and endurance to a high degree and as a result my cock began engorging again, ready for another bout with the beautiful Zeda.

This time, however, she wanted to ride me like a stallion and I had to lie back while she sat astride my thighs and inserted my cock up inside her quim. I have been blessed not only with a good natural physique (which enabled me to do so well at sports) but also a very prominent set of genitals. My cock is nine inches slack and it grows another three inches when I am aroused. My balls are big and hang heavily behind it. Oh, I am blond with very fine silvery hair which flops all over my face all the time. I am largely hairless on my body with just a tuft of the same fine hair under each arm and above my groin. My cock and balls are naturally hairless and the few wisps above the root of my penis are so fine they are nearly invisible except when they catch the light.

Now, Zeda grasped my once again throbbing member and pulled it straight up off my belly so she could impale herself onto it. I lay back and gazed up in awe at the sheer perfection of her tawny body (and particularly the perfect orbs of her magnificent breasts) now sitting erect over my loins. But it was to become even more splendid as she began to move.

Once she was fully seated on my cock, she began to gyrate her body. Up and down but at the same time screwing it back and forth so that her breasts jiggled and wobbled most alluringly. She threw her head back and her throat thus became exposed, a small vein pulsing in time with her heart. Her skin, as I said, was quite wondrous: soft and velvety with a tawny sheen which bespoke her fine health.

And as I said, she had the stamina of a camel. I dare say she could have gone on fucking as long as a camel could traverse the desert without water. And now she used it. Her body bucked up and down violently on my swollen shaft. Her naked breasts wiggled in time with her body and her powerful thighs corded with sinuous power as she used them to force her body up and down and round and round.

After this second round; and after I had again planted a liberal dose of my seed inside her body, she told me I must return to my own room. She pulled me up off the bed and showed me my clothes. Appropriate for the time, I suppose but strange to me, used to western underwear. I pulled on the loose drawers and tied the drawstring around my waist then slipped on the long undercoat followed by the top clothes. She put on a sheer diaphanous robe and glided silently by my side to the huge double doors of the harem. We passed a dozen simpering women in various states of undress and a huge fat eunuch who guarded the inside of the harem door.

He slipped back the huge bolts of the door and handed me out to a black man who looked anything but a eunuch from the state of his trousers. This second man, whose name was Obsidian (no doubt named for the jet-black colour of his skin) was evidently Zeda's outside slave. The one she trusted to bring her lover of the night to her door.

He was tall. Much taller than me at around six feet six and he had a body to match. Broad, powerful shoulders and a muscular chest, tapering waist, flat belly and the thighs of a sprinter. He was also perfectly bald. I discovered he was a Nubian and that total absence of hair on their bodies-everywhere-was quite common in these people. He held his finger up to his mouth in the universal gesture of silence and we crept through long passages, down stairs and along more corridors until he gestured to a door which was presumably mine.

I opened it and went inside to find a quite comfortable room with bed, cupboard and a table on which were strewn various papers. I took the lamp from the sconce near the door over to this desk and sat down to look at the papers. They were in Turkish which I discovered I could read, just as I could speak and understand it orally-don't ask me how; I had to my knowledge never even seen it written or heard it spoken before.

They were clearly state papers. Laws and edicts from Constantinople, financial statements of taxation and expenditure, letters to and from the capital and to lesser outposts within Egypt. Obviously Zeda had spoken the truth when she said I was one of her husband's secretaries.

I looked in the cupboard and found more clothes. I went over to the bed and sat down. I had to think this out. Was I dreaming? That was my first reaction. All this was so close to the scenario in the book. Zeda might not have been the Lady Iona but she might as well have been. Iona was wife to Hospodar Pasha, governor of Slave Island and she too was wont to play while the cat was away.

I stripped out of my clothes once again and went over to the night table, splashing water over my face and body to rinse away the after effects of my passionate hours with Zeda. Then I went to bed. Again I dreamed (can one dream within a dream) of Slave Island and its inhabitants but this time my images of the Lady Iona were overlaid with the reality of Zeda and the wondrous sexual exploits I had just enjoyed with her.

I awoke to find the sun beaming into my room in the palace. I rose and washed again then shaved myself with the lethal-looking cutthroat razor I found amongst my possessions. I was very careful indeed since I had up to that time used an electric razor and I didn't have much confidence in my ability with the hand model. Still I managed and the result was passable.

I dressed and went looking for something to eat.

I won't go into the details of how I coped with people who knew me but whom I didn't know from Adam; how I looked after the various jobs I was expected to perform in the Pasha's absence or the multitude of other daily occurrences to which I was exposed and which I hadn't the slightest inkling about.

Most I got over by explaining I had hit my head and as a result had lost my memory. This seemed to cover most eventualities although I got a few odd looks from time to time.

I didn't see Zeda during the day at all. She was apparently holed up in the harem.