Ing of a Distant Country

December 1871

My life has been turned topsy-turvy by the arrival of one Miss Emma Jones. It appears Miss Jones is another of those bible-thumpers from the Missionary Society of Birmingham, of which my own dear sister is a prominent member. Now it seems, not content to bother the poor of that unfortunate city, they have decided to send an emissary to Nambhustan; presumably in an attempt to kill any joy that may be going spare here. I feel in some wise responsible for this pestilential visitation, if it were not for the letters I penned simply to shock and annoy my saintly sibling, she – and the Missionary Society of Birmingham – would never have heard of Nambhustan.

Miss Jones is a pleasant-enough baggage to look at, make no mistake but the odour of sanctity – or hypocrisy, as I believe – is a little rich for my taste. Her first action on arriving here was to attempt to persuade Cat to don some ludicrous neck-to-ankle shift that resembled nothing so much an old maid's nightgown. Needless to say, she was very much flogging the old deceased horse with that suggestion. Cat speaks little English but understands a great deal more and chose, in true Cat fashion, to pretend to a complete lack of comprehension. I therefore volunteered to translate. The exchanges went along these lines:

Miss Emma Jones: "But don't you see, parading yourself almost naked will only inflame a man's baser passions?"

Cat: "That's the whole idea. Not that His Majesty needs any help in that department."

Miss Emma Jones: "But don't you know it is sinful to disport yourself lewdly like this?"

Cat: "What a load of old elephant dung. What's wrong with this woman, Your Majesty, hasn't she got a yoni or has it shrivelled up?"

I can tell you I had fun translating

that

for the missionary miss's benefit!

There was more in a similar vein and their conversations concluded with Cat throwing one of her hissing fits and threatening to scratch Miss Jones's eyes out. I rolled about the divan, laughing fit to bust while Miss Jones, face aflame, beat a strategic retreat while Cat hurled a veritable shower of pots, ornaments, inkwells and other sorted bric-a-brac in the unhappy interloper's general direction, fortunately with more spirit than accuracy. I heard later from Baljit that Miss Jones attempted the same misguided reformations on her with less violent but equally predictable results. Baljit speaks very passable English and told our visitor, in no uncertain terms, that she'd worked bloody hard for the right to be a part of my harem and was not going to put on a winding sheet and dress like a three-day-old corpse for anyone's benefit.

Our Miss Jones has now made an unholy alliance with a nasty little Jesuit priest, who has been trying for local converts for some years. This ecumenical harmony is destined to be short lived, I feel, particularly as I have let it slip in the bazaar that they intend evangelising the locals with the aid of fiendish drugs manufactured alternatively from either the fat of pigs or the fat of cows – if it worked for the Pandies during the mutiny I dare say it will serve here. Nonetheless, the woman's arrival is a thorough nuisance and something I could certainly live without. Her constant sermonising has got some of the girls in a tizzy and I have seen the odd ghostly apparition stomping about the place so it would appear that some, at least, have accepted her gift of a nightgown. The wretched woman and the poisonous little priest are to be seen each morning and evening on the steps of the Jesuit Mission, haranguing the passers-by with threats of eternal damnation and promises of salvation if only they will become good Catholics/good Methodists. Ah yes, I didn't mention that. It appears the estimable Missionary Society is of the temperance persuasion – another reason for me to despise them and all their works with a passion. Accordingly, I have retired to my chambers with a bottle of cognac and Cat and Baljit for company, locking the doors and placing two particularly large and obtuse

sowars

on guard with strict instruction that I am only to be disturbed in the event of the second coming. Should

that

happen I am likely to revise my religious opinions but will not do so for the sake of Miss Emma Jones of Birmingham. I can see Christmas is going to be exceedingly tedious this year.

(Editor's Note: Now we shall see how the villain is served. I cannot but believe that some of the goodness of this missionary lady must rub off on the villain.)

January 1872

God bless Jahengir Khan! The hugely-hung rogue has only gone and seduced Miss Jones from the path of virtue and soundly rogered the vixen. What a lark! I can imagine the worthy elders of the Missionary Society rotating in their graves like whirling dervishes. It happened thus. Jahengir was going through his usual routine of fucking a couple of gals before dinner – presumably to work up an appetite - when Miss Jones burst in upon him, attracted by the noise. Some of the girls get a wee bit vocal when he's giving them a seeing-to and our Emma heard the wailing and general brouhaha and got it into her pointed little skull that murder was being done. When she saw the cause of the commotion – the 'murder weapon' – if thus I might describe Jahengir's buffalo-sized organ – she was quite overcome. That is to say, the dirty bugger whipped his lingam out of whichever orifice of whichever girl he was currently pleasuring and proceeded to ejaculate a vast quantity of prime tribal seed all over our Missionary Lass's face. At this somewhat unusual greeting, she fainted clean away.

Never one to miss a trick, Jahengir had her out of her clothes in a trice while she swooned and, legend has it, when she came-to, our randy hero was lapping at her yoni like a demented puppy. Soon her arse was wiggling about like a good 'un and Jahengir pops in the same hideous piece of meat as caused her to swoon in the first place and proceeded to plumb her depths to good effect. By all accounts, said

religieuse

was soon coming like one of Mr Brunel's express trains without brakes and howling like a rabid mongrel. She had to be carried from his quarters on a litter, so weak in the legs had she become. My only regret is that I heard all this second hand from one of the girls and was unable to witness such an epic turnaround for myself. The upshot of all this is that she now spends every night in Jahengir's bed and neither of them gets much in the way of shut-eye. She walks like a

sowar

that has been too long in the saddle and it would take some of Mr Nobel's dynamite to remove the grin from Jahengir's happy visage. At least the lascivious bastard leaves my girls alone now.

My own time has been taken up with affairs of state. I now insist on an audit of the treasury once each year. It doesn't entirely stop the peculation but it makes the thieving swine know that

I

know what's going on. Sometimes I truly believe that I am far too lenient on the bastards – the old Nizzam would have lopped their hands off. I also have to confess to feeling a trifle seedy of late - perhaps I'm sickening for something. It hasn't left me feeling much like putting the girls through their paces, which is a shame, as they all appear to be absolutely panting for it at present. I might even have to consult the court physician. I really would prefer to avoid such an encounter if at all possible; the man's an utter charlatan and his cure for everything seems to be powdered monkey balls, a substance with which I have no desire to become familiar!

Word has also reached us from over the northern border that the Afghans are feeling their oats again. It is an unfortunate fact that whenever the tribes get their bowels in an uproar, it spills over into our frontier provinces. This usually results in a bit of raiding, thuggery, buggery and rape. I had sharp words with Jahengir and his brothers and told them to remind their esteemed sire that, if he wants them home with their ghoolies still firmly attached, he'd better behave himself. As Jahengir, at least, is much in love with his organs of generation, I feel sure that the missive thus despatched will have been firmly worded. I can but so hope.

April 1872

My hopes proved ill-founded. I am only just now beginning to recover from what has proved to be a most dastardly attempt to poison me instigated by none other than Jahengir Khan and his brothers. As they knew that Baljit is my unofficial food-taster, the cunning misbegotten bastards found an ingenious way of administering the toxin without arousing any suspicion. They achieved this by interfering with the cigars in my humidor. It now appears that they doctored my cheroots with a distilled essence of the opium poppy adulterated with some other pernicious herbal extract. The result was that I became distracted, unable to concentrate and weak in both mind and body. The effects of this drug were so egregious that both Cat and Baljit feared for my life and my sanity. I have learned that I became irascible in the extreme and that my face took on a wild aspect as one sometimes encounters in a bedlam.

I do fear that the British officials who visited during this period will have gone away believing me to be quite mad. Apparently all I could do during their audience with me was to rave and drool by turns. The worst part of it is that the miscreants bribed my

syce

to do the actual dirty work. Cat caught the treacherous swine red-handed but he would not confess until faced with the prospect of being sewn into a cow's hide and cast alive into the waters of the river. His confession availed him nothing, however, we did it anyway.

Jahengir's head and lingam, along with those of his brothers, are now are on their way to his father in a sack. All agree that my punishments were just with the exception of Miss Emma Jones, who seems to believe I may have overreacted. She currently mopes about the place clad in black sacking and wailing some sort of dirge, which only ceases for the duration of her frequent attempts to scratch my eyes out. All around me insist that I take firm action against her – to do otherwise might encourage others to think that they can attack my royal personage with impunity. I will confess that the idea of punishing an Englishwoman bothers me. Although I am certain that I would be in my rights to do so, word of such an occurrence would almost certainly have repercussions of the most undesirable kind. As it is, I had a visit from some interfering busybody, possibly the same stuffed shirt as came here previously. Unfortunately this occurred while I was in the throws of the poison and I have no recollection whatsoever of the man being here. Cat tells me I threatened the Raj with war if I was further plagued – that alone should give one some idea of how far gone I was. Still, there is no help for it. These assaults upon my person must be stopped and if Miss Jones has to suffer to get into her thick skull, so be it.

Later the same month...

To avoid any charge of humiliating the wretched woman in public, I decreed that Miss Jones was to be seized and taken into the seraglio. She yowled and yelled and kicked up the most frightful commotion when the eunuchs took her but it was to no avail. She encountered little sympathy from any of the girls either, as they were incensed that she had the temerity to try and lay hands, or in her case fingernails, on the king. Such actions placed her beyond the pale and the girls were among the most insistent on her punishment.

At a sign from me they stripped her of her rags and dragged her across the floor, casting her at my feet. I asked her if she understood that, as the reigning monarch, I had the absolute right to judge all crimes and determine appropriate punishments as I saw fit. She hissed and spat and swore: saying I was but a jumped-up Sepoy officer and that Jahengir was only striking a blow for his people and freedom. Isn't it strange how seemingly rational human beings can ascribe honourable intentions to the most dastardly acts, excusing any manner of murder or treachery by the simple expedient of imputing some sort of higher motive? I replied, somewhat pithily, that one man's freedom-fighter was another man's murdering fanatic; whatever wrongs she laid at my door in respect of the hill tribes, I did nothing more than attempt to prevent them from looting and killing their neighbours: which acts, I believe, are hardly their God-given right.

It was apparent that any attempt at civilised conversation was doomed to failure and I nodded to the eunuchs to take and lash her between two pillars by the wrists and ankles. Seeing her there, naked and spread-eagled, was deeply arousing. Whatever her precarious hold on reality, she has a magnificent body. Her breasts are large and rounded, drooping slightly and tipped with large areolae and small, brown wrinkled nipples that stood out proudly. Her yoni was covered by an enormous bush of black hair that completely obscured the treasures within. I have rarely seen so much pubic hair on any woman and decreed immediately that she should be waxed.

Two of the girls went straight to it but, instead of using the usual gentle exfoliating mixture, picked up a large tallow candle swimming with melted grease and managed to spill this hot liquid all over her beasts and nipples. Her shrieks of anguish held a strange timbre; there was something remorselessly animal in them as if the pain possessed a darker edge of pleasure nestling at its core. There was insufficient melted wax for the task in hand so they sliced off pieces of the candle and melted them in a crucible over the charcoal brazier that is used normally to burn scented herbs. Once they had sufficient, they poured the melted tallow over her pubic region, eliciting even more howls of pain and outrage but, bound as she was, there was little Miss Jones could do other than watch the harvesting of her forest. I must say that she looked a sight with the yellow-grey substance spread thick over her thighs and belly. The two girls walked about her while they waited for the wax to cool, cursing her and insulting her as they did so; yanking hard on her nipples and twisting them viciously, cooing in her ear their warnings of the whipping yet to come.

She has spirit, this misguided missionary, I will grant her that. She spat at them, screeched insults, threatened them with all manner of dire and anatomically interesting consequences should they persist with their intentions. The effect was somewhat spoiled, however, as neither of the pair understood the first word of English. Once the great gob of wax was dry, they peeled back one edge and, with a yell of triumph, gave a mighty pull. Miss Jones screamed hideously as the wax – and the largest mass of pubes ever to be found in the human race – were torn from her body. I rose from my throne and crossed to examine the result in detail. The skin of her mound and thighs was pink and smooth and I couldn't resist trailing my fingertips over the softness of her inflamed skin. She snarled at me, called me a beast and numerous other epithets, I continued my soft stroking. Slipping my fingers between the folds of her denuded yoni and searching out her button. She bent her back, trying to escape my invading digits but the ropes were tight and there was little freedom of movement.

Cat walked over then and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I could tell what she was thinking and nodded my assent. She dropped to her knees in front of the bound figure and put up both hands to spread apart the swollen lips. Leaning forward, she teased the tip of her tongue up and down between the inner and outer folds then blew a slow, gentle breath over the whole area, soothing and calming the distraught victim. Just when Miss Jones was starting to feel a little better, Cat suddenly lunged forward seizing the emerging hood of the jewel between her sharp little teeth. Cat bit down hard. Miss Jones's scream went up at least another octave and she twisted and howled but could do absolutely nothing to ease her plight.

She was then taken down and stretched over that peculiar frame that is rather like a vaulting-horse. All of the girls filed by and each delivered one stinging slap on some part of her exposed anatomy. By now she was howling like a she-wolf and tears filled her eyes and she kept up a steady plea for mercy but I was having none of it. Cat fetched a small device like a miniature vice – I learned later its original purpose was to crush the thumbs of prisoners – and applied this device to Miss Jones's left nipple, screwing it down hard until that little dusky protuberance was suffused with blood and a swollen, angry red. Cat then proceeded to flick the swollen nipple with her tongue and suck upon it for all she was worth, biting down with her sharp little teeth and generally tormenting the poor girl. Once she had toyed sufficiently with one breast, she transferred the clamp to the other and repeated the process. All the while she was slipping her fingers in and out of Miss Jones's yoni and rubbing her thumb around the sensitive little jewel. The juxtaposition of extreme pain and extreme pleasure was having a strange effect upon Miss Jones, who was now hissing like a steam engine and, by turns, either thrusting herself towards Cat's probing fingers or cringing away from Cat's feral little teeth.

I could stand it no longer and moved over to where she lay spread-eagled on the vaulting-horse. I found a vial of perfumed oil and began gently to work this into her fundament, stretching her out with my fingers as I did so. Once I adjudged her suitably lubricated, I eased my throbbing lingam into her nether orifice and she cried out in distress, "What are you doing to me?" Wittily I replied, "Buggered if I know, " and started pounding away while Cat took the opportunity to lap at her yoni and my balls. The conflicting messages that her body was sending to her overwrought brain eventually had their effect for she climaxed with a mighty scream and fainted clean away at the very moment I reached my own fulfilment and fountained into her arse.

(Editor's Note: Words fail me when I attempt to describe the depravity of the man – buggering a memsahib, whatever next?)

May 1872

Of all the God-rotted misfortune to be visited upon me, I have been bearded in my lair by some damned scribbler. He claims he is reporter for the

Chicago Daily Tribune

or somesuch and rejoices in the name of Hiram J. Piepsecker. The Good Lord alone knows how the little parasite came to find me but he claims that he heard rumours of a white Maharajah and was directed to Nambhustan. I tried to sick him onto that blighter Brooke over in Sarawak but he wasn't having any. He'd found his blasted quarry and that was that. I wouldn't mind but he is such a sanctimonious little shit, always passing judgements on something - as though the world is black and white instead of infinite shades of grey. This very morning we had a sharp exchange of views that went something like this.

"Tell me, You Highness, how can you justify keeping this number of women in your harem?"

"Well, Mr Pipesucker..."

"That's Piepsecker, Your Highness."

"As you say. It's like this, Mr Pimpsoaker..."

"That's Piepsecker, Your Highness."

"Very good. As I was saying, Mr Popesacker, the previous Nizzam kept hundreds – literally – plus a stable of little boys and catamites. I cut it down to what you see now. And a mighty happy bunch they are, too."

"I don't deny they are happy, Your Highness, but is it ethical? Don't you feel any guilt over blighting their lives?

"Blighting their lives, Mr Pumpspitter, what do you think their lives would be if they weren't living here in the palace? Half of them would be worn out before they were thirty and at least some of the others would probably be dead from cholera or malaria."