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You hadn’t expected anything, really.
To be honest, ever since your childhood friend had practically shipped you off to the Almyran king, you had kinda sorta lost hope in… well… everything. After all, you did not expect the Alliance leader to send you as a peace offering and gift to the barbarian king. Because why would a childhood friend, one you had grown up with, have you added to an Almyran harem?
Sure.
Sure, the harem isn’t that bad.
Yeah, it might be a million times more lavish and lush than your homeland. You had some sense of decorum and pride. However, you did get along with the other concubines within the Almyran palace. Initially, your general displeasure at being sent here, combined with preconceived notions of prejudice, had inclined you to think the other people in the harem would be out for your throat.
Maybe they were– maybe they are .
But at least they’re friendly to you, and you are grateful for that. Besides, even though you are basically the Alliance’s representative, an emissary, and a hole, you aren’t much of a threat to any of them. They have been lovely and kind to you, but you have been too frightened and on edge this whole time. After all, he had publicly dined with you and had publicly left you that night for a last-minute meeting with his councilors.
Goddess , you laugh to yourself as you make your way across the tiled floor to the king’s private grotto. In the distance, you hear the musicians playing the strings, and the tinkle of the bells attached to your meager robes seems to agree with them. The bar is not even low; it is in the furthest circle of hell .
At least tonight is a beautiful night, you think, doing your best to calm your nerves. Anything to distract yourself from the reality that you are incredibly anxious about this evening. Sure, as much as you internally despise your current situation and lack of freedom, you are pretty antsy about spending time alone with the king.
He isn’t a horrible husband to you or any of his other wives. Far from it. From all the others who have been lucky enough to snag a second night with him, they have all stated how incredibly kind and caring he is on top of his charms and good looks. The only thing the harem has agreed on is that he is very busy and rarely has enough time to spend with you. As unfortunate and annoying as it may be for some of you (not for you, you swear), it is understandable, and it goes without saying.
The sultan is a busy man.
Which is why your nerves are like the spinning wheels of an overturned chariot as you see him looking up at you from behind the gauzy curtain enshrouding the private gazebo.
Your retinue announces your arrival, lifting the nearly see-through fabrics to allow your entrance. The bells attached to your anklets tinkle as you lift your foot to enter the space.
It is a beautiful area with plush cushions, luxurious imported rugs, and ornately-designed furniture. For a gazebo sectioned away with easily-flammable curtains, several lit braziers ward off the cool evening breeze that makes its way even through Almyra. Funnily enough, you were initially surprised that it gets cold in the evenings. The winter nights are no joke – it’s as if the sun and the axial tilt gangs up on the nation.
Just as you have been taught by the Alliance leader and the other women in the harem, you bow politely. Your head is tilted down, and you gaze at the varying array of elaborately-designed carpeting.
Morfis is what you remember the servants had recounted. This week’s flooring is imported from a foreign country and will be completely different next week. The kicker is that the sultan wouldn’t even be here to see it be installed and replaced. The Almyran kingdom is just that filthy rich to be able to do such things as this. You feel a little repulsed, knowing your own former territory was struggling with getting taxes from its townsfolk.
But you swallow back your indignation of being turned into one of the trophy whores of this barbarian king, your genuflection still held until he calls for you. Almyran traditions and all that.
“Pleasure seeing you here,” the sultan says, leaning back against one of the brightly-colored cushions.
Inhaling sharply, you straighten your back, stepping forward when he beckons you to properly enter the private space.
It smells of tobacco, citrus peel, jasmine. Here, you can pick up notes of allspice and rich wood.
There’s that lazy smile on his handsome face, which has your stomach twisting in a strange sensation. It’s the look he shoots you in the very few moments your retinue passes by his own through the many halls of the palace. Sometimes he would look at you over his shoulder, a grin on his face before he gave you a wink.
You exhale once you sit on one of the cushions he gestures at.
The sultan pours wine into a goblet, holding it out to you. Gratefully, you take it, the liquid a rich red hue and smelling of cinnamon, honey, cloves, and star anise. Swirling it around, you see your reflection in the wine and do your best to smile.
“Do you think I poisoned the wine?” He asks you, as you simply hold the goblet in your hand.
You look up at him.
Although you hate to admit it, he looks so painfully beautiful amongst the cushions, lounging with one leg on his seat. In one of his hands, he has a golden mouthpiece smoker attached to an elaborately-carved hookah.
“I don’t know. Did you?” The words leave your mouth much faster than you can stop, and you immediately bite your tongue.
The king’s brows lift at your words. He watches you, that same expression on his face as he inhales from the long shimmery pipe. Holding it in momentarily, he lets out a relaxed breath of smoke through parted lips before chuckling.
“C’mere. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
You scoot a bit closer, handing him back the goblet when his hand is held out for it. With his eyes on yours, he drinks, your eyes focused on his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck. Half the wine remains in it when he holds it back to you, and he’s back to bringing up the golden smoke mouthpiece to his lips.
“Not poisoned,” he tells you, smoke sifting through his lips like a lazy dragon.
So you lift the goblet up, only for him to stop you when he reaches out. His fingers twist the item in your hand, the spot where he drank now facing you, still damp where his lips had imbibed the fragrant wine.
“Drink.”
Your eyes indignantly on the barbarian king, you follow his words. It tastes as luxurious as it smells, although the slightest hint of tobacco is on your tongue. When you’ve finished the wine, your cheeks and belly feel warm from the alcohol.
“How’d you like it?” He asks, eyes looking genuinely interested in what you have to say.
“It’s…sweeter than the wine I’m used to.”
“Mm.” He nods his head. “Well, Gloucester wine tends to be on the drier side. I just prefer having a bit more spice to my life.”
“Is that why you have so many wives?”
He stares at you, both brows raised at your words, before he lets out a laugh. The king’s eyes disappear into crescent moons. You feel slightly nervous, wondering if you are fraying his patience with you, but he seems incredibly relaxed. Is it because he is just a very laid-back person, or is it because of whatever he is smoking? Maybe both.
“Damn. With a tongue like that, I can understand why Lorenz didn’t marry you himself. Hard to have two of the same kind of person under one roof.”
Inhaling sharply, you resist the urge to snap back at him with something snarky, except you really can’t think of something witty enough to say.
“Do you hate it here?”
You look at him, not really sure what to say. He asked a very…. well-worded question. The answer would be easy if he asked you if you liked it here. No, you don’t. You miss home. But at the same time, you don’t hate it, so answering his question truthfully would stroke his ego regardless.
“I miss my home,” you say, voice soft.
He looks at you with a sympathetic expression on his face before he pours himself more wine. The sultan slides the pitcher closer toward you, allowing you to pour some yourself if you wish. Knowing he’s not trying to push you to something you don’t wish for is a little endearing.
“What do you miss from your home?”
You look at him, eyes falling on the hookah he’s smoking.
To be fair, you don’t really know how to answer that. Your childhood wasn’t ideal, being prepared for some political movement that demanded no consent from you. Although you had expected to be married off to Lorenz, he remained a good friend instead. At least until he sent you off as a piece of fuckmeat to the Almyran king, who simply shelved among his many other pretty wives as an ornament. Meanwhile, your parents enjoy the luxuries offered to them for contributing a child to the barbarian nation.
What exactly are you missing?
Your mind wanders off to the parts of your childhood that honeyed your memories. You recall running through the meadows, feet bare against the soft dewy blades of grass. Fingertips grazing against heads of wheat as the fog lifted slowly, dissipated by the creeping warmth of the sunrise. You miss drinking in the cool smell of the ozone air, the scent seeping into your circulatory system in a way that heralded the beginning of winter. You miss the greys and the cold sleeting rain that pelted your skin when you managed to sneak past your family’s guards.
“I… I don’t know, actually,” you whisper, voice soft. It would be significantly easier had you lied and listed something you truly missed.
There’s an expression on the king’s face that you can’t precisely place like he understands how you feel. The man reaches a hand out to you, and for some reason that you don’t know, you take it. While you expect him to kiss it, he simply holds it and squeezes gently.
“I know what it feels like to be a foreigner in your kingdom and unwanted in your own home,” he tells you, the look on his face soft. “Whatever it is I can do to ensure your comfort and happiness here, I will do so. I know you’re not here because you want to, and ‘cause of politics, I can’t just send you back. So I’ll do everything I can to ensure you are happy and safe.”
Inhaling deeply, the smell of cinnamon and cloves fill your lungs as you look away. The action makes the bells in your robes tinkle once more, and you let out a little laugh in an attempt to assuage the awkwardness that hangs in the air. You’re so used to having your guard up here, regardless of whether it’s too suspicious of the other kind wives in the harem or right up to the king’s face.
“I’m sorry I can’t offer you freedom,” he tells you, letting go of your hand. “If it was mine to give, I would have given it to you, to all of you.”
Raising your gaze once more to his, you mull over his words.
For all of his charm and charisma, you can’t imagine him feeling the same way that you are. You are a wild animal in a gilded cage, swathed in expensive silks and luxurious fabrics. Constantly looking over your shoulder, fearful of the food presented to you, wary of any gentle words sent your way for your own perceived attempt at self-preservation.
Is this how the sultan feels?
You look at him for all his chiseled features, apple-green eyes, and thick lashes fanning against his bronzed cheeks – he is just a regular person your age. Someone forced to become the leader of a country that has always despised him, a foreigner in his homeland.
Is this how he feels?
You feel a bit bad for how you have been acting, knowing that everyone within this palace is but a caged animal such as yourself.
Desperate to break free and sentenced to making a home behind these bars.
Your eyes fall onto the long golden pipe he holds between his bowstring-calloused fingers. It doesn’t go unnoticed by the king, who offers it to you.
“Sorry I didn’t ask earlier– here,” he tells you as you take it. The sultan stretches his arms over his head, the thin linen of his robes betraying the well-toned muscle on his chest. He looks at you as you inspect the piece you’ve been handed. “Oh. Have you smoked before?”
When you shake your head, he scoots closer to you, which feels oddly natural and unpracticed. You don’t feel uncomfortable either, as he gestures with his fingers.
“You basically just suck in the smoke from the tube and hold it in your mouth. You can breathe it into your lungs. I recommend taking it in slow little puffs, so you don’t overwhelm yourself.” He gestures around with his hands as he explains. “It can be a lot the first few puffs– coughin’ and all that. Don’t push yourself too–”
Bringing it to your lips, you take a small puff, tasting tobacco and something else herbal and smoky. Like he said, you cough a bit, brows knitting as you hand him back the mouthpiece. He pours some water into another crystal glass, and you drink it.
“Too much?”
“I just don’t think I’m used to it yet.”
“Does take some time to get familiar with it,” he says, reaching over to stoke the charcoal on the top portion.
You have a still-curious expression when he looks at you while you down the rest of your water. “Still wanna try?”
When you nod your head, he takes a little puff. The man looks at you, eyes half-lidded in a way that has you shifting slightly atop your cushion when the smoke leaves his nostrils. He gestures for you to come closer, and when you scoot just a bit towards him.
“Closer, sweetheart.”
Swallowing down, you tuck your legs under you as you move towards the man, facing him. He’s close, your knees touching the side of his thigh. You can map out the sharp corner of his jaw and the stubble there at this angle. You can count the piercings on his ear and the few light-colored scars that peek out along his chest. You can smell his perfume– you can smell him .
Oakmoss. Clove. Pine needles. Cedar.
It swirls heavier than the tobacco he is smoking, trickling like maple syrup down your throat. You feel lightheaded, and as much as you wish to blame it on the spiced wine from earlier, that wasn’t enough to get you feeling warm. Being this close to the king makes you feel weightless, like you’ve stood up too fast, and the blood has rushed away from your skull, heating up other parts of your body.
The king’s eyes are on yours as he puffs the hookah. His large hand reaches for your jaw, thumb ghosting lightly over your glossed lips. Instinctively, you part them, the pad of his finger dragging your lower rosy lip downward. Heat thrums through your core, thigh muscles tensing as he purses his lips, breathing a white stream of fragrant smoke into your half-opened mouth.
You suck in the smoke, breathing it like it’s second nature.
Deep inside, something stirs inside you, awakening like a beast from its slumber. Although your throat tightens, every cell in your body takes what the sultan gives you.
It feels as though everything revolves around this man, and everything else around you fades off into the distance. You barely feel the slight breeze that trickles in beneath the gauzy curtains in the gazebo. The sound coming from the stringed musical instruments isn’t even registered by your eardrums. You don’t even notice the taste of tobacco smoke from the hookah.
Everything is just the sultan right now, his lips barely inches from yours and his warm hand steadying your jaw.
He is so beautiful, and you can’t help staring at him and his gorgeous green eyes.
Around the both of you, the aging world and the eternal divine could rage on, and you couldn’t care. You would be lost in this exact moment of breathing in the smoke from his lips and feeling his thumb caress the soft flesh on your face.
Nothing else mattered.
Nothing else matters .
You aren’t exactly sure when the cloudiness settles, allowing for more clear-headedness. But when you do, you are aware of his other hand resting over yours– the one you have fisted in his robes.
A strangled noise leaves you as you release him, pulling away. Clearing your throat, your face and neck are red as you try and figure out when you had grabbed onto him and why . Eyes falling onto the crystal carafe containing the wine, you pour a hefty amount into the previously-used goblet. Before you can pick it up, the sultan reaches over, sliding it away from your grasp. You look up at him, an affronted expression on your face.
“Don’t you want me to be comfortable?” You ask.
You have the slightest feeling of where this night is heading, and your heart is hammering inside its cage, threatening to break free. Anxiously, you reach out for one of the trays of sweets. There are gelatinous cubes covered with crushed-up pistachios and powdered sugar. You take one, biting into it. There’s a lovely flavor of chopped dates, rose water, and lemon curd.
By your side, the sultan drinks out of the goblet you’ve poured.
“I want you to be honest and unclouded by wine.”
You look up from the silver tray of lokum , only to be met with his gaze. Your throat muscles clench a little at what you see – although the king’s expression is gentle, the size of his pupils betray him. Regardless, it is validating to know that he feels similar to how you did a minute ago.
He takes a sip again, and your eyes fall upon a rivulet of wine that trickles from the corner of his mouth. You reach out as he sets the goblet down, fingertips catching the liquid. The king’s hand holds around your delicate wrist, and you can only stare as he brings your sugar-dusted fingers to his mouth.
Your lips part when he does, fire churning in your stomach as he runs his tongue over your fingertips. It’s a slow, deliberate act of him dragging his pink wet muscle across your skin while he holds your gaze with eyes darkened with desire. Your muscles twitch, and you feel want and heat burn you up from the inside, your thighs pressing against each other.
The sultan licks up the taste of sugar and rosewater and lemon peel and figs and–
–and you’re pulling your fingers away from him, leaning forward to press your lips against his.
The man practically groans when you climb onto his lap, the bells on your robes tinkling from the sudden act. Your fingers are in his mahogany curls as you kiss him, his roughened palms on
your waist and squeezing the soft skin there. At some point, you clamber onto his lap, knees on either side of his thighs on the cushion he’s seated on.
Many a night, you have imagined kissing him but have always thought the first touch of lips would be a gentle one.
This first kiss happens to be far from it, but it also happens to barely be a kiss. It isn’t like either of you is fighting for dominance either. If you are aggressive, he doesn’t return it – both of you are simply trying to taste each other as much as one can. He tastes like everything you ever wanted and exactly what he smells like when you catch him strolling down the hallway with an advisor or three.
It’s so strange.
Like figs and pomelo slathered with honey, so syrupy sweet and enough to make your blood feel like nectar. Somewhere along the lines, you taste the wine on your tongue, but the heat that has you pressing against the sultan is not from alcohol. You feel even drunker than when you were a teenager and snuck out brandy from your father’s cellar.
It isn’t the nerves, the alcohol, the lokum .
When both of you gasp for air and parting, you stare down at him. His eyes are half-lidded, green irises practically eclipsed by the want manifested by his dilated pupils. The man’s hands squeeze your waist, and you let out a soft grunt, cunt quivering behind the minimal fabric covering it.
Fuck.
It isn’t the nerves, the alcohol, the lokum .
It’s him.
The sultan triggered your heat, which you believed was under your control for a while. After your adolescence, it had been.
The sultan raises his hand, thumb tracing over your lips, glossy from him.
“I have smelled your sweetness in the air for so long,” he tells you, leaning in to plant a brief kiss on the plushness of your damp mouth. “I have wanted, hungered for you. Could barely hold myself back when you stepped into the gazebo.”
Atop him and on his lap, you tremble, breathing in pine and cloves and everything that smells like home and everything that it isn’t. No, you think absently to yourself. All of this is foreign and nothing like Leicester. Everything is new, and yet your body claims that this is home.
“Let me have you,” the sultan tells– begs of you. Unintentionally, you grind down on him, the hardness there letting you know everything you need to know. “ Please –”
Then he’s leaning in, nose pressing against that sensitive spot on your neck. It’s a tender area beneath your jawline, and the exact moment that you twitch desperately around nothing, you hear him groan. You whisper out his title as his grip on your waist increases, and the fact that you know he can smell your pussy has your mind reeling.
“I won’t be able to hold back if you–”
“I want it– Want you,” you tell him, and confessing something that would have otherwise sent prickles of shame has never felt so good.
His canines scrape gently, tentatively over your neck, and the fact that he’s still holding back when he is the literal sultan gives you such a heady sense of satisfaction.
“I won’t be gentle,” he tells you, planting open-mouthed kisses against your neck.
“Good,” you respond, warmth rising along your cheeks and stomach.
You tremble on his lap, feeling your wetness drenching the thin underwear you had put on. When his fingers reach around to touch you, he gently bites into your neck but not hard enough to even leave an indent. Your lips part at the sensation of his calloused fingertips stroking your petal-soft folds, his grip on your waist keeping you in place. The sultan leans in, tonguing at your mouth before you kiss him back desperately.
At the slow press of two thick fingers into your hole, you groan, head leaning back and breaking away from the kiss. They pump in and out of you noisily, revealing how much you need your husband to stuff you full. Your biology is meant for this, to have him touch you and use you as your nature intended.
“Fuck– that day Lorenz presented you at court–” He sucks in air through his clenched teeth, thrusting his fingers in and out of your hole. The sultan nibbles along your jawline, sucking bruises into the areas of your neck directly beneath it. “I wanted to fuck you right then and there– Just wanted to grab you and pull you onto my cock.”
You shudder at his words, and he pulls at your expensive sashes with his free hand. A mewl escapes you as he dips his head, tongue swirling over your nipple. Your back arches at that, wanting more of his touch as he gives your other nipple the same treatment, his hand squeezing at your other breast. There’s so much happening for someone who has never been touched like this before, and your labored breathing only intensifies as the heel of his palm rubs against your clit.
“Is that what you want?”
“Y-Yes–”
“Tell me, then.”
You grit your teeth, jaw clenching as his fingers curl up against something inside you you’ve never felt before. On his lap, you squirm, trying to pull away and push down against him simultaneously until he’s grinding his palm against your sensitive nub, and you’re spiraling.
The orgasm hits you hard, your body bucking against his touch as he fucks his fingers in and out of you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails biting against his beautifully tanned skin as you catch your breath. Shuddering in the aftershocks, you whimper as he slides his fingers out of you, your muscles twitching as you watch him lick himself clean. He groans as he sucks on his fingers, tasting you on his tongue like your arousal is the sweetest ambrosia he would ever taste.
“Your cock–” You breathe out, voice hoarse. You stumble over the words, things your upbringing has shielded you from ever saying. The fact that you get to tell your husband this, the sultan of Almyra– oh goddess. “I want your cock in me.”
He’s adjusting you, robes parting to reveal the very hard cock you’ve been grinding up against, and– And you can’t help but stare. You haven’t seen any penises before, save for the anatomical references you’ve seen in scientific scripts and the few naughty drawings you’ve found here and there.
The sultan is thick, and as you sit on his lap, you can measure how far it’ll be in you, just a little below your belly button. Curiously, you reach a hand down, fingers attempting to wrap around the fat girth. Much to your thrill and nerves, your fingertips don’t touch.
“C’mere.”
He lifts you a bit, your cunt hovering over his cock. You feel nervous, but you want this, and you rest your hands on his sculpted shoulders to brace yourself. He’s looking up at you, adoration, lust, and the expression of a man about to conquer. The sultan’s hands are on your waist once more, supporting you.
“Breathe. Breathe ,” he tells you as you bear down, your cunt’s lips parting for his cock. You do your best to follow his orders as you allow your weight to guide you down.
It’s nothing like you could ever imagine, your pussy stretching easily to take him. Sure, it is because of your biological makeup, but you can’t help the whimper that leaves you because you’ve never been stretched out like this before. Prior to him fucking you with his fingers, you only had your own to work with, and they happened to be paltry preparation for tonight.
By the time you’re fully seated on him, cock snug in your hot cunt, you’re a mess.
“Ohhhhhh fuck. What a good girl. You’re such a–” He groans, voice low and rumbling. “What a good girl, taking me so well…”
Tears are streaming down your face, your kohl smudging. Your lips are parted, and the sultan leans forward, capturing your lips in a kiss. When he pulls away, you lean back, trying to catch your breath, and the moment your eyes focus once more on his, you see him staring at your
abdomen. It isn’t you look down that you realize what has caught his attention, and you reach down your fingers to rest your hand lightly against the slight protrusion there.
“Your majesty–” You whisper.
That is all it takes for him to lift you up and down on his fat cock. You cry out, nails grasping at his skin and clawing at the back of his neck for purchase. The sultan is a talented archer, and you are well aware those in his class are more of the leaner type in comparison to his generals like Nader. But clearly, that doesn’t mean he isn’t strong.
The man lifts you so quickly, eliciting squeaks and moans from you. He does it so effortlessly as though you weigh but a feather.
“My name– say my name,” the sultan tells you, groaning. His hips begin to move up on their own accord, meeting you halfway as he yanks you down onto him. “Say it.”
“K-Khalid–” You murmur, gasping wetly for air as his pace increases significantly.
Your eyes threaten to roll to the back of your head, lashes fluttering as you squeeze your eyes shut. The man groans as you scratch at his back, gripping the loosely-hanging fabric on his body. You’re so wet and tight around him that the squelching noise of your arousal and his cock plunging in and out of you is audible.
In any other situation, you would be embarrassed that some servants are around, some guards are standing watch, and musicians are still playing their instruments.
But you don’t care– not when he’s pulling you back to him, his tongue in your mouth to swirl against your wet muscle.
“K-Khalid, I’m gonna–” You beg into the kiss. It’s so close, you can taste it. Your cunt is already seizing up, squeezing tighter and forcing the man to fuck into you harder to maintain his pace.
“You’re so good, so good…That’s it, let go for me, sweet girl– c’mon. C’mon, oh goddess–”
With the praise he’s heaping onto you, you can’t help but to allow your climax to hit you for the second time that night. You’re gasping, walls sucking and grasping tight around the sultan’s cock as your pleasure crashes into you with so much force.
“K-Khalid–!” You cry out, sobbing in ecstasy as he groans, tilting you forward.
The man continues to fuck you, his hips doing all the work. Your body is tight around him, cunt clutching his thick cock and your arms around his neck as he pistons into you.
The sultan buries his face into your neck, and you can’t help but gasp, legs squeezing around his waist at the sensation of hot liquid filling you up. As he groans, the sensation vibrating along your flesh, your eyes flutter shut at this foreign feeling of your cunt getting what it wants.
“That’s it,” he whispers shakily, kissing your shoulder. “That’s it. Good girl.”
“Khalid,” you call out as you’re settled carefully back on his lap again.
“Mm?” The sultan asks, pulling away to look at you, a dreamy expression on his face. He looks like he’s emptied casks upon casks of wine like you took the stars from the evening sky and placed them in his eyes.
“I want more,” you tell him, fingertips tracing the curve of his mouth.
One thick brow raises in his forehead, adjusting you onto the soft rug beneath the both of you. He pulls out, earning a whine from the loss of being filled as he puts you on all fours, a cushion shoved under your tits to cushion you.
You’re aware of everything happening, senses honed to every detail, along with the pompoms on the rug and the stringed instruments still playing. When you lift your head, your eyes fall upon the beautifully gilded mirror that’s to the side, and your gaze is held by the sultan behind you.
He’s rid himself of his garments, kneeling by your rear and glistening with sweat. You can see his cock, hard as a rock once more, and you’re all too aware that while you are in heat, you have somehow triggered his rut.
“Do you want this?” He asks, slapping his cock against your ass cheeks. Instinctively, you arch your back, chest pressed against the magenta velvet cushion as you grind back against him.
With that, he shoves back into you, not stopping until his hips are flush against the curve of your ass and his balls are lightly resting against your clit.
“Ngh… fuck . So tight… so wet, so good just for me .”
You keen, crying out his name like a chant as he fucks you without letting you adjust to the hefty intrusion in you. He holds your gaze through the mirror’s reflection, your knees shaking as his hands settle on your hips for leverage. The sultan fucks you like he’s on a mission, and if that happens to be ruining you completely, he will soon be victorious with it.
His balls slap against your sensitive nub with each slide in, your fingers grasping at the pompoms of the rug. The sultan is relentless with his thrusts, the sound of skin against skin so loud that you don’t hear the music anymore. It has been replaced with the sound of your heartbeat and blood rushing in your eardrums, the smack of his hips against your plush ass, and the soft grunts behind you.
“Khalid,” you call out, gasping when his fingers tangle into your silky locks, yanking you up, so you’re pressed against his chest. “Khalid–!”
He groans, teeth sinking into your nape, and your eyes widen significantly. Were he to dig his teeth in just further, he would mate you– claim you officially and adequately in a way that would elevate you in the harem. You squirm as his hands go to your tits, kneading and pinching at your dusky nipples while his hips pound you.
“Give me heirs,” he whispers in your ear, his fingers squeezing gently around your throat. The other hand formerly fondling your breast makes its way down between your legs. “Bear my sons.”
“Yes,” you choke out, your back against his chest as he continues to drive his cock in and out of you. You sob out, tears trickling down your cheeks as he forces his thick cock in and out of your cum-filled cunt. “Yes, my sultan.”
Angling his head and yours, he kisses you, all tongue and teeth, as his fingers rub at your cunt. He’s eager to have you cum again, wanting you to milk his cock dry until his balls are completely spent and drained in your hungry pussy. You want him to give you everything he has, to flood your womb so that it takes. You want him to return from a campaign, belly swollen with his child that he’s given you tonight.
“Give me your child,” you breathe out when he pulls away from your lips.
You gasp, the sound tapering off into a half-yell as he fucks you brutally, your words igniting something in him. If not for his grip on you, you would have fallen forward, but he keeps you in place, body melded against his. At some point, he leans you back onto the magenta cushion, fucking you hard like the animals the both of you are. He growls and snarls, and when tear-blurry vision allows you to look at him in the mirror, he looks like he wants to destroy you.
“Yes. Yes . Goddess, you feel so good.”
He may as well at this point because you know you’ll never be the same. You’ll never return to whatever your life was before your arrival to Almyra, before you had tasted how sweet his tongue is against yours.
“Khalid, Khalid, Khalid–!” You cry out, gasping when his fingers make their way into your hair again, forcing your back to arch. It puts so much strain on your spine, but you can’t care, not when his fingers reach your cunt again.
When it hits you, you scream out his name this time. Your body is so sensitive, trembling and shaking as your cunt clutches and squeezes like a vice around him. In this position to mate, this is where your body responds the best, wanting and desperate to take his fat cock and his thick seed deeper into your pussy.
“Please, please– please,” you beg, toes curling and body trying to wriggle out of his grasp from self-preservation. Even though you want him so badly, your body is close to being unable to take whatever more his rut is demanding of you. But he yanks you back by your hips, preventing you from escaping from the relentless slamming.
“Oh– oh– ngh– fuck –” He growls out, half-collapsing onto your body as he presses you down against the ground.
You squeak out as his teeth find purchase on the back of your neck, eyes wide and tears streaming as you feel his hot cum filling you up for the second time that night. Muffling your cries
into the pillow, you whine as your orgasm continues to crest and his teeth sink into your skin to properly mark you as his.
The sensation of his teeth paired with him filling you up and the knowledge, the knowledge of him choosing you has your body going haywire. You don’t know what to think or what to say in this situation – is it just because of his rut? Is it because he feels bad for you? You don’t know, but it seems like he can sense what you’re feeling. The sultan kisses over the mark before leaning down, kissing your cheek, and brushing away a tear that’s just escaped from your eye.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, carefully moving you somehow onto your back, his cock still plugging your overly-stuffed cunt. “It’s alright.”
You are overwhelmed with emotion and all the feelings your training has never prepared you for. You hadn’t been told that you would feel this way when you were claimed, and yet here you are, your face cupped in the sultan’s large hands.
“Why are you crying, sweet girl?” He coos, kissing your damp cheeks.
“I don’t know,” you confess, sniffling as you lean into his touch. “I didn’t think you’d– you’d choose me–”
He caresses your cheeks, giving your forehead a kiss before chuckling.
“I’d like it if you also chose me back,” he grins, nose brushing along yours.
Peeking a teary eye open at him, he smiles, tilting his head in a gesture to go for it. Tentatively, you lean up, teeth sinking into the crook of the sultan’s neck. Something rushes through your veins at the animalistic ritual, and it seems you aren’t the only one who feels it.
“Ohh… Oh, yes,” he groans out, green eyes closing. “ Yes .”
And then his hips are driving in and out of you again, earning a low whine from you. You clench around him unintentionally, moaning at the feeling of his cum trickling out of you and down your asshole.
“ Khalid –!”
“Yes,” he answers, driving into you as his hands press under your knees, effectively folding you and holding you down against the rug. “You’re mine. You’re mine, my girl.”
You cry out, the angle of the mating press so intense as you feel every fat inch of his enormous cock plunge in and out of you. It feels like each pull out is about to tug your insides out with him, only for him to shove it back into you. He’s slow with his movements now, taking his time to enjoy the wet squeeze of your sweet little cunt taking his huge cock. The sultan’s heavy balls press against your ass each time he slides to the hilt, sticky from the cum that’s escaped from your hole.
“I’m yours,” you cry out to him, fingers in his chestnut locks before pulling him down for a kiss.
He kisses you over and over again as his cock carves its way in and out of you, the enlarged tip rubbing against your deepest wall. You twitch at the sensation, abdomen cramping up just a little at the feeling, and you know that you won’t last long. Not now, not when your body is so sensitive and taut like his bowstrings, ready to snap and be used repeatedly by your mate.
“I’m going to cum again,” he tells you, breathing significantly shakier than it has been earlier. “I’m going to fill you up again.”
“Yes,” you plead as he cups your face, his body huddling forward, driving into you easily, relentlessly pounding down into your cunt. “Yes, Khalid–!”
You squirm and groan as he slams into you with such intensity that you’re sure you’ll be unable to walk for a while. Trembling beneath him, you whine as he grinds himself balls-deep in your sopping-wet hole. Your legs twitch uselessly, toes curling as his pubic bone rubs against your oversensitive clit, your body seizing beneath him as you spasm again. At this point, you’re almost too exhausted to cry out his name, merely sobbing into the kiss that he captures your lips in, cunt squeezing and milking his cock for everything that he can give.
By the time he pulls away from the kiss, your vision is slowly fading out, body relaxing along with your heavy breathing.
“Shh, it’s alright, I gotcha,” he murmurs, and by the time he kisses your forehead, you have allowed slumber to embrace you.
–
Many hours later, you wake from your dreamless sleep.
The chirping of the Almyran sunbird greets your ears, and the golden rays of the morning trickling in past luxurious drapery have you grunting. Attempting to hide from the basic responsibility of getting up and being a productive member of the harem, you turn to grab your favorite pillow, the one with multicolored pom poms. One of the other women had gifted it to you, and it came with an interesting slit where you could insert a fragrance packet into it. You would check on the dried lavender bulbs from the other week and gather them into a sachet.
However, that thought comes to a screeching halt at the sobering reality of mushing up against a very firm, toned chest instead.
Your face heats up as the sultan grunts, squirming a bit on the plush mattress as you realize, looking around you, that you are not in your own quarters.
His arm wraps around you, pulling you to him as he buries his face in your hair, murmuring your name sleepily. Your heart swells a little at that, his legs tangling with yours as he holds you like his own personal pillow.
“ Habibti ,” he whispers, his voice heavy with sleep. The sultan’s hand rests against your nape, thumb stroking against the mark he’s left there. You tighten again around nothing, arousal beginning to heat up in your core. “Just another half hour, please…”
You smile against his chest, your leg sliding over his hip to make you more comfortable.
When he asks in such a gravelly voice as that, you wouldn’t be able to deny him anything – a half hour or forever.
And he can’t seem to deny you either when your fingers curl into his hair, blunt nails scratching against his scalp before pulling him down in a kiss.
As he kisses you slowly and deliberately, you suppose that home isn’t so far away after all.