Bertrice Small - Fascinated

A eunuch had no right to feel exultation at hearing that a woman sought intimacies with him that she had not sought from a man. But he felt that rush of possessiveness now for Megan, knowing he could give what her husband had not.

He remembered her closed lips when she kissed him. Her uncertainty at how she should move on his verge when she straddled his lap.

Her blatant curiosity. Her uninhibited response.

He was inexperienced, but he was not ignorant of sexual practices.

She was both ignorant, he realized, and inexperienced.

"Would you like me to kiss your clitoris?" he asked abruptly.

"What?"

Megan's shock was not feigned.

"Men kiss women on their clitoris," he said, deliberately enticing her with the lure of her sexuality. "They lick them. They suckle them."

Until they reached a peak of enjoyment.

Awareness shimmered between them, he standing before her naked, vulnerable, she covered neck to toes with blankets, equally naked and vulnerable.

"You would… you would do that?" she asked, not quite as composed as before. More like the woman she had been last night when darkness had been their alibi and she had freely admitted her desires.

"I would," he affirmed.

"How do you know that men do that?"

How did a virgin eunuch who had never touched a woman know that men did that? was what she really asked.

He could tell her that many Arabic treatises described the act of cunnilingus, just as those same books described a woman's arousal…

"I have watched them," he replied baldly.

There would be no more sexual deception between them.

"You have watched… men and women together?" she asked, trying to conceal her surprise, but failing.

"I have watched women and eunuchs together."

The condemnation he anticipated did not come.

"You said Arabic women did not have a clitoris."

"Many women who are sold as concubines are not Arabic."

She frowned. "These concubines… they perform in front of an audience?"

"There is little privacy in a harem."

Not when there were so many men who lusted after the very thing they were denied: the pleasure of a woman's body.

"Other eunuchs…" She did not finish her sentence, that other eunuchs had touched women. Pleased women. "But you did not."

"I did not," he admitted, anticipating her next question: Why not ?

"These women you watched"-understanding flickered in her eyes-"did they reciprocate the caresses they received?"

His throat tightened. "No, they did not."

Concubines were slaves, but eunuchs were… eunuchs.

A rustling of bedclothes pulled him out of the past.

"I am in a quandary, sir."

For the first time he saw true embarrassment on Megan's face.

"Why?" he asked, dreading her response.

"Either you must dress, or I must. Either way, one of us has to leave."

A band tightened around his chest.

"Why?" he repeated, not wanting to ask, unable to stop.

Clearly, she had had enough of a eunuch, no matter that he would go down on his knees to please her. Clearly, she was ready to return to a safe English world that did not harbor such as he.

Her face darkened, a vivid contrast against the white pillow case. "Because I need to take care of private matters."

"And when you have taken care of private matters?" he doggedly pursued.

"I would very much enjoy having you kiss my clitoris." She did not look away from his gaze. "And then I would like to kiss your manhood."

"You will stay here, in my room, for another night?" he asked, not daring to believe his ears.

"I will stay."

For a second he thought his knees would buckle. The surge of hot blood to his groin stiffened him.

Pivoting, verge swaying heavily, he picked up the chair- carefully so as not to tilt and upset the chamber pot-and deposited the whole by the bed, wood decisively contacting wood.

"I will tend the fire while you tend to private matters," he said peremptorily, afraid to leave her, afraid she would change her mind. "There are tissues in the nightstand drawer."

Without giving her time to debate, he turned and strode toward the cold, iron fireplace. He deliberately made as much noise as he could, knocking the ashes out of the grate with the tong, crackling sheets of old newspaper to use as kindling, pouring fresh coals from the dust-blackened coal scuttle on top of the paper. Squatting down, he struck a safety match and touched it to the newspaper.

And all the while that he performed his chores, he pictured Megan. This was an intimacy he had not believed possible when he had decided to purchase a whore.

Blue flames leaped to life.

Tossing the match into the fireplace, he stood up. Without warning, he turned.

Megan bent over, naked, holding the chamber pot in both hands to slide it underneath the bed.

His heart stopped, witnessing the pale silhouette of a breast, a gracefully curved spine and a rounded buttock. Her braid spilled down her back.

Purposefully, he padded to the water-stained bureau that shared an inner wall with the door. A white stoneware jug, glaze cracked with age, sat in a matching basin. Deftly, he lifted up the pitcher and filled the basin with water. Clumsily, he set it down on top of the bureau inside a previous water ring. The thud of glass on wood dully rang out in the silence.

Quickly, he washed his hands, a quick lathering of soap, and rinsed them before hurriedly grabbing the folded washcloth beside the basin. He dipped it into the water, then wrung it out.

His hand shook.

Holding the wet washcloth to warm it, he faced the bed.

Megan was in the process of standing, back straightening, legs stretching.

Her buttocks were pleasingly round. He caught a glimpse of her sex, of dark lips fringed with even darker hair, and then she stood, spine erect.

He knew the moment she became aware that he watched her. Her vertebrae fused; her shoulders squared.

A whore would not mind that he see her nakedness, but Megan was not a whore. Even when she pretended that she was, he had not thought of her as a whore, he realized. She had merely been a woman who, for whatever reason, had accepted the needs of a eunuch.

Slowly, slowly, she turned.

Behind her, a narrow beam of sunlight highlighted the hair that had escaped her braid, a shock of vivid color in the dullness of shadow. It was neither brown nor auburn, but a combination of both-rich chestnut threaded with silver.

He had seen naked women in the harem; he had watched them at their play, their baths, their sexual games with each other and with other eunuchs. Some had been more plump than Megan, some more slender; some had had larger breasts, some smaller; all had been younger, more beautiful, but none had stirred him like Megan now stirred him.

Small hands clenched into fists at her sides, she silently stood in front of him, awaiting judgment.

From a eunuch.

It felt as if her hands clenched around his heart.

She tilted her chin, denying her vulnerability. "I have heard that women in harems are very beautiful."

"Yes." Water trickled through his fingers, plopped onto the wooden floor. "Concubines are purchased for their beauty."

Her eyes were wary. Wanting his approval, his praise.

What did she see in his eyes when she looked at hiru? he wondered. Did she see his need for approval, for praise?

"You have very white skin," he said gruffly. "White skin and pure green eyes such as yours are highly prized in Arabia. Your breasts are ample; your hips generous; your waist supple. You would be valuable in Arabia."

"You need not lie to me, sir; I am fully aware of what I am. As you said last night, I am too old to be a whore. I sincerely doubt any man would want me as a concubine."