After two weeks in Ethiopia I had no choice but to offer you this snippet from my story Slave of the Lamp, which appears in the Underworlds anthology, because it's all about the Queen of Sheba. That queen is HUGE in Ethiopia - she's counted as the founder of their imperial line and the mother of the country. The protagonist in this story is a very sulky djinni who magically bound to her will...
The next time Bilqis calls me from my prison, the hand of night lies upon the Earth. I stand in a chamber I have never seen before, which contains a great bed. There are only three women in the room. Two are entirely naked, and they may not have noticed my entrance at all, because the first is lying back upon the coverlet and the other has her face buried in the girl's sex and is lapping away – to some effect, judging from the hitch and twitch of those hips and the way the reclining maid is panting as she plays with her own breasts.
'Djinni,' says the third, the queen herself; 'I have something to show you. Stand and watch. Do not move until I tell you.'
It is not an entirely disagreeable command, for once. Bilqis is clad only in a collar of bright feathers and a belt of lapis lazuli beads. They glow against the dark shimmer of her skin, drawing attention to its velvet softness, to the curve of her waist and the swell of her heavy breasts. But there is no vulnerability in her near-nakedness; she holds herself regally, as if in coronation robes.
She rises and places the Lamp safely aside upon a shelf, and then from under a cushion on the bed – she reaches around the two labouring handmaids, stroking both idly with her fingertips – she fetches an apparatus that I do not, at first, comprehend. It consists of two phalluses, shaped from stitched and stiffened leather, joined at a peculiar angle. There are many soft straps too, and Bilqis fastens these about her hips and thighs, sliding the more curved of the two false members deep inside her. When she tightens the harness and straightens, the second cock stands out from her pubic mound – for all the world like a true erection, if a woman could sport such a thing. It looks obscene. She strokes it lovingly, dipping her fingers into a bowl of perfumed oil to lavish her slippery caress upon the thick shaft. She pumps it with her fist as if it might ejaculate.
I do not know whether to be amused or affronted. She is a mockery of all that is a man – and yet my own cock twitches; I find this sight strangely arousing. More so when, ignoring me, she kneels up upon the bed and touches the supine handmaid upon the peak of her breast.
The girl opens her eyes, gazing up at her queen with a look of naked adoration. First she stretches up to kiss the slippery shaft, then she rolls over onto her front, drawing her knees beneath her to raise her ass. Presented like that, it appears as an exquisite heart-shape. The girl who has been doing the licking slides her hands into those of the kneeling girl and grips her tight, as a comrade offering comfort.
Oh, how I ache.
The queen ... the queen is kneeling up behind that luscious rear, her hands on those hips. The phallus is angled right at the maiden's well-licked sex. That cleft must be puffy and wet and open by now; it certainly seems to offer no resistance as the blunt helmet noses into it and the shaft follows, disappearing inch by inch into the hot depths. The queen works her hips with consummate care, biting her lip as she surges and then slacks. Her eyes are half-hooded, her sapphire-painted lids fluttering with each push of her thighs, each heave of her glorious breasts. The handmaiden below whimpers and gasps, twisting her own hips as she makes room for the obdurate prod invading her innermost parts. I struggle to understand what is happening – surely the queen can feel nothing through that false manhood?
Then I realise that each thrust must press upon the sensitive nub of her sex, and grind the second phallus into her own passage. It seems to be sufficient to bring her satisfaction. There is a glow rising in the queen's cheeks as she labours, and a trembling jerkiness to her movements, just as the girl's groans are becoming deeper and wilder. Bilqis' breasts shudder, and the wobbling dance of those delectable orbs with their staring nipples is almost enough to distract me from the unnatural fucking going on beneath. Almost, but not quite. The undulation of all that feminine flesh quivering and slapping together is making the hot blood throb in my cock.
I would show them how it is done, if I were free.
Then Bilqis begins to gasp, her hands biting into the girl's flesh, her thrusts suddenly commendably savage. The girl wails – though not, I think, in protest; she is pressing back upon her queen's weapon – and in a flurry of shudders and two mingles cries of release it is over.
A smile upon her flushed face, Bilqis detaches the thigh-straps of the harness and steps down from the bed, leaving the phallic apparatus still buried in the slave-girl's pretty rear. 'Was that instructive, djinni?'
'Most enlightening, mistress.' How I burn to use the harlot, just as she used the maid.
With a slap upon that bottom, she commands, 'Leave now,' and I watch as the two girls rise obediently and slip out of the room. Then she comes over to me. Her eyes are full of unassuaged lasciviousness. Oftentimes, my brother djinn have taken mortal women as concubines. Their own men, it is said, are unable to satisfy their great appetites, which is why they cannot remain faithful to their lawful husbands. Bilqis, I think, is one of those women.
She puts her hand upon the bar of my engorged member. With a grin I make myself naked once more, so that there is nothing between her skin and mine. She glances down, admiring, as she strokes my shaft, and my chest swells with triumph as my cock-slit weeps with joy
.
'Djinni,' says she, 'I want a cock.'
I am taken aback. I laugh to cover my dismay. 'Would you be a man, then?' I mock her. 'Is it not enough to be queen, that you must be king?'
She steps back, eyeing my frustration with undisguised amusement. 'Why would I want to be a man?' she asks, running her hands over her own body, caressing the rich curves of hip and waist, hefting and cupping and squeezing her breasts until my eyes feel like they will burst from my head. 'A man spends his pleasure once, and then is done. I may take mine over and over, with every woman in my harem. But...' She licks her lips. 'I want to be able to feel it when I enter my favourite's tight hole. I want to be a woman, yet with a cock of flesh. I want one like yours.'
I don't know what to say. It appals me, and it excites me in ways I cannot describe.
'I command it, djinni,' she says, looking in my eyes.
So I give her a cock. And as an afterthought, a pouch of balls, because I think it looks better that way, and that they will suit her. She steps back with a gasp, touching herself, her fingers like fluttering butterflies. Her member is already half-hard; it becomes harder as she grasps and strokes it, harder in great surges. She casts me a look of disbelief, which I do not understand because this is what she asked for. Then she checks between her legs to make sure I have not robbed her of her woman's parts.
'You have both, mistress,' I say through gritted teeth. 'As you desired. Though you will not sow any seed with that thing.'
'Then it is for pleasure only,' she says, and there is a fire in her eyes when she looks upon me that seems to belong to the Flameborn, not the Children of Dust. 'Lie upon the bed, djinni.'
'Me?' I stutter. Outrage flares through my soul.
'You, djinni.' She smirks. 'I command it.'
'No!' I bark, but I must go, and I am already going. I am her slave, no less than the women of her bedchamber. And to much the same end, it appears. She requires me to lie back upon the cushions, and she goes to dip both of her hands in the bowl of oil. I look up at her, at the luscious womanly curves I desire so much – and at the monster, standing erect from the juncture of her thighs, that she is slicking with one lazy hand. I cannot help wishing I had made it a little smaller.
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