Seraglio Ch. 03

Adrian’s idea of a compromise was unsettling, but I followed him into the stall of a bowing silver merchant. Lovely but dirty rugs lay underfoot and I was once again shown to a seat, this time on a camel saddle. The boys again squatted outside as the merchant brought out trays of silver rings. To my surprise, Adrian hunkered down and slid my slippers off and fitted me with a pair of toe rings, while the merchant politely averted his gaze.

“Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,” Adrian murmured. “Though here we do it opposite—rings on your toes and zills—belly-dance chimes—for your fingers.”

Once shod again, I surreptitiously flexed my toes as the silver merchant brought out more trays of chandelier-style earrings of various sizes and lengths. After some deliberation, Adrian selected two pair, one larger than the other. The smaller consisted of a knob about a quarter inch around covered in small bumps, like a flower or a star-burst. From it hung a jump-ring and from that a circle of twisted silver wire, big enough to fit my ring finger. The second pair was identical, except the top roundel was closer to half inch and the rest of the scale was proportionate.

They were charming, though larger than any earrings I’d ever worn, and I didn’t speak until Adrian lifted them and I saw they had a spring clasp on the back, like clip earrings.

“My ears are pierced,” I whispered.

“I know, darling,” he whispered back. “These aren’t for your ears.”

He bargained with the merchant and I sat there in delighted and horrified silence. Money changed hands and the merchant stood and held back the drape to his back premises with a bow and a flourish. Adrian hoisted me to my feet with that deceptive ease and steered me behind the drape.

The curtain fell and I kept backing away, until my butt met the solid barrier of the jeweler’s table. He put a hand to the front of my robe and began to raise it. “We’re inside.”

“Curtains!” I objected breathlessly. “Not doors!”

“Close enough.” He tweaked my nipples to attention and fastened the smaller clips on them. They were heavy enough to pull the nipple over a little, so the round shield showed almost flat and the ring dangled below the curve of my breast. “Hold your robe up.”

God help me, I did. I held the burqa as he fastened the larger pair to my bare pussy lips, the rings swinging below. The clips weren’t very tight, just enough to hold firm. Not as tight as nipple clamps—or at least as nipple clamps looked, since I didn’t really know. But tight enough to feel them, little secret pinches after my robe settled back around my ankles, and the rings were heavy enough to move slightly as I moved, tugging and pulling at sensitive flesh.

“They’ll show-”

“The nipple rings?” Adrian asked. “No, the niqab, the face veil is long enough to hide them. Try walking.”

I took a step or two and stopped. “The others—they…rub.”

“They’re supposed to. This way I don’t have to touch you, but you’ll be reminded that you’re naked every moment.”

He was right. He’d position the pussy clamps so they rode one on either side of my clitoris. I could feel them at every step. The sensation was exciting and the idea was even more so, almost unbearably exciting. I might have—would have—objected, but he seized my wrist and drew me out through the stall and into the open market. To remove them then, I’d have to grope at my breasts and crotch in the middle of the crowd.

But as I trotted along behind Adrian—he moved quickly, damn him—the rings at my nipples caught ever so slightly on the inside of my robe, pulling, and the pussy clamps dangled and swung, pinching my labia, riding my clit, and sliding between my thighs. They seemed weightier with every step, an exquisite torment.

I found myself wishing they’d work loose and drop off, until I considered the consequences of having one fall to the cobbles beneath me. A lost earring in the souk wouldn’t amount to much, I’m sure, but at that moment I was convince that everyone would know what it was and where it came from. And Adrian just kept walking faster.

When we finally stopped, I was limp with relief. And that lasted just long enough to take good look at the merchandise in the stall, which was lovely enough to take my mind off my present difficulties. Unlike the bracelets I’d admired earlier these weren’t merely enamel over copper or brass, but real cloisonné; intricate designs of highly stylized flowers in glowing jewel tone glass, enclosed by thin brass wire. Others were done in the same style but instead of enamel, tiny shapes cut from gemstone were set in patterns instead.

They were displayed in sets, first plain bangles in what looked like real gold, flanked by enameled ones in patterned red on gold, then a solid red then several cloisonné in a predominantly red tone, then reversed at the other end, forming a cuff about six inches long. It reminded me of the field and borders of an oriental rug. Not only red, either, but blue sets featuring lapis, green of malachite, lovely soft Persian turquoise, and a fabulous set of amber and bone on silver.

“Wow,” I said, inadequately.

“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” Adrian asked. “Barbaric and elegant, all at the same time, and just the thing to set off that little black dress. Which color to you fancy?”

“Lord, I don’t know,” I said. I really didn’t—they were overwhelming in profusion—but I’d already realized that these couldn’t possibly be as inexpensive as the others I’d seen. Not even in the souk, with that kind of materials and workmanship.

Adrian didn’t seem to have any such concerns, though. “I’d fancy you in the turquoise, I think, or the amber would be gorgeous with your coloring. Or the red, to honor your name, Russet. ‘For her price shall be far above rubies.’”

“Rubies? Really, is that what the stones are?”

“Well, rubies and garnets,” he admitted. “Don’t look so impressed, they’re only chips and bits, and not good rubies!”

“Still—” I objected, “I can’t possibly accept a gift like that.”

“I don’t see why not. I rather fancy the turquoise, and they’re more expensive than the ruby. The word turquoise comes from Turkey, you know. That’s why we have the Turquoise Coast.”

“I simply can’t.”

“Of course you can. It’s a souvenir of your stint as an odalisque, darling and you must—an odalisque hasn’t the option to refuse an order from her master, you know.” Adrian’s lips, slightly thin and somewhat cruel-looking in repose, were devastating curled in a faint smile. “Or shall I borrow Nassir’s back room to persuade you?”

I drew in a sharp breath and he raised a brow. “No? I thought not.”

He snapped his fingers and pointed to the red bracelets, and the bargaining commenced. At one point, they went into the back premises, leaving me in the front of the shop to my mingled relief and dismay, but soon returned. The merchant neatly threaded a length of cord around the scarlet bangles and slid them from the rod, knotting it to hold them together. They went into a sack, along with another, larger parcel which was handed off to the boys and we took our leave.

After that we visited the rug merchants, and then the street of fabric sellers. There a woman flung lengths of paisley wool, cashmere, and brocade over heaps of fabric bolts, to display them. She had wild tussah silk and chiffon gauze as transparent and supple as water. I could only understand what Adrian translated, but it didn’t matter. Before we left, I felt as though I should be bleeding from the eyes, just from the colors and patterns; total artistic intoxication. It was well into the afternoon, too, and blazingly hot—something that had escaped my notice ‘til then.

“Time for a break,” Adrian announced. “I know of a matiam, a café, near here. Let’s have a drink and something to eat.”

That sounded like heaven and I followed him willingly, trying not to roll my hips too much as I once again became conscious of the pull and pinch at my nipples and labia.

Adrian led me through a narrow passage and into a cool mud-brick café, filled with small tables of older men smoking hookahs, drinking coffee or tea, and playing what looked like a lot like dominoes. We didn’t stop there, though, but were led into a hall with private dining chambers off it. These were a sort of mini-divan, built in benches with carpets over them, around three sides of a low table. I took my seat gratefully and waited while Adrian talked to the proprietor.

“I’ve ordered mushroom soup with yogurt, lamb kebob over a pilaf of rice and lentils, and salep, unless you’d prefer Turkish coffee or mint tea. They do a wonderful salad here, but I don’t want to risk your digestion—I’m fully acclimated, but I’d hate you to get traveler’s grippe. And once the food comes, you can take off your veil to eat.”

“Thank goodness,” I said. “I can’t even figure out how to drink in this get-up.”

“Sorry, darling. Just reach under the veil and make a bit if room and then aim for your mouth—though eating and drinking in public are considered salacious, if you’re truly devout.”

“What about when devotion loses out to thirst?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you—just nip under the veil and take a swig.”

The food came then, the waiter placing bowls of pilaf overlaid by the skewers of succulent lamb with onions and peppers, as well as a plate of baklava and an eggnog-looking drink. I’d always thought of baklava being Greek, but Adrian assured me they’d got the recipe from the Turks.

The pilaf and kebobs were delicious, though the seasonings were unfamiliar. Cinnamon and orange peel on meat isn’t usual to western taste though it’s very good. The intense sweetness of the baklava offset the spice of the main dishes very nicely.

The salep was another matter. The texture was like a thin custard, served warm, and obviously made in a base of sweetened milk, it was dusted with cinnamon. The aftertaste wasn’t unpleasant, but wasn’t like anything I’d ever had.

“It’s made from the root of an orchid, like vanilla,” Adrian told me. “Orchis mascula, so-called because the roots look like testicles. It’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac, and it’s very popular.

“Aphrodisiac, isn’t that overkill?” I said laughing.
“Yes, but it’s that or tea and coffee. I’d love to order you a cool drink, but you can’t be sure the lemonade or iced tea is made with boiled water—or the ice, for that matter. Lemonade and iced tea were invented in the orient, but they’ll have to wait until we get back to the Palace.”

“Lovely as this is, I’m starting to look forward to getting back. I guess I’m not used to the heat, but I’m getting tired,” I admitted.

“I’d hoped to talk you into one more call today,” Adrian said, smiling. “Are you really too tired?”
Actually, the meal and the rest in this cool, shaded place had done a lot to revive rest my eyes and ears, and revive me physically. “I’m just overwhelmed by all the choices, I guess. What did you have in mind?”

“This is what I had in mind as our trade for the seraglio plans. If you’ll consent, I’d like to take you to the girl market.”

“Girl market? You mean, like a slave market?” I stared at Adrian and he looked back impassively.

“Well, not anymore—His Highness has forbidden real slave trafficking. These days, Hadad is a go-between, mostly a marriage broker and arranges contracts of concubinage. He also acts as an employment agency for female servants. There’s no National Employment hereabouts, at least not for women.”

It seemed absurd that he could actually expect me to go along with anything so outré, but Adrian was just calmly waiting for my answer as though he’d proposed something as ordinary as a trip to the museum. In spite of my better judgment, I found myself asking, “Why?”