Desire's Sirocco (2 page)

“Men who serve as Trainers consider it an honor to be of assistance to the Conclave,” Dagan had told her when she asked how he could allow such a brutal thing done to him.

“But wouldn’t you like to know the pleasure of…?” she asked only to have him rebuff her with a steely glance.

“Desire is removed with the slice of the surgeon’s blade,” he stated. “You can not miss what you have never had.”

Staring now at his averted profile, Jameela gave in to hurt that had been building since early morn and reached up to untie the silken rope at her waist. What good, she asked herself, did it do her to hope for comfort in the arms of a man who did not share the loving feelings for her that she had developed for him? What difference did it make which man standing above her took her to his bed if she could not have the one she wanted? With a steely resolve that made her clench her teeth, she untied the rope and flung it away.

Dagan turned his gaze to her as she shrugged out of the robe and let it drop from her naked body. He regarded her with an intensity that brought chill bumps to her flesh and she realized it was only the second time he had seen her nude, the first being when he had purchased her from the slave block at Sahar Colony. Lifting her head, she locked eyes with him, hoping he would one day regret the insanity that had allowed the Brothers to remove his manhood. Even as that thought formed in her mind, she saw a slow, evil smile form on his full lips and knew he had somehow intercepted her thought. Tearing her attention from him, she felt her face flame when she heard his low chuckle of amusement.

Once more the gong sounded overhead and Jameela tensed. Now would be the inspection by the Conclave, the humiliating intrusion of strange hands upon her flesh, poking, prodding, pinching and producing shame. It was the most horrible part of the ritual in her mind and she began to tremble afresh, dreading the feel of those impersonal fingers on her body. That she might actually find pleasure in the act was a concept that puzzled her.

Unless, she thought as she looked at Dagan, it was his body taking hers. If that were the case, she was sure her pleasure would know no bounds.

As the gong sounded again, she jerked her mind from such hopeless thoughts. Dagan was walking toward her, his gleaming amber eyes bright as he passed her. Knowing what he was about set her heart to racing and brought with it the sheen of moisture that gathered under her arms and along her upper lip. The sound of the door opening and the squeak of wheels made her dig her nails into her palms. She squeezed her eyes shut and did not open them until she felt the cold smoothness of wood behind her knees. Before she could react, Dagan was at her side, reaching for her and she was swept up into his brawny arms and carried back to be laid upon the contraption that had sealed her fate as an Accepted One for the Conclave.

The table upon which he placed her was firm but there was a light padding that did not make it uncomfortable under her back. The sheeting was cold, though, and goose bumps pebbled her flesh as Dagan firmly but gently pushed her knees down so that she was lying stretched out upon the table. He walked to the foot of the table and put his hands around her ankles. With one quick and competent motion, he pushed her ankles far apart, the lower portion of the table separating beneath her so that it then formed an inverted Y. The cold drag of metal over her ankles told her he was shackling her to the table; the snick of each lock closing around her flesh underlined that knowledge.

Feeling her lower body exposed, her core open to view, Jameela instinctively reached down to cover her mound but Dagan stepped around the table and grasped her hands, pulling her arms up, anchoring them above her head. The strength in his hands never failed to impress her and having hers now placed within the cold steel of restraints at the top of the table sapped any resistance she might have offered completely away.

She gazed up at him, taking in the raw male beauty that stared down at her. His sable dark hair gleamed in the light cast from the burning torches on the balcony walls. A spark of—what, interest?—brightened his tawny eyes, making them less severe, not quite as impersonal. When he blinked slowly, long, thick lashes covered those seductive eyes and fanned the high arches of his lean cheekbones. A nose that was bold yet handsomely masculine, full lips, even, straight white teeth, and a strong, determined chin completed a face that was at once alluring and frightening.

But it was the look in those aureolin eyes that captured and held her motionless on the padded table. There was possessiveness, a right of ownership in that look that belied the telling words he had spoken to her last eve.

“I will turn you over to the Master’s wishes in the Chamber come morning and never once look back on this time we have spent together in your training.”

Jameela licked her suddenly dry lips and saw his gaze drop to her mouth. She watched a muscle bunch in his left cheek before he turned away, moving out of her line of sight.

For what seemed an eternity no sound was heard within the Chamber. No movement, no shuffling among the robed figures glaring down at her from the balcony broke the enforced stillness. She could feel their greedy eyes devouring her and she squirmed against her bonds.

“Lie still!” Dagan ordered from above her head and before she could crane her neck to find him, something dark and silken was pulled over her eyes, wrapped around her head and tied at the nape of her neck.

Blindfolded, trapped within darkness as deep as she had encountered upon first entering the Chamber, Jameela felt her fright return with a vengeance. She bit her lower lip and tensed against what was to come.

It was the sound of shuffling feet from above that nearly stopped her heart. There were no murmurs, no comments as the robed figures made their way down what must be stairs, for she could hear the scrape of boot heels against stone. The echo of footfalls drawing closer set her blood to pounding in her ears, drowning out all else. She could feel heavy warmth surrounding her and knew the Brothers had circled the table and were staring down at her, their eyes glowing with lust, but she could smell nothing save the cinnamon oil that Dagan used as an aftershave.

As the first faint pressure of flesh met her own, she tensed, going as rigid as petrified wood.

His touch was tentative, a stroking of the middle portion of her left thigh. First upward, then downward, then slowly upward again, it was almost as though the Brother was testing the smoothness of her flesh. His fingers stilled then a hot, dry palm flattened on her flesh, radiating warmth before the fingers kneaded the firm muscle once, twice, a third time finally withdrawing.

Almost instantly another hand spread its fingers upon her lower belly, pressing gently into the softness before sliding upward to her waist. The hand eased over her from right ribcage to left ribcage then departed.

She felt a hand squeezing her right thigh, another followed to stroke her left shoulder. Fingers tickled beneath her armpit, traveled delicately from the hollow of her throat to the indention of her belly button. A palm slid firmly down her right leg from thigh to toe tips then retraced its path. Fingers drummed along her upper chest from shoulder to shoulder like a spider walking a gossamer web. Fingernails moved down the inside of her right arm then her left. Hands cupped her feet, massaging the toes, one after another.

When one hand left her, another immediately took its place on a different area of her body. Never remaining long enough to heat her flesh, the fingers of the Brothers tested her flesh, stroking it, pressing lightly, and causing her to draw in a quick breath with each new quarter of her body touched. Yet there were no intimate touches upon her breasts or between her legs, no accidental grazing by the back of a firm hand or a questing finger.

Long minutes passed as those searching hands experienced every portion of her anatomy save those parts that were now heavy with expectation and quivering with need.

There was heaviness between her legs that she had never experienced before and a wetness there that she could smell. Her breasts ached to be touched, the nipples straining upward as each hand grew close. She shifted her body, lifted her hips as hard, calloused fingers stroke the flesh of her inner thigh. Quickly, the fingers were removed and Jameela groaned with frustration.

She heard someone chuckle and felt the stain of embarrassment heat her cheeks. She was no better than the harlots who sold themselves on the waterfront at Sahar Colony, wanting a man’s hand upon them more than bread in their bellies.

The sudden possession of her right breast made her gasp with shock and pleasure for the hand that molded itself to her was hot, the fingers lightly squeezing with an authority that made her draw in her breath. The palm pressed firmly against her turgid nipple and she arched upward, pressing herself against it. Without a break in that wondrous invasion, her left breast was captured and treated much in the same way.

Jameela reveled in the feel of those knowledgeable hands cupping her flesh. She gave herself up to the fingers that pulled the heavy flesh upward then released it only to draw it up again. Sinking into the rhythm of one hand pulling as the other released, she relaxed and turned her head to one side to sigh as the Brothers continued to massage her. She barely reacted as more hands stroked her thighs, her calves, massaged her toes and feet, and fingers trailed on both arms almost in tandem. Fingers threaded through her hair as a Brother used both his hands to massage her scalp.

Try as hard as she could, she could not count the number of hands upon her. At one point, she thought there had to be at least six men plying her flesh but she knew at least three times that many had been standing on the balcony. Did one move back so another could take his place? How many would touch her, claim her flesh before the bidding began? That she had been accepted and not turned away as the Master’s chancellor no doubt thought would happen was both a relief and an exercise in expectation for her.

Breaking into her revelry, the gong sounded once more and cool air flowed over her naked flesh as every hand left her flesh. She held her breath, wondering what would happen now.

She did not have long to wonder for strong fingers grasped her left and right nipples at the same time and began to roll the pebbled flesh gently between them. Well-manicured fingernails grazed her areolas with each circuit of those commanding fingers. As the Brother—or Brothers—pulled her turgid flesh upward and twisted it gently, the young woman thought she would melt.

“Ah…” Jameela sighed. The sensation was unlike anything she could have imagined. Her entire body became taut, then limp with pleasure.

But the delicious consciousness that was invading her upper body was nothing compared to the intense feeling that jerked her to full awareness as a hot hand molded itself over her pubic mound, the base of its palm pressed firmly against the hot opening between her legs.

“Oh!” she gasped, shuddering. She would have spoken again but that firm palm pushed harder between her legs and she could do nothing but open her mouth and pant.

As strong fingers plucked at her nipples, the Brother who had taken possession of her nether region began to massage her, his fingers digging lightly into the crisp hair at the juncture of her thighs. The heat from his hand sent waves of intoxication throughout her system and she felt completely relaxed. It was as though he were drawing her strength from the core of her.

The hand between her legs turned, pivoting firmly on her mound until the Brother’s fingers were paused at her vaginal lips. Lightly, delicately, those fingers fell in succession over her flesh as he drummed a slow, fragile rhythm upon her body.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

With each successive, infinitely slow fall of those heated fingers, the pressure grew so that when his middle finger descended the fifth time, it passed slightly into the slit between her lips.

“Sweet Lalartu!” Jameela breathed as she arched her hips from the table.

A hand was placed on her belly, pushing her down again, anchoring her there. It was as close to a warning as she would get, the young woman thought and stilled. For her obedience, the Brother returned his fingers to her mound but this time he spread the fragile lips apart with the thumb and index finger of one hand while with the other hand he gently dragged his short nails along the inner flesh.

A long sigh of pleasure pushed from Jameela’s throat. She thrilled to the stroking, the scratching of the Brother’s fingers and was so wrapped up in the pleasure such actions caused, she was caught by surprise when he touched something between her legs that made her cry out and arch upward as though struck by lightning.

It wasn’t pain, she realized, that had caused her intense reaction. It wasn’t exactly pleasure, either, she thought. It was a combination of both and she wasn’t sure whether she liked it or not. When he touched the spot again, she felt the same powerful reaction.

“Don’t! Please!” she said, deciding the sensation was too powerful, too concentrated to be enjoyed. Biting her lip for daring to give an order to a member of the Conclave, attempting to deny him his right to do as he pleased with her, she feared she would be dismissed now.

She need not have worried. A snort was the answer to her request and the Brother’s finger hooked downward inside her for a moment then withdrew. Before Jameela could react, her nipples were pinched firmly between dull fingernails and worried as though they were corks trying to be drawn from a wine bottle, the flesh being drawn upward but not in a painful way. Truth be told, the sensation was as close to ecstasy as she had ever come.