by Merri Todd Webster

THE OVERTURE: This is a companion piece and homage to 'Market Day' by Temaris, published with her kind consent. In addition, I shall borrow her disclaimer because I liked it so much:

<grovel> Paramount <grovel>

Enough said on that score. I just hope they're not tapping my phone after 'Crossing the Boundaries.'.

Okay. I finally tie Harry up in this one. (I've been looking for a way to do it, and I'm sure he'll thank me handsomely.) We're talkin' m/m sex, shackles with chains, and campy costumes, so if you have a problem with any of the above, go someplace else where it's safe.

We're also talking rather, uh, purple prose, somewhat different from my usual style, maybe even a little over-the-top in spots. It wasn't deliberate, it just happened that way. (I'm just a medium, my dears, an extra-large medium.) Just wanted to warn you and let you know that I'm aware of it.

Thanks to Amirin, yet again, for faithful beta-reading, useful suggestions, and general friendship. I did the costumes for this one.

On with the show!

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He had been waiting so very long. Minutes seemed like hours and hours like days here in the harem, where there was nothing to do but wait. Oh, they had ways to amuse themselves; games were always in progress, sometimes for days; inventive souls took turns telling stories by the fountain; there were small cubicles where he could go to practice playing his instrument. And of course there was the time spent on meals, exercise, baths and skin treatments, medical examinations, and sleep. Still, after all that, there were times when time stood still and there was nothing to do but sleep, like an animal, to make the boredom go away. And when he woke, the boredom came back, as rested as he was. It was hard to be always waiting. Harry had still not gotten used to it.

He was sitting on his bed, practicing fingerings on his flute without sounding it, when the summons came. "You." The frowning, dark-skinned eunuch stopped at the foot of the bed and aimed a slender finger at Harry. "Tonight is your turn. Bring the flute." At last.

Heart pounding, Harry sprang off the bed and stood with bowed head, obedient. He allowed one attendant to take charge of his flute, wrapping it in silk, and the other to shackle his wrists and ankles. The shackles were light but strong, and no concubine, male or female, left the harem without them. He kept his head bowed as he was led between the rows of beds, but his eyes flicked from side to side, catching jealousy, relief, or simply indifference on the faces of the other concubines. Some of the handsomest men he had ever seen were housed here, men of all sorts: fair young men with skin like cream, hair like gold, eyes like emeralds; dark-skinned youths with sculpted muscles, their rough hair braided or hanging uncut in natural locks; redheads of every shade from strawberry to bronze, their eyes blue or brown or green or hazel, their skin not marred but enhanced by freckles. And elsewhere, Harry knew, there were women, as beautiful as the men and as numerous, housed separately. All these concubines belonged to the prince; their variety was his to enjoy. Yet Harry had never seen anyone else like himself, with his coloration; his dark hair, dark eyes, and golden skin were unique.

In his relatively short time in the harem, Harry had not been chosen before, so he was not accustomed to the elaborate routine of preparation which followed his summons. First, he was bathed even more thoroughly than usual: wetted down, scrubbed with a rough square of woven fibers, soaped and rinsed, then finally oiled and wiped clean of the excess. He could not help but respond to the touches, brisk though they were, to the probing fingers that spread the oil along the cleft of his buttocks and around the sensitive opening there. He knew what that meant. The chief of the harem snickered at Harry's incipient erection. "Save that for the prince, beautiful. I'm sure he'll enjoy it."

He was then allowed to relax in a tub of hot water while his hair was washed separately: combed, lathered, rinsed, conditioned, rinsed, and combed again. Once out of the tub, Harry was oiled and wiped down a second time before being sent into a sauna room where skin and hair both dried quickly.

When they began to dress him, Harry began to feel. . . something. Nervous? Excited? Afraid? He couldn't say. His nerve endings were tingling, and it wasn't just the hot water and the oil and the attention. He was going to see the prince, the person for whom all this--the harem, the palace, the vast network of officials and servants, the province itself--existed. The person for whom he, Harry, existed. And it was incumbent upon him to please the prince, in any way he was commanded. Could he do it? Would he make their master happy? Or would he be a disappointment, a failure, a disgrace?

He was shackled again, not with plain practical metal but with cuffs of gold on wrists and ankles linked by intricately crafted golden chains. A length of red silk was wound about his loins and tied so that it hung down between his legs, just brushing the chain that joined his ankles. A hooded cape of heavy black fabric, soft but completely opaque, was lowered over his head and adjusted so that his face was hidden. Harry could neither see nor be seen. Only the prince, and the eunuchs who served him in this capacity, might see the concubines who belonged to him.

Harry's flute was placed into his hands, and he was led, blinded by the concealing cape, on a long walk down one corridor and around a corner, up steps and down, outside through air so cool goosebumps came out on his naked legs, and at last into a building even warmer than the rather sultry quarters of the harem. The eunuch and the attendants pressed him ahead of them into a small lift, which rose with them for endless minutes-- a slow machine, or a very tall building? He had no way of knowing. Harry heard the doors open, and he was drawn backward out of the lift. They continued to lead him backward, going in a straight line, until he heard the whisper of large doors being opened by hand, and he was brought into a room that, by its echoes, was a large one. Heavy hands on his shoulders forced him to kneel.

"You will remain here," the eunuch said, his tone more severe than ever, "until the master comes for you. He will enter, he will speak to you, he will remove the cape. If you are not completely cooperative and deferential, he will summon guards who will come instantly to haul you away, and if you are truly disobedient, you will be working under me when the incisions have healed." The eunuch paused, and Harry gulped, now definitely afraid. "May you serve our master well."

Still on his knees, head bowed, looking into the black folds of the cape, Harry listened to the footsteps of the eunuch and the attendants recede, heard the faint boom of the doors being closed. Hoping he was not breaking protocol, he settled down, buttocks on heels, the backs of his hands resting on his knees as he held the flute. To calm himself, he measured out his breaths: inhale on a count of four, hold for a count of four, exhale on a count of four, wait for a count of four.

Waiting. Waiting again, only now not bored, but anxious, frightened, almost sick with the desire to please. <Only to please him. That's what I'm here for.> The counting of the breaths helped steady him, but still the minutes elongated until each one was a glittering gem strung on an invisible strand. <I can wait for ever. If I have to. I won't fail him. But what if I bolt? What if I can't control myself-->

Harry's whole body went rigid as he heard footsteps approaching from behind. <I didn't hear a door! I don't know what to expect. . .> The footsteps stopped, perhaps a few feet away. He could feel a gaze moving over him, taking him in. Taking possession. He tried not to shudder, and failed.

Two more steps, and a hand came to rest on his head. The presence of his master was almost a physical thing, heat on Harry's back, the weight of that hand charged with meaning. The fingers curved, and the cape was slowly drawn away, its folds whispering as they glided up his body. Harry felt cool air and made sure his eyes were on the floor. Moving almost silently now, the feet came around and stopped before him. They were long and slender feet, graceful, fair against brightly colored tiles arranged in an elaborate mosaic. A hand came under his chin, cupping it in warm fingers that were also long and slender, but strong, and drew upward so that he had to raise his eyes to meet his master's.

The prince. A tall slim man with lean strength, not much older than Harry himself, clad in a dark blue robe with long square sleeves and high collar, that plain except for the obvious richness of the fabric. Fair hair, golden touched with ruddy highlights, with eyes as blue as the robe, as blue as the skies Harry remembered, the skies of home. Harry swallowed hard as a faint smile stretched the thin mouth. "You are an exotic, aren't you? They must have gone far from this province to find you."

The voice was light, casual on the surface, touched with humor, but rippled with deeper undertones. Harry licked his lips, uncertain what to answer, whether to answer, was he supposed to talk... The prince took the flute out of Harry's hands and casually drew him to his feet, pulling on the chain between his wrists. "Come."

Now that Harry could look around, he was astonished by the room. He had been made to kneel not far from the foot of an enormous bed. High and canopied, piled with white pillows and richly figured covers, each of its four pillars was carved of some rare dark blue stone, faintly translucent, in the shape of a man with bowed head and hands crossed on his muscular chest. The walls of the chamber were mirrors, all mirrors, seamless silver and shining brightly in the light of the tall candles that stood taller than Harry in their enameled stands.

The prince drew Harry to the bed's foot and sat down on the edge of the mattress, his feet just touching the floor. Carefully he set down the flute beside him. <He likes music,> Harry thought. <He respects the instrument.> The long fingers went to the collar of the robe and ran slowly down the front, pulling it open to bare the long, lean, white-and-gold body.

"Kneel and take me in your mouth."

Harry sank to his knees before his master until he hit the floor with a soft thud, his eyes focusing on the beautiful cock that was right before him. The prince was not entirely erect, but Harry knew he would soon remedy that. A strange rush of confidence filled him, and he felt certain he could please the prince, certain he could satisfy his master, certain, too, that to do so would be the greatest pleasure Harry himself had ever known.

Cuffed hands clasped, Harry saluted the tip of his master's cock with a reverent tongue. The long shaft twitched away from his lips, and returned, visibly thickened. He opened his mouth and enclosed the head, sucking gently. Not too much at first--he wanted to prolong this, if it were allowed him. A soft moan from his master, and Harry swirled his tongue around the somewhat pointed tip, tasting its nectar already. He drew back, daring to give his master's face a quick glance before beginning to lick up and down the sweetly curved length.

The closed eyes and open mouth of the prince assured Harry that was he was doing was acceptable.

"Ah, yes. Oh, so good. You have talent, my exotic beauty, indeed you do. . ."

Harry licked and kissed his master's cock until his own desire to fill his mouth with it was undeniable. He wet his lips first and then slowly took it all in, going down by tiny increments until the whole thing was in his throat. He heard a deep groan and felt a shudder run through the other man's body. Slim fingers slid into his hair, dug into his scalp, holding him still so that hard cock could move in and out at its own pace. Harry sucked intensely, not caring that his lips were getting chafed, that his knees hurt, he couldn't move his head, that his master was fucking his face roughly, needless of Harry's discomfort. The prince groaned, and Harry wanted to hear him groan louder and deeper until the groans broke through into some ineffable new language.

The demanding fingers in his scalp dug in deeper still--one hand grasped a hank of his hair and the other came around behind his head, bracing him for the thrusts that came harder than ever, without restraint. Harry heard an ecstatic groan from somewhere above him and felt the sting as the skin of his lips broke, stretched beyond endurance, and the tang of his own blood mingled in his mouth with the salty-sweet river of his master's come.

Harry sat back on his heels, licking his lips. He was achingly hard, himself, his cock straining against the sheer red fabric of his loincloth, but deeply satisfied by the sight of his master gasping, clutching the edge of the mattress, his cock now relaxed against his thighs. After a moment, the prince managed to climb backward onto the bed, collapsing across the pillows. He drew a deep breath. "You will play for me now," he said hoarsely.

Trying to ignore his insistent desire, Harry unwrapped the silk covering of his flute and polished the instrument with the silk. The prince languidly raised a hand and pointed. "You may sit here." Harry came around the bed, his chains jangling musically, and sat on the prince's right, no more than centimeters away. The prince was so beautiful, fair skin flushed against the dark blue of his robe, fair hair disheveled against the pristine white pillows. Eyes as dark as sapphires and as brilliant rested on Harry's face as he began to play.

He was not sure, later, how long he sat there playing for the prince's pleasure. Once again he was wrapped up in the feeling that the prince's pleasure was all that mattered. Whatever Harry could give to his master, in sexual service, in his music, in any way, he would give, freely and without reservation. He went from one tune to another, the most exquisite tunes he knew, and played them with all his skill, using the instrument to express all that he was feeling, to speak for his total offering of himself.

At last a gentle touch on his thigh stopped him. Finishing off the tune, Harry lowered the flute and took the liberty of looking at his master. "That was beautiful," the prince said. The sincerity in his voice touched Harry so deeply it brought tears to his eyes.

The prince sat up and leaned toward Harry. Harry held his breath as a hand curved around the back of his neck, drawing him closer and bringing him into position. Those sapphire eyes grew larger and larger, filling his vision, blinding him with their beauty in the instant before the prince's mouth closed over Harry's.

The kiss was surprisingly gentle yet unmistakably possessive. In a moment Harry had yielded to the persuasion of those firm lips and opened his mouth, welcoming the hungry caress of his master's tongue. He moaned softly as he was explored, tasted, ravished, feeling penetrated and longing to be penetrated completely, hoping his master would do so. When the prince let go, Harry swayed dizzily, perilously close to the edge of the bed.

"Put away the flute," the prince said. Harry wrapped it up in the silk. "There are drawers set into the side of the bed." Harry felt along the side of the heavy stone frame, found a handle, and pulled. He placed the flute in the drawer without looking away from his master. The prince then shrugged out of his robe, rolling aside to toss it to the floor, and turned back to unwrap the red loincloth, baring Harry's body to his gaze.

"Perfect," the prince murmured. It was Harry's turn to shudder when strong fingers wrapped around his cock, the thumb brushed across its weeping crown. Harry was pushed down against the pillows, softer than the soft pillows of his own bed, and the chain joining his wrists-- forgotten while he played the flute--was fastened to a hook artfully concealed in the carving of the low headboard. Once Harry's hands were safely restrained, the prince removed the cuff from one ankle, leaving the other cuff on, and attached the free cuff to a hook on the side of the bed, enabling him to spread his concubine's legs and kneel between them with little fear of losing control.

"Are you mine?" the prince asked. Harry knew he must answer. He licked his lips.

"Yes, master."

"Will you give me whatever I want?"

"Yes, master."

"Will you take whatever I give you?"

"Yes, master."

The prince smiled approvingly, sending warmth rushing all through his concubine. He began to explore the beautiful body that belonged only to him; to run his hands through the raven hair; to tease the dark nipples that rose up so responsively under his touch; to kiss the luscious mouth again and again; to seek out the sensitive spots on throat, shoulders, chest. Gradually fingers gave way to nails, scraping delicately over the concubine's golden skin, scratching more harshly across the swollen nipples, leaving red marks as they glided over the arched ribs. The prince took hold again of Harry's thick, nearly straight cock, and squeezed hard, making Harry's hips come off the bed. Harry moaned, deliciously aware that his responses were part of the prince's enjoyment. He hoped desperately to be told that he was the finest, the most responsive and beautiful of all concubines.

The prince turned away and pulled out another drawer set into the bedframe. He took out an alabaster bottle on a small saucer, also of alabaster. Setting the saucer down on the bed and the stopper of the bottle on the saucer, he carefully poured a stream of glistening golden oil over the fingers of his right hand. Guessing what was to come, Harry trembled in anticipation. The prince set the bottle on the saucer, re-stopped it, and put both bottle and saucer back in the drawer. Then, smiling, he turned back to his concubine.

"Arch your back and bring your ass off the bed." Harry obeyed, and with his other hand the prince slipped a pillow underneath Harry. Harry's right leg was still chained to the bed, but the prince pushed back the other leg until Harry was stretched open, thighs aching just a little, cock, balls, and asshole exposed.

One gleaming finger probed the cleft of Harry's buttocks, stroking and seeking until its tip rested against the small hole. Harry could not stop trembling. The prince was watching his face, and Harry could not take his eyes away from that intense, searching gaze. He wanted to be seen, to be exposed, as much as he wanted to be penetrated, if not more. Without hurry, the finger pressed in until it slipped inside, into Harry's body. A moan escaped his lips. His trembling became shaking as the prince slowly, carefully sank his finger as far into Harry's asshole as it would go, watching his concubine's face all the while.

Harry could not keep quiet now as his master patiently opened him for penetration. Just the touch of those fingers--first one, then two, and finally three-- brought him close to the edge of ecstasy. He was opened, massaged, loosened, stretched, and he was helpless to resist, hands shackled, legs shackled and kept apart by the man who knelt between them. He didn't want to resist, yet he relished knowing that he couldn't even if he'd wanted to.

He whimpered pathetically when the fingers were withdrawn. The prince climbed over Harry's legs to open another drawer in the bedframe. This time he took out an octagonal box of reddish wood inlaid with amber. He set the box on Harry's stomach and resumed his position between Harry's spread thighs.

With a look of calm consideration, the prince unfastened the box and opened it. The lid lifted toward Harry, blocking his view of the box's contents. One by one, a series of objects was removed from the box and placed casually around it, on Harry's stomach. A long strip of dark leather, its two ends run through a lapis bead. A tiny leather whip, its multiple strands like fringe. And a dildo, the same dark blue as the columns of the bed, as the prince's robe, and big-- longer and thicker than either of the two men.

Harry's master took the length of leather and looped it over his concubine's cock. The bead went up the strands and settled behind Harry's balls, forming an effective cock ring. The prince took the whip and the dildo in one hand, slipped off the bed, and unfastened the chain from the hook.

"On your hands and knees." Scrambling rather awkwardly, Harry knelt facing the headboard, stretching out his arms as the prince dragged the chain forward to put it on the hook again. With a little coaxing in the form of a few smart slaps to his sides and rear, he settled himself on hands and knees, his face not half a meter from the mirror above the headboard. The prince put his hand under Harry's chin and raised the concubine's face so that he was looking directly at the reflection.

"Look at yourself," the prince commanded. Shamed by the amusement in his master's voice, Harry looked. He had been used, chained, even slapped, and he had loved it. His flushed face, the hair falling into his glazed eyes, the rapid breaths, the erection visible below the arch of his belly, all gave him way. The prince ran his hand up Harry's hot cheek, over the disheveled hair and down the length of his back. "You're a born submissive, little one. You live only to please me, don't you?"

The hand under his chin twisted his head to meet the mocking blue eyes. Harry swallowed, with difficulty. "Yes, master."

The prince climbed back onto the bed, behind Harry. Harry watched, in the mirror, as his master anointed the big dildo with the golden oil. "Tell me what you want," the prince demanded. Harry dropped his head, gathered himself together, raised his head to meet the other man's eyes in the mirror. "Please fuck me, master."

The head of the thing was big. It stretched Harry even though he'd had three fingers in him a few moments ago. Harry groaned, feeling the hardness of it, an unyielding thickness harder than any flesh could be. Despite the slow pace at which the dildo entered, it almost hurt; the sensation hovered on the edge of pain; it crossed over into pleasure as the curve slid over his prostate; it leaned back toward pain as the thing sank deeper than he'd ever taken a cock. Harry sagged, head falling between his forearms.

A blow from the whip, stinging. "Look in the mirror!"

Harry struggled to raise his head. His teeth were bared, eyes nothing but slits, shoulders and biceps bunched out with the effort. "I want to make sure you can take me," said the prince. He drew back the dildo and pushed in again, not hard but much faster. "I want to be sure you can take this." Another thrust, faster and harder as well. "I want to be sure you can take a good, hard fucking, because that's what I want from you. And if you can't--" Shrug in the mirror. "Maybe you don't need that cock, either."

The strokes were coming steadily now, hard, fast, deep. Harry bit his sore lip, drawing blood again, to keep from screaming, to keep from begging the master to stop, begging him to let his concubine come. If it weren't for the pressure encircling his organs, he would come, he knew it. It was so good to be fucked, and sometimes he didn't need to be touched, just penetrated, just pounded, like this, to explode with pleasure.

It went on until what Harry saw in the mirror was his open mouth, the channel of a perfect sound that didn't stop, a pure "ah" sound coming from low in his belly, and the glitter of his master's eyes, the steady motion of that strong arm pumping and pumping. It stopped only because the prince tired. Without saying a word, he tossed aside the dildo and left the room, vanishing behind the bed.

Harry panicked. Would his master call the guards? How had he failed? But in amoment, the prince returned, and Harry wrenched his clamped jaws apart and took deep, harsh breaths, watching the golden oil drip over the prince's high, flushed cock.

Harry looked down for a moment, and then the prince was on the bed and his cock was sinking into Harry's ass, fast and eager. It undeniably hurt, and yet this was what he had been waiting for, all those empty minutes, hours, days, yearning for through all the boredom: to be possessed and to yield to it utterly, to give himself as he was taken. And to be taken like this, roughly, with a ferocity he would never forget, would cling to through the boring hours ahead of him: the matching groans of delight and submission, the erotic fire inside him. Withdrawal was an agony equalled only by the joy of renewed penetration. Each thrust of the master's cock into Harry's body was like an inevitable return, necessary as the sun's return at dawn, as the birds' return in the spring. Again and again he lost and regained the thing he most needed, the sensation of being filled, the experience of union, and in that experience, joy and pain were made one.

Harry looked at himself in the mirror, seeing his face more beautiful than he had thought possible, seeing his master surpassing him, going beyond human beauty. It was so gorgeous, so overwhelmingly intense. Then his master's arms came around his body, brushing over his burning cock, pulling him back into those furious thrusts, and it hurt his wrists but it was so good, so good, oh, so good to be fucked this way, oh, I love you, "I love you!"

In a heartbeat the prince was coming, a scream like an eagle's in his concubine's ear and a thrust that seemed almost to split him in two, and Harry was filled, fulfilled, his own frustration and his beloved's orgasm one and the same, united by the stream of fire within him. The two of them collapsed, master and concubine still joined. Harry could hardly breathe but didn't care. For a moment there was only the sound of gasping, diminishing gradually to little murmurs of gratification. At last the prince withdrew, slowly, releasing Harry from his weight. A pause, with deep breathing, and he released the shackles, unhooking the chains and breaking the cuffs from Harry's chafed ankles and wrists. At a gentle push, Harry rolled over, his still-bound cock pointing into the air. Carefully the prince loosened the confining leather and drew it away. "What is your name, concubine?" he asked, brushing his hand over Harry's chest.

He fought for control, for breath. "Harry, master."

The warm hand moved lightly over his nipples, down his belly. "A lovely name for a lovely concubine. You deserve a reward for your good behavior."

Not only a strong hand but a hot, wet mouth closed around his cock, heat pressure suction frenzy and Harry let go completely, with a scream that ravaged his throat, arching upward and emptying himself into the other's mouth. A soft kiss on his gaping, gasping mouth. "Happy birthday, Harry. I really owed you this in return for the slave market holoprogram you wrote for my birthday." Tom kissed his lover's chest. "And you made a great concubine."

"I loved it." Harry reached for Tom and pulled him down against his side. "It was every bit as good as I'd hoped it would be."

"I thought so, too." Another kiss. "I love you, Harry."

"I love you, Tom." Harry kissed his erstwhile master's forehead. "So would you like to observe Chinese New Year?"

---

End