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Chapter 5 |
Aza pulled the warm body closer to him and slowly rocked his hips against it, swimming up from the depths of sleep in a most pleasant manner. He reached for Hadiz's long braid, to tip his head back, kiss him until they were both breathless. Instead he found just a thin, short braid and an unresponsive body. "Hadiz?" he mumbled, confused, eyes blinking open. The shock and revulsion propelled him out of the furs and onto the hard ground. The emir's chosen. A most unbearably arrogant boy. The obligation he undertook in the mistaken belief it would be appreciated. The burden from which he intended to be free of today. Aza sat up cautiously and pulled back the heavy fur. Sandren was still, quiet, and his lack of response raised an alarm. He was hot to the touch, cheeks flushed and breathing a little labored. Without Aza's warmth, his smooth skin goosepimpled and he grew restless and moaned quietly, but did not wake. The Khannem code of honor was very clear: help those in need, do what is right, protect those who fear. No exceptions made for the ungrateful. Unfortunately. Aza reluctantly retrieved a preserved lemon and some medicinal herbs from his pack and set water to boil over the fire. He begged forgiveness for delaying his morning prayers for such an unworthy reason. Uncovering Sandren's body a bit at a time, Aza gently washed him with lemon-scented water. He really was quite beautiful, he mused, truly beautiful were it not for his supercilious manner. Silky smooth skin, pale, slender limbs, soft hands and feet; no tribal markings, no scars, only faint bruising around his wrists and ankles where the Macouni held him so tightly. Aza's irritability eased, replaced by the faint stirrings of desire again. Possessiveness. He considered the remainder of the Khannem code: claim anyone or anything found in the wide tracts of wilderness between emirates. It was right and natural, essential to Khannem survival. Aza tipped Sandren's body forward to wash down his back and inspect his buttocks. He had beaten Sandren a little harder than necessary last night, angry at himself for wanting the boy even as his temper was raging over the sheer impudence the boy displayed. Still, the beating did subdue him. Again that feeling of possessiveness rolled over Aza, the thrill of taming and owning. He frowned slightly, knowing he had not adhered strictly to the code. The slavers' hut, in the foothills of the Khannem Mountains, was still within the Canthar Emirate. Aza was not within his rights to run the Macouni off. They had captured the boy and by desert law, they owned him. If it were not for Sandren's foolhardy challenge there in the slave yard, Aza's attention would not have caught, he would not have stopped, would not have interfered with Macouni trade. If the Macouni had asserted their rights instead of fleeing like cowards, their Sakhari slave would now be confined in a Canthar harem and the Macouni would be counting their reward from the emir. If the boy had not run that first night, Aza would have left him there. But that unexpected flight pleased Aza and he waited. And if not for the boy's courage when Aza confronted him in the hut the second night, Aza would have dismissed him as a spoiled, soft desert dweller, not worthy of Khannem notice. But the boy's daring and audacity made the emir's chosen a more worthy opponent, a more satisfying prey, a more rewarding prize. Aza now had a decision to make. He could take Sandren according to Khannem custom, but did he want an untrained, defiant slave who might require beatings and corrections to serve his pleasure? He could sell him to the Canthar emir, as the Macouni intended, and come away with gold and goodwill. He would even consider the hardship of traveling to the Dharzin emirate for a greater reward. The medicinal tea was ready. Aza propped Sandren up against his chest, forced open his jaws, roused him enough to drink. Sandren struggled weakly, sputtered and coughed but Aza managed to get most of the dose down his throat. It would take the fever down and let him rest easier. Aza rose to fulfill his duty to the Mother Sun and to pray for guidance. ~*~ Sandren's eyes flickered and he blearily looked around. His skin felt tight and hot, his head filled with sand, his body overly sensitized and itchy. Everything was wrong. No high white ceiling, no soft linen robe, no sounds of a temple coming awake. He blinked again and tried to sit up but could only rest on his elbow. Sky. Grass. Trees. River. Fire. Sandren was too weary to make sense of it. He tried to press away the ache behind his eyes, the pounding in his temples. He tracked a form, a tall, broad man, to the river, listened to the splash as he disappeared into the blue. A dream. A dream to be analyzed with the priests. The man stood up, water running off his skin back into the river. Black hair made a dark shadow down his back. He was naked. Sandren rubbed his forehead. How would he know that, he who had never seen a naked man? The sun, now turning the river into a silver ribbon that made Sandren squint, outlined the man, forming a halo. His chant carried back to Sandren on a faint breeze. A desert spirit? One arm was raised in the air, gesturing toward the sun. The other was… touching himself. Sandren blinked, tried to clear the fog from his eyes, his brain. A desert demon, then? The man was touching himself without a protective piece of linen, as Sakhari scholars were required to use. There was no word in Sandren's vocabulary for that. Sakhari words dealt with thoughts, ideas, history, poetry, not the base body parts and their attendant, often repellant functions. The man was touching himself in a slow, sure rhythm in time with his chant: In gratitude for your essence, O Mother Goddess, Sandren couldn't tell if he was enjoying it or in pain. Hips rocked, muscles in the thighs flexed. Head tipped back, long hair dragging in the water. An occasional shudder shook his body. His touches grew faster and seemingly harder, as the man grunted and groaned with the effort. Suddenly the man's back arched, his hand slowed to long, hard pulls, breaths coming in harsh pants. Sandren didn't know what changed, if the man continued or stopped or why he was crying out. He was feeling nauseous, some discomfort low in his belly that wouldn't allow him to recline front or back comfortably. Whatever he was laying on was too hot, too soft, too something against his skin. His headache intensified and his arm gave out. It was a dream the priests would have to pry out of him; he would not think again of what he had witnessed. Just before his eyes closed, Sandren thought of the man's name: Aza. But he couldn't remember why he knew that. ~*~ Sandren did have the advantage there; Aza still did not know Sandren's name. Not that it mattered. In preparation for his daily gift to the Mother, Aza occasionally concentrated on sensations: the cool water lapping his thighs, the heat of the rising sun on his chest, his strong, calloused hand on his cock. More often, he thought of Hadiz: hard, solid body always challenging him for dominance; wet, hot tongue that could coax the most embarrassing noises from him; the satisfying heat and length and breadth of him going just a little too slow, keeping Aza begging nearly beyond endurance. His laughing acceptance and feigned resistance when roles were reversed. Today, though, it was the emir's chosen who occupied his thoughts. Annoying, ungrateful, presumptuous boy who considered himself superior. Demanding, rude scholar who had never done a day's work in his life. Repressed monk whose naked body was too good for Aza's unworthy gaze. Spirited captive who intrigued Aza, who made him burn even as he made Aza cold with fury. A boy about whom Aza could not stop thinking this morning. On his knees begging. With Aza's hand tangling in his hair, guiding his head. Or on the furs, resting on elbows and knees, soft, white ass offered up. Perhaps not willing, being held down and resisting, yes, that was more likely. On his back, legs spread. Waiting. Trembling. Aza imagined taking him for the first time, teaching him, training him. Watching for the moment when he realized that Aza owned him and he must submit. It was that image that brought Aza to his climax. Panting, gasping, wanting to claim the boy, body and soul, but not having a name he has to shout out, "Mine!" His decision was made.
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