Free Chronicles of Raan (Three BDSM Fantasy Novellas) by Tara Crescent

at the goblet. Goosebumps rose on my skin; I very slightly moved towards him; my lips parted, swaying, swaying in response to his words.
    “Once, I was a Bull of Mah’reb, and for ninety-nine nights, women offered themselves to me…” His voice is soft, remembering. A small part of me is surprised by this statement. Why would someone of Mah’reb nobility choose to leave his birthright, and teach instead at the foremost pleasure-slave training center in all the galaxy?
    “You have invoked a forgotten pleasure, Leila,” he said, coming up to me, taking the goblet from my nerveless hands; setting it down on a table, and then, tracing a path with one finger down my jaw, tracing the outline of my lips… “And I am honoured to accept your gift.”
    The drumbeats played in the background. The beats had sped up slightly; my heart resonated in response.
    My goblet was filled once more, and handed to me. I took a sip, and another, feeling the warmth run through me. The drink was easing my nervousness and my awkwardness around this instructor that I’d fantasised about for over a year. What remained was pure arousal.
    I gazed at him; drinking him in. His dark brown eyes; his dark beard, just starting to grey, I ached to feel his beard against my breasts and my pussy. Would it itch? Tickle? I burned to find out. I took an instinctive step towards him.
    He took a step towards me as well, his hands reaching for my sash, untying it, pulling my dress over my head. I was naked underneath; and his hands caressed my body, tracing the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts, the softness of my thighs. I moaned, my arms reaching blindly towards him, wanting to feel his length against mine.
    “When the girl presents herself during the Ninety-Nine Night Festival, there are handlers who take her, and carry her over to the bed.” His voice was like smooth wine; it was velvety soft, yet it burned me. My eyes were fixed on his face.
    He lifted me easily, his actions echoing his words, placed me on the bed. My thighs were instinctively closed, I fought against covering my breasts from his smouldering gaze. But he was having none of my coyness.
    “The handlers tie her hands to the bed, so she may not touch, only be touched…” His hands were on mine; and my wrists were swiftly tied to the two corners of the bed. The sound of the drumbeats rose; they were beating faster now; harder; and the intensity in this room was rising to match the cadence of the drums, and blood was pounding in my veins…
    “And then, so the girl may not falter at the last, her legs are pried open and tied, so the gift be freely given…” His hands were on my ankles; parting my legs; tying them to the opposite ends of the bed.
    I moaned again, my eyes closed; longing crashing in waves over me.
    He sat at the end of the bed, his eyes gazed on my pussy. I could feel the flush wash over my entire body; there was nowhere to hide.
    “Sometimes, when the girl is something truly special…” he said, his eyes soft, as they caught mine, “a treat is added. The girl is gently whipped so that she might rise, even higher…”
    The strokes were soft on my skin; leaving flickering trails of heat. I whimpered in arousal and in utter pleasure, as the strokes gently caressed my thighs and my stomach; struck my breasts and my nipples with just enough speed to them that I moaned aloud with extreme pleasure. The strokes moved lower, still lower, making their unerring way towards my pussy, and I could feel myself raise my hips in a mute plea…
    But the strokes didn’t fall on my pussy, instead, I felt Hassan’s tongue on my pussy, sucking on my lips, licking my slit, flicking my clitoris in a move that was driving me towards an edge; an edge that I both feared and welcomed.
    There was no respite; Hassan’s hands were on my thighs, his mouth between my legs, and I was moaning, whimpering, begging him to continue; crying in need as his tongue licked me steadily. The sound of