turn she eagerly mounted the steps and presented herself seductively for the crowd of admirers.
“From the mountains of Armenia comes this next trollop,” Javad cried out, crowing like a carnival caller. “From the land of Noah’s descendants, this doxy will tease and delight the senses. She has served in the harems of Arabian satraps and was the prized bedmate of faraway imperial governors.”
Asmin turned and strutted over and again, fluttering her kohl-darkened lashes and tantalizing the mob with peeks at her curvaceous rear and ample chest through diaphanous, fluttering harem attire. Her deep brown gaze scanned the crowd for wealthy men as she jangled tiny cymbals betwixt her fingers and danced. With the expertise allowed by years of practice, she chimed the brass plates in rhythm with her swaying hips, tantalizing and mesmerizing the assembly. Javad had seen fit to allow her to retain this one possession, for they both knew it would aid her in finding a permanent home. She should fetch a handsome price, yet in all their travels he had not received a bid that he had found worthy of her beauty and talents. However, in truth, the slaver was ready to be rid of her; she was forever complaining about life on the road. She needed to seduce a master, and the sooner, the better. Never again did she wish to gaze out upon an endless track of rural byway.
Searching faces as she spun about to reveal her flesh, she noticed one who was entranced. She stopped midspin, and her silks twirled around her. Asmin gasped sharply. A hard-looking man in a crimson tunic was raping her with his gaze. She could practically feel his fingers digging into her flesh and the weight of his intent by the glare that bored into her core. With his hairy arms folded across his deep chest, he smiled a rapacious grin that only broadened when their eyes met.
“I’ll have a look at this one, you fat, Persian whoremonger,” the curly-haired, grinning stranger said as he made his way to the stage. The hem of his tunic was trimmed in cloth of gold, and he wore a thick silver chain around his neck.
“Of course,” Javad replied politely, his change in mien revealing that the man’s discourtesy had wounded him. The slave master accepted the coin and stepped back to allow the burly man access.
Asmin froze in place on the planks. Gruff, leathery hands gripped her by her chin and yanked her to stare up at the red-clad ruffian. One of his bottom teeth had been replaced with a canine of pure gold. Asmin focused on this because the rest of his visage was too horrible to behold for too long. His presence was that of a scavenger seeking a left-behind morsel. Asmin’s belly clenched, and she was reminded of the bug-eyed buzzards that soared near Mt. Ararat, circling over a mountain cat’s kill, waiting to pick bits of flesh from the bones of an already-defeated enemy. Her body quaked, and she moved to turn away when his hold relented, yet he snatched her tight once more and restrained her quivering lips inches from his own.
“You have much fear in you,” he murmured softly so only she could hear. “I will devour your fear. I will drink it up like a succulent wine. Yes. You will do nicely.”
Asmin whimpered and felt something hard bump her hip. Thinking it his erect prick, her eyes darted downward, and his fingers unclenched to allow her to look. She saw a coiled whip of braided leather attached to his broad leather girdle. He sneered and gave a low, rumbling chuckle.
“My lips will never caress you, but you will become as familiar with the kiss of my whip as you are with your own name,” he taunted with a satisfied twinkle in his wicked eyes.
“She is mine! There will be no other bidders,” he said loudly and then glowered over the crowd. The other men were shocked into silence. He turned to Javad. “I am only giving you five gold coins. I am Braxus, the mayor’s champion charioteer in the arena. Say a word about the price, and I’ll have the
“From the mountains of Armenia comes this next trollop,” Javad cried out, crowing like a carnival caller. “From the land of Noah’s descendants, this doxy will tease and delight the senses. She has served in the harems of Arabian satraps and was the prized bedmate of faraway imperial governors.”
Asmin turned and strutted over and again, fluttering her kohl-darkened lashes and tantalizing the mob with peeks at her curvaceous rear and ample chest through diaphanous, fluttering harem attire. Her deep brown gaze scanned the crowd for wealthy men as she jangled tiny cymbals betwixt her fingers and danced. With the expertise allowed by years of practice, she chimed the brass plates in rhythm with her swaying hips, tantalizing and mesmerizing the assembly. Javad had seen fit to allow her to retain this one possession, for they both knew it would aid her in finding a permanent home. She should fetch a handsome price, yet in all their travels he had not received a bid that he had found worthy of her beauty and talents. However, in truth, the slaver was ready to be rid of her; she was forever complaining about life on the road. She needed to seduce a master, and the sooner, the better. Never again did she wish to gaze out upon an endless track of rural byway.
Searching faces as she spun about to reveal her flesh, she noticed one who was entranced. She stopped midspin, and her silks twirled around her. Asmin gasped sharply. A hard-looking man in a crimson tunic was raping her with his gaze. She could practically feel his fingers digging into her flesh and the weight of his intent by the glare that bored into her core. With his hairy arms folded across his deep chest, he smiled a rapacious grin that only broadened when their eyes met.
“I’ll have a look at this one, you fat, Persian whoremonger,” the curly-haired, grinning stranger said as he made his way to the stage. The hem of his tunic was trimmed in cloth of gold, and he wore a thick silver chain around his neck.
“Of course,” Javad replied politely, his change in mien revealing that the man’s discourtesy had wounded him. The slave master accepted the coin and stepped back to allow the burly man access.
Asmin froze in place on the planks. Gruff, leathery hands gripped her by her chin and yanked her to stare up at the red-clad ruffian. One of his bottom teeth had been replaced with a canine of pure gold. Asmin focused on this because the rest of his visage was too horrible to behold for too long. His presence was that of a scavenger seeking a left-behind morsel. Asmin’s belly clenched, and she was reminded of the bug-eyed buzzards that soared near Mt. Ararat, circling over a mountain cat’s kill, waiting to pick bits of flesh from the bones of an already-defeated enemy. Her body quaked, and she moved to turn away when his hold relented, yet he snatched her tight once more and restrained her quivering lips inches from his own.
“You have much fear in you,” he murmured softly so only she could hear. “I will devour your fear. I will drink it up like a succulent wine. Yes. You will do nicely.”
Asmin whimpered and felt something hard bump her hip. Thinking it his erect prick, her eyes darted downward, and his fingers unclenched to allow her to look. She saw a coiled whip of braided leather attached to his broad leather girdle. He sneered and gave a low, rumbling chuckle.
“My lips will never caress you, but you will become as familiar with the kiss of my whip as you are with your own name,” he taunted with a satisfied twinkle in his wicked eyes.
“She is mine! There will be no other bidders,” he said loudly and then glowered over the crowd. The other men were shocked into silence. He turned to Javad. “I am only giving you five gold coins. I am Braxus, the mayor’s champion charioteer in the arena. Say a word about the price, and I’ll have the
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