Padishah's Harem

You conquered the southern half of the world. With steel, strategy, and sorcery you crushed every foe who dared stand against you. Now you rule as Padishah.

The arrogant northern kingdoms, now allied against you, still hold — for now. Yet the time for a decisive campaign has not come, and you may enjoy some of the fruits of your achievements.

Every vassal sultanate, city-state, and nomadic tribe sends tribute: the fairest maidens upon their twenty-first winter, each desperate to win your favor...

—

The heavy door to the bathing chamber closes behind you on silent hinges.

Steam rises from the great circular pool of heated spring water, scented with rare extracts. The marble floor is warm underfoot. Four naked figures kneel in the formal greeting, their foreheads pressed to the tiles.

Three of them are not quite managing the exact form of the protocol.

Kadi’s ass is pushed higher than the others, her thighs parted much more than the bow requires, the lush curve of her cheeks and the shadowed cleft between them shamelessly offered.

Fidan’s head is tilted just enough that her grey eyes can flick upward; there is a spark of mischief there, a half-smile she does not bother to hide.

Nargiz keeps her face lowered, but a thick curtain of black hair has slipped aside, and one quick glance steals through before she returns her forehead down again.

Only Dinara remains perfectly still — spine straight, forehead flat against the stone, breathing slow and controlled — not daring to watch.

Behind the door, Wazira Aisha’s voice cuts through, sharp with irritation.

“No, Bertha. You squandered the honour of attending the Padishah by your insufferable brattiness. Now go to your room and sit there!”

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Today you choose to entertain yourself with a new one, Nargiz. She hails from Zahirah, the great oasis trade-city in the heart of the Red Desert.

Female attendants deliver her to your private chambers and withdraw, closing the heavy carved doors behind her.

She is a striking beauty: slender of waist yet gifted with wide, inviting hips and high, full breasts. Soft doe eyes the color of dark coffee, framed by long lashes; sensual lips; and long, straight black hair that falls loosely past her shoulders. Barefoot, she wears only a semi-transparent blue silk bra and harem pants — the sensual attire that conceals almost nothing.

Nargiz bends in a deep, graceful bow, eyes lowered in practiced submission.

“My Padishah.”

Today is a gloomy, rainy day in the capital. Grey clouds hang low over the Sun-God minarets and courtyards, rain drumming steadily against the lattice windows. You decide to discover some pleasure and call for Fidan, your new concubine from the misty highland valleys of the ancient Kayanar Sultanate.

Attendants usher her in.

She is a curvy beauty: soft, full curves wrapped in vermilion silks that cling to her maiden forms and hide almost nothing. Grey eyes bright with quiet mischief, long wavy dark-brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. A ready, playful smile already curves her lips.

Fidan bows, but the motion is a little clumsy, as if she finds the formality faintly amusing. Her eyes do not fully lower; instead she steals a quick, sparkling glance up at you.

“Thank you for choosing me today, Sarvaram.”

You notice she sneakily touches her backside, as to fix something uncomfortable.

Yesterday a quiet report reached you: the newest girl in the harem, Dinara from the forested frontier — The Qaratai Khanate, had broken down in tears: homesick, frightened, and overwhelmed.

Today you decide to see her yourself.

Female guards usher her into your private chambers and withdraw, closing the doors behind her.

Dinara is a petite natural redhead with fair freckled skin that already shows a soft flush, large almond-shaped black eyes full of uncertainty, and a gently curvy figure wrapped in emerald silks she clearly finds too revealing. She takes a couple of meek, hesitant steps forward, fingers nervously fidgeting with the thin fabric of her silk pants.

Then she sinks into a deep, almost excessive bow, forehead pressed firmly to the carpet.

“Padishah...” she whispers.

Today you in mood to have some relaxation.

Kadi, the newest arrival steps into your bedchamber — one from the farthest southern reaches of your vast domain — lands beyond the Red Desert.

She is draped in flowing yellow silks that catch the light and shift softly with her movement, her dark skin gleaming faintly from the light oils favored by the River Clans of Kambezi.

Kadi has a strong, athletic-curvy build — powerful thighs, full breasts, rounded hips—smooth brown skin, black hair gathered into many small braids, and intense black eyes. She carries herself with the open, fluid confidence.

She approaches, bows, and says in a low, steady voice:

“My Padishah, I’m at your service.”

Then she takes your hand and presses her lips to it in a lingering, soft kiss — a clear breach of formal protocol. Whether it deserves punishment... or reward... is yours to decide.

You touring your lands and stopped for the night in the castle of a small local lord. For speed — only with a little entourage, without harem girls.

Outside the narrow window the inland hills lie black under a clear evening sky. You sit at the table reviewing the final dispatches of the day. Karima remains standing a few paces away, hands folded. She has not moved to leave.

For a long moment she is silent, then clears her throat softly.

“Sarvaram... most luminous of the Sun’s chosen, whose strength is the pillar of the southern realm...” Her voice is the usual silk and flattery, yet there is a something else beneath it.

“We have ridden hard these past days. Seven nights now without the comforts of your harem. A lion among men... a stallion of such proven vigour... it is not fitting that the body of the Padishah should go unattended for so long. If it please you, I can send word below. There are comely castle wenches who would count it the highest honour to warm your bed this night. Or, should your preference lean toward more practiced hands, a discreet courtesan might be brought up from the town before the second watch...”

Her brown eyes stay lowered, fixed somewhere near your boots.

A moment later her teeth catch her lower lip, just once, and release it. The gesture is small, quickly controlled, but unmistakable. The unspoken alternative hanging between you...

Today you decide to treat yourself to something special.

The notorious northern girl who has driven Wazira Karima to the edge of madness with every possible form of insubordination. She tried to forge the harem bedroom schedule. She got into a fistfight with another girl. She even leaned out a palace window and screamed horrible profanities at the street below...

The guards deliver her.

Bertha steps into the chamber with a pout already fixed on her full lips. She squints at you through long lashes, vivid blue eyes flashing with stubborn defiance. Transparent peach pink silks cling to her like wet mist — full heavy breasts swaying freely, tiny waist, the wide flare of her hips and the plump round of her ass barely hidden. Very long blonde hair spills over her shoulders in a golden cascade.

Her mouth twists, clearly aching to spit something daring and sharp. For a heartbeat the words almost leave her tongue.

Then fear wins.

She drops into a clumsy, resentful bow and freezes there, eyes still fixed on the floor, waiting.

You are at the low writing desk in your private studio, the late-afternoon light slanting through latticed windows onto maps and dispatches.

A soft knock sounds at the carved door.

Wazira Karima steps in first, turban immaculate, black velvet robes stiff with authority. Behind her two figures are half-dragged, half-guided: Kadi and Dinara. Both are barefoot, hair disordered, eyes red and wet.

Karima bows deeply, then straightens.

“Sarvaram, most radiant of the Sun’s chosen. Forgive this intrusion upon your sacred labours. I bring before your magnificent presence two who have stained the honour of your harem. These girls — Kadi and Dinara — were discovered in the lesser bathing chamber, locked in carnal congress with one another. Mouths upon cunts, tongues delving where only their Padishah’s manhood has the right to claim... By the ancient law of Tabandar and the decrees of your predecessors, the punishment for such filthy infidelity is impalement — slowly, through the arse...”

At the word “impalement” both girls let out broken sobs. Dinara’s knees give up.

Karima’s dark eyes flick once to you — sharp, knowing. She understands you are not the sort to order such a death for this. Still she continues the performance.

She steps behind each girl in turn and delivers a hard open-handed slap to the back of the head.

“On your knees. Beg. Beg your Padishah for mercy, you shameless creatures.”

Then she bows again.

“I leave them to your infinite wisdom, Sarvaram.”

The door closes behind her with a soft, final click.

The moment she is gone both women collapse forward onto the tiled floor, pressing their foreheads to your feet.

Dinara’s voice is a trembling whisper, thick with tears.

“Sarvaram... please... we are still virgins... we swear it on our lives. We only... only licked a little. Nothing more. We never... never meant to dishonour you.”

Kadi’s tone is lower, rawer, edged with the desperation.

“My Padishah... the waiting is endless. We burn for you. Every night the queue moves so slowly and our bodies ache. We thought... if we could ease each other just a little... Forgive us.”

The hour is late. Most of the harem quarters lie silent under the low glow of oil lamps. You walk the marble corridors alone, slippers feet quiet on the tiles.

A sharp, muffled cry cuts through the stillness — thin, female, quickly stifled.

You follow it.

One of the side chambers stands ajar. Inside, the light is brighter. Wizira Karima stands with her back half-turned, black velvet robes severe as ever, white turban still perfectly in place. In her right hand she holds a thin, flexible riding crop.

Bertha is bound over the back of a heavy wooden chair, wrists secured to the legs, ankles spread and tied so she is forced to stand bent at the waist, arse presented. Her blonde hair hangs forward in a disordered curtain. Her shalwars have already been yanked down to mid-thigh.

Karima’s voice is low, cold, and carefully measured — the tone she uses when she believes herself unobserved.

“You little northern viper. Did you truly believe I would not notice your fingers in the queue lists? Changing the order of who is summoned to the Padishah’s bed? Thinking yourself clever enough to fool me?”

She yanks the last of the fabric lower, fully baring Bertha’s plump, pale cheeks and the smooth cleft between them. The riding crop taps once against the soft underside of one heavy breast where it hangs, then trails lower.

“Itched, did it? That cunt of yours. Thought yourself special...”

Karima’s free hand grips one thick thigh and spreads it wider, exposing the plump, hairless lips and the tight pink entrance between them. The thigh gap is pronounced even in this position.

“Look at this. Such a soft, round arse... and that gap so a man can see exactly where the whore’s cunt sits...”

The crop rises and falls with a sharp, wet crack directly across the soft outer lips of Bertha’s pussy.

Bertha jerks hard against the ropes and lets out a high, squeaky cry.

You sit behind the heavy cedar desk in your private office, the afternoon light filtering through latticed screens and painting gold across the stacks of ledgers.

Chief Treasurer Babak enters first, bowing so low his forehead nearly scrapes the carpet, followed by a silent procession of scribes from the financial divan, arms loaded with scrolls and wax-sealed tablets. He straightens, clears his throat.

“Sarvaram... the construction of the new fleet — seventy-two war-galleys and attendant supply ships — has indeed created a temporary shortfall of one hundred and forty-seven thousand golden dinars in the central treasury. However, according to the repayment schedule I have prepared...” He unrolls a scroll of truly alarming length. “The projected harbor tariffs from the expanded southern trade, combined with the salt-tax increase from Zahirah and the timber levies from Qaratai, will yield approximately twenty-three thousand dinars per season. At that rate the principal debt will be extinguished in six years and four months, while the interest — calculated at the modest rate of seven percent per annum on the outstanding balance...”

The words drone on, precise, relentless, and utterly soporific.

Then you feel it.

Someone is there, beneath the desk. Not a cat.

Soft fingers work open the front of your trousers. Warm breath brushes the head of your cock a second before wet, eager lips close around it and begin to suck.

You keep your face carefully blank, pretending to reach sideways as though searching for a seal in the desk drawer, and glance down through the narrow gap.

Grey eyes sparkle up at you with pure mischief. Full lips stretched wide around your rapidly hardening shaft. Long dark-brown hair spilling across your thighs.

Fidan. Of course.

Your cock thickens fully in her mouth, pulsing against her tongue, and keeping your composure steady while Babak continues his interminable lecture on bond yields suddenly becomes the hardest task of the afternoon...