Fascinated

puckered scars. He stiffened; she persisted, washing the root that was darker than the hairless skin at his groin, the stalk that was thicker than the circumference of her fingers, the purple-tinted crown that cried crystal tears.

She kissed him, there on the tip of his manhood.

He grabbed her head, palms stopping her ears so that all she could hear was the beat of her own heart that matched the tiny heart that beat against her lips.

She tasted him.

Slippery salt coated her tongue.

She opened her lips against him-smooth flesh dragging over smooth flesh, mouth opening wider-

Suddenly the heat cupping her ears disappeared, and a hard hand grasped her braid, pulling her head back while the sound of labored breathing surrounded her.

Muhamed's hard features were drawn; his black eyes filled with-what?

Her heart lodged inside her throat. 'Did I hurt you?'

'A man can gain release through a woman's mouth as well as her vulva,' he gritted.

Megan saw behind his harshness.

He wanted the release he spoke of. He wanted it so much that he was afraid of it.

'I would enjoy bringing you to orgasm in such a manner,' she said calmly.

His mouth twisted-a grimace of pain rather than pleasure. 'What if I told you that some concubines enjoy it when eunuchs penetrate their back orifices? Would you enjoy that, too?'

Back orifices…

His meaning slammed through her. The image hovered in her thoughts, refusing to fade. It was overlapped by a vivid picture of an artificial phallus.

She had never imagined such acts as he conjured… had she?

When she had picked cucumbers from her small garden, she had never imagined the object to which their shape bore a striking resemblance… had she?

When she clenched the muscles inside her vulva, she had never noticed that her buttocks also tightened… had she?

When his fingertips had plunged into her crevice last night, she had not wondered what would happen if only they had sunk a little lower, a little deeper… bad she?

'I think'-Megan swallowed, the stretch of her neck making it difficult-'that if an act brings pleasure to a woman… or a man… then surely it is a cause for rejoice, rather than shame. I think it is those who judge the needs of others that are shameful.'

'There are acts that are shameful.' The beginnings of pain pricked her scalp. 'Acts that some men require that are not natural.'

His manhood continued to throb between her fingers; a pulse throbbed at the corner of his mouth.

'What?' she asked carefully. 'What acts do you refer to? A man touching a woman… kissing her vulva? A woman touching a man… and kissing his manhood? You think those acts are unnatural?'

'No.' His hold eased. 'It is not those acts which are shameful.'

What did this man need-or require-that he deemed unnatural?

'I will do anything you wish, Muhamed, so long as you do not hurt me.'

'I wouldn't hurt you.' Something flickered in the depths of his black eyes. 'I have never hurt a woman.'

Megan believed him.

'I saw a young girl and boy once.'

The words popped out of her mouth before she could stop them. A stillness came over him; only the throbbing pulse inside his manhood was alive, clocking the passing seconds.

Muted sounds drifted up from the side of the inn-they came from another world, a place that had no bearing on a eunuch and a widow.

'The country, like your harem, is not always a place of privacy,' she continued softly, remembering… 'They lay together in a field. It was in the spring. The grass was newly green. I watched them over a hedge.'

'What did they do?' he asked hoarsely.

'The girl sat astride the boy's hips, while he lay back and fondled her breasts. She rode him like a man would ride a horse.'

'Did the sight arouse you?'

The very memory aroused her.

'Yes.'

His eyes closed, lashes thick against his cheek. 'You gave me pleasure last night, Megan. More than I had ever thought possible.'

His eyelids opened; his black eyes were bleak. 'I do not know if I will be able to share that pleasure with you again.

Eunuchs such as I grow erect, but it is… difficult… sometimes impossible… to obtain release.'

She did not want release if he could not obtain his own.

'Then there is no need for you to give me pleasure-'

'There is every need, madam.'

'Why?' she challenged.

'Because you are a very special woman, Megan. And I would know you.'

The protest rising inside her throat died.

'I felt your clitoris harden against my fingers last night,' he continued, voice and face strained. 'Now I want to feel it harden against my tongue. Lie back, Megan. Let me learn your body. Let me give you pleasure. It's all I can offer you. It's all I can offer any woman.'

Her chest felt as if she squeezed it instead of the washcloth.

Silently, Megan handed him the damp cloth and lay back. The ceiling had leaked at one time; a maze of brown water stains ringed it.

'Spread your legs.'

Firm fingers helped her. Opened her. Exposed her.

Something icy wet touched her-the washcloth.

She tensed-the muscles inside her vulva, the muscles inside her buttocks.

The cold washcloth warmed to her body, parted her body, delved inside her body.

He was… stuffing the cloth up inside her.

She winced, invaded by his finger, by more washcloth, his finger again, and yet more washcloth. Just when she lifted her head and started to protest that she was not a jar which needed to be cleaned out by swirling a cloth inside, he took her into his mouth.

Liquid heat. Scalding moisture.

Megan's head banged the pillow of crumpled blankets; the mattress squeaked in protest. She stared up at the largest water stain; darker circles rimmed the outer edges, more re-cent leaks, a part of it yet separate. Just as Muhamed's sexuality had been a part of his nature, yet separate from his life.

Thoughts of Muhamed and images of the circle of water slowly blurred until sight and sensation became one, and that one was his tongue and the washcloth that was tightly packed inside her.

He stabbed the very tip of her, his tongue hotter than had been his fingertip. Wetter. Faster.

A drop of cool water trickled down her vulva and into the crevice between her buttocks. There was no room for air inside her body, yet her lungs independently sucked it in, deeper, deeper…

Her peak of enjoyment hit her with the force of lightning, searing, rending. Dimly she had time to wonder who had coined the term 'peak of enjoyment'-there was nothing remotely enjoyable about the agony that rent her body asunder; was this what Muhamed was afraid of, this pleasure that consumed one's very soul-then she was crying out. At the same time her body convulsed. It felt as if his tongue were sucking out her insides.

She tightened her muscles-vulva, buttocks-and could not stop it. With each spasm another inch of her was drawn out.

No, not her... the washcloth.

He was slowly pulling the washcloth out of her even as her muscles clenched down, trying to stay the