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Some moments later, tied hand and foot with silk cords, he lay tranquil and fascinated, his arousal beautifully formed, his breathing calm, watching Daisy shave her pubic hair. Once she used some of the perfumed oil as lubricant, the razor glided over her skin smoothly. "This razor is remarkably sharp," she murmured, looking up at him, her eyes insinuating, "for something so old."

"Damascus steel," the Duc softly countered.

Newly replaced, she warranted. But then he was tied and she was not… so some small retaliation for his dissimulation was entirely possible.

Her newly shaved skin glistened with oil and as she reached for the small rouge pot, Etienne said, "You'll have to wipe that oil off before putting on the rouge."

Her eyes held his for a moment in a brief flaring irritation, but she said, "Thank you for the information," sweetly as though it didn't matter that he knew the procedure in such detail.

She applied the scarlet rouge to her nipples first, lingering in the application, making sure the aureoles were completely covered to their outer perimeters, carefully smoothing a perfect rounded border of crimson with her fingertip; taking care next to gently tug her crested nipples into high peaked hardness before painting them red like luscious glistening cherries.

"Have I missed anything?" Her eyes held his for a moment, contemplating the extent of his interest.

His gaze lazily undertook to survey her handiwork; he had more experience than she in this particular amorous game. "The perfection of a trained houri, darling… tempting as sin."

The style of his insouciance: complimentary, courteous, eminently practiced, touched her momentarily with a small vexation before she considered how pleasant it would be to infringe on that nonchalance.

Moving slightly into Etienne's line of vision, Daisy gracefully disposed herself into a provocative pose—like the Gupta sculptures from India, where the females seemed eternally accommodating… with their thighs spread open in a great curving arc and their ankles crossed. As though framing the object of male desire. Reaching for the towel he'd dried his face with earlier, she wiped the oil from her skin, then looked up to see whether Etienne was suitably attentive. She spread the crimson rouge over the soft pouting flesh of her labia with slow gliding strokes, daubing the pliant tissue of her velvety folds, massaging the rouge into every crevice, penetrating half a finger depth at times to make certain each swelling protuberance and silky volume was covered with glossy crimson.

The Duc only shut his eyes once to compose himself. He was a man
of
experience.

"Am I doing this right?" Daisy sweetly asked when she was finished, leaning over to touch the crest of his erection with the tip of her rouged fingertip. "As a virgin"—she smiled, sliding her fingers down his pulsing arousal—"I'm not absolutely sure."

His breathing changed then.

Her smile broadened faintly, satisfaction apparent in the subtle upcurving of her mouth. It pleased her his tranquility could be broached. It pleased her more to anticipate further ruffling his unruffled calm.

Taking one of the glass dildos from its velvet-lined compartment, she murmured, "How strange," looking perplexed as an artless virgin might. "Whatever is this used for?"

"Guess," the Duc dryly said, his eyes half closed in sardonic reply.

"Oh." Daisy's moue of revelation was pure dramai guileless in its innocence, and had his erection been less intensely pulsing, less rigid, less demonstrably ready to mount the seductively rouged actress teasing him, he might have laughed at her artless deceit.

"You're larger," she declared, placing the blue glass cylindrical object beside the Duc's erection lying hard against his stomach. "I can use this to practice then… so you won't hurt me later." Her voice was low and sweetly gentle, ingenuous in its simple statements, like an innocent might approach a new adventure. "Is it cool on your skin?" She slid the smooth glass up the rigid throbbing length of his arousal. When he didn't answer, having shut his eyes briefly against the surging rush of sensation, she repeated in a coaxing whisper, "Is it?"

"Yes," he answered finally on a controlled exhalation of breath.

"You're not talkative."

He gazed at her from under his lowered lashes, his heavy-lidded eyes intent for a moment. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"You aren't? It looks like you are," Daisy purred, sliding the glass dildo down again, exerting slight pressure so the pulsing turgid veins of his penis were smoothed flat for a moment.

The subsequent release of blood was graphic in its intensity. Etienne sucked in his breath.

"Tell me if you like this," Daisy went on in the same undramatic, even tone, moving the dildo to her genitalia, painted vividly like a harem girl's. The deep blue glass contrasted sumptuously with the scarlet rouge as did the glistening glass with the lesser oiled sheen of her satiny skin. "Are you watching?" she unnecessarily asked.

He was, moving unconsciously against the silk cords binding him, anticipating the dildo's penetration.

"Would a virgin like this?" she silkily inquired as she slid the tip of the smooth glass inside an inch of rouged flesh, looking up at him as he lay bound before her.

"Don't ask me." A certain gruffness infused his voice.

"I'll let you know…" And she applied a slow even pressure, until the blue glass disappeared inside her, only the silk tassel, attached to the looped end lying brilliant indigo against the peach silk of the coverlet. "The answer is… unconditionally… unequivocally… yes," she whispered a breath-held moment later as the full length of the indispensable harem object filled her, sending shuddering flashes of fire through her senses.

The Duc smiled faintly as her tone altered at the last. If she continued in that substitute exercise in pleasure, they would soon be less unevenly paced. "I'll keep it in mind if I'm ever with a virgin," he said, watching her face, her hand, the placement and movement of the dildo. "Do you like virgins?"

His quiet unexpected question drew her attention for a moment from the internal heat igniting her body and mind. How many men would think to ask a woman that. "Yes," she answered, lying because he was contemplating her with a familiar detachment not there a moment ago and she felt defenseless suddenly, although she was free and he was not.

A muscle briefly twitched in his lean cheek before his dark brows drew together in a faint scowl. But his voice was smoothly sardonic when he lazily said, "You like very young men then."

"Sometimes." She could be as blasé as he.

"You'll have to tell me about it someday."

"I can't imagine why?"

Damn you, he silently exploded, and damn all the men in your past, whatever their ages. But he understood her tempting allure, better perhaps than any, because he'd taken her away today in full sight of anyone wishing to see, without scruple for his name or scandalous consequence. "You're right, of course," he softly said, forcing himself to maintain control of his emotions in this oddly heated, volatile seduction. "Do you think that surrogate you're currently enjoying would have satisfied you for a lifetime in a harem?" He knew the answer to his question.

He could tell, she thought, what she was feeling, how transfixed and urgent was the pulsing center of her body and in defense, she abruptly pulled the dildo free. "It wouldn't have satisfied me for long," she declared, steeling herself against the frisson of urgent desire. "I suppose I would have had to find some way to gain the Sultan's attention," she added in a theatrically sultry purr intended to thwart Etienne's knowing smugness. "You know, something unusual…"

"I'd be interested in that," the Duc drawled in the small contest of wills that had developed over the history of the Sultan's bed and their various backgrounds in amorous experience.

"I thought you might." Daisy's smile was provocative.

Her fingers curved around his erection, forcing it away from his body so it stood upright, hard and long and engorged. "If Eastern males find the color red enflaming, this might have been of interest to a Sultan," she quietly said, dipping her finger into one of the tiny pots of rouge.

Summoning all his restraint, Taoist and otherwise, the Duc forced his breathing into a semblance of calm as Daisy delicately touched the sensitive pulsing crest of his arousal. Her fingers glided in widening circles of brilliant color down to the flaring flange. Then taking the newly painted crest between her thumb and fingers, she gently squeezed.

He was dying, he thought.

Bending low, she brushed her lips over his mouth. "Tell me," she softly urged, "do you like my version of war paint?"

With enormous effort he focused on her amused dark eyes and nodded.

"It looked that way to me," she whispered, her breasts warm on his chest. "Now let's see," she playfully mused, sitting upright again. "Will you need directions later?" she teased, painting a sleek red line up the length of his distended arousal, capping it with an arrowhead design.

He looked down. "Not likely," he murmured with a small tight smile. "But feel free."

"You're pleasantly amenable."

"I'm trying," he said very quietly, not, in fact, comfortable being tied—some barbaric throwback, no doubt. But he was accommodating her and the sensual reality couldn't be faulted.

Daisy repeated the painted arrows in tantalizing slow motion twice more on his penis while the Duc wondered whether the thunder of his heart could be heard in Paris.

"Do you think a Sultan would have liked my artistic talents?"

"Considerably more," the Duc agreed in a suppressed whisper, "than the…
Thousand and One Nights
tale."

"I rather think so too." She was smiling. "Painting can be aesthetically gratifying," she went on, following the direction of her painted arrows with a delicate brushing movement of her fingers.

The Duc groaned, low and muted. No matter how experienced he was at restraining ejaculation, there were limits—very swiftly nearing.

"Umm," Daisy murmured, immune to the Duc's internal, imminently explosive timetable, "you've grown another two inches." The lines of red paint were irregularly broken now, fractured into a discontinuous jagged rhythm with the added length of his arousal. "I'm afraid you're much too large for a virgin," Daisy softly teased. "You'd hurt me terribly; you're too enormous for my Virginal trepidation. Faced with the daunting prospect of being invaded by… this…" She gently squeezed the base of the shaft. "Would a true virgin decline or be… more tempted? You wouldn't know about virgins though, would you," she whispered, heated and jealous, "because you've had too many experienced women vying for your time."

She couldn't repress her flaring pique, had no control over her jealousy. He was too beautiful, lying bronzed and powerful on the Sultan's bed, too perfect, too used to eager women wanting him. Too casual even in the extremity of his arousal. Controlled. Able to maintain his roused passion just short of orgasm. How long could he maintain that equilibrium? How much practice did it take to become that accomplished?

"Answer," she murmured.

"No."

"No?"

"No." His voice was extremely soft and had Daisy known him better she would have taken cautious note.

Not familiar with the Duc's temper, impelled only by her own, she ignored the intense quiet of his tone and moved suddenly just beyond his reach. Was jealous pique the impetus behind her provocative pose, so close he could have touched her—if his arms weren't tied with braided silk cord to the gold rings behind the secret doors? Could her languorous stretching that raised her heavy red-tipped breasts and narrowed her waist and brought the scarlet detailed juncture of her thighs within inches of his face be more then sportive tantalizing?

The Duc's reaction was unequivocal. His erection was stiff against his stomach and pulsing with his heartbeat, his eyes half closed, his outward composure maintained with effort.

"You've teased enough," he said, his breathing visible in the rise and fall of his chest.

But in reply, Daisy lay beside Etienne in a languid indolent pose, using one of the delicate ivory-handled feathers to trace a leisurely path up the length of his arousal, retracing a descent with equal slowness. Lightly brushing upward again over the distended pulsing veins, she circled the engorged head with feathery flickering rhythm.

The Duc's back arched against the overpowering sensations.

"That's enough," he said very softly when he could catch his breath again.

But she only bent her head as he spoke and, drawing his rigid length into her mouth, sucked and licked and nibbled on his painted flesh until his breathing had changed into an erratic rhythm.

He tested the strength of the silk cords over the rise and fall of her head, his fists clenching, his biceps straining, but the ropes held—a tribute to their craftsmanship. Relaxing his fingers as Daisy languidly drew her tongue up the hard pulsing length of him, in a tight controlled tone those familiar with the Duc de Vec were heedful of, he said, "Untie me."

It took her a moment to answer but when her head lifted and she gazed into his heated eyes, she said, "Later," as if he had only questioned her timetable for croquet. Testing his control, pushing him, she moved then, sleek and curved and voluptuous so she was straddling his thighs. Her smile was teasing flirtation when she murmured, "I like your harem bed… and your submission…"