Dunyazad Tale The First

A Victorian Adventure, involving a Templar Treasure and a

Jinniyah

, plus Sex, Violence and cheap Brandy.

*

I was close to coming. Lucy was riding me, long stokes, root to tip, in an energetic Saint George. She was nearly there, too. I could see it in her face, that unfocused look she'd get. The iron headboard started to bang against the wall. So close ...

thump – thump – thump

... and she began to cry out to the rhythm, "Yes! ... Yes! ... Yes!" until I drove upward to meet her in a wrenching thrust and we erupted together. Exhausted, we subsided back onto the bed, and the hot magma of our mingled fluids oozed into the spaces between us.

Whew. Only a week before, I had, at nineteen, never enjoyed more than a few furtive gropes with the fair sex. Now I lay on a lumpy bed in a broken down London knock-shop, with a naked girl sleeping on my chest, her pussy still twitching on my peggo as she dreamt. The year was 1871, and I still remember thinking that this was all Dick Burton's fault – which in a way it was.

Not directly, of course. When I was a much younger lad at Oxford, he had come round and given us a singularly exciting talk. But it certainly wasn't about how he had, when he himself was a boy, slipped away with his brother to spend his pocket money in the brothels of Naples. No, he'd spoken of other adventures, such as his penetration of the forbidden city of Mecca. By the time he was done speaking, I was ready to go exploring myself.

For a day or two, anyway. To be perfectly honest, the notion of entering a stronghold of enemies as Sir Richard did, wherein a misstep means death ... well, really. The very thought made my knees go weak. Still does. In the event, it was some years before I'd even made it east of Reading. However, thanks to him, I discovered an interest in far-away places.

Interest turned to study, which, being that I was notably lazy, was a novelty for me. Eventually I graduated, but I soon found that a working knowledge of the people and languages of central Asia had not prepared me for the sort of stodgy employment my uncle offered in the pottery-ware industry. Which was why, on a meagre allowance and at loose ends, I soon found myself back at my college, visiting an old friend.

Roland St Clair was an elderly don who was curator of the Arthur Arbuckle Oriental Museum. This was no more than a few rooms of antiquities to which the other alumni were fond of donating oddments and oddities - mostly weapons and remarkably rude statuettes. There was so much of the stuff that poor Rollo could never seem to keep track of it all.

It was just like old times. I spent an enjoyable evening, drinking port and half-heartedly helping sort papers (well, mostly I was admiring the amazing variety of pornographic drawings and marginal graffiti). And then – and let this be a lesson to lazy lads everywhere - I, Thornton Cox, thereby secured long life and fortune. While rummaging through the hodgepodge, I noticed some loose parchments and an odd map written in Aramaic. As I slowly deciphered them I found they concerned the Order of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon - and their lost treasure.

The story goes that, around 1300, the King of France quarrelled with the church over both power and money. The rich Templars were accused of "licentious behaviour" and heresies. The pope himself, their patron, was taken hostage and accused of a multitude of unlikely crimes, including heresy, sorcery, and - my favourite - of "keeping a small tame demon in his ring, which would appear at night and conduct unspeakable depravities with the pontiff in the papal bed". To make a long and nasty story short, the pope met a bad end and the Templars were broken, and the remnants of the order disappeared, along with the greater part of their gold.

Rollo helped translate some key bits, and when we were done, we sat staring at one another. According to what we had just read, the documents had been handed from one secret Grand Master to the next, over many generations, until the chain had been broken in Paris during the Terror. They told how, when the knights first went to ground, they hid the bulk of their treasure deep under a church - in the heart of London.

Rollo fairly goggled. "I know that place. Right behind is ... it's in a little square near where ..." He fell silent, and I waited, until he continued. "I met a girl there ... it was years ago," his face had reddened noticeably, "when I was a student. My friend and I found this, ah, house – it was built right up behind this very church." He flapped the pages for emphasis. "Anyway, I fell in love there. Lola." Another pause, then, "I went back all that summer, whenever I had the money." His blush deepened. "I offered to marry her, but she just laughed, and said she didn't think her mother would approve."

I coughed, and brought him back to the matter at hand. According to the documents, a group of Templar servants (referred to as 'Black Mantles') were sworn to guard the treasure. Presumably, they might be doing so still, if any of this was true - and if the loot hadn't been plundered long ago. We agreed that I should go and find out, to which end Rollo staked me some guineas. I also sold my grandfather's gold watch to acquire a roughly used American Navy Colt, and added a Pathan knife from Rollo's collection for my boot top. A coward knows better than most men: better safe than sorry.

Mid-morning, two days later, I was in the City, scouting out the church. It squatted in a quiet square, overlooked by time - and by the faithful, to judge by the old cleric's small flock. The crypt was open to view, for the price of a few pence into the poor box, and I was able to give the place a close inspection.

With a thrill, I soon found the insignificant tomb that was described as hiding the entrance. It seemed much too easy. As far as I could tell the spot was undisturbed, but it could well have been robbed four hundred years past. Or, it could all be a complicated hoax, of course. I half expected to hear from behind me the helpless laughter of one or another of my fellow ne'er-do-well graduates.

There was one way to find out, and I was actually considering opening the passage, then and there, when I heard heavy footsteps on the stone stairway. A large, rough looking individual came down into the gloom and stumped over to ask if I needed assistance. His manner suggested that I had best be looking for help with the way out. I took the hint and hastily left both crypt and church.

Well - the good news was that, if that brute was a guard, then there ought to be something worth guarding. I circled around by way of several winding alleys until I found what I was after. The small brothel Rollo had remembered was still there, snuggled incongruously against the north wall of the church. Our plan was that, if I were to find the church protected, I might perhaps be able to tunnel from this establishment's basement through to the crypt. I had counted the steps when visiting that dank place, and so I knew I would have to dig downward about fifteen feet, as well as some thirty feet sideways. Quite simple, really.

I actually hesitated at the doorway before stepping inside, having never before entered such a house. At that hour, it was as quiet inside the brothel as it had been in the church. I went up a stairway and, at the top, nearly collided with a large and amply endowed woman in her fifties, who proved to be the madam – one Lola, as it happened. As coached by Rollo I presented myself to her to as an aspiring young rake from the country. I would, I explained, require company and a modest room, away from her regular trade, during my visit to the city. Specifically, a room with private access to the cellars - so as to secure a few cases of wine, I said.

God knows what she thought of my story, but I was shown a shabby room on the ground floor. It held a low dressing table backed by a cracked mirror, and a well-worn bed in a deep alcove beyond. The room's only merit was that, hidden behind a curtain, there was a stairway down to a windowless back storeroom. It was perfect. It took the better part of my resources to secure it, after which I immediately set out to gather digging tools.

Returning that evening with a lamp and short handled shovel, I slipped into my room to find a young woman, clad only in a camisole shirt and bloomers, washing her hair in a basin. Somehow I had forgotten my stated purpose for lodging in this place. The girl glanced up and smiled, and then continued on with her task, while I stood blushing. While wringing her long tresses, she introduced herself as Lucy. She was about my own age, with a pretty round face and a petite hourglass figure that had no need of corset. I could see so much of her milky skin that my cock began to harden, to my further embarrassment.

As Lucy dried her hair, her every move a tease, I fidgeted and shuffled. All the while she soberly studied my face; then at last she stated, "You're a virgin."

Dear God, I thought, was it that obvious? I opened my mouth, intending to deny my innocence. Instead I said nothing. Lucy simply nodded to acknowledge my unsaid confession, and assured me she meant no offence. Stepping closer she added that she would feel privileged to relieve me of my burden. With this she tossed aside her towel and slowly unbuttoned her camisole.

For my part I did nothing but continue to stare stupidly, while her fingers worked their way down to reveal in their wake more and more cleavage. When she was done, she looked coyly down at the four-inch gap between the linen shirt panels, and then back at me as if to ask whether I thought she should continue. I mutely nodded my assent, and she grasped the lapels of the garment and arched her back to shrug it off. I beheld at last her delightful breasts, full and capped with plump red nipples. We were still standing some feet apart, and now she beckoned me nearer, inviting me with her posture to reach out and feel them. Hesitantly I did so, ever so carefully, as though they might be damaged by my touch. She responded by thrusting herself forward so that in catching her I found myself roughly gripping two handfuls of firm flesh. She sighed, and wriggled a little.

By that time I needed no further encouragement. I began to grope in earnest, if without skill. She pulled back. "Patience, luv!" Although she was plying her trade, she was also clearly enjoying the opportunity to tutor such a neophyte. She turned away and stepped to the bed, glancing over her shoulder to invite me along. I followed as if in a trance, and when she sat, I dropped beside her. Lifting one of her fine breasts with her hand and gazing down at it with evident approval, she suggested I now kiss it. Eagerly I bent forward and kissed that smooth flesh – and then she fell back, and I upon her, and my lust at last took command of my senses. I showered her face and chest with kisses aplenty, while she nimbly unclasped my breaches and removed her bloomers. Before I knew it, she was guiding my peggo between her legs, and I felt myself engulfed in her cunnie. I could not think of why I had not tried this sooner. Actually, I couldn't think at all. On top of her, now, I began to thrust wildly, and, with a gentle laugh, she eased me back to a sustainable pace.

"Slow down, Thornton. We have all night!"

And a good thing, too, for soon enough I felt the urgency of my spending swell up inside me, causing me to gasp and plunge heedlessly into the velvet depths of my new companion's body. Then the inevitable explosion; and I lay spent upon her breast for a little time, until she heaved me clear. I hear her mutter an oath, but she was smiling warmly all the same. I know I was wearing an idiot's grin, and when she proposed a celebratory (and restorative) toast, I struggled out of my boots and tangled breaches and found my flask of brandy to share with her. The two of us sat bare-bottomed in the middle of the bed, passing the spirits and chattering like children who have discovered a new mischief.

"What d'you think, then?" she asked. "Was it worth your trouble?"

"Was it...? My God, it was splendid!

You

were splendid! Glorious! Wonderful!" Words obviously failed me.

She lifted her arms and cupped them behind her head so as to jut her chest proud for my approval. As she ran her fingers back through her hair, she said, "Care to try it again, then?"

A glance in my lap told me that another try was not possible.

"Not to worry. I reckon a young buck like yourself has another round left in him." With this she took firm hold of my ruined tackle. "You paid for lessons, and so here's lesson number one. It ain't polite to be shovin' it in, without so much as a by-your-leave. A girl has to be ready – warmed up, like."

I began to apologise, and she shushed me. "It's alright, luv. You hadn't had the lesson yet, and anyway, Charlotte and me woz already ... well, never mind. That's for another time. But what I'm sayin' is that a girl likes a bit of snugglin' and all, before you set to grips. She wants a little warming up – like you do, right now." A tongue in my ear and a squeeze to my already partially revived peggo accompanied this remarkable speech.

After a demonstration of 'snuggling', which included a good deal of kissing and tongue-play, she drew my hand to her moist cunnie and continued, "She needs to get the sap running – see?"

As I lay beside her and groped, she said, "Now here's lesson two. It ain't polite to leave off before a girl's had her come."

At this I stopped my fingering and looked up at her face. I honestly thought she was having fun of me.

"Ho! Didn't think the ladies had 'em, did you? Nor even does many a girl – so just think how grateful they'll be when you show 'em how. Be like they was virgins all over again, and nothing to regret." She drew me on top of her, adding, "Let's get to it then. I can feel one close."

With this, she took hold of my now wood-hard tool and guided me to her drooling pussy. She was right – her come was near. She gasped as I drove home, and then she bounced back away to start me to pumping. I obliged, and allowed her to set the rhythm, as she continued to buck under me. "That's it, luv. Yes! Harder, now! That's it! Harder! Yes! Yes! Oh, Gawd!"

At this she went rigid, her hands gripping my shoulders and her cunnie clamped just as hard on my straining cock. A tremor shook right through her, and then I felt my own orgasm take hold. I had thought I had already been drained, but I was wrong. And for as long as I pumped, she wailed and writhed under me.

This time, I was permitted to sleep.

The next morning, I woke to find Lucy still nuzzled contentedly against me. Somehow I found the strength to mount her yet again. Making up for lost time, I suppose. When, afterwards, I told her how pleased I was that she was still there, she pointed out that she was included with the room. This was a shock, if a pleasant one. I had thought I had negotiated an occasional visit - only to disguise my true intentions, of course. Clearly I had paid for a good deal more.

Naturally, every bed in such a house was put to constant use. What I had supposed to be a neglected storeroom was Lucy's place of business. She was a new arrival, and didn't have the seniority for better. And now she shared it with me, her client. She did not seem to resent this arrangement. I think she enjoyed my company, and I certainly enjoyed hers. Over the next few days you may be sure I gave no further thought to mere gold.

Having had only a little experience with women by that point in my life, I received an education beyond the sexual one. Briefly, I thought I was in love. Lucy saw the signs, and convinced me (mostly) that what I was feeling was merely lust. She was quite prepared to be my friend, however. Before, after and often even during our labours, I was given my lessons – varied advice about lovemaking: technique and endurance, diet and hygiene.

I was also treated to considerable chatter and gossip. It is a little disconcerting to be engaged in a strenuous fuck, and to have the object of your attention, while apparently enjoying herself, tell you about her day. I must say my patience as a listener was put to the test.

Then again, since the kitchen was nearby, in the mornings one or another of the other girls would stop to chat with us. While not notably handsome, they were friendly and good-natured, and didn't seem overly jaded at their work. There being no resident male (for the madam was strong enough to serve as her own bouncer), they began to treat me as confidant and confessor. I learned a great deal about the community of women in general and of whores in particular.

A week of carnal bliss passed by. Then, on the morning I lay recovering from the above-mentioned Saint George's Cross and thinking of Burton, fate returned me to my quest. Charlotte strode into our room and tucked a letter between my limp fingers. "For Lucy – when she comes round again," she said with a grin, and then she gave Lucy's backside a playful slap as she retreated out the door.

"Hey!" My pretty tutor sat abruptly, my semi-soft peggo sliding out of her with a 'plop'. I gave her the letter with a shrug and a smile. The contents revealed that her sister had just had a baby. Her family, who apparently believed she was seamstress, were hoping she could make a brief visit to her village. This brought me back to my own business. I encouraged her to go, even to giving her a present of traveling money. After another delightful fuck, as thanks, the arrangements were made. By late afternoon (having, with some regret, declined Charlotte's kind offer of covering for her friend), I found my way downstairs to make a start on my tunnel.

Here I was, an adventurer at last. Finally, I thought, Burton would be proud (I was still ignorant of his carnal adventures). I laid out my tools, and began to clear away some battered cupboards from the wall. Perfect. I swung my new pick - and nearly fell through the wall into the giant hole I had breached. You may imagine my shock to find, behind a layer of lathe and plaster, a ragged passage some three feet across - just where I had planned my own. Peering in to the cobwebbed depths with my lantern, I could see that it was definitely dropping in the direction of the crypt. I could just make out a large white stone, perhaps a dozen feet down.

I sat and pondered this for a while. Someone had beaten me here, perhaps long ago. Bugger. On the other hand, the church was still being watched over by someone, so I still had to see what, if anything, was being guarded. Taking a deep swallow of brandy for courage, I took the lamp and slithered down headfirst, sweeping cobwebs out of my path. I was almost on top of the 'stone' before I realized that was a skull, decorated with the black shaft of an arrow sprouting from the top.

Once the terror had eased off (with the help of another awkward pull on my brandy flask) I noticed that under the bundle of rags and bones - all that remained of the mystery corpse - lay a small wooden chest. I snatched the box up and scrambled backwards, retreating to my room. My heart was still pounding when I laid it onto the dressing table. I sat looking at my haul, and tried to consider my next move.

After a time, I filled a mug with yet more brandy, then broke the rusted lock off my box and peered inside. I was looking down at a sheet of velum, folded and sealed. It looked like my unlucky predecessor had died for a box full of letters. But ... underneath! Underneath I beheld a sight that took my breath. The rest of the box was filled with a jumble of gold chains and exotically set gems. I lifted out handfuls of the stuff. They were ancient Persian, made with exquisite workmanship. Setting them back, I looked again at the velum. There was a heavy lump wrapped inside, and on the back, in a strong hand, was written 'Bonifacius Papa VIII' – the same pope whose death had preceded the Templars downfall. I broke the seal and opened the packet, to have a gold ring fall into my palm. The thick band had an elaborate design carved right the way around. I held it close to the candle and could make out the figure of a large cat or lion stretched long in a leap, wrapped around so that it held its tail in its mouth. It caught my fancy and I slipped it on – it was still warm from the heat of the candle.