Seraglio Ch. 03

(Synopsis: Russet Thompson is an architect and designer sent to spend several days touring the Harem of an eastern Pasha to get ideas for a new attraction at Ultima Resorts. Sir Adrian Calendar, the Prince’s personal secretary, shows her around, and offers her a ‘deal.’ If she will agree to ‘experience’ the Seraglio, he’ll give her everything she needs to replicate the harem and hammam. Bathed, massaged, and shaven, she is seduced into mutual oral sex in Sir Adrian’s library, but instead of proceeding to intercourse, Adrian announces that they’re going out to the markets.)

“To the souks?” I repeated stupidly. I’d imagined we might make love, maybe not immediately, but soon. Maybe spend the day in bed. It took a moment to get my brain around the thought of going out to the markets instead.

“You’ve earned your lists, and I thought you’d like to see some of the goods in situ, as it were. Besides, I want to purchase some small gifts for you.” He tipped my face up and kissed me lightly. “A reward for doing so well. Thank you for shaving.”

“Okay,” I said after a dazed moment. I shifted a little and the slender chains clashed. “Unlock these and I’ll get dressed.”

“No need. I’ve got you covered—quite literally!”

I had no idea what he meant, and a slight tremor of anticipation and dismay rippled through me. I didn’t have to wonder long. From behind the desk he fetched a voluminous bundle of black fabric.

“What?” I stammered, but he only laid a finger over my lips.

“Shh, wait and see.”

“If you think for a minute I’m going anywhere dressed in chains, you’re out of your tiny little mind,” I told him, hoping I sounded more emphatic than I felt. Like an idiot, it had only just occurred to me that, having allowed him to chain me in the first place, there might not be much I could do to prevent him from doing whatever he wanted.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” he said cheerfully. “You’d start a riot.”

He took a triangular piece of fabric and tied it over my head like a babushka, with the edge low on my forehead. Then he gathered up the largest bundle, shaking it out into some sort of long cloak or caftan.

“What on earth?”

“It’s a burqa,” he explained. “Not the ‘take-away’ sort, but a full length khimar, a body veil.”

“Take away?”

“Um, you know, ‘girl in a bag?’”

With a practiced gesture, he opened it and sort of flung it over me, muffling me completely in its folds until my head popped through the hooded neck. Then he helped me thread my hands out the half sleeves.

It was a very odd sort of garment to my western mind. Very loose in the body, it had almost a dolman sleeve; wide near the body and narrowing from about the elbow down to a tightly fitted wrist. In fact the end of the sleeve required some further manipulation, because it was looped together so my thumb went through one part and my fingers through another. The wrist chains were trapped inside the tight part, lying along my forearm, then swinging free inside the tent-like body. The fabric was some sort of a silk and cotton blend, matte and light absorbing rather than shiny, but draping like crepe.

Over my lower face, Adrian tied a veil made of two thicknesses of crepe gauze. It ran across the bridge of my nose, covering nose and mouth completely, and the strings were threaded up over my ears and tied under the head scarf in back. He drew the hood up and tied it by another set of strings under my chin beneath the veil, and I was concealed from head to foot. Only a two inch strip across my eyes, my fingertips, and the tips of my toes showed.

Though voluminous, I had to admit it was graceful. I looked slim and straight and mysterious. And because the veil was gauze, I wasn’t suffocated, as I’d assumed seeing heavily veiled Moslem women during my travels.

Adrian set out a pair of babouches, the soft, backless, Persian slippers. The uppers were of black velvet, embroidered with black silk, and the soles of supple black leather. I notice that the embroidery matched the black-on-black adornments at the hem of the burqa and veil, sober and suitably modest but still richly elegant.

“The finishing touch,” Adrian said, handing me a little round hat, like a pill-box with a very transparent black veil sewn to one side. I stepped to the mirror and began to put it on with the veil trailing down my back. Adrian laughed and took it from me, turning it the other way round, so the transparent veil fell over my eyes and lay in another layer over the niqab, or face veil. Then he flipped it back over the hat, rather like they do a bride for the kiss.

“There you go, the perfect chaste and modest Muslimah,” he said, smiling at his handiwork. “You’ll be glad of the eye veil outside—it functions rather like sunglasses. Now that I think of it, the whole thing will protect that lovely alabaster skin. Go ahead—walk about. Get used to it.”

I did, reluctantly at first, shuffling a little as I got the feel of the slippers. The folds of the khimar swirled around me luxuriously as I moved. I found I was very conscious of the slither of the fabric around my calves, over my thighs and across my sensitized nipples.

“What do you think?” Adrian asked.
“It’s very interesting,” I admitted. “More comfortable than I expected. But I’m still not going out like this.”

“Why ever not? We do it quite often as a treat when the girls get bored or restless. I’ve been out with His Highness and the whole boiling of them, all in burqa, and trailing half a dozen attendants. It’s done all the time you know.”

“Well, for one thing, I can hear the chains when I move!”

“Not to worry. Anyone who hears them will think you’re wearing bracelets and anklets. You’ve noticed that the ladies hereabouts wear their bank accounts on their arms? In fact, it’s an elegant Arabic form of flirtation: You see a woman dressed in the utmost concealment but hear the clash of bracelets and anklets, or even bells. It tells you she’s young and pretty under those robes—even if she’s not.”

“But-” I said, but I could feel myself weakening. I thought again of the articles I could write—probably anonymously, this time—and the scenarios I could design for the resort. And—oh, yes!—I wanted to do it for myself. To see the souks from the inside, like the concubine I was pretending to be… “Odalisque for a day?”

“Exactly.”

“And if I decide I want to come back, you’ll bring me—no questions asked?”

“No questions, no reproaches,” he said, kissing my hand. “I swear it. I think you’ll enjoy it but if you have to, think of it as a step on the way to the next bit of our bargain.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve earned your lists and things and this is meant as a fieldtrip, but it could also be the start of the next negotiation. For, oh, the plans of the old Palace, for instance?”

Temptation hardened into resolve. “Deal,” I said, and stuck out my hand.

He took my hand but also leaned forward and kissed me through the face veil. “Brilliant!”

I stood, wondering what I’d let myself in for, as Adrian went to the doors and called out, giving instructions to the attendant lurking outside. That gave me a moment of embarrassment—I’d been more than a little noisy during our encounter. I discovered another virtue of the veil, as it concealed my blushes.

As Adrian escorted me back through the warren of hallways, he gave me instructions. “We’ll have two servants with us, to carry our clobber and watch for pickpockets and such. I’ll lead, and you walk behind me, or at my side. I shan’t touch you at least in public, once we reach the souks. The attendants will follow us. Our market is rather gorgeous, literally unchanged since the Middle Ages, but you’ll see. You can talk to me, but speak softly. I’ll be listening.”

We’d reached the front doors by then—the doors through which I’d entered the Palace only twenty-four short hours ago—and he looked through the grill. “The car should be here in a moment,” he said. “Thank you, Russet.”

“For?”

“For trusting me to show you this.”

The car pulled up at that moment—not a taxi, but a long, white limousine, obviously another of the ‘perks.’ A dark-skinned and hawk-profiled driver sat at the wheel, complete with caftan and head cloth. Two of the dark-eyed boys shared the passenger seat, clad in white cotton kurta suits. Adrian handed me into the back and took his place beside me.

We didn’t drive far, but I was grateful for the ride and the air-conditioning. Inside the cool of thick, mud-brick walls, it was easy to forget how fierce the sub-Saharan sun really was. When we parked, I made no demur as Adrian pulled the eye veil down over my face.

I could understand why we parked where we did. The courtyards and alleys of the souk lay at the foot of the ancient walls of the city and were much too narrow for an automobile. In fact, we had to heed the cries of “Barek!” and step into the shops in order to make way for donkeys carrying panniers of goods.

The market was laid out with more order than was apparent at first. There were different little markets for different kinds of good; saddlers in the leather-worker’s souk, the street of the potters, the rug sellers, and so on. I followed Adrian as instructed, the boys trailing behind, as we went first to the spice market.

I saw women in every range of dress from overtly western jeans and tee-shirts, through kameez, salwar, and headscarf, and caftans to full hijab concealment. The ‘girl in a bag’ as Adrian called it, consisted of a long pleated garment of cotton or silk affixed to a fitted cap, with an embroidered grill area for the woman to look through. Most of them were white or blue, but I saw one that was blazing orange silk. I also saw a tribal woman in beautifully embroidered robes who wore a yashmak, a short leather veil that covered her forehead and mouth like a mask ornamented with coins and narrow woven trim.

Each time I saw another woman clad as I was, I had two thoughts: first pure vanity—that few of them wore robes as elegant as mine; and second, to wonder if any of them were naked underneath, harem girls on holiday.

In hijab, and particularly closely chaperoned by Adrian and two stalwart servants, I was effectively invisible, meriting only a glance from passers-by. Like dark glasses, the eye veil freed me to stare boldly at others but no one could see me, my expression, the direction of my glance, anything about me other than my height and general form. As a custom oppressive to women, it was oddly liberating.

The spice market lay in a large courtyard, and consisted of tiny shops, mere alcoves built into wall of the fort itself, shaded by sagging striped awnings. The goods themselves were displayed both inside and outside the stalls. Baskets held roots and seeds; vanilla beans, sweating sweetness into the air, star anise, fat hands of galangal and ginger, and roots and seeds of less obvious use. Clay pots displayed heaps of ground spices as brilliant as powdered artist’s pigments; heaps of curry, turmeric, cinnamon and henna. Green, gold, mustard, and ochre, almost unbearably colorful, between displays of peppercorns in black, white, green and pink. And the scent was intoxicating.

The stall Adrian led us to wasn’t any different from the others to my untutored eye, though the proprietor immediately emerged from the dim interior to greet him. Clad in a caftan and striped turban, he bowed and addressed Adrian in a flood of Arabic. Adrian and I were escorted inside and given glasses of the ubiquitous mint tea, while the boys squatted outside the shop smoking.

The interior of the stall was crowded with baskets and stitched up burlaps sacks, but I was made comfortable on a stool as the men dickered and bargained. In the far back, a woman ground spice on a stone metate and the merchant’s assistant scurried back and forth, bringing gourd scoops of different things for Adrian’s approval.

I couldn’t quite figure out how to drink my tea through a veil, so I left it sitting on the little brass table, and hoped that wasn’t too rude. The slack bits of my chains, though invisible to eye, lay pooled in my lap and it was hard to ignore the slip and slide of the of the cool iron against my bare pubes, so I tried to hold still.

The climax of their bargaining came with the production of a small silver bowl of wizened threads of plant material, which they both regarded with great seriousness. After a prolonged negotiation, an amount equivalent to a few teaspoons was ceremoniously weighed out, deposited in a stoppered glass jar, rather than a bag or twist of paper, and money changed hands. The glass jar went into Adrian’s capacious pocket and the rest into a sack that he handed to one of the boys.

As the blessing of the merchant followed us, I asked in a whisper, “What was that all about?

“Sorry, darling. That was my one serious errand. One of the servants could have bought the rest, and usually do, but Cook wanted saffron for the End-of-Ramadan-Blowout. Hundreds of dollars’ worth, believe me or not,” he said grinning. “It’s not fair to put that kind of temptation in one’s fellow creature’s path. It’s one of my regular duties. I don’t mind, because I love the souks.”

“They’re wonderful,” I said. “Where are we going next?”

“To the Jeweler’s Court for your present. I’m afraid we have to pass the meat market on the way. I’m sorry, I should have bought you a pomander ball. It reeks a bit.”

“I don’t need a gift, though I’d love to see the jewelry,” I said. “I admit I was reluctant at first, but this is great. I’d never realized how much different the markets are, if they don’t know you’re a foreigner.”

“But you do deserve a gift. Don’t you realize how exciting this is for me?”

“But why? You obviously come here all the time—the merchants know you.”

“To have you here, following along behind me, and know that you’re wearing my chains and virtually naked? How can you ask?”

“But I’m not naked, I’m covered from head to foot!” I said firmly. The feet in question were actually kind of dusty, the toes of my slippers covered in the fine silt of spice, sand, and heaven knew what from the souk cobbles. I’d been conscious of my lack of undergarments, of course, but mostly to be grateful—the sun was ferocious, and I’d have been sweltering. The khimar was actually fairly cool, letting air circulate over my skin—even a bit drafty at moments. I could even forget the chains sliding over my body for minutes at a time. Til now.

Adrian stopped dead in his tracks and looked back at me. “If you believe that, I’ve been failing your education badly. Follow me.”

He took off again at a faster pace, and I trotted along behind him, the boys on our heels. We turned a corner and the stench smote me like a blow.

“Dear God, where are we?” I asked.

“The flesh market. I warned you, but it’s the fastest route to the Jeweler’s Court, and besides, it’s nearly deserted at this time of day.”

“I can see why,” I said, putting a hand to the veil covering my nose. This part of the market was nearly deserted, only a few, obviously poor shoppers lingered.

“It’s not so bad in the morning, but it gets ripe this time of day—no refrigeration. Ah, yes! This will do nicely.”

Adrian turned a corner into an alley even tinier than any we’d traversed so far. Narrow but dark, it reeked not only of the pervasive decay of the butcher’s souk, but of urine and other pungent but less identifiable things. Except for two bolted doors, presumably leading to the closed stalls on either side, it was a dead end.

“What are we doing here?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he snapped a command at the attendants in Arabic. They took up position at the end of the alley, facing out into the market. I flipped my eye veil back over the hat so I could look from them to Adrian in the sudden dimness. “What’s going on?”

“A zen moment, my darling. A satori, a little lesson in awareness.” He pushed me back against the side of the alley and stooped, catching the hem of my burqa in his hands and pulled it up to my throat, exposing me from my feet to my collarbones in one motion. He used the length of fabric in his fists to pinion my throat to the dusty mud-bricks and thrust his thigh between my legs, forcing me to straddle him.

“Are you naked, sweet Russet?” he asked, his lips inches from mine beneath the veil.

I was then. The anchored parts of my robe covered only from elbow to wrist on the sides. My head and face were concealed, but my whole body down to the slippers was bare in the stinking alley. Though the attendants stood shoulder to shoulder, any passer-by could have seen me.

“Yes,” I gasped.
At that he let one hand go, though his other arm still pinned me to the wall and held my burqa to my throat. He flipped my face veil up, covering my eyes so I couldn’t see, exposing my mouth to the attack of his lips and tongue. His free hand went to my breast, pinching hard, and then to my naked pussy, stroking and pinching, sliding between suddenly slippery labia to stroke into me to my core. I moaned around his tongue, into his mouth, and was glad he muffled my cries as he finger-fucked me in the filthy alley.

Now blinded, I felt even more helpless and his assault seemed to go on forever, though it could only have lasted a few moments. When he stepped back abruptly and let my burqa fall, my whole body was throbbing with newly incited and unfulfilled lust.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me in public,” I accused, fumbling the veil back down so I could see him.

“So I did,” Adrian admitted, helping adjust it. “I didn’t realize you’d present such a powerful temptation. And would you really call this public?”

“Yes!”

“Do you want to go back to the Palace?”

I hesitated. “Nooo…” I said, reluctantly, “but promise you won’t do that again?”

“I promise the next time will be within doors,” he said and winked. “Turn round.”

“How about not at all?” I asked, as he dusted the back of my robe, spending longer than I thought was necessary on my bottom.

“Oh, I don’t think I could do that. I told you, I don’t make promises I can’t keep. Besides, you enjoyed it. I suspect one of your unplumbed kinks is a touch of exhibitionism.”

I opened my mouth to argue. Not about enjoying it—fat chance of that—but about the exhibitionism—when it occurred to me there might actually be a little touch of truth to it. I had agreed to his game of favor for favor, and to come out into the market in garments that could be compromising in the extreme.

And a case could be made for all artists being exhibitionists, I suppose. Many of us literally exhibit our work and all of us enjoy praise for it. As an architect and designer, I don’t sign my work or go to gallery openings, but a building is a bigger statement than a canvas or a sculpture, too. Might I have a secret—or not so secret—desire for attention that was now manifesting sexually? Had I been waiting for an opportunity, wanting to be forced into more overt expression?

Those not entirely comfortable thoughts kept me quiet enough for the most exacting Muslim standards as we left the flesh market behind.

The Jeweler’s Court was entirely different, literally glittering in the afternoon sun, sparkling with gold and silver and polished brass. Glowing enamels and gems of every quality abounded, from obvious glass through cloudy cabochons to quite gorgeous lapis, carnelian, and turquoise. I came to halt in front of a stall displaying bangle-bracelets by the yard on rods. Some were gold, some were silver, and many had sharp edged designs cut into them that made them explode like stars in the sunlight.

“Do you like them?” Adrian asked, amused.

“I’m thinking about starting an Arabian Nights bank account,” I admitted. “I wish I had my purse.”

“I know where there are better,” he said, “but first, I have an idea for a compromise.”