The Shah awoke to the melody of her bones.

She slipped in and out of the netting of amber candle blush reflected on the walls; she skipped playfully, somersaulted, stretched her body into exquisite shapes, swayed her arms like willow branches, languid, curvy twists that transformed her into a houri-angel. She brushed her nipples with hashish. Careful not to harm her maidenhood, her fingers slid between her legs to stroke the velvet slit. Her complexion turned amber, her body moist with perspiration.

She unleashed her emotions and transferred them to the king’s skin, where they sank through every pore and into his core. With a moan of resignation and with great strength, he came down on his knees, lifted her in his arms, and laid her on the divan. He prostrated himself at her feet.

Now she realized why the taste of honey turned into ash in the mouth of the discarded sultanas. Nothing was more addictive than the king bowing down in supplication, not even his perfume of black roses.

She coaxed him onto the divan and stretched herself out on him. The bittersweet aroma of tobacco and wine lingered on his tongue. To assure her orgasm before his, and before she became drunk with his scent, she glided to the top of the divan, raised herself on her knees, her thighs flanking his face, her own far from his hands.

His gaze prodded her darkness. His mouth embraced her, freed her, then suckled her again and again, his tongue lapping at her escalating passion, his nostrils devouring her salty aroma. He held her waist to anchor her shuddering body, and he drank and drank.

Lifting her in his arms, he set her on the divan.

She parted her thighs for him. He must come into her juices, which would assure a favorable environment for the survival of his male seeds.

He wet his penis in her mouth, then guided it into her firm grip, struggling to contain himself until he seized her virginity. His fluids mingled with her blood, her passion, his seeds, their impending tomorrow.

“Promise, you are only mine,” she whispered.

“Only yours.”

17

They surrounded Gold Dust in the baths, examined her abdomen, pinched her buttocks, and squeezed her waist. Her walk, her pointed stomach, and her luminescent eyes were ample proof she carried the Shah’s son. The fruit of such intense passion could only be male. Since Pari, Gold Dust was the only sultana who had sustained the king’s passion even after she had given herself to him and even as she grew with child. The women suffered a fresh threat. If Gold Dust gave birth to a son, the Shah would take her as his legal wife and pronounce her queen. When the heir to the throne reached the age of puberty, Gold Dust would weed the harem of sultanas who became pregnant, or powerful. She would choose her own entourage to replace the discarded sultanas who would rot in the House of Tears.