The BLTS Archive - The Harem
by Merri Todd Webster (lonchura@yahoo.com)

---

THE OVERTURE: This is a companion piece and homage to 'Market Day'
by Temaris, published with her kind consent. In  addition, I shall
borrow her disclaimer because I liked it so much:

/grovel/ Paramount /grovel/

Enough said on that score. I just hope they're not tapping my phone
after 'Crossing the Boundaries.'.

Okay. I finally tie Harry up in this one. (I've been looking for a way
to do it, and I'm sure he'll thank me handsomely.) We're talkin' m/m
sex, shackles with chains, and campy costumes, so if you have a
problem with any of the above, go someplace else where it's safe.

We're also talking rather, uh, purple prose, somewhat different from
my usual style, maybe even a little over-the-top in spots. It wasn't
deliberate, it just happened that way. (I'm just a medium, my dears,
an extra-large medium.) Just wanted to warn you and let you know that
I'm aware of it.

Thanks to Amirin, yet again, for faithful beta-reading, useful
suggestions, and general friendship. I did the costumes for this one.

On with the show!

---

He had been waiting so very long. Minutes seemed like hours and hours
like days here in the harem, where there was nothing to do but wait.
Oh, they had ways to amuse themselves; games were always in progress,
sometimes for days; inventive souls took turns telling stories by the
fountain; there were small cubicles where he could go to practice
playing his instrument. And of course there was the time spent on
meals, exercise, baths and skin treatments, medical examinations, and
sleep. Still, after all that, there were times when time stood still
and there was nothing to do but sleep, like an animal, to make the
boredom go away. And when he woke, the boredom came back, as rested
as he was. It was hard to be always waiting.  Harry had still not
gotten used to it.

He was sitting on his bed, practicing fingerings on his flute without
sounding it, when the summons came. "You." The frowning, dark-skinned
eunuch stopped at the foot of the bed and aimed a slender finger at
Harry. "Tonight is your turn. Bring the flute." At last.

Heart pounding, Harry sprang off the bed and stood with bowed head,
obedient. He allowed one attendant to take charge of his flute,
wrapping it in silk, and the other to shackle his wrists and ankles.
The shackles were light but strong, and no concubine, male or female,
left the harem without them. He kept his head bowed as he was led
between the rows of beds, but his eyes flicked from side to side,
catching jealousy, relief, or simply indifference on the faces of the
other concubines. Some of the handsomest men he had ever seen were
housed here, men of all sorts: fair young men with skin like cream,
hair like gold, eyes like emeralds; dark-skinned youths with sculpted
muscles, their rough hair braided or hanging uncut in natural locks;
redheads of every shade from strawberry to bronze, their eyes blue or
brown or green or hazel, their skin not marred but enhanced by
freckles. And elsewhere, Harry knew, there were women, as beautiful as
the men and as numerous, housed separately. All these concubines
belonged to the prince; their variety was his to enjoy. Yet Harry had
never seen anyone else like himself, with his coloration; his dark
hair, dark eyes, and golden skin were unique.

In his relatively short time in the harem, Harry had not been chosen
before, so he was not accustomed to the elaborate routine of
preparation which followed his summons. First, he was bathed even more
thoroughly than usual: wetted down, scrubbed with a rough square of
woven fibers, soaped and rinsed, then finally oiled and wiped clean of
the excess. He could not help but respond to the touches, brisk though
they were, to the probing fingers that spread the oil along the cleft
of his buttocks and around the sensitive opening there. He knew what
that meant. The chief of the harem snickered at Harry's incipient
erection. "Save that for the prince, beautiful. I'm sure he'll enjoy
it."

He was then allowed to relax in a tub of hot water while his hair was
washed separately: combed, lathered, rinsed, conditioned, rinsed, and
combed again. Once out of the tub, Harry was oiled and wiped down a
second time before being sent into a sauna room where skin and hair
both dried quickly.

When they began to dress him, Harry began to feel. . . something.
Nervous? Excited? Afraid? He couldn't say. His nerve endings were
tingling, and it wasn't just the hot water and the oil and the
attention. He was going to see the prince, the person for whom all
this--the harem, the palace, the vast network of officials and
servants, the province itself--existed. The person for whom he, Harry,
existed. And it was incumbent upon him to please the prince, in any
way he was commanded. Could he do it? Would he make their master
happy? Or would he be a disappointment, a failure, a disgrace?

He was shackled again, not with plain practical metal but with cuffs
of gold on wrists and ankles linked by intricately crafted golden
chains. A length of red silk was wound about his loins and tied so
that it hung down between his legs, just brushing the chain that
joined his ankles. A hooded cape of heavy black fabric, soft but
completely opaque, was lowered over his head and adjusted so that his
face was hidden. Harry could neither see nor be seen. Only the prince,
and the eunuchs who served him in this capacity, might see the
concubines who belonged to him.

Harry's flute was placed into his hands, and he was led, blinded by
the concealing cape, on a long walk down one corridor and around a
corner, up steps and down, outside through air so cool goosebumps came
out on his naked legs, and at last into a building even warmer than
the rather sultry quarters of the harem. The eunuch and the attendants
pressed him ahead of them into a small lift, which rose with them for
endless minutes-- a slow machine, or a very tall building? He had no
way of knowing. Harry heard the doors open, and he was drawn backward
out of the lift. They continued to lead him backward, going in a
straight line, until he heard the whisper of large doors being opened
by hand, and he was brought into a room that, by its echoes, was a
large one. Heavy hands on his shoulders forced him to kneel.

"You will remain here," the eunuch said, his tone more severe than
ever, "until the master comes for you. He will enter, he will speak to
you, he will remove the cape. If you are not completely cooperative
and deferential, he will summon guards who will come instantly to haul
you away, and if you are truly disobedient, you will be working under
me when the incisions have healed." The eunuch paused, and Harry
gulped, now definitely afraid. "May you serve our master well."

Still on his knees, head bowed, looking into the black folds of the
cape, Harry listened to the footsteps of the eunuch and the attendants
recede, heard the faint boom of the doors being closed. Hoping he was
not breaking protocol, he settled down, buttocks on heels, the backs
of his hands resting on his knees as he held the flute. To calm
himself, he measured out his breaths: inhale on a count of four, hold
for a count of four, exhale on a count of four, wait for a count of
four.

Waiting. Waiting again, only now not bored, but anxious, frightened,
almost sick with the desire to please. /Only to please him. That's
what I'm here for./ The counting of the breaths helped steady him, but
still the minutes elongated until each one was a glittering gem strung
on an invisible strand. /I can wait for ever. If I have to. I won't
fail him. But what if I bolt? What if I can't control myself--/

Harry's whole body went rigid as he heard footsteps approaching from
behind. /I didn't hear a door! I don't know what to expect. . ./ The
footsteps stopped, perhaps a few feet away. He could feel a gaze
moving over him, taking him in. Taking possession. He tried not to
shudder, and failed.

Two more steps, and a hand came to rest on his head. The presence of
his master was almost a physical thing, heat on Harry's back, the
weight of that hand charged with meaning. The fingers curved, and the
cape was slowly drawn away, its folds whispering as they glided up his
body. Harry felt cool air and made sure his eyes were on the floor.
Moving almost silently now, the feet came around and stopped before
him. They were long and slender feet, graceful, fair against brightly
colored tiles arranged in an elaborate mosaic. A hand came under his
chin, cupping it in warm fingers that were also long and slender, but
strong, and drew upward so that he had to raise his eyes to meet his
master's.

The prince. A tall slim man with lean strength, not much older than
Harry himself, clad in a dark blue robe with long square sleeves and
high collar, that plain except for the obvious richness of the fabric.
Fair hair, golden touched with ruddy highlights, with eyes as blue as
the robe, as blue as the skies Harry remembered, the skies of home.
Harry swallowed hard as a faint smile stretched the thin mouth. "You
are an exotic, aren't you? They must have gone far from this province
to find you."

The voice was light, casual on the surface, touched with humor, but
rippled with deeper undertones. Harry licked his lips, uncertain what
to answer, whether to answer, was he supposed to talk... The prince
took the flute out of Harry's hands and casually drew him to his feet,
pulling on the chain between his wrists. "Come."

Now that Harry could look around, he was astonished by the room. He
had been made to kneel not far from the foot of an enormous bed. High
and canopied, piled with white pillows and richly figured covers, each
of its four pillars was carved of some rare dark blue stone, faintly
translucent, in the shape of a man with bowed head and hands crossed
on his muscular chest. The walls of the chamber were mirrors, all
mirrors, seamless silver and shining brightly in the light of the tall
candles that stood taller than Harry in their enameled stands.

The prince drew Harry to the bed's foot and sat down on the edge of
the mattress, his feet just touching the floor. Carefully he set down
the flute beside him. /He likes music,/ Harry thought. /He respects
the instrument./ The long fingers went to the collar of the robe and
ran slowly down the front, pulling it open to bare the long, lean,
white-and-gold body.

"Kneel and take me in your mouth."

Harry sank to his knees before his master until he hit the floor with
a soft thud, his eyes focusing on the beautiful cock that was right
before him. The prince was not entirely erect, but Harry knew he would
soon remedy that. A strange rush of confidence filled him, and he felt
certain he could please the prince, certain he could satisfy his
master, certain, too, that to do so would be the greatest pleasure
Harry himself had ever known.

Cuffed hands clasped, Harry saluted the tip of his master's cock with
a reverent tongue. The long shaft twitched away from his lips, and
returned, visibly thickened. He opened his mouth and enclosed the
head, sucking gently. Not too much at first--he wanted to prolong
this, if it were allowed him. A soft moan from his master, and Harry
swirled his tongue around the somewhat pointed tip, tasting its nectar
already. He drew back, daring to give his master's face a quick glance
before beginning to lick up and down the sweetly curved length.

The closed eyes and open mouth of the prince assured Harry that was he
was doing was acceptable.

"Ah, yes. Oh, so good. You have talent, my exotic beauty, indeed you
do. . ."

Harry licked and kissed his master's cock until his own desire to fill
his mouth with it was undeniable. He wet his lips first and then
slowly took it all in, going down by tiny increments until the whole
thing was in his throat. He heard a deep groan and felt a shudder run
through the other man's body. Slim fingers slid into his hair, dug
into his scalp, holding him still so that hard cock could move in and
out at its own pace. Harry sucked intensely, not caring that his lips
were getting chafed, that his knees hurt, he couldn't move his head,
that his master was fucking his face roughly, needless of Harry's
discomfort. The prince groaned, and Harry wanted to hear him groan
louder and deeper until the groans broke through into some ineffable
new language.

The demanding fingers in his scalp dug in deeper still--one hand
grasped a hank of his hair and the other came around behind his head,
bracing  him for the thrusts that came harder than ever, without
restraint. Harry  heard an ecstatic groan from somewhere above him and
felt the sting as the  skin of his lips broke, stretched beyond
endurance, and the tang of his own blood mingled in his mouth with the
salty-sweet river of his master's come.

Harry sat back on his heels, licking his lips. He was achingly hard,
himself, his cock straining against the sheer red fabric of his
loincloth, but deeply satisfied by the sight of his master gasping,
clutching the edge of the mattress, his cock now relaxed against his
thighs. After a moment, the prince managed to climb backward onto the
bed, collapsing across the pillows. He drew a deep breath. "You will
play for me now," he said hoarsely.

Trying to ignore his insistent desire, Harry unwrapped the silk
covering of his flute and polished the instrument with the silk. The
prince languidly raised a hand and pointed. "You may sit here." Harry
came around the bed, his chains jangling musically, and sat on the
prince's right, no more than centimeters away. The prince was so
beautiful, fair skin flushed against the dark blue of his robe, fair
hair disheveled against the pristine white pillows. Eyes as dark as
sapphires and as brilliant rested on Harry's face as he began to play.

He was not sure, later, how long he sat there playing for the prince's
pleasure. Once again he was wrapped up in the feeling that the
prince's pleasure was all that mattered. Whatever Harry could give to
his master, in sexual service, in his music, in any way, he would
give, freely and without reservation. He went from one tune to
another, the most exquisite tunes he knew, and played them with all
his skill, using the instrument to express all that he was feeling, to
speak for his total offering of himself.

At last a gentle touch on his thigh stopped him. Finishing off the
tune, Harry lowered the flute and took the liberty of looking at his
master. "That was beautiful," the prince said. The sincerity in his
voice touched Harry so deeply it brought tears to his eyes.

The prince sat up and leaned toward Harry. Harry held his breath as a
hand curved around the back of his neck, drawing him closer and
bringing him into position. Those sapphire eyes grew larger and
larger, filling his vision, blinding him with their beauty in the
instant before the prince's mouth closed over Harry's.

The kiss was surprisingly gentle yet unmistakably possessive. In a
moment Harry had yielded to the persuasion of those firm lips and
opened his mouth, welcoming the hungry caress of his master's tongue.
He moaned softly as he was explored, tasted, ravished, feeling
penetrated and longing to be penetrated completely, hoping his master
would do so. When the prince let go, Harry swayed dizzily, perilously
close to the edge of the bed.

"Put away the flute," the prince said. Harry wrapped it up in the
silk. "There are drawers set into the side of the bed." Harry felt
along the side of the heavy stone frame, found a handle, and pulled.
He placed the flute in the drawer without looking away from his
master. The prince then shrugged out of his robe, rolling aside to
toss it to the floor, and turned back to unwrap the red loincloth,
baring Harry's body to his gaze.

"Perfect," the prince murmured. It was Harry's turn to shudder when
strong fingers wrapped around his cock, the thumb brushed across its
weeping crown. Harry was pushed down against the pillows, softer than
the soft pillows of his own bed, and the chain joining his wrists--
forgotten while he played the flute--was fastened to a hook artfully
concealed in the carving of the low headboard. Once Harry's hands were
safely restrained, the prince removed the cuff from one ankle, leaving
the other cuff on, and attached the free cuff to a hook on the side of
the bed, enabling him to spread his concubine's legs and kneel between
them with little fear of losing control.

"Are you mine?" the prince asked. Harry knew he must answer. He licked
his lips.

"Yes, master."

"Will you give me whatever I want?"

"Yes, master."

"Will you take whatever I give you?"

"Yes, master."

The prince smiled approvingly, sending warmth rushing all through his
concubine. He began to explore the beautiful body that belonged only
to him; to run his hands through the raven hair; to tease the dark
nipples that rose up so responsively under his touch; to kiss the
luscious mouth again and again; to seek out the sensitive spots on
throat, shoulders, chest. Gradually fingers gave way to nails,
scraping delicately over the concubine's golden skin, scratching more
harshly across the swollen nipples, leaving red marks as they glided
over the arched ribs. The prince took hold again of Harry's thick,
nearly straight cock, and squeezed hard, making Harry's hips come off
the bed. Harry moaned, deliciously aware that his responses were part
of the prince's enjoyment. He hoped desperately to be told that he was
the finest, the most responsive and beautiful of all concubines.

The prince turned away and pulled out another drawer set into the
bedframe. He took out an alabaster bottle on a small saucer, also of
alabaster. Setting the saucer down on the bed and the stopper of the
bottle on the saucer, he carefully poured a stream of glistening
golden oil over the fingers of his right hand. Guessing what was to
come, Harry trembled in anticipation. The prince set the bottle on the
saucer, re-stopped it, and put both bottle and saucer back in the
drawer. Then, smiling, he turned back to his concubine.

"Arch your back and bring your ass off the bed." Harry obeyed, and
with his other hand the prince slipped a pillow underneath Harry.
Harry's right leg was still chained to the bed, but the prince pushed
back the other leg until Harry was stretched open, thighs aching just
a little, cock, balls, and asshole exposed.

One gleaming finger probed the cleft of Harry's buttocks, stroking and
seeking until its tip rested against the small hole. Harry could not
stop trembling. The prince was watching his face, and Harry could not
take his eyes away from that intense, searching gaze. He wanted to be
seen, to be exposed, as much as he wanted to be penetrated, if not
more. Without hurry, the finger pressed in until it slipped inside,
into Harry's body. A moan escaped his lips. His trembling became
shaking as the prince slowly, carefully sank his finger as far into
Harry's asshole as it would go, watching his concubine's face all the
while.

Harry could not keep quiet now as his master patiently opened him for
penetration. Just the touch of those fingers--first one, then two, and
finally three-- brought him close to the edge of ecstasy. He was
opened, massaged, loosened, stretched, and he was helpless to resist,
hands shackled, legs shackled and kept apart by the man who knelt
between them. He didn't want to resist, yet he relished knowing that
he couldn't even if he'd wanted to.

He whimpered pathetically when the fingers were withdrawn. The prince
climbed over Harry's legs to open another drawer in the bedframe. This
time he took out an octagonal box of reddish wood inlaid with amber.
He set the box on Harry's stomach and resumed his position between
Harry's spread thighs.

With a look of calm consideration, the prince unfastened the box and
opened it. The lid lifted toward Harry, blocking his view of the box's
contents. One by one, a series of objects was removed from the box and
placed casually around it, on Harry's stomach. A long strip of dark
leather, its two ends run through a lapis bead. A tiny leather whip,
its multiple strands like fringe. And a dildo, the same dark blue as
the columns of the bed, as the prince's robe, and big-- longer and
thicker than either of the two men.

Harry's master took the length of leather and looped it over his
concubine's cock. The bead went up the strands and settled behind
Harry's balls, forming an effective cock ring. The prince took the
whip and the dildo in one hand, slipped off the bed, and unfastened
the chain from the hook.

"On your hands and knees." Scrambling rather awkwardly, Harry knelt
facing the headboard, stretching out his arms as the prince dragged
the chain forward to put it on the hook again. With a little coaxing
in the form of a few smart slaps to his sides and rear, he settled
himself on hands and knees, his face not half a meter from the mirror
above the headboard. The prince put his hand under Harry's chin and
raised the concubine's face so that he was looking directly at the
reflection.

"Look at yourself," the prince commanded. Shamed by the amusement in
his master's voice, Harry looked. He had been used, chained, even
slapped, and he had loved it. His flushed face, the hair falling into
his glazed eyes, the rapid breaths, the erection visible below the
arch of his belly, all gave him way. The prince ran his hand up
Harry's hot cheek, over the disheveled hair and down the length of his
back. "You're a born submissive, little one. You live only to please
me, don't you?"

The hand under his chin twisted his head to meet the mocking blue
eyes. Harry swallowed, with difficulty. "Yes, master."

The prince climbed back onto the bed, behind Harry. Harry watched, in
the mirror, as his master anointed the big dildo with the golden oil.
"Tell me what you want," the prince demanded. Harry dropped his head,
gathered himself together, raised his head to meet the other man's
eyes in the mirror. "Please fuck me, master."

The head of the thing was big. It stretched Harry even though he'd had
three fingers in him a few moments ago. Harry groaned, feeling the
hardness of it, an unyielding thickness harder than any flesh could
be. Despite the slow pace at which the dildo entered, it almost hurt;
the sensation hovered on the edge of pain; it crossed over into
pleasure as the curve slid over his prostate; it leaned back toward
pain as the thing sank deeper than he'd ever taken a cock. Harry
sagged, head falling between his forearms.

A blow from the whip, stinging. "Look in the mirror!"

Harry struggled to raise his head. His teeth were bared, eyes nothing
but slits, shoulders and biceps bunched out with the effort. "I want
to make sure you can take me," said the prince. He drew back the dildo
and pushed in again, not hard but much faster. "I want to be sure you
can take this." Another thrust, faster and harder as well. "I want to
be sure you can take a good, hard fucking, because that's what I want
from you. And if you can't--" Shrug in the mirror. "Maybe you don't
need that cock, either."

The strokes were coming steadily now, hard, fast, deep. Harry bit his
sore lip, drawing blood again, to keep from screaming, to keep from
begging the master to stop, begging him to let his concubine come. If
it weren't for the pressure encircling his organs, he would come, he
knew it. It was so good to be fucked, and sometimes he didn't need to
be touched, just penetrated, just pounded, like this, to explode with
pleasure.

It went on until what Harry saw in the mirror was his open mouth, the
channel of a perfect sound that didn't stop, a pure "ah" sound coming
from low in his belly, and the glitter of his master's eyes, the
steady motion of that strong arm pumping and pumping. It stopped only
because the prince tired. Without saying a word, he tossed aside the
dildo and left the room, vanishing behind the bed.

Harry panicked. Would his master call the guards? How had he failed?
But in a moment, the prince returned, and Harry wrenched his clamped
jaws apart and took deep, harsh breaths, watching the golden oil drip
over the prince's high, flushed cock.

Harry looked down for a moment, and then the prince was on the bed and
his cock was sinking into Harry's ass, fast and eager. It undeniably
hurt, and yet this was what he had been waiting for, all those empty
minutes, hours, days, yearning for through all the boredom: to be
possessed and to yield to it utterly, to give himself as he was taken.
And to be taken like this, roughly, with a ferocity he would never
forget, would cling to through the boring hours ahead of him: the
matching groans of delight and submission, the erotic fire inside him.
Withdrawal was an agony equalled only by the joy of renewed
penetration. Each thrust of the master's cock into Harry's body was
like an inevitable return, necessary as the sun's return at dawn, as
the birds' return in the spring. Again and again he lost and regained
the thing he most needed, the sensation of being filled, the
experience of union, and in that experience, joy and pain were made
one.

Harry looked at himself in the mirror, seeing his face more beautiful
than he had thought possible, seeing his master surpassing him, going
beyond human beauty. It was so gorgeous, so overwhelmingly intense.
Then his master's arms came around his body, brushing over his burning
cock, pulling him back into those furious thrusts, and it hurt his
wrists but it was so good, so good, oh, so good to be fucked this way,
oh, I love you, "I love you!"

In a heartbeat the prince was coming, a scream like an eagle's in his
concubine's ear and a thrust that seemed almost to split him in two,
and Harry was filled, fulfilled, his own frustration and his beloved's
orgasm one and the same, united by the stream of fire within him. The
two of them collapsed, master and concubine still joined. Harry could
hardly breathe but didn't care. For a moment there was only the sound
of gasping, diminishing gradually to little murmurs of gratification.
At last the prince withdrew, slowly, releasing Harry from his weight.
A pause, with deep breathing, and he released the shackles, unhooking
the chains and breaking the cuffs from Harry's chafed ankles and
wrists. At a gentle push, Harry rolled over, his still-bound cock
pointing into the air. Carefully the prince loosened the confining
leather and drew it away. "What is your name, concubine?" he asked,
brushing his hand  over Harry's chest.

He fought for control, for breath. "Harry, master."

The warm hand moved lightly over his nipples, down his belly. "A
lovely name for a lovely concubine. You deserve a reward for your good
behavior."

Not only a strong hand but a hot, wet mouth closed around his cock,
heat pressure suction frenzy and Harry let go completely, with a
scream that ravaged his throat, arching upward and emptying himself
into the other's mouth. A soft kiss on his gaping, gasping mouth.
"Happy birthday, Harry. I really owed you this in return for the slave
market holoprogram you wrote for my birthday." Tom kissed his lover's
chest. "And you made a great concubine."

"I loved it." Harry reached for Tom and pulled him down against his
side. "It was every bit as good as I'd hoped it would be."

"I thought so, too." Another kiss. "I love you, Harry."

"I love you, Tom." Harry kissed his erstwhile master's forehead. "So
would you like to observe Chinese New Year?"

---

The End