Sand and Heat Read online

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  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2003 by Sean Michael

  First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  The Old Raya—2

  The New Raya—4

  Seen—11

  Most Favored—16

  Mine—31

  The Old Raya

  It wasn't even noon yet and already it was hot. Even the thick stones of his raya's palace were no match for the sun's harsh rays during summer. Feyer sighed and lazily waved a hand. One of the boys ran forward and began to fan him.

  He stretched out at the foot of the bed, skin gleaming with sweet oil and sweat, and shook his head, letting his hair fall behind him. Numi, on his knees in front of their raya, feeding the old man small bites of lychee fruit, glanced and him and licked his lips. It made Feyer smile and shift his hips, legs falling open, hand draped elegantly along his hip.

  He looked good.

  With the heat, he wore nothing but his armbands and his markings, bronze and gold along his arms and by his eyes, bright and shining against his skin. His kohl-stained eyelids were the same color as his hair. He was perfect. The raya had said so more than once. And well he should be: he had been chosen, made into the perfect bodyslave at a young age.

  The old man, skin as wrinkled and dry as Feyer's was smooth and oiled grunted and waved Numi away. The black-eyed boy left the tray of fruit at Feyer's side and murmured quietly. “He had no more than two bites."

  Feyer nodded. Their raya had been eating less and less, the heat bothering him more this year than others. Feyer would feed the old man himself. Taking a fruit, he ate it slowly, letting the juices flow from the corner of his mouth. He moaned softly, eyes slanting toward his raya. The old man's eyes were on him.

  He took another fruit and placed it between his lips and then crawled up the bed, the white silk soft beneath his hands and knees. He climbed over the raya, brushing against the man, letting the fingers of one hand trail up from ankle to hip, wrapping around the mostly flaccid cock.

  Pressing his lips to his raya's, he passed the fruit. The old man laughed weakly, but ate.

  He smiled and moved back down the frail body, sliding the slim shaft into his mouth.

  He tongued and sucked the flesh, bringing it slowly to life, twitch by slow twitch. It took longer now than it used to, and he'd been at it quite awhile, the old man's cock still not fully hard when gnarled fingers dropped onto his head, brushing through his hair and tugging him off.

  "My Raya?"

  "I'm tired and old. You cannot make stone pour blood."

  He protested. “No. No, my Raya, there is plenty of blood left in you."

  "I m too old and it is too hot. Come sit by me, let me look on your beauty as you pleasure yourself."

  Pouting, he nodded.

  He reached first for the tray of fruits. “Will you at least continue eating, my Raya?"

  The old man's chuckles turned to coughing and Feyer frowned, worry filling him.

  "You all fuss over me like old women."

  "You are our Raya, our Master."

  The old man's hand slid along his cheek and Feyer nuzzled into the touch.

  A soft kiss was placed on his forehead and then his raya lay back among his pillows. “Entertain me, my boy."

  Feyer kissed the hand that clothed and fed him and did as he was bid. His hands traveled over his own body. The oil was slick beneath his fingers, making his soft skin even softer. Moaning, he let his raya hear his pleasure. He took his time, fingers moving over every part of himself. Displaying his beauty, he made the little noises he knew his raya loved.

  His own hand was warm, familiar and comfortable around his erection and at last he came. “My Raya!"

  The air seemed cooler now, a hint of breeze carrying with it the promise that summer would pass them by and leave the rains behind. He waited for the words of praise, for his raya to speak of the pleasure he took in watching Feyer's passion.

  The silence hurt and he raised his head. A soft smile turned up the corners of his raya's lips, the dark eyes staring. Feyer offered a smile and raised his hand to his face, licking delicately at his own seed. The expression on the old man's face did not change.

  "My Raya?” His whisper was a trembling echo of his earlier cry and he put his hand on the old man, shaking him, but his raya's stare remained unbroken, his body still.

  Feyer laid his cheek over the old man's heart, eyes closing on tears; there was only silence there.

  The New Raya

  Feyer didn't want to be here.

  He didn't want a new raya or a new home or new ways.

  He certainly didn't want to have to wait hand and foot upon the giant who now owned him. Amut was ... big all over. And very ... active.

  Feyer pouted. The least he deserved was a couple of slaves at his own beck and call, but instead he was expected not only to care completely for himself, but for his raya as well.

  He didn't like it at all.

  "If you spill that wine again, the Meun Amut will have your hide, chadan.” The dark skinned lad who belonged to the raya's second warned, voice pitched soft and low. “He does not abide clumsiness."

  "I am not clumsy.” Feyer sneered and upended the flagon, letting it drop from his hands when it was empty.

  A shadow fell over them and the boy beside him fell to his knees. A low, familiar voice growled, “No. You are willful and graceless and prideful, but you are not clumsy."

  Feyer struck a pose, fluid and relaxed. “Graceless, Amut?"

  The boy beside him began to tremble as the room fell utterly silent. Amut bent down and touched the boy's shoulder. “Return to your master, little one.” Then the brown eyes turned on him.

  Feyer felt a slice of fear go through him. He could wind up dead for his insolence. He dropped his eyes half-closed and shook out his hair, letting his hips slouch further forward; if he died at least he wouldn't be here. “Grace and poise and pleasure. It's all I know.” He looked at the big man from beneath his lashes. “You knew that when you bought me. Did you not?"

  Amut arched an eyebrow and snapped his fingers. His Second appeared at his shoulder immediately. “Strip it and stake it outdoors. If it struggles, shave it.” Then Amut turned his back on him, dismissing him.

  Feyer's mouth dropped open, protests springing to his lips. He had expected anger, perhaps a beating or even death, certainly not dismissal. The words died on his lips as the raya's Second grabbed his hair in one hand and a knife in the other.

  The knife pressed against his forehead, cold, black eyes glinting in a still face. “How will we do this, chadan?” The blade bit in, a line of hot blood sliding down his forehead.

  Feyer glanced at Amut, but the raya still had his back turned, unconcerned about what might happen to him. He lowered his eyes, hiding the tears that had sprung up and showing his acquiescence at the same time. He could remember his old raya punishing him only twice, could remember the tears in the old, dark eyes—it had always hurt him more than Feyer himself.

  He was pressed outside, dragged over to the center of the village, and summarily stripped. Two men hammered four large stakes into the ground, leather thongs fastened to each. As Feyer watched, trembling, the sun began to set.

  "Down and fasten your feet, dog. We will see how graceful you are when the nig
ht hunters come for you.” The Second's voice was flat and humorless, hard as stone.

  His hands were trembling, slipping as he fastened the leather bindings around his own ankles. Night hunters? A soft shudder went through him as he could only imagine what those might be, putting savage faces to the howls he had heard in the night before.

  His hands were fastened, the ties tested, and then the men left him, spread out like a sacrifice upon the dirt, the sky turning from rose to violet. He tried to be grateful that he was face-down, that he wouldn't be able to see the beasts that came to kill him, that his tears would fall unseen into the sands.

  He tried, but he wasn't succeeding very well.

  This was not what he'd had in mind when he'd pushed and sulked. Amut did not react the way he had expected. These tribal people were strange to him, not that it really mattered anymore. He tried to relax, to go limp, but he was bound tight enough that he could not and soon his muscles began to protest his position.

  He could hear the laughter and chatter from the communal supper, smell the roasted meat, the fresh cut fruit, the wine. All he could taste was bitter sand.

  Soon his tears flowed freely. He hated crying; it made his eyes red and swollen and his nose run. It was not very pretty.

  The true panic didn't set in until full darkness fell, the tent flaps falling closed, drumming and soft songs filling the air. Then there was the silver-quick flashes of lizards, the slick slither sounding close by, and the jerky, curious long-legged searching of insects.

  He prayed for a quick death. And, as hour followed hour, he begged for it. No one came. No one heard. Even the cattle were checked, fed, comforted when they lowed, but it was as if he were invisible.

  By the time the sky lightened, his shoulders were on fire, his thighs covered with a series of bites that were matched by the welts on his shoulders, his wrists and ankles bloody from twisting. He had no voice left. His curls, filthy and limp, trailed in the dirt, beetles running through them.

  Now, he thought, now that the sun's deadly heat had arrived, he would be either killed or cut down.

  Hours seemed to pass, the sun growing brighter and brighter, children stopping to kick dust at him while their mothers busied themselves, before pair of dark feet settled before him. “Are you feeling graceful now, chadan?"

  He tried to speak but all that issued from his throat was a croak. Despite the pain he managed to shake his head, one brief movement that had him whimpering.

  Amut stepped away, speaking loud enough for him to hear. “Hobble the chadan and have him serve all who ask. If he dishonors me, bring him back here. If he struggles, shave him. If he behaves well, bring him to me at sunset."

  He did not understand. He was stripped of his beauty, his grace, his dignity. He would serve others and make no sound, but he was no longer fit to serve the raya, why would Amut want him returned?

  He was jerked up, muscles screaming as his arms and knees were strapped tightly together, a long piece of leather tied around his throat. The dark eyes of the boy from—was it only the night before?—looked at him with pity as he was forced to his knees. “You were warned, chadan. Behave yourself today; please do not anger the Meun Amut again. I will help you, if you will allow it."

  He hated it, hated that his beauty and grace were thrown to the sands like crumbs from a raya's table, hated that he must rely on this boy who should be serving him.

  Lowering his eyes, he allowed his head to nod, ever so slightly.

  "Come, Chadan, serve your tribe.” He was offered a sip of water and then he began the painful trip into the group of tents.

  * * * *

  He was clean, powdered, and perfumed. No one expected him to serve, to move, to kowtow. Jewels were draped over his throat, threaded through his hair, his ears, the shining ring in his cock. He was not abused, not beaten, nothing but so gentle hands stroking him to hardness again and again.

  Feyer was miserable.

  That first night he had been led to his raya, the corners of his mouth torn, his ass raw and aching, blisters on his hands and feet, one stripe across his sunburned shoulders. Amut had been lounging with his Second, talking and laughing, heavy cup of wine in his hand. The dark eyes had landed upon him and he had flinched from the lack of concern, the cold distance.

  "Tell me, Rifik, what did the chadan say his purpose was?"

  "Grace and poise and pleasure, Meun Amut.” Rifik's voice had laughed at him, taunted him.

  "I see.” Amut had shifted, holding out his cup to be refilled. “Then I believe it should begin to perform its duty so that my fortune was not ill-spent on a common whore. Have it washed and made beautiful. I feel the need to decorate."

  Then Feyer had been led away, his wounds dressed, his face painted. He had been draped in silks and furs and brought to the raya's tent where he had been attached to the wall, gagged, and promptly ignored, barring the periodic caresses when his erection faltered.

  And there he had stayed, allowed down only to eat, relieve himself, bathe and sleep, for night after night after night.

  He'd long since stopped crying, it only gave him headaches.

  He was lonely, exhausted and growing more and more numb. Every night Amut took his pleasure in slaves with half the looks and skills as himself. At first it had angered him. Then made him sad and now ... he was numb.

  Two boys were curled on either side of Amut, thin limbs tangling with the heavy muscles, covered in ebony. Timot crawled in silently, knelt at the end of the furs silently, waiting for Amut's acknowledgement.

  Timot had been good to him, assuring his wrists and ankles did not chafe, that he ate.

  "You wish to speak?” Amut's low voice seemed to fill the room.

  "Yes, Meun Amut. My Raya, your second, he asked if perhaps you could spare these chadani, as he has a visitor within his tent."

  Amut nodded, slapping one playfully as the boy stole a kiss. Timot did not rise.

  "You have more to say?"

  "Yes, Meun Amut.” Timot's voice was low and soft, full of respect. “My raya requested that I offer myself to your pleasure, to replace the chadani borrowed."

  A long silence followed and then Amut sighed. “No. You should return to your raya, Favored One. I have no need for you."

  No, Feyer thought sulkily, the man had made love almost constantly; he had no need of Timot. He watched as the boy bowed and left. Timot smiled softly at him, but he didn't have the heart to smile back.

  The flap of the tent closed behind the boy and then he and Amut were alone.

  "You are not as beautiful displayed upon the wall as you were the first night I took you.” Amut's voice startled him, made him jerk slightly in his bonds. The large man was looking at him, eyes and face solemn. “You underestimated your abilities, chadan."

  He licked his lips, his mouth was so dry. “I don't understand."

  Amut stood, stalking across the room like a sleek cat, stopping only to retrieve a goblet. “I know that you do not. I also know that you will."

  Amut took a drink, the smell of the wine bright and sweet. Feyer almost sobbed at the cruelty, and then his chin was lifted, wet lips covering his, cool wine splashing into his mouth.

  Gasping, he swallowed the liquid greedily, tears filling his eyes at the sudden and unexpected kindness.

  Their lips parted, Amut's eyes focused and still and looking right at him. “More?"

  "P-please."

  A nod, a sip, and those lips covered his again, giving him the liquid he so desperately needed. Twice more, Amut fed him, the final time lapping softly at his open lips.

  "It does not have to be always a struggle, chadan."

  "I wish only to serve you, Raya."

  "Do you?” Amut offered him another drink, another kiss. His head spun from the wine, from the loss of breath, from the gentle attention washing over his shattered nerves.

  "Yes, Meun Amut, it is what I was made for. To fill my Raya's every need.” The tears in his eyes overflowed. He ached to do his d
uty but every time he had tried it had only made things worse. “I don't understand."

  "What do you not understand, little chadan?” Hands, warm and unbelievably strong, stroked over his shoulders, his chest, touching him, feeling him. The husky voice rolled over him, tongue licking at his tears. “All you need do is give yourself to me. I will give you all you need."

  "I am yours.” His tears continued to fall, Amut's care unexpected, almost shocking after the last days.

  "Yes, little chadan. You are mine. Would you serve your raya or do you prefer to decorate my walls?” The rough, hot tongue lapped at his cheeks.

  His body strained toward Amut's; he knew only one answer to the question, knew it with his entire being, it was who he was. “I would serve my Raya."

  His response must have been appropriate, for he was rewarded with a long, deep kiss and hot hands released his wrists, allowing them to fall upon the sleek strong shoulders. He filled his raya's mouth with a sob, hands sliding over the warm flesh, shaping and re-learning the muscular contours. His shoulders ached, muscles stretched and sore, but he ignored his pains for pleasures that were offered.

  Hands caught beneath his buttocks and lifted him, his world, so long still and empty, suddenly swaying and filled with the feel and taste and smell of his raya. He was laid upon soft furs, the heat of skin covering him from above. The kiss never ended.

  He was drowning in sensation, drowning in his raya, and foreign as it was to him, he didn't want it to stop. His old raya had never overwhelmed him like this, never filled his senses and mind so completely.

  The furs were cool and slick against him, his raya's hands rubbing him, petting him—but not as if he were a pet, instead touching deeply, touching muscles and bones and leaving the knowledge of that hand within his veins. He arched into the touches, moved and twisted into them, searching for more.

  "Do you see, little one? Do you understand what awaits you when you find your place in honor?” The words filled his head as he gasped for air. His raya slowly turned the ring in his cock, possessive fingers tracing the thin skin of his shaft.