Cairo Surrender Ch. 07-08

Chapter Seven: Interlude Two

As Abazar finished the melodious telling of his story, the golden youth, Michael was kneeling between his spread thighs and sucking on the bulb of his cock. Abazar's hands where playing in the curly blond hair of the beautiful youth, and he leaned down and kissed him on the head.

Michael was in a haze still, having heard and absorbed and been moved by Abazar's story, and having some sense of what he was doing—what Abazar had maneuvered him into doing while he was stroking him with the honey-toned telling of his story—but no understanding really of why. He only knew that Abazar's words entered the very center of him and made him ache to live life before he died. He could not forget that he was a prisoner for purposes he knew not, and despite whatever reassuring words Abazar had murmured to him, under no reassurance at all of leaving this cell alive. And he may never have lived before he died. Never have experienced the ultimate of pleasures. And somehow, through the grogginess and the ringing of his ears and fuzziness of his sight, Abazar's story of the ultimate of pleasures—of living—was sinking into his being.

And his body had never reacted before as it was to the suggestiveness of what Abazar was spinning in his stories and to the blossoming of desires and wants—and arousals—that he had never even imagined existed in the barrenness of his prior existence. There had been a flash of insight into that as he was reading into The Prince of the Sands, but that had been denied to him. Rushdy Abazar, the creator of that enticing world was here, now. And he was all that was here—and maybe all that Michael would ever know.

Rushdy was offering him the forbidden, while increasingly making him realize that it should not be forbidden. That forbidding it to him was just yet another conditioning cruelty of his parents' world, extended by his grasping uncles and aunts and cousins—and, most of all, by the commanding voice and dictates of Sir Cecil.

But Rushdy had a commanding voice too—the voice of the teacher's authority. And Michael felt that he too long had been the student of death rather than life. Rushdy was promising him life—and pleasure—which was especially sweet as Michael looked into the jaws of death.

Michael had no idea—no recollection—of how or why he had sunk between the hairy knees of the satyr. Only the hazy remembrance of the pleasure and relief that Rushdy had given him and the feeling of obligation—no, of want—to give in return. The voice of authority had told him to kneel, so he had knelt. And the voice of the teacher had instructed him what to do next. And he had done it. And he could feel the pleasure it was giving the storyteller. And thus it was giving him pleasure too.

Rushdy encircled Michael's waist with strong hands and lifted him. He was smiling at Michael, conveying assurances and a promise of new experiences and pleasure. Briefly he hovered the youth's virgin channel over his hardened staff. But then he was speaking to Michael, asking questions, and Michael was just giving sloppy, stupid grins in return.

Abazar could have done it then and there. Finished what he had so carefully started. But the youth wasn't conscious enough. Michael wouldn't be fully ready and willing. The challenge wasn't significant enough yet.

With a sigh of regret, Abazar moved Michael away from him and rose from the cot as he laid the young man down on his back. He leaned over and kissed the youth tenderly on the mouth and then placed his hands on Michael's face and closed his eyelids. Michael almost immediately drifted into the regular breathing of deep sleep, and Abazar was assured that he had been right in holding off. He wanted Michael to be fully conscious, not in half a haze, and to tell he wanted it, to know he wanted it.

Still, Abazar could not leave him. He was too keyed up. Not the whole way now, certainly—if he could hold off. But part way. Preparation. Preparation for Michael and pleasure for himself. Relief. Partial victory at least. At least that was his reasoning. Because he was smitten, only barely in control of himself. He could not pull away yet. He'd never been so smitten with a conquest. The challenge was what aroused him. The first taking. That's as far as his interest usually went. But with Michael, he wasn't sure. He just wasn't sure.

Abazar sat back down on the cot, beside the thin waist of the golden youth. Michael was laying on his back. Abazar ran the fingers of one hand along Michael's full, sensuous lips, and, with a sigh, Michael opened his lips and two of Abazar's fingers slipped inside. Michael sucked on the fingertips as he had sucked on the bulb of Abazar's cock—almost innocently, certainly unconsciously. Not waking, but stirring a bit. Abazar's eyes were feasting on the vulnerable youth and his other hand was stroking his own cock, bringing it fully back to life again, intent on finishing what he hadn't let Michael finish—hadn't demanded of Michael. A third finger followed the first two.

He gently extracted the moistened fingers from Michael's mouth and lifted the youth's leg on the wall side of the cot and hooked it over his own left shoulder. Abazar leaned over then and scooped his fingers into a large chunk of butter that had been softening on the food tray he had set on the floor at the corner of the cot. He moved his hand to between the youth's now-spread thighs and found and toyed with the entrance of Michael's channel with his heavily greased fingers. Periodically over the next half hour, the hand went back to the tray for more of the butter. He would need plenty of it. Michael moaned in his deep stupor, but still did not awake. Abazar slowly worked the channel with, first, one finger and then two—and four—as slowly, ever so slowly, the tight channel opened to him.

Abazar chuckled at the remembrance of what he had told his cousin, the culture minister—that he would lay Michael on a table of gold and fist his virgin channel in anticipation of a complete taking by his monster cock. Well, there was no golden table in here—just a golden youth. It was not cruelty, though, Abazar reasoned. On the morrow, the young man would have occasion—although he probably never would realize it—to thank Abazar for this preparation. Abazar had a cock that could split a man asunder. And this was a virginal youth.

The fingers were going dry, so Abazar repositioned himself, lowered his face to the precious entrance, and used his tongue to coax the blossoming of the gateway to paradise. Later, when Abazar was breathing heavily and about to come himself, he was able to breach the rim with four knuckles. He would go no further. The groaning Michael—still in a deep sleep but rolling his hips with the movement of Abazar's hand—could not possibly take more, and Abazar was too much on the edge himself. Michael's cock was burbling cum again when Abazar gave a little jerk and found the release he sought.

No more. Not tonight. But tomorrow. If he could just carry Michael a bit further on the pathway to conscious surrender. But to get there, Michael would have to know—to realize—and to appreciate how far they had already come.

Tomorrow was an important day, a very important day. So much had gone into this.

* * * *

"Did you . . . did we . . . last night?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

It was nearly afternoon. Michael had wakened only shortly before and gingerly sat up on his cot, with a groan. Abazar was sitting on his cot, one leg drawn up into his chest, smoking one of the cigarettes that had come on his food tray the previous evening. And staring in Michael's direction.

He could only see Michael as a murky outline through the dust particles in the beam of light coming through the overhead window and lighting up Michael's cot. It was interesting, Abazar had been musing, on how thrown together they were in here but yet how isolated still. It seemed there wasn't far to go. But quite often that last little run to the goal was the hardest. And you could rarely count on it.

The view of Abazar through not just the dust particles but the haze of blue smoke above his head was just as obscured and hazy as was Abazar's view of Michael. The first sensation that Michael had when he woke and sat up was of the face of a handsomely cruel satyr as viewed through a hanging of Spanish lace. It was a confusing sensation to him—fearful and yet exotic and tempting at the same time.

The second sensation was more Earth bound. Not only was his head pounding with a pain that slowly ebbed away as he regained full consciousness, but his insides—particularly his lower channel hurt something murderously.

"Oh, nothing. I just thought that . . . maybe . . . things seemed to be happening. And I don't know if it was in a dream or . . ." He didn't know how to phrase it, and he certainly didn't want to say "My bum burns fiercely." Abazar would laugh at him and say something about the food and his delicate constitution.

"These things . . . these things that seem to be happening, Michael. Do they disturb you?"

A pause and then, "Yes."

"But do they also arouse and entice you?"

No response. Michael found it maddening not to be able to see Abazar's facial expressions clearly through the haze. All he could see was a near-naked body—a magnificently built body, covered with curly hair. And he couldn't truthfully say that wasn't arousing and enticing. The image in his mind went immediately to the monster cock curving up from Abazar's body when he'd seen him under the cascading water. And he shuddered involuntarily.

"Do you understand my stories, Michael? Have you understood the message? It's the same message you would have found in The Prince of the Sands if you would have been permitted to read what you wanted to read."

"Yes, I understand . . . I think."

"That's the crux of the matter, Michael. What you have been permitted to do and what has been denied you. You're what, nearly twenty now?"

"Just nineteen. Well, almost nineteen."

"And yet in nearly nineteen years, you haven't lived yet. You are a god among young men in appearance, and you are wealthy beyond all reasonable means. And yet you haven't experienced anything meaningful in life, have you?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"How can you know, Michael? There are so many, many doors you haven't even opened yet. The ultimate pleasure. You haven't even experienced the lower pleasures, have you?"

Silence.

"You haven't even fucked a woman yet, have you?"

Michael was shocked by the sudden rawness of the statement, and he'd squeaked a "no" before he could control his response.

"And yet, as my stories have unfolded for you, there are even greater pleasures to be had. Much beyond this. Do you not understand?"

"I have heard the stories, yes."

"And you have thought on them?"

"Yes."

"And you know that you could have had these thoughts to think if you had been truly free in your life—if your guardian had not controlled what you could and could not do?"

"Yes."

"Life is short, Michael. We know not the hour of our passing."

Silence.

"Do you not believe that, Michael? Here, where you are. In a prison, not knowing your fate—not even knowing why you are here. Knowing only, by your own statements, that there are those who prefer you here, rather than free. And even if not here, under their power rather than free to do as you like, as your instincts call you?"

"Yes . . . yes, I believe that."

The voice was harsh now. "You know the odds are that you will not survive this imprisonment, don't you Michael? That I have been sugarcoating it for you—that most surely I will die for this, but that chances are very good that you will too."

"Yes," the answer came out in gasp as if wrenched from the very center of him, down deeper than the pain in his channel.

"And you will have done so without having lived—because no one has let you live. You will not have been able to experience and experiment with new feelings, instincts that are only now beginning to occur to you."

Silence.

"You have lived more here, in this cell, in the last day and a half than you lived your whole previous nineteen years, haven't you?"

A short pause, and then a strangled, whispered, "Yes."

"And you know you could experience much, much more—more sensation, more pleasure, more meaning—here, now, before it's too late, don't you?"

A resigned, "Yes."

"Come to me. Come over here to me, Michael." The voice was melodious, deep, but it had a rod of steel running through it.

Silence for a few moments and then a sobbed, "I can't. I don't think I can. I'm scared."

"You won't maybe. Not just this moment. But you can, Michael. I think you can. I think you understand you must. That you understand you want to live before you die. You say you can't come here. What if I come to you?"

The tension in the chamber was shattered by the sound of the grating of the bolt on the food door and the scraping of two food trays along the follow.

Flustered, Michael stood, ready to escape from the enticing trap that was entangling him, seeking anything to move this on to surer ground.

"No, leave it," Abazar commanded, and Michael's movement was arrested even as he was rising from the cot. "You indicate that the food may be adversely affecting you. Leave it for now."

Michael sank back down onto the cot, but Abazar rose and walked through the beam of dust, becoming more palpable—more arousing—to Michael with each step and causing Michael to breath heavily. Abazar walked to the door and leaned down and picked up the black lacquer tray—always the black lacquer tray, never the red one—and set it down on the table, sank to the stool, and ate and drank heavily.

As had been the case for the last couple of meals, each tray had an inordinately large chunk of butter on the side. Abazar didn't use this. He pushed the butter to the side of the tray. And when he was finished, he went to the door and picked up the other tray and placed it on the table as well. Using his fingers, he transferred the butter chunk from the tray that still had food on to it to the other tray, plopping it on top of the butter that was already there. He turned then and looked at Michael, smiled, and said. "And would you like another story now?"

"Yes," Michael answered quickly, before looking surprised at himself for doing so.

"And I shall come there to your cot to tell you this story, shall I?"

A pause, but then a murmur of assent.

Abazar picked up the tray from which the food had been eaten and on which only a double chuck of butter now lay, walked slowly over to Michael's cot, laid the tray on the floor at the corner of the cot, and stood there, smiling down at Michael for a moment before stripping off his drawers.

Michael gasped and drew in his breath. Abazar's cock was at half erection.

"Will you take yours off, or shall I do it for you?"

Michael reached for the waistband of his drawers with hands trembling from an anticipation that was arousing, but he was fumbling, and Abazar gave a little laugh and reached down and drew them down and off Michael's legs himself. Then he came down onto the cot behind Michael and drew Michael's legs up onto the cot so that he lay, his back to Abazar's front, stretched out on the cot.

"And so we begin. A shorter story, I believe." As he whispered this into Michael's ear, he leaned over him and his fingers went to the chunk of butter on tray on the floor at the corner of the cot.

Chapter Eight: Greener Pastures

The mare had everything she could want. There was no beauty greater than she was. She had a rich, milky white coat and golden mane and tail and, although not large of stature, she was perfectly proportioned. She had been raised from a foal in the King of Persia's private circus and was never taxed with anything more strenuous than riding around the ring with a dwarf on her back—a contrasting of beauty and the beast—when the King of Persia chose to entertain with his private circus, which was not often.

When not called to the palace ring, especially built for the elite circus troupe to perform in, the mare was pampered and groomed twice daily and permitted to roam as she pleased within the confines of a small enclosure at the fringe of the king's summer palace in Esfahan.

Beyond the walls of the enclosure toward the west stretched the plains, with the snow-capped Zagros mountains in the distance. Toward the east the land went on forever beyond a low ridge in the foreground—and the mare looked toward that direction with the feeling of freedom to roam.

The mare was given the choicest of delicacies and slept in a warm barn every night. She had three keepers who loved her dearly and attended her every move, ensuring that she was safe from all harm.

Everyone thought that the mare could not be happier, could not be more content. They felt her tremble to their touch and heard her sighing whinny when they groomed her—and they attributed that to pleasure and contentment. The path of mud that circled her small enclosure close to the walls to the outside world they attributed to her devotion to exercise, and they were happy to clean her hooves carefully each evening as they led her into her solitary barn and guided her muzzle into a trough containing food fit for a queen.

And that's how they thought of her. A privileged queen, kept immaculately beautiful, shown off for short periods at the whim of the King of Persia, and protected from all the evil and cruelties of the outside world.

It was in the spring, as the snows were receding along the ground back to the base of the Zagros peaks that the mare first saw him. The first time, in the dawning of the day, racing, free and majestically across the ridge to the east, highlighted by the red-orange-yellow of the rising sun.

The mare stopped in her tracks, mesmerized by the size of him and the dancing lope of his gait. He was jet black, curly black hair everywhere. And he was strong and arrogant and something unlike anything the mare had seen before.

And most of all he was free. And he was male. Sensuous and arousing in a way the mare had never felt before.

She could not help looking to the east every morning she was let out in her small enclosures. Some days he was there. Some days he was not.

The black stallion took her breath away. Not just because of his magnificence, but also because he was free and was racing across the plain as he would.

At first she withdrew from the wall, not wanting him to know she was there. But increasingly she became bolder and bolder. And he did notice she was there—long before she realized he did.

He looked at the life she led and he did not see privilege and safety and contentment. He saw something else. He saw that she was not free. And he also saw that she was beautiful. And his juices flowed and he wanted her.

No one could explain how the tiers of logs of the wall of the mare's enclosure's eastern wall came down early one morning. The mare certainly wasn't strong enough to have done this. And why would she anyway? She had all she needed inside the enclosure. Nearly every mare across the empire wanted what she had and would trade positions with her in a moment.

But the reality was that she was not there on the morning the wall came down. Nor was she anywhere nearby.

She was out on the plain, at first running free and wild and at length running in front of the magnificent black stallion—not knowing even herself if she were running from him in fear of the unknown or running for him, teasing and enticing him.

But the stallion let her run, staying ever close to her, giving her her freedom to run, knowing that she would tire and present herself to him—because he knew it was what she wanted, a greater freedom, an ultimate pleasure.

And so, she did. High at the peak of a ridge just short of the foothills of the snow-capped Zagros Mountains, the mare stopped, breathing heavily, seeing that her breath came out of her nostrils in clouds of joy—the joy of running free and being prepared for the ultimate pleasure.