The tiresome British have been here for some time and find our ceremonies “fascinating” in a “quaint manner”; believing we are their British India. They do love parades in pretty clothes. And that is when I saw him, standing among the crowd of the faithful with two other “redcoat” officers kept back behind my official guard, as I entered for my official duties.
Our gazes locking upon the other caused a feeling as palpable as one’s skin in an electrical storm.
Upon my exiting the temple, he was still there, just beyond the iron gates, separating us from them.
I spoke to my man and kept on, and the Britisher was collected and brought the secret way to my private apartments.
He was stripped — a fine figure from my hidden vantage — as he was washed and redressed in silks and finest linen, with only a few protests of good-natured curiosity from him, but no excessive, disrespectful attitude of superiority, or entitlement, so often rampant in one of his nation and race.
“What is your name, sir?”
He was startled by my appearance, and his eyes bulged, so did his linen trousers, when he beheld me in my simple gown, cut low between my generous breasts. He appeared unable to speak, or think.
“Sir. Your personal name, nor more.”
“Sutton Palm—. Sutton. Ma’am.” Hm. Very respectful, and attractive.
“Tell me what you thought, and felt, as your gaze first met mine. Exactly.” He blushed, rather terribly.
“It wouldn’t be proper, ma’am. Great Lady.”
“Tell me, or I’ll send you away, this instant.” A look of distress distorted his fine, honest features. “Exactly, sir. Now.” His gaze met mine in challenge, and then fell away.
“Nothing. My mind blanked, but I-I felt as one when caught in an electrical storm which makes the hairs upon one’s body stand.” Ah. Good answer.
* * * *
I took him by the hand and led him to a soft bed of pillows, and we reclined together, scandalously together.
He proved a rarity of the British line, a true gentleman, no matter any facts of his birth, as he had yet to be disrespectful and attempt to take liberties with me, by hand or word, or rogue’s eye, despite my boldness of having him brought to my private apartments, and wearing what I wore.
Sweet fruit and fine wine were brought to us and soft music played upon the breeze from the open music balcony.
“Why...? Why, Great Lady, am I here?”
“Why do you call me that? ‘Great’?”
“Yes. It’s self-evident to anyone who has eyes to see you.” Hm.
“You say that to all—.”
“NO. No, I don’t. I’ve never.”
“You’ve never loved? Or made love?” He blushed. “You blush? A man full grown? One of your British Majesty’s soldiers?”
“We were ordered very specifically not to take liberties with any ladies, especially any highborn lady.”
“For there are Ladies of India locked aside just for that privilege. Aren’t there?”
He gravely sighed.
“Do you love one of them, or many of—?”
“No, My Great Lady.”
“I do not! I.… My friends were taking me.... Well, I shan’t say where, but we were stopped, for ‘a superior being was passing,’ as we were told. We laughed and waited to see this celestial deity come to earth.”
“Really? And whom, pray tell, did you see?” His gaze fell, before humbly meeting mine.
“You, Great Lady. You.”
I blushed, my body abruptly flushed with heat. And in that moment, we were no longer one above and one below.
* * * *
He briefly pressed his cheek to mine, and Sutton’s words and humble attitude had opened my heart. I hadn’t expected that. I’d had him brought to me for amusement; but now we both felt a draw of—.
A cleared throat and a message brought to my ear; giving me time to postpone my heart’s impending bloom.
“Excuse me. I must go to my father. Please, anything that is mine is yours. Send for whatever you desire.” I left him, but left instruction with my ladies and eunuchs before answering my father’s needs.
Sutton was asleep, when I returned, lying in dishabille in my own bed. My head lady came to me, as I watched him through the latticed wall.
“We did as ordered, My Lady. Brought ALL your women before him to see; for the British all believe themselves great pashas, and must be served.”
“His eye appraised each, at length.” I frowned. “Your Britisher was told clearly that whatever he wanted was his, WHOEVER he wanted, and … however many, I tastelessly added.”
“He said, ‘I have already made MY choice. I only hope and pray I am HER choice.’ Then he sent them all away, My Lady.”
“Why? Why’d he send them away? They’re exquisite, every one, in every way, or they’d not be mine. Why?”
The woman almost spoke, but bowed and made a gesture to look.
He was asleep, but stirring, and I left my hiding and stood over him, his fine face and form cast in moonlight and humble honesty. I stroked his face and he awoke fully, and the gentle, deep light in his eyes warmed my soul.
“Hullo, Great Lady,” as if relieved at my very presence.
“Hullo, Britisher. Sutton.” He smiled, and that warmed more than my heart.
And we lay side by side all the night till morn, chaste and lost in deep gazes and soft, heartfelt whispers.
Our hardcore main line
[sensuality is R, NC17, X, XXX]
medium and hard erotica / sensual romance / romantic erotica
Our softcore line
[sensuality is PG13, Soft R]
soft erotica / sensual romance / romantic erotica and general fiction
Our nonfiction line
[PG13, R, NC17, X, XXX]
Other projects Neale Sourna has written and have been published beyond PIE.
Copyright 2019 Neale Sourna
Trademarks belong to their respective owners. All rights reserved.
PIE: Perception Is Everything(TM)
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