Dark Enchantment (25 page)

Janissaries

LET ME TELL
you something I know from my own experience. The only way anyone – even the most trusted palace slave or the highest-ranking councillor – may approach the private rooms of the Ivory Empress is through the Court of Janissaries, and through the apartment of the Imperial Elite themselves. The janissaries are the Empress’ personal bodyguard, 500 strong, every one of them hand-picked as a child from the slave markets and raised as a warrior. They might originate from anywhere in the empire, or beyond, and without family or caste they owe loyalty to the Empress alone. Everything in their lives is dependent on her favour so they are fanatically devoted to her service. Such unquestioning loyalty is important to her. She is a termagant who leads her armies to battle, a cast-iron virgin who refuses to marry lest she lose her power, and a heartless bitch who keeps her witless younger brother in a golden cage where his only task is to sire a child to be her heir – and only the youngest of these children at any time is permitted to live, because she will not tolerate the existence of a viable alternative for the imperial throne. Her laws hold nations in thrall, the riches and glory of her empire are beyond measurement, and her cadre of assassins are dreaded by those who even imagine rebellion.

The Imperial Elite are the six janissaries picked as the most effective and devoted of all guards, responsible for her safety day and night. Always there are at least four of them awake and on guard about her.

I am the pet of the Imperial Elite.

They call me Kitten. It’s not my name. They are not interested in my name. To them I am not a woman, not even a slave, I am an object to be used for their amusement. I am a mouth, a pussy, an anus, a pair of wide eyes streaming with tears. I am a gaping receptacle for their semen. Nothing more.

Whenever I enter the apartment of the Elite I am dressed as they prefer me, which is to say in a long rope of plaited leather, dyed crimson, that loops over and around my body to make a complex harness of diamond shapes. It doesn’t restrict my movements, but it makes it easy for me to be seized from any angle, to be strapped down, tied up, immobilised or tethered. Set into the braids at many places are brass rings to facilitate this. The harness conceals nothing: my breasts are bare. Attached to some of these loops is a long skirt of soft crimson hide that hangs down the back of my legs, and at the front a wisp of scarlet silk loosely arranged over my mound. If I stand very still and at the right angle this cloth drapes the shaven split of my sex from view, but I am rarely permitted to retain my modesty in this way.

Certainly not when Captain Teodric inspects me, as he does each evening. He glances over me as I enter the antechamber. ‘Present yourself,’ he orders.

The first presentation position is standing upright, my feet together, my elbows raised and my wrists crossed at the back of my neck, my head high but my eyes cast down. My straight, taut body has almost the parade-ground stance expected of the janissaries themselves, and Captain Teodric is used to inspecting his men. He circles me, searching for any imperfection. I dare not raise my eyes to look at him, but I know he is a gruff, greying man, still fast on his feet even though he is not as bulky as he once was. He is the least selfish of the Elite; his thought is always for his men and he always makes sure
that
I am shared around until every one of them is satisfied. He straightens some of the ropes, making the pattern across my back symmetrical, and, hearing the disapproval in his harsh exhalation, I quiver in fear.

‘Sloppy presentation,’ he growls.

‘I am sorry, master.’ My voice trembles.

He lets it go, for the moment, and returns to face me. In this position my breasts are thrust out, and because this little antechamber is unheated my nipples are puckered. He takes hold of one between finger and thumb, drawing it out.

‘Bells for the Kitten,’ he says. Jewellery glints in the open palm of his other hand. ‘Put them on.’

His gifts are decorative clamps, little gold curls closed and tightened by tiny screws. My fingers trembling, I put one on each of my nipples, tightening them to the point of discomfort. From each clamp hangs a ring and on each ring is a cluster of tiny bells. Every time my breasts sway, with every step I take, I will jingle sweetly. When I return to my inspection posture Captain Teodric smiles and tightens each screw another half-turn, making me gasp. I am allowed to express my pain and distress; it is the only freedom permitted me in this place. They like to hear me. My cries never earn me any mercy.

Then Teodric wobbles each orb to test the effect. ‘Now thank me.’

Obediently I say, ‘Thank you, master,’ although I hate the bells, even more than I fear the pain: their frivolity mocks me. The Captain must notice the dismay in my voice, because he grabs my jaw in his big hand and yanks my head from side to side, forcing me to look up at him. His fingers bite into my skin; there is no rebellion in my expression now, only aghast submission.

‘What are you?’ he snarls.

‘Whore.’

‘What are you?’

‘Tits.’

‘What are you?’

‘Cunt. Just tits and cunt.’

His lip curls in contempt. He releases me. ‘Present in the second posture.’

For that I go over to the fountain and bend to set my hands on the marble rim, arching my back so that my bottom is thrust out. The leather skirt hangs from my hips; it does not cover my bare cheeks, it merely frames them. Captain Teodric bends over to inspect the crack of my arse. He spreads my cheeks with his hands, gazing into the cleft of my sex, and sniffs. I’ve been sugared and pumiced and washed in rose water until I’m smooth all over and as fragrant as possible, but I know he can smell me. The sexual aroma of a woman cannot be hidden. When his rough fingers part my lips I can feel the moisture on the delicate tissues.

‘You pass muster.’ He sounds bored now. He slams his hand down stingingly hard on my left bum cheek. ‘Hurry up. We’ve been waiting.’

As I stand I know that there will be a red handprint emblazoned on my bottom. It is still burning as I pass into the main chamber of the apartment. There they are, the five others, lounging upon couches about a low table – the Imperial Elite at rest. Three of them are still in their leathers, on duty, while the other two are naked except for their breechclouts. They stop talking as I enter, looking up from their games of back-gammon with no acknowledgement but expressions of casual satisfaction. I walk to the middle of the room and then go to my knees; it’s what I have to do every time in their presence. I assume the kneeling posture, my wrists crossed at the small of my back, my thighs parted, my breasts thrust out. Captain Teodric takes his place and sits.

For a moment half-a-dozen pairs of eyes are on my breasts, my splayed thighs, my half-hidden sex. Alain scratches lazily at his crotch.

‘Good girl,’ says Milo absently, and goes back to rolling dice.

Jaffez, conversely, sits up, his attention fully on me. He has a horse tail in his hand, and he drags it across his other palm meaningfully. I feel the colour rise in my cheeks. Jaffez likes to thrash me with that tail until I am red all over and every single one of those hairs stings as it impacts. ‘Feeling frisky, Kitten?’ he says, grinning playfully. He has beautiful eyes, that man, despite his broken nose and the scar that cuts through his close-cropped hair.

‘No, master,’ I whisper.

‘Well, don’t worry. Rurik here has a new way to ginger you up.’

They all snigger at this. Rurik is busy carving something with a small knife: it looks like a slip of wood. He raises his pale eyebrows meaningfully at me, but I don’t know what the joke is. Confusion makes my trepidation worse.

There is no such thing as a quiet evening with these warriors. There is no mercy. They are men in the prime of life, raised to be soldiers, itching for action; they are fed well with meat every day, exercised hard and kept in the peak of condition. Each and every one of them is loaded to bursting with spunk and impatient to discharge it. As janissaries they may not marry, and though they may have doxies they are not permitted to bring them within the Court. In here, the innermost apartment before the chambers of the Empress herself, they are not even permitted to entertain themselves with slave girls. I am the only woman allowed to dally here. So I have to serve six stallions, attend to six ravenous appetites, take six cocks in whatever orifice they choose. The appetite of men is a
frightening
thing. There is never a night when I am not needed by someone, and then as soon as one man stakes his claim the others fall upon me, wanting their turn. I am the hub at the centre of a six-spoked wheel.

‘You’ll serve us dinner,’ says Captain Teodric. ‘Get on with it.’

Reprieved, I rise to my work. The air of the room is laden with the pungent scents of hot food and fresh spices, emanating from the dishes on a brass tray over the brazier. The meal has been deposited there by slaves, but as so often it is my task to serve. First of all though I take up a ewer and basin, and pass from man to man so that they might wash their hands. Captain Teodric is always served first. There is no towel; after shaking their fingers they rub them dry on my bare breasts or my braided hair as I kneel before them. My bells get flicked and jiggled, accentuating my humiliation. Darius, who is the bulkiest of the six and must have been born beyond the Southern Desert, runs his dark hands all over my creamy skin, testing my leather bonds to make sure they bite into my flesh in the right places. The harness pattern was his design and he has a special interest in seeing me tied. Sometimes he suspends me on tiptoe from a hook on the wall for hours, gagged and aching. It pleases him to hear my pleading for mercy when he finally releases my mouth, and my sobs invariably provoke him into fucking me.

Jaffez is the last of the group to make his ablutions. As I rise to my feet he grabs me by the waist and shoves the stock of his horse-tail lash up between my thighs. The wooden handle is thicker than most cocks and my vulva is unprepared so far today, so I squeal in shock, nearly slopping the dirty water. The men hoot with derision.

‘Ah-ah!’ he admonishes. ‘Take it, Kitten!’

So I do, biting my lip, shifting my stance so that he can angle the stock and push it inside me, trying to ride out the pain of
first
penetration. The muscles of his arm clench as he works it inside me. When he withdraws suddenly I gasp, shocked by the loss as much as by the prior invasion. He brandishes the handle for inspection, to appreciative laughter; thick streaks of my cream decorate the dark wood.

‘On your knees and clean it.’

I obey, licking and sucking the handle as if it were a cock, as I’ve been trained. He pushes it all the way to the back of my throat, so there is no chance of me being able to breathe, but I accept it and keep my gaze on his face. I can hold my breath until I go blue without gagging: usage has taught me that.

‘Let her go, Jaffez,’ says Milo easily.

He releases me and cocks an eyebrow. ‘Well? I’m hungry. Don’t keep us waiting.’

Trying hard not to betray my relief, I hurry to bring over the warm dishes from the heater. Of course I have to bend over when I place them on the low table in front of the couches, and the men take the opportunity to pinch my buttocks and probe me with sly fingers, trip my ankles and slap my dangling breasts. When I drop a basket of bread rolls they make me kneel and pick up the pieces with my mouth. Milo strokes his fingers right up the inside of my thigh and tenderly pets my sex. Milo, with his hair hanging like a parted curtain over his forehead, thinks I am pretty. He is the least likely of them all to call me a bitch or a slut or a whore, even in the throes of lust; the least likely to mock me; the most likely to stroke me comfortingly when I am exhausted or to tell the others to ease off. But he also likes to put me over his knees and slap my arse crimson, with bare hand or leather belt. Even with unmasked pity in his eyes, he can rarely resist giving my wobbling bottom a thrashing to the point that I am in floods of tears, and only then will he stop and embrace me, rocking me into silence.

They own me. I am theirs. I am an animal on a leash. I am a piece of meat, and there is no right of appeal.

‘Are you hungry?’ asks Jaffez when they’ve settled with the bowls of soup that start every meal.

This is usually a trick question, but I answer, ‘Yes, master.’ It’s true: I haven’t eaten since dawn.

‘Then get yourself a bowl of soup.’

I thank him and obey, dishing up from the tureen. It is a spicy lentil and lamb broth.

‘Bring it back here and set it down. At my feet.’

Careful not to spill on the rug, I kneel before him and place the broad bowl between his bare feet; he’s one of the off-duty ones. Jaffez leans forwards and spits into my soup.

‘Drink it then.’

I don’t hesitate; I’m escaping lightly. Jaffez likes to play games. He particularly likes to get me dirty and I’ve had to accept his piss down my throat before now. I place my hands on the rug and bend forwards.

‘Wait.’ He puts his foot in the bowl, wriggling his toes as if the broth were a warm bath. The others hoot in amused disgust. ‘There.’ So I lap my soup from around his foot, and when I’ve nearly emptied the bowl he lifts his leg, plants his foot against my breast and shoves me back onto my haunches. ‘Lick it clean.’

Supporting his ankle with both hands, I clean his foot thoroughly, licking between his toes. ‘She tickles!’ he complains merrily to the others. Then he adds, ‘Now lick it off your tit.’

I look down to see a big soupy footprint on my right breast. I cup the orb with my hand and bow my head; I’m not as supple as a real kitten but my breasts are big enough that I can bring my nipple to my mouth, so I tongue myself as neatly as I can. The bells rattle against my teeth. I receive a derisory applause.

Alain crooks his finger. ‘Here, cunt.’

That’s what he calls me, never even gracing me with an animal sobriquet. I shiver just from the sound of his voice, and crawl over to him on hands and knees. Alain evokes in me the worst dread of them all; I would not want to be left alone in his presence. He is quieter than most of them in conversation, but that doesn’t make him any less of a shaven-headed brute, the blue tattoos up the back of his scalp marking him out as a devotee of some barbarian steppe god. His eyes are sunken and dead. He takes me by the throat and, turning me, pulls me between his knees in exactly the position one would pin a sheep for slaughter, my throat stretched taut. He has used his eating knife to dismember a roast duck while I was otherwise occupied; now he takes the greasy knife and wipes it slowly on my breasts, paying particular attention to my nipples as he cleans the blade. My pulse rockets under his fingers. I hold myself as still as I can but the bells tinkle faintly with the thump of my heart.