Ianthe put a fingertip to her lips.
“How? When? Thank the gods!”
“Princess Drifa, since you are in such a talkative mood, would you like to come forward and demonstrate for us,” Imad requested in a voice that was not a request, but an order.
Imad spoke in Arabic, but another young eunuch, Habib, translated everything he said into several other tongues represented in the harem: Greek, Italian, even Saxon English.
“Uh, my apologies. I just wanted to make sure Marizke’s stomach ailment is better.”
Habib translated for her.
Imad arched his brows with suspicion, but just then the stomach growled in the heavy concubine sitting in front of them, and everyone laughed, thinking it was Marizke.
“Isobel, then,” Imad said, smiling at the woman in front, a favorite of Bahir’s from the Saxon lands. They soon found out why. “Isobel will demonstrate the correct way to ‘Milk the Tree.’ ”
Isobel stepped forward and took from Imad’s hands a long marble phallus, similar to the ones Drifa had seen in the Miklagard marketplace.
Several of the women giggled.
Imad cast them frowns, and they immediately stopped, knowing the head eunuch had methods of punishment that did not show, like whipping the bottoms of their feet or making them wear a small metal rod inside the body for an entire day. One young woman even had a rod put up her backside, a particularly painful punishment for daring to defy the queen mother, who’d ordered her to disrobe and sit on the lap of a visiting horse breeder the prince wanted to impress.
Drifa had been here only a week, but she knew the best course was to make oneself as inconspicuous as possible. Even then, it was only her high status as a Norse princess, and possible sixth wife, that saved her from some agonizing or humiliating chastisement.
Everything the harem concubines did was intended for the master’s benefit. The way they dressed (scantily when in his private quarters) or ate (root vegetables presumably making them lustsome, though carrots never made Drifa think of sex) or cared for their bodies (shaved nether parts being a preference), even the thoughts in their heads (nothing of substance), were intended to please this one man only.
But wait, Isobel was doing something amazing with the marble phallus. She was kneeling with her head bent back so that her neck was arched. Little by little, she eased the entire bloody manpart all the way in. Then out. Then in.
“It is all in the art of relaxing the throat muscles,” Imad told them. “Let the master touch your hearts.”
From the inside? Is he demented? “Good gods!” Drifa murmured, despite her resolve not to speak.
Ianthe’s jaw had dropped with astonishment.
“Now, notice how she milks the tree on the end before easing it in again. And sometimes the good concubine will let the tree do all the work.” He smirked and stepped forward, taking the phallus in hand and thrusting it in and out of Isobel’s receptive mouth, mimicking the sex rhythm.
“She deserves every accolade Bahir gives her,” Ianthe whispered in amazement.
“Better her than me,” Drifa whispered back.
Imad patted Isobel on the head when he was done with her, almost as if she’d performed the act on him. “You may have the rest of the day to yourself, sweet one.”
Isobel smiled coyly, but as she was leaving the tent, Drifa noticed the look of desolation on her pretty face. She also noted the livid scar on her one cheek, the kind left by the tail of a lash. How many punishments had Isobel suffered to reach this state of compliance?
After their lesson, they went off for the midday meal of fruit and olives. Drifa and Ianthe had only a few moments of privacy, not wanting to draw any attention to themselves.
“Tonight,” Ianthe said.
Drifa nodded.
“We must wait for a signal. There will be a distraction.”
She nodded again. “Who is here?”
“Seven of us.”
“Huh?”
“Sidroc, Finn, Ivar, Farle, Gismun, and Ulf.”