Chapter 2: A Sale in The Harem
Author's Note:
This is the first sequel to "Harem School", called "Harm School" here thanks to my proof-reading skills in submitting it to Literotica. That story was to set the scene. This story is set within that scene.
This story took me a long time to write because it bogged itself down in poor writing, and me failing to keep to my own aesthetic. I stumbled into a total no-man's-land of writers' block halfway through, and it took me a rest, reading other people's stories, and committing to a total hatchet-job of an editing session to beat it into the shape where writing it was fun and easy again.
So I hope you enjoy it, but if you don't I won't be too surprised, because I'm not sure if I like it. Tell me what you think.
*
The room was large but appeared cramped, bookshelves lining the walls, the walls towering over the occupants and seeming to loom inwards, inducing claustrophobia in the susceptible but a feeling of coziness in the comfortable. The writing desk against one wall and a reading desk against the opposite were imposingly bulky, dark-stained timber cut and carved into noble and beautifully proportioned curves and slabs.
Sunlight, incongruous in such a dark, sombre setting, filtered down through a skylight high overhead, failing to illuminate the furthest corners of the room and leaving the leather-bound books veiled in shadow, the furniture lurking in the gloom.
Against the far wall, hidden from the light, stood an imposing wooden cabinet with two doors each the size of the room's own door, a bulky slab of mahogany, brass-handled and hinged, but somehow lost in the subtly ornate paneling of the walls.
The cabinet stood open, revealing in its depths, set into the wood as though it were a window, wood-framed and no metal visible, a wide-screen television that stretched almost from side to side of the cabinet. Beneath it was the thin brushed-metal face of a DVD player.
The screen itself was split into two, one normal-ratio image on the right, one narrow strip on the left.
In that left hand pane there was the picture of a naked woman, young and nubile, toned of flesh and smooth of skin, slender but soft, feet spread three feet and her hands on her hips, flanked by two mirrors, one revealing her flank and one her back, only the faintest of movements from her belly betraying that this was running video not, after all, a still image.
She showed no rippling muscles or hardness, a layer of feminine softness over every inch of her flesh, but she did show the subtly delineated curves of every skeletal muscle, each one carefully built to show the finest proportions of a female body. Her legs were long, her ass high and hard, her hips wide, her fingers long and delicate, her breasts large, firm and round, hinting with their downwards bulge that the tissue was in no way fake. Her hair spilled flaxen yellow down over her shoulders and her back past her breasts, framing a face with high cheekbones, bee-stung lips and innocent-seeming blue eyes.
Those blue eyes looked unseeing out of the screen onto two massy burgundy leather armchairs bracketing a circular, curved-legged table on which stood a silver tray bearing a cut-crystal, stoppered carafe full of the rich warm glow of brandy. Bracketing the carafe was a pair of square cut-crystal glasses.
Seated in the right-hand chair was a regal and statesman-like man with a cap of silver-white hair and the seamed face of a veteran of life, his eyes as hard as sapphires and every muscle disciplined, his dress of worsted trousers and a maroon smoking jacket over satin shirt as deliberate a statement of status as it was his choice. His long, almost spidery, hand reached out to the carafe, unstoppered it with precisely mannered movements and courteously poured for his guest before himself, the splash of amber fluid making the room seem warmer and more comfortable with its sound.
From the speakers of the TV, a different sort of sound flowed. The sounds of slurping, of wet suction being broken, or breath whistling and grunting as, on the right hand pane, the woman from the left hand pane knelt on her hands and knees on a plain bed with iron head and foot frames and a plain white fitted sheet. The man kneeling in front of her had the overly-muscled physique of a porn star. His cock was embedded hilt-deep in her throat, but when she drew back her lips revealed that it too was porn-star thick and long.
She pumped him hard, her breasts swaying like a pendulum, her face flushed red with eagerness as she worked on his already hard cock, body writhing unconsciously in anticipation of her own pleasure to come until he grunted, pushing her off, leaving a shaft so slickly coated with saliva that it began to drip off.
"I believe that you applied for a bed-partner for anal sex, for whipping and for threesomes with your existing slave," the man in the maroon smoking jacket said in a dry baritone as he set the carafe back on the tray with the barest of /chink/ sounds. His other hand smoothed down his jacket, flicking away imaginary lint before settling both arms on the arms of the chair, his hands steepled in front of him. "Let us take these one at a time."
The woman on screen twisted around on the bed, grabbing hold of the iron frame, her back arched up as he shuffled forwards, his massive cock bobbing, and seized her by the hips, meaty hands digging into her flesh as he set the engorged, winged head of his cock at her puckered asshole.
Her panting turned to eager begging, her voice husky in her throat, made more feminine and sensual by it, gasping out "Yes! Stick it in! Fuck my ass, oh yes, fuck me, come on..."
The man needed no encouragement, only the time to aim properly, setting his oversized head into her asshole, stretching her buttocks with his fingers to make access easier, and then smoothly pushing, her saliva letting him slide in and bottom out without any resistance except the tightness of her ass.
The man in the left-hand chair, wearing a worsted wool suit that fit his tall frame immaculately sitting or standing, looking young by his skin, old by his hard face and middle-aged by his eyes and poise of movement, rolling brandy around in his mouth with the startled joy of a connoisseur who discovers the finest platinum when he had expected gold, held in the hard fingers of his left hand a leather folder which lay open on his lap, an A4 still of the woman standing hands on hips clipped to the inside cover on the left, a sheath of papers slid into a pocket on the right.
He had already studied the photograph, and the others in the dossier, and read far more than just the first sheet of pale yellow legal foolscap, but that first sheet had caught his attention the most as he had absorbed from its neatly typed lines not only her standard physical dimensions, height and weight and measurements of shoulders and bust and waist and hips and cup size, but also those dimensions he had not before seen set out so carefully, measurements of the potential girth and depth of cunt and ass and mouth, the strength of her vaginal muscles and how well she could breath with her throat filled.
On screen, the woman shrieked as her ass was filled, screaming "OH FUCK, YES! OH FUCK ME! FUCK ME! HARDER!"
The man, as if desperate to match her lust and prove himself at least her equal, began thrusting as desperately as she was demanding, his face no longer pink with the effort of controlling himself but scarlet with the effort of exerting himself.
Every time he bottomed out inside her, hitting far too hard, his concentration ruined by her preparatory phellations, she was slammed forwards, nearly toppling, her arms on the bed frame folding, her breasts swinging wildly. Every time he drew back, taking a simultaneous, desperate, gulp of air, she thrust back at him, desperate to keep him inside.
"Your dossier is admirably complete," the Master's client said, in a voice at once hard and grudgingly respectful, but a trifle too loud and with a hint of harshness that did not suit the sombre mellowness of the room, after swallowing the brandy and, somewhat regretfully, setting the glass back down on the tray, "But fails to do her justice."
The Master did not betray by either the flicker of an eyelid or the tightening of his jaw his opinion of this statement, he merely raised a single finger towards one corner of the room, where stood a woman in a long, off-the-shoulder, light-grabbing, shimmering red silk dress that caressed her nubile flanks, hourglass waist and elegantly curved back while hinting through a slit in the side at her long legs, firm thighs and slender calves. Her delicate feet were strapped into 4" heels that revealed the line of her arch, her dainty toes and enameled nails for all to see, and her graceful, long-fingered hands were folded in front, one holding and almost concealing a long, slim, remote control.
At the Master's instruction she raised her hands, one finger moving, her eyes not at all, and the screen changed.
The scene had not, but the man's intensity showed even more the straining desperation to avoid cumming, while the woman showed no reduction in her lust or energy.
"You are already aware," the Master said in his measured tones, "That each of our girls is conditioned to respond faultlessly to a selection of key phrases."
"Yeah, bitch," the man on screen panted, desperately trying to be in charge. "Fucking cum. Cum, bitch!"
The woman's eyes flew wide as the hoarse command seemed to go straight to her body without first passing through her brain. Her body convulsed and her mouth flew open in a wail of ecstasy, her hips pumping desperately, not skillfully now, as she bucked backwards, each shock of orgasm clear for all to see, as were the juices spurting from her cunt, as the man, gratefully, let himself go as well.
