The Sultan's Consort

If you have a problem with wife-sharing/cuckolding, then this is not for you. Spare me the vitriol. This is part of a story I have wanted to write for some time. If there is an interest I will continue it, if not - it can stand on its own merit. The full thing will not focus on sex exclusively, but also pay attention to the dynamic of the characters. I'd be happy if people leave a comment. Thank you for reading.

-Pale Duchess-

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Night.

The Faith considered it an anathema -- those unholy hours between the sun's death and rebirth when the primordial darkness rose from the underworld to shroud and subjugate the world. That is why the faithful lit incense, candles and lanterns at their windows, and why the great mechet blazed with hundreds of braziers through the night.

But Meshdin had always enjoyed the night and darkness. Not because of heresy, mind you. The Scion of the Sun and the Guardian of the Gate was not -- could not -- be a heretic. The sun would die, and it would rise, bringing new light and life to the world. But it was in its absence that the stifling heat that gripped Yanshal receded, giving way to something soft and gentle. A dark blue satin shroud that flowed in from the desert and lulled the imperial city to sleep. During the night there was no parchments, no councils, no audiences and commandments.

Only freedom.

A featherlight breeze rustled through the trees in the garden below the balcony, and the Sultan tightened the robe over his chest. It was a mild summer night, but he still felt chilly. That wasn't surprising, for he easily got cold nowadays. The lingering promise of death. One day in a not too far future Meshdin would die. His body would burn, and his ashes would be given to the desert wind. He had made his peace with that a long time ago. He just didn't want to die before the deed was done.

There was a sound behind him. A whisper of fabric, and then naked footsteps across the lush carpet. Meshdin could feel her hovering behind him, and he could also feel her hesitation. A smile spread over his lips as he slowly lowered his pipe.

"You are awake, my love?"

"I... woke up." Again that rustle of translucent muslin, and Adya settled on the floor next to his seat. "Why aren't you asleep?"

"Old men sleep poorly."

"You are not old."

There was something accusatory in her voice that amused him. "No?"

"No," she said firmly. "You are not old, master. Don't speak like that."

"Well, in that case I am simply enjoying the view and cool air as I smoke my pipe. Will you grant me that much?"

She didn't answer, only sat fully on her knees next to him. Meshdin looked over at his side, and his heart jolted at the sight of her. It always did, and how could it not? Adya -- Resplendent Sultana and Illustrious Consort -- was beautiful. A light robe covered her body, but the fine gauze did little to conceal her figure. She reminded him of a statue -- one of those fertility goddesses the pagans of the far south carved for their shrines. Hers was a lush hourglass figure; olive-skinned, long-legged and slim-waisted, with high breasts and wide hips. She sat with her back straight, hands settled with an almost formal elegance in her lap. Meshdin could see the shapely form of her buttocks as she rested on her feet, just as he could see her dark nipples poking the fabric -- hard and pointy in the cool breeze.

Yet it was her face he loved the most. It was a gentle oval with a wilful little nose she stuck in the air when angered, full pillowy lips that easily pouted, and large eyes that ran with the colour of amber. Never in his life had he seen eyes like hers. He -- the Sultan himself! -- would tremble when they grew black as night, and he would drown in them when they became soft and sweet like dark honey. Tonight they were neither. The light of the balcony lantern was reflecting in their depths, making them glitter like the quiet pools of the imperial gardens.

"Do you..." her mouth moved, but the voice coming through quickly died.

"What?" he asked gently.

Adya bit her lip. It was an un-ladylike habit, but one that he adored. It made something girlish come through her regal exterior. A memory of the girl she had once been, and with her, a glimpse of a long dead boy in himself.

"Speak, my love," he said, setting his still-smouldering pipe back in its holder. "I will listen."

"Do you... hate me?"

Meshdin blinked, momentarily uncertain of what to say. Adya's teeth dug deeper into her lip, but she kept her eyes fixed with his. They watched each other silently. Very slowly, Meshdin shook his head.

"Why would I hate you?"

"Because-" she said tensely, "I like it. This."

The last word was spat through clenched teeth. Immediately after her eyes darted over her shoulders -- towards the curtains covering the vaulted passage between chamber and balcony.

"Is he asleep?" Meshdin asked calmly.

"Yes," Adya nodded. "I think so."

"It does not matter if he is or not. There is nothing I will say to you that I would not say to him."

Meshdin looked out over the balustrade again. Another thing he liked with the nights was the view. His private residence within the palace was situated high above the rest of the Heavenly Court, allowing him an unobstructed view of most of it. Below were the imperial gardens, grand and lush and intercut by artificial streams and pools. Around the gardens was the sprawl of the palace itself; cloistered courtyards, covered passages, domed halls and tall spires. And beyond -- beyond the vast citadel and the ancient citadels that surrounded it -- was the city itself. Imperial Yanshal was an immense urban sprawl, its district housing more than a million souls. During the day it was seen in the ceaseless pulse of people through its streets, but even at night one could get a sense for the vast number. A myriad of lanterns, brazier flames and candles lit up the city streets, houses, temples, bazaars, and public parks. The night ruled supreme in the desert, but within the city the fires of the faithful kept it at bay. The view of this glowing sea was something that Meshdin never tired of.

"You enjoy it," he said to Adya. "You said so yourself."

"And you hate me for it?"

"No. I don't hate you."

"You lie."

Meshdin let his head fall back against the headrest of his chair, breathing the night air as he sighed. It tasted of the gardens below the balcony -- of trees and sleeping flowers, and the soothing scent of fresh water.

"Adya," with a low grunt of effort, he swung his feet down on the floor, burying his slippers in the carpet. "My love."

Meshdin cupped her cheek, feeling her soft skin. Soft and firm. She was young. Still so very young and beautiful while he was old and fading. At his urging, she looked up at him with those dark eyes of hers. Meshdin caught a whiff of her scent. Warm, earth and familiar; tinged with night sweat. Hers -- and that of another man. Meshdin wordlessly leaned closer, and Adya lifted her face to meet his kiss. Their lips tasted each other in a quiet embrace.

"How could I ever hate you?" Meshdin caressed her cheek. "You, who are the jewel of my life."

"I am a whore," she muttered, her breath tickling his greying beard. "I do not deserve to be your consort."

"If you are a whore then I am the whoremonger," he said calmly.

"No-"

"Are you calling Sultan Meshdin Ar Namirzan a whoremonger?"

"Stop," she said, pouting. "Don't."

"It is an honest question, my love," Meshdin kissed her again, stifling another protest before it could form. "You are all that I want and need. Know that."

"I don't deserve it."

"Sit," he said, touching the side of his chair. "Sit with me."

Adya hesitate, but then sat on the edge of the seat where he made room for her. Her long hair fell in a raven cascade over her back and shoulders, wild and ruffled after her sleep. He brushed it away from her face, and she annoyedly brought it back over her other shoulder. Meshdin let his hand travel downwards, tracing her arm. Even through the gauze of her robe he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. Unlike him, she never felt cold.

"You like Bashir," Meshdin said. "I know you do."

"I only love you."

"Your love is an ornament I wear around my beating heart."

"Don't start quoting poetry at me," she snorted, "I'm not in the mood."

"Sometimes there is truth in poetry," he said, undeterred. "It is true in this case. But you like Bashir. It is clear as day. And that is fine."

"How could it be fine? I am breaking all vows and promises I ever made to you. Even if I find pleasure in laying with him, it- it's not love."

"I do not want it to be love. Even though I love Bashir as my brother."

"But you're not laying with him."

"That would defeat the purpose, no?"

She gave him an irritated look. "I am not amused."

"It is easier if you are."

"I am a mad woman."

"Then I am mad too."

Adya looked at him, and for a moment he saw her eyes flash with that familiar anger. "Yes you are."

Meshdin couldn't help but chuckle. Adya didn't join him, but the tugging at the corners of her mouth told him all that he wanted to know. "The Sultan is mad," he concluded, shoulders still trembling. "So it is."

"It is not funny."

"Resplendent Sultana," he said, stroking her cheek to sooth her anger. "You are my consort. You are many things, my love. But your holiest and most important duty - by far - is to bear the dynasty an heir."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, only to immediately quiet down again with another watchful look at the curtain behind her. "Yes. But it must be your heir."

"If I could give you a child, I would. But I cannot."

"You don't know that."

"I cannot," he said softly. "And if I could, I do not think I have the time to wait and try. Not any longer."

"Don't... say that."

"My fate is such as it is. I would wish it differently, but the Almighty has other designs for me. All that is left to me is to play my part as well as I can. The dynasty needs an heir, Adya. For 500 years it has endured. And should it find itself without a clear heir-"

"There are still wars," Adya said curtly, "You fought one, by Heaven."

"I did. But the wars known so far will be nothing compared to what will come when I die."

"You have Adzar..."

"He is barely my nephew," Meshdin said tiredly, "He is far removed from the line. He is a child in a man's body, interested only in his vices. He will never be able to command the respect of the emirs."

"But I will?" Adya's hands scrunched the front of his robe. "Should a... a... bastard child be Sultan?"

She gasped when her his hand tightened, gripping the back of her head in an iron grip. Meshdin was not the man he had once been -- the wound had long since sapped him of that - but he still had some strength in him.

"The child will not be a bastard," he said with steel in his voice, "Be it a daughter or a son, it will be legitimate. It will be by you, and it will be mine in the eyes of man."

"Master..."

His grip softened, and with it his voice. "What comes from you can never be anything less than perfect."

Meshdin kissed her again, long and tender. Adya's arms tentatively wrapped around his shoulders, bringing herself close to him. Her body, warm and soft, pressed against his chest. Her touch, her scent, her mouth with his. He could feel his loins stirring, his cock slowly rising form its shrivelled state. If only.

"As for the rest," he muttered, forehead touching hers, "If the child comes from another set of balls... what does it matter?"

"It is wrong," her full mouth barely moved as she whispered, "I am betraying you."

"You are not. Bashir is a good man, my love. After I am gone he will be a pillar for you and the child. The army obeys him, and I trust him with my life. And yours."

"You won't die-"

"I will die," he said calmly. "I pray for time to do all that I need to, but I will die. But you will live for many, many years. You will raise our son and make him a great ruler and a great man."

"And what..." she paused, biting her lip again. "What if it is a girl?"

"Then she will be the greatest Sultana in history," Meshdin said. "I know it."

"You do?"

"Yes."

This time it was her kissing him. Drawing trembling breaths, she hugged him tight. He let her do it, and in turn his hands sought her waist. Adya immediately undid her sash, tossing it aside and offering him full access. Her body was smooth, soft and supple. A statue of a pagan fertility goddess, carved by a master's hand. Meshdin savoured the feel of her, hands luxuriating in her curves. He moved downwards, engulfing her ass and hips, and then traced down along the full thighs. Adya pressed her hands against his knuckles, urging him to dig his fingers deeper into her flesh. She then leaned forward, kissing him anew, and her hands brushed against the tentative hardness of his cock. She lingered at it, and then she stood up. For a few heartbeats she towered over him - her skin aglow in the lanternlight and her hair as black as the heavens. Her eyes like stars, shining. A heartbeat passed and then she straddled him.

Meshdin didn't stop her. Adya parted the front of his robes, revealing his nakedness. Deep inside his chest Meshdin felt that old pang of regret. Shame, tinged by the memory of what he had once been. An ugly scar covered the left side of his stomach, pale and blotchy like from a burn. It -- and the sickness it had brought -- had eroded him. He was thin, bordering on emaciated. Slowly wasting, Meshdin thought bitterly. He fought the sudden urge to cover himself and so shield them both from the past.

"You don't have to," he said quietly.

His cock was semi-hard, blood turgidly pumping through the shaft. Adya wet her palm with her tongue and rubbed him slowly, sending a shiver through his body. In her eyes was irritation, but also something far softer and warmer that made his heart skip a beat. Without a word she lay down on him and took him in her mouth. Meshdin's eyes went to the sky. The night was black and moonless but studded with countless stars.

"Ah-"

Her lips were pursed around his cock, engulfing it in invitingly warm heat. Brushing the hair away from her face, she began moving her head back and forth over him. Her tongue -- big, slimy and agile -- was all over him, wetly caressing his shaft. His cock was slow to harden, Meshdin's desire not enough to fill it. But Adya's mouth was like silk, and she knew how to use it. She diligently performed her part of their ritual. He reached out and touched her hair, wrapping it around his hand. Adya sighed throatily into his cock, sending another spike of pleasure through Meshdin's spine. She wrapped her hand by the root of him and pulled back until only the head remained between her lips. He gritted his teeth at the sensation -- pillowy lips and the hint of teeth at the sensitive area below his helmet. Meshdin gasped again when she dipped back down, nuzzling his stomach with her nose. Ten years ago her taking all of him in one stroke would have been a much more impressive feat. Still she took his breath away.

How could he ever hate her? Her, who had been with him for so long -- loving, chiding, advising, criticizing, embracing him. Adya had been with him since the beginning, from the start of the rebellion. She had stayed with him through the war and didn't leave him after he was wounded. She had nursed him back to health when the sickness ravaged him, and she protected him and the imperial throne when he was at his weakest. Meshdin loved her with all his heart.

Adya lifted her lidded eyes and looked at him, a dark eyebrow arching questioningly. He nodded, and she wordlessly popped his cock from her mouth. It fell against her stomach, hard and shiny with a thorough coating of spit. Adya sat up once more and prepared to straddle him again. Save for the black waterfall on her head she was completely hairless, with every hair carefully removed by eunuch slaves. Like the rest of her, her sex was beautiful. A dusky flower with petals that were slick with arousal. Meshdin watched with pleasant trepidation as she brought two fingers to her lips and rubbed them back and forth to spread the nectar. Her earthy scent immediately filled his senses and fuelled his desire.

Just a few hours ago, she had been with another man.

Adya grabbed his cock and gave it a few long strokes. Holding the tip upwards, she slowly lowered herself onto it. Liquid heat engulfed the head when it slipped between her lips. Meshdin tried to focus on that sensation; of those tender, slick petals kissing him welcome to the place that was his. Home. Adya impaled herself on him, slowly sinking down until her rump was planted on his hips. Her mouth was open in a quiet moan, revealing a row of white teeth. Meshdin set his hands on her hips, feeling out and revelling in their yielding firmness. She began moving her hips back and forth, grinding on top of him while her hands found support on his chest.

Just a few hours ago, she had been with another man.

Meshdin's cock was in a tight, warm, rippling tunnel. Surrounded by all sides and lovingly embraced. Every velvety ridge and fold was made for him and him alone. How many times hadn't he entered her and silently marvelled at what she was? Now, like often was the case, it was she who rode him. Adya settled her knees on either side of him, planting them in the pillows of his seat. Her body was almost dark against his; olive skin contrasting with the sickly pallor of his flesh. Adya's hips were moving back and forth, the supple pubic mound brushing against his lower stomach. Meshdin moaned his pleasure -- and it made her smile. She lowered herself over him, until both their faces were framed by her hair. She annoyedly tugged at it to try and get it out of the way, but he lovingly brushed it aside. Kiss, slow and almost playful. Her large bust brushed against his chest, nipples poking his skin. He cupped both breasts, eager to feel them the same way he had taken to her hips and ass. Another kiss, and then she sat up to continue riding him.

Just a few hours ago, she had been with another man.

She had been riding him too, at the start. Meshdin didn't always watch her and Bashir's lovemaking. Sometimes he couldn't stand even the thought of it -- at others he couldn't tear his eyes away. Tonight he had sat on the balcony with his long pipe to smoke the soothing narcotic blend, content to watch the city settle for the night. He had looked more than once behind him, though. Why? The answer to that was one which Meshdin couldn't answer, even to himself.

It is a strange thing to willingly watch another man take your wife. An even stranger, and deeply sacrilegious thing is for the Sultan to be cuckolded, and especially when it is his own idea.

Adya was moaning on Meshdin now. Soft little whimpers. She was still steadying herself on Meshdin's chest with one hand, now and then punctuating the motions of her hips by leaning down to taste his mouth. He gladly gave her that opportunity. He could hold her close then, and it also gave him a few seconds of respite. Adya straightened up again; both royal and lascivious, pulling hands through her black hair and tossing it back over shoulders. She coaxed another gasp from Meshdin when she sunk down on him fully, her cunt swallowing him to the very root. She wiggled her hips, gyrating slowly and smiling as she witnessed his reaction. Then she was riding him again, faster and more determined. She was gorgeous.

She had also been gorgeous when Bashir was taking her. Adya's long, shapely legs had wrapped around the general's back as he fucked her on the broad divan. Her hands had dug into his shoulders, leaving rasps on the dark skin. Adya's mouth had been open in the wordless cry of passion. It was one of the moments when Meshdin had watched. His mouth dry and heart pounding in his chest, he had been unable to tear his gaze away from the mating happening before him. Bashir had spent himself inside Adya with a roar, and the sound of his triumph had mingled with her cry of pleasure. The general's ball sack had tightened between his legs, pumping wave after way of hot seed inside the Sultana.