If you have a problem with wife-sharing/cuckolding, then this is not for you. Spare me the vitriol. This is part of a story I have wanted to write for some time. If there is an interest I will continue it, if not - it can stand on its own merit. The full thing will not focus on sex exclusively, but also pay attention to the dynamic of the characters. I'd be happy if people leave a comment. Thank you for reading.
-Pale Duchess-
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Night.
The Faith considered it an anathema -- those unholy hours between the sun's death and rebirth when the primordial darkness rose from the underworld to shroud and subjugate the world. That is why the faithful lit incense, candles and lanterns at their windows, and why the great
mechet
blazed with hundreds of braziers through the night.
But Meshdin had always enjoyed the night and darkness. Not because of heresy, mind you. The Scion of the Sun and the Guardian of the Gate was not -- could not -- be a heretic. The sun would die, and it would rise, bringing new light and life to the world. But it was in its absence that the stifling heat that gripped Yanshal receded, giving way to something soft and gentle. A dark blue satin shroud that flowed in from the desert and lulled the imperial city to sleep. During the night there was no parchments, no councils, no audiences and commandments.
Only freedom.
A featherlight breeze rustled through the trees in the garden below the balcony, and the Sultan tightened the robe over his chest. It was a mild summer night, but he still felt chilly. That wasn't surprising, for he easily got cold nowadays. The lingering promise of death. One day in a not too far future Meshdin would die. His body would burn, and his ashes would be given to the desert wind. He had made his peace with that a long time ago. He just didn't want to die before the deed was done.
There was a sound behind him. A whisper of fabric, and then naked footsteps across the lush carpet. Meshdin could feel her hovering behind him, and he could also feel her hesitation. A smile spread over his lips as he slowly lowered his pipe.
"You are awake, my love?"
"I... woke up." Again that rustle of translucent muslin, and Adya settled on the floor next to his seat. "Why aren't you asleep?"
"Old men sleep poorly."
"You are not old."
There was something accusatory in her voice that amused him. "No?"
"No," she said firmly. "You are not old, master. Don't speak like that."
"Well, in that case I am simply enjoying the view and cool air as I smoke my pipe. Will you grant me that much?"
She didn't answer, only sat fully on her knees next to him. Meshdin looked over at his side, and his heart jolted at the sight of her. It always did, and how could it not? Adya -- Resplendent Sultana and Illustrious Consort -- was beautiful. A light robe covered her body, but the fine gauze did little to conceal her figure. She reminded him of a statue -- one of those fertility goddesses the pagans of the far south carved for their shrines. Hers was a lush hourglass figure; olive-skinned, long-legged and slim-waisted, with high breasts and wide hips. She sat with her back straight, hands settled with an almost formal elegance in her lap. Meshdin could see the shapely form of her buttocks as she rested on her feet, just as he could see her dark nipples poking the fabric -- hard and pointy in the cool breeze.
Yet it was her face he loved the most. It was a gentle oval with a wilful little nose she stuck in the air when angered, full pillowy lips that easily pouted, and large eyes that ran with the colour of amber. Never in his life had he seen eyes like hers. He -- the Sultan himself! -- would tremble when they grew black as night, and he would drown in them when they became soft and sweet like dark honey. Tonight they were neither. The light of the balcony lantern was reflecting in their depths, making them glitter like the quiet pools of the imperial gardens.
"Do you..." her mouth moved, but the voice coming through quickly died.
"What?" he asked gently.
Adya bit her lip. It was an un-ladylike habit, but one that he adored. It made something girlish come through her regal exterior. A memory of the girl she had once been, and with her, a glimpse of a long dead boy in himself.
"Speak, my love," he said, setting his still-smouldering pipe back in its holder. "I will listen."
"Do you... hate me?"
Meshdin blinked, momentarily uncertain of what to say. Adya's teeth dug deeper into her lip, but she kept her eyes fixed with his. They watched each other silently. Very slowly, Meshdin shook his head.
"Why would I hate you?"
"Because-" she said tensely, "I like it. This."
The last word was spat through clenched teeth. Immediately after her eyes darted over her shoulders -- towards the curtains covering the vaulted passage between chamber and balcony.
"Is he asleep?" Meshdin asked calmly.
"Yes," Adya nodded. "I think so."
"It does not matter if he is or not. There is nothing I will say to you that I would not say to him."
Meshdin looked out over the balustrade again. Another thing he liked with the nights was the view. His private residence within the palace was situated high above the rest of the Heavenly Court, allowing him an unobstructed view of most of it. Below were the imperial gardens, grand and lush and intercut by artificial streams and pools. Around the gardens was the sprawl of the palace itself; cloistered courtyards, covered passages, domed halls and tall spires. And beyond -- beyond the vast citadel and the ancient citadels that surrounded it -- was the city itself. Imperial Yanshal was an immense urban sprawl, its district housing more than a million souls. During the day it was seen in the ceaseless pulse of people through its streets, but even at night one could get a sense for the vast number. A myriad of lanterns, brazier flames and candles lit up the city streets, houses, temples, bazaars, and public parks. The night ruled supreme in the desert, but within the city the fires of the faithful kept it at bay. The view of this glowing sea was something that Meshdin never tired of.
"You enjoy it," he said to Adya. "You said so yourself."
"And you hate me for it?"
"No. I don't hate you."
"You lie."
Meshdin let his head fall back against the headrest of his chair, breathing the night air as he sighed. It tasted of the gardens below the balcony -- of trees and sleeping flowers, and the soothing scent of fresh water.
"Adya," with a low grunt of effort, he swung his feet down on the floor, burying his slippers in the carpet. "My love."
Meshdin cupped her cheek, feeling her soft skin. Soft and firm. She was young. Still so very young and beautiful while he was old and fading. At his urging, she looked up at him with those dark eyes of hers. Meshdin caught a whiff of her scent. Warm, earth and familiar; tinged with night sweat. Hers -- and that of another man. Meshdin wordlessly leaned closer, and Adya lifted her face to meet his kiss. Their lips tasted each other in a quiet embrace.
"How could I ever hate you?" Meshdin caressed her cheek. "You, who are the jewel of my life."
"I am a whore," she muttered, her breath tickling his greying beard. "I do not deserve to be your consort."
