index


Message-ID: <51647asstr$1123013405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 2 Aug 2005 11:49:32 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} King of a distant country parts 4 and 5 (lots of codes as before)
Lines: 1149
Date: Tue,  2 Aug 2005 16:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

December 1871

My life has been turned topsy-turvy by the arrival of one Miss Emma Jones.
It appears Miss Jones is another of those bible-thumpers from the Missionary
Society of Birmingham, of which my own dear sister is a prominent member.
Now it seems, not content to bother the poor of that unfortunate city, they
have decided to send an emissary to Nambhustan; presumably in an attempt to
kill any joy that may be going spare here. I feel in some wise responsible
for this pestilential visitation, if it were not for the letters I penned
simply to shock and annoy my saintly sibling, she - and the Missionary
Society of Birmingham - would never have heard of Nambhustan.

Miss Jones is a pleasant-enough baggage to look at, make no mistake but the
odour of sanctity - or hypocrisy, as I believe - is a little rich for my
taste. Her first action on arriving here was to attempt to persuade Cat to
don some ludicrous neck-to-ankle shift that resembled nothing so much an old
maid's nightgown. Needless to say, she was very much flogging the old
deceased horse with that suggestion. Cat speaks little English but
understands a great deal more and chose, in true Cat fashion, to pretend to
a complete lack of comprehension. I therefore volunteered to translate. The
exchanges went along these lines:

Miss Emma Jones: "But don't you see, parading yourself almost naked will
only inflame a man's baser passions?"

Cat: "That's the whole idea. Not that His Majesty needs any help in that
department."

Miss Emma Jones: "But don't you know it is sinful to disport yourself lewdly
like this?"

Cat: "What a load of old elephant dung. What's wrong with this woman, Your
Majesty, hasn't she got a yoni or has it shrivelled up?"

I can tell you I had fun translating that for the missionary miss's benefit!

There was more in a similar vein and their conversations concluded with Cat
throwing one of her hissing fits and threatening to scratch Miss Jones's
eyes out. I rolled about the divan, laughing fit to bust while Miss Jones,
face aflame, beat a strategic retreat while Cat hurled a veritable shower of
pots, ornaments, inkwells and other sorted bric-a-brac in the unhappy
interloper's general direction, fortunately with more spirit than accuracy.
I heard later from Baljit that Miss Jones attempted the same misguided
reformations on her with less violent but equally predictable results.
Baljit speaks very passable English and told our visitor, in no uncertain
terms, that she'd worked bloody hard for the right to be a part of my harem
and was not going to put on a winding sheet and dress like a three-day-old
corpse for anyone's benefit.

Our Miss Jones has now made an unholy alliance with a nasty little Jesuit
priest, who has been trying for local converts for some years. This
ecumenical harmony is destined to be short lived, I feel, particularly as I
have let it slip in the bazaar that they intend evangelising the locals with
the aid of fiendish drugs manufactured alternatively from either the fat of
pigs or the fat of cows - if it worked for the Pandies during the mutiny I
dare say it will serve here. Nonetheless, the woman's arrival is a thorough
nuisance and something I could certainly live without. Her constant
sermonising has got some of the girls in a tizzy and I have seen the odd
ghostly apparition stomping about the place so it would appear that some, at
least, have accepted her gift of a nightgown. The wretched woman and the
poisonous little priest are to be seen each morning and evening on the steps
of the Jesuit Mission, haranguing the passers-by with threats of eternal
damnation and promises of salvation if only they will become good
Catholics/good Methodists. Ah yes, I didn't mention that. It appears the
estimable Missionary Society is of the temperance persuasion - another
reason for me to despise them and all their works with a passion.
Accordingly, I have retired to my chambers with a bottle of cognac and Cat
and Baljit for company, locking the doors and placing two particularly large
and obtuse sowars on guard with strict instruction that I am only to be
disturbed in the event of the second coming. Should that happen I am likely
to revise my religious opinions but will not do so for the sake of Miss Emma
Jones of Birmingham. I can see Christmas is going to be exceedingly tedious
this year.


(Editor's Note: Now we shall see how the villain is served. I cannot but
believe that some of the goodness of this missionary lady must rub off on
the villain.)



January 1872


God bless Jahengir Khan! The hugely-hung rogue has only gone and seduced
Miss Jones from the path of virtue and soundly rogered the vixen. What a
lark! I can imagine the worthy elders of the Missionary Society rotating in
their graves like whirling dervishes. It happened thus. Jahengir was going
through his usual routine of fucking a couple of gals before dinner -
presumably to work up an appetite - when Miss Jones burst in upon him,
attracted by the noise. Some of the girls get a wee bit vocal when he's
giving them a seeing-to and our Emma heard the wailing and general brouhaha
and got it into her pointed little skull that murder was being done. When
she saw the cause of the commotion - the 'murder weapon' - if thus I might
describe Jahengir's buffalo-sized organ - she was quite overcome. That is to
say, the dirty bugger whipped his lingam out of whichever orifice of
whichever girl he was currently pleasuring and proceeded to ejaculate a vast
quantity of prime tribal seed all over our Missionary Lass's face. At this
somewhat unusual greeting, she fainted clean away.

Never one to miss a trick, Jahengir had her out of her clothes in a trice
while she swooned and, legend has it, when she came-to, our randy hero was
lapping at her yoni like a demented puppy. Soon her arse was wiggling about
like a good 'un and Jahengir pops in the same hideous piece of meat as
caused her to swoon in the first place and proceeded to plumb her depths to
good effect. By all accounts, said religieuse was soon coming like one of Mr
Brunel's express trains without brakes and howling like a rabid mongrel. She
had to be carried from his quarters on a litter, so weak in the legs had she
become. My only regret is that I heard all this second hand from one of the
girls and was unable to witness such an epic turnaround for myself. The
upshot of all this is that she now spends every night in Jahengir's bed and
neither of them gets much in the way of shut-eye. She walks like a sowar
that has been too long in the saddle and it would take some of Mr Nobel's
dynamite to remove the grin from Jahengir's happy visage. At least the
lascivious bastard leaves my girls alone now.

My own time has been taken up with affairs of state. I now insist on an
audit of the treasury once each year. It doesn't entirely stop the
peculation but it makes the thieving swine know that I know what's going on.
Sometimes I truly believe that I am far too lenient on the bastards - the
old Nizzam would have lopped their hands off. I also have to confess to
feeling a trifle seedy of late - perhaps I'm sickening for something. It
hasn't left me feeling much like putting the girls through their paces,
which is a shame, as they all appear to be absolutely panting for it at
present. I might even have to consult the court physician. I really would
prefer to avoid such an encounter if at all possible; the man's an utter
charlatan and his cure for everything seems to be powdered monkey balls, a
substance with which I have no desire to become familiar!

Word has also reached us from over the northern border that the Afghans are
feeling their oats again. It is an unfortunate fact that whenever the tribes
get their bowels in an uproar, it spills over into our frontier provinces.
This usually results in a bit of raiding, thuggery, buggery and rape. I had
sharp words with Jahengir and his brothers and told them to remind their
esteemed sire that, if he wants them home with their ghoolies still firmly
attached, he'd better behave himself. As Jahengir, at least, is much in love
with his organs of generation, I feel sure that the missive thus despatched
will have been firmly worded. I can but so hope.


April 1872

My hopes proved ill-founded. I am only just now beginning to recover from
what has proved to be a most dastardly attempt to poison me instigated by
none other than Jahengir Khan and his brothers. As they knew that Baljit is
my unofficial food-taster, the cunning misbegotten bastards found an
ingenious way of administering the toxin without arousing any suspicion.
They achieved this by interfering with the cigars in my humidor. It now
appears that they doctored my cheroots with a distilled essence of the opium
poppy adulterated with some other pernicious herbal extract. The result was
that I became distracted, unable to concentrate and weak in both mind and
body. The effects of this drug were so egregious that both Cat and Baljit
feared for my life and my sanity. I have learned that I became irascible in
the extreme and that my face took on a wild aspect as one sometimes
encounters in a bedlam.

I do fear that the British officials who visited during this period will
have gone away believing me to be quite mad. Apparently all I could do
during their audience with me was to rave and drool by turns. The worst part
of it is that the miscreants bribed my syce to do the actual dirty work. Cat
caught the treacherous swine red-handed but he would not confess until faced
with the prospect of being sewn into a cow's hide and cast alive into the
waters of the river. His confession availed him nothing, however, we did it
anyway.

Jahengir's head and lingam, along with those of his brothers, are now are on
their way to his father in a sack. All agree that my punishments were just
with the exception of Miss Emma Jones, who seems to believe I may have
overreacted. She currently mopes about the place clad in black sacking and
wailing some sort of dirge, which only ceases for the duration of her
frequent attempts to scratch my eyes out. All around me insist that I take
firm action against her - to do otherwise might encourage others to think th
at they can attack my royal personage with impunity. I will confess that the
idea of punishing an Englishwoman bothers me. Although I am certain that I
would be in my rights to do so, word of such an occurrence would almost
certainly have repercussions of the most undesirable kind. As it is, I had a
visit from some interfering busybody, possibly the same stuffed shirt as
came here previously. Unfortunately this occurred while I was in the throws
of the poison and I have no recollection whatsoever of the man being here.
Cat tells me I threatened the Raj with war if I was further plagued - that
alone should give one some idea of how far gone I was. Still, there is no
help for it. These assaults upon my person must be stopped and if Miss Jones
has to suffer to get into her thick skull, so be it.

Later the same month.

To avoid any charge of humiliating the wretched woman in public, I decreed
that Miss Jones was to be seized and taken into the seraglio. She yowled and
yelled and kicked up the most frightful commotion when the eunuchs took her
but it was to no avail. She encountered little sympathy from any of the
girls either, as they were incensed that she had the temerity to try and lay
hands, or in her case fingernails, on the king. Such actions placed her
beyond the pale and the girls were among the most insistent on her
punishment.

At a sign from me they stripped her of her rags and dragged her across the
floor, casting her at my feet. I asked her if she understood that, as the
reigning monarch, I had the absolute right to judge all crimes and determine
appropriate punishments as I saw fit. She hissed and spat and swore: saying
I was but a jumped-up Sepoy officer and that Jahengir was only striking a
blow for his people and freedom. Isn't it strange how seemingly rational
human beings can ascribe honourable intentions to the most dastardly acts,
excusing any manner of murder or treachery by the simple expedient of
imputing some sort of higher motive? I replied, somewhat pithily, that one
man's freedom-fighter was another man's murdering fanatic; whatever wrongs
she laid at my door in respect of the hill tribes, I did nothing more than
attempt to prevent them from looting and killing their neighbours: which
acts, I believe, are hardly their God-given right.

It was apparent that any attempt at civilised conversation was doomed to
failure and I nodded to the eunuchs to take and lash her between two pillars
by the wrists and ankles. Seeing her there, naked and spread-eagled, was
deeply arousing. Whatever her precarious hold on reality, she has a
magnificent body. Her breasts are large and rounded, drooping slightly and
tipped with large areolae and small, brown wrinkled nipples that stood out
proudly. Her yoni was covered by an enormous bush of black hair that
completely obscured the treasures within. I have rarely seen so much pubic
hair on any woman and decreed immediately that she should be waxed.

Two of the girls went straight to it but, instead of using the usual gentle
exfoliating mixture, picked up a large tallow candle swimming with melted
grease and managed to spill this hot liquid all over her beasts and nipples.
Her shrieks of anguish held a strange timbre; there was something
remorselessly animal in them as if the pain possessed a darker edge of
pleasure nestling at its core. There was insufficient melted wax for the
task in hand so they sliced off pieces of the candle and melted them in a
crucible over the charcoal brazier that is used normally to burn scented
herbs. Once they had sufficient, they poured the melted tallow over her
pubic region, eliciting even more howls of pain and outrage but, bound as
she was, there was little Miss Jones could do other than watch the
harvesting of her forest. I must say that she looked a sight with the
yellow-grey substance spread thick over her thighs and belly. The two girls
walked about her while they waited for the wax to cool, cursing her and
insulting her as they did so; yanking hard on her nipples and twisting them
viciously, cooing in her ear their warnings of the whipping yet to come.

She has spirit, this misguided missionary, I will grant her that. She spat
at them, screeched insults, threatened them with all manner of dire and
anatomically interesting consequences should they persist with their
intentions. The effect was somewhat spoiled, however, as neither of the pair
understood the first word of English. Once the great gob of wax was dry,
they peeled back one edge and, with a yell of triumph, gave a mighty pull.
Miss Jones screamed hideously as the wax - and the largest mass of pubes
ever to be found in the human race - were torn from her body. I rose from my
throne and crossed to examine the result in detail. The skin of her mound
and thighs was pink and smooth and I couldn't resist trailing my fingertips
over the softness of her inflamed skin. She snarled at me, called me a beast
and numerous other epithets, I continued my soft stroking. Slipping my
fingers between the folds of her denuded yoni and searching out her button.
She bent her back, trying to escape my invading digits but the ropes were
tight and there was little freedom of movement.

Cat walked over then and looked at me with a raised eyebrow. I could tell
what she was thinking and nodded my assent. She dropped to her knees in
front of the bound figure and put up both hands to spread apart the swollen
lips. Leaning forward, she teased the tip of her tongue up and down between
the inner and outer folds then blew a slow, gentle breath over the whole
area, soothing and calming the distraught victim. Just when Miss Jones was
starting to feel a little better, Cat suddenly lunged forward seizing the
emerging hood of the jewel between her sharp little teeth. Cat bit down
hard. Miss Jones's scream went up at least another octave and she twisted
and howled but could do absolutely nothing to ease her plight.

She was then taken down and stretched over that peculiar frame that is
rather like a vaulting-horse. All of the girls filed by and each delivered
one stinging slap on some part of her exposed anatomy. By now she was
howling like a she-wolf and tears filled her eyes and she kept up a steady
plea for mercy but I was having none of it. Cat fetched a small device like
a miniature vice - I learned later its original purpose was to crush the
thumbs of prisoners - and applied this device to Miss Jones's left nipple,
screwing it down hard until that little dusky protuberance was suffused with
blood and a swollen, angry red. Cat then proceeded to flick the swollen
nipple with her tongue and suck upon it for all she was worth, biting down
with her sharp little teeth and generally tormenting the poor girl. Once she
had toyed sufficiently with one breast, she transferred the clamp to the
other and repeated the process. All the while she was slipping her fingers
in and out of Miss Jones's yoni and rubbing her thumb around the sensitive
little jewel. The juxtaposition of extreme pain and extreme pleasure was
having a strange effect upon Miss Jones, who was now hissing like a steam
engine and, by turns, either thrusting herself towards Cat's probing fingers
or cringing away from Cat's feral little teeth.

I could stand it no longer and moved over to where she lay spread-eagled on
the vaulting-horse. I found a vial of perfumed oil and began gently to work
this into her fundament, stretching her out with my fingers as I did so.
Once I adjudged her suitably lubricated, I eased my throbbing lingam into
her nether orifice and she cried out in distress, "What are you doing to
 me?" Wittily I replied, "Buggered if I know, " and started pounding away
while Cat took the opportunity to lap at her yoni and my balls. The
conflicting messages that her body was sending to her overwrought brain
eventually had their effect for she climaxed with a mighty scream and
fainted clean away at the very moment I reached my own fulfilment and
fountained into her arse.

(Editor's Note: Words fail me when I attempt to describe the depravity of
the man - buggering a memsahib, whatever next?)

May 1872

Of all the God-rotted misfortune to be visited upon me, I have been bearded
in my lair by some damned scribbler. He claims he is reporter for the
Chicago Daily Tribune or somesuch and rejoices in the name of Hiram J.
Piepsecker. The Good Lord alone knows how the little parasite came to find
me but he claims that he heard rumours of a white Maharajah and was directed
to Nambhustan. I tried to sick him onto that blighter Brooke over in Sarawak
but he wasn't having any. He'd found his blasted quarry and that was that. I
wouldn't mind but he is such a sanctimonious little shit, always passing
judgements on something - as though the world is black and white instead of
infinite shades of grey. This very morning we had a sharp exchange of views
that went something like this.

"Tell me, You Highness, how can you justify keeping this number of women in
your harem?"

"Well, Mr Pipesucker."

"That's Piepsecker, Your Highness."

"As you say. It's like this, Mr Pimpsoaker."

"That's Piepsecker, Your Highness."

"Very good. As I was saying, Mr Popesacker, the previous Nizzam kept
hundreds - literally - plus a stable of little boys and catamites. I cut it
down to what you see now. And a mighty happy bunch they are, too."

"I don't deny they are happy, Your Highness, but is it ethical? Don't you
feel any guilt over blighting their lives?

"Blighting their lives, Mr Pumpspitter, what do you think their lives would
be if they weren't living here in the palace? Half of them would be worn out
before they were thirty and at least some of the others would probably be
dead from cholera or malaria."

"That's Piepsecker, Your Highness, but don't you think that's why everyone
here hates the British, Your Highness? You have come into their country and
changed everything, replaced their ruler and now you are trying to get them
to follow European style laws and embrace democracy."

"One day, Mr Cocksucker, you will understand that somebody has to act as the
world's policeman. At present that task falls upon the British Empire. Who
knows, one day it may fall upon your country and then you will realise that
once the burglars have been arrested, nobody but nobody wants anything to do
with the police. When the thieves are running riot then they can't call you
in quickly enough but once things are under control they can't wait to get
rid of you - until the next time."

"That's Piepsecker, Your Highness."

I really can take no more of the man and have sent him on a fact-finding
mission into the most lawless place I can think of. I doubt even his readers
back in Chicago or wherever would miss the little berk if the locals decide
to relieve him of his ghoolies. I suppose I can't blame him too much as my
story is trifle unusual but, all the same, being constantly questioned and
criticised gets somewhat tedious after a while. I wouldn't mind so much but
he's another bloody Christian. Talks about being 'born again', whatever that
means. You just know they're proper bastards the moment they begin to smile
at you. If I ever get religion, I want it to be Buddhism. From what I've
seen, they at least have no interest in what anyone else does but are
concerned solely with how they live their own lives. There's none of this
penchant for finding other people's weaknesses or pointing out someone else'
s supposed sins. I know I find it difficult enough to judge people on
secular matters where we have clearly written laws. To judge on the basis of
opinion and narrowly-drawn morals is increasingly beyond my capacity. So
many of the views I held so firmly when I first came to this country have
been stood on their head or proved to be misguided folly. Whatever else, I
have certainly become a lot more tolerant since becoming king here.


July 1872

We are in the middle of a terrible heatwave. There is rarely a breath of
wind and the sky looks like beaten bronze. Water is becoming a problem - the
early monsoon all but failed  - and the rice fields have dried and are
parched. The river is down to a trickle as there is no snow melt to speak of
and clouds of insects plague us all. Even nightfall brings little relief and
one can smell the all-pervading odour of dust that hangs in the air, there
being no breeze to disperse it. The cattle are in a particularly bad way.
Whatever pasture there was has long since dried up and blown away and one
can count every rib on any beast one sees. Overhead, the kite hawks gather
waiting for something to die while their accomplices, the carrion crows
assemble in large numbers wherever there is room for them to perch. They, at
least, are doing well out of this drought.

The heat saps the will to do anything. As I write, I am half blinded by the
sweat and wish only to go and lie in a tepid bath. We are almost entirely
out of ice and there is little prospect of getting more before the winter.
Baljit and Cat keep urging me to go up into the hills where it will be
cooler but there is too much to do down here to alleviate the suffering of
the locals and no one I can trust to see to it properly. Mr Piepsecker is
back, complaining of a rare old bout of dysentery but not filing much copy.
"King does good works" is apparently not an attractive headline. Once again
I have opened the royal granaries to stop the speculators from driving
prices too high for the ordinary folk and have made it known that anyone
caught profiteering in the bazaar will have their hands cut off. Why is it
that some people seem able to see only the opportunity to get rich at
everyone else's expense? I know it is too much to hope that people will
willingly co-operate and share but we are all at the same pass and one might
expect some recognition of a problem shared. I honestly believe that, at the
minute, if a fire were to break out, someone would try and sell the water to
extinguish it. Sometimes I despair.

Last night the sky was riven with lightening and we all prayed that we see
some unseasonal storm. Sadly, all we got was the celestial pyrotechnics and
not a drop of rain or the faintest zephyr to ease our suffering. Already
there have been a number of deaths from the heat and we may expect more as
time goes on. News reached me today that there has been more trouble up on
the frontier. I dare say that the weather is making everyone fractious but,
even so, I will have to keep an eye on it.

It is too hot for any energetic fucking and Cat, Baljit and I each lie apart
on separate couches moved under the high windows with the shutters flung
wide. I have rigged mosquito netting to spare us from the worst of the
insects. The gecko on my wall is treated to such a feast he is grown fat and
indolent and can scarce be bothered to shoot out his tongue but waits for
some particularly suicidal bug to alight on his nose.






August 1872


We got some much-needed relief last week. The tail end of a typhoon swept in
from the Bay of Bengal and, for a good few hours, the heavens opened and the
wind blew like a good 'un. This, of course, caused its own problems and we
received numerous reports of flash floods and people and animals being swept
away. A deputation from one of the villages arrived claiming that their
entire stock of rice was ruined by the sudden storm. I commanded the
quartermaster to fix them up with a wagonload from our stores but I have
also sent merchants out to secure fresh supplies, as our own reserve is all
but exhausted. At least the rain settled the dust and the air feels much
cleaner and fresher as a result.

The storm broke around midnight and I rushed out onto the terrace with Cat
and Baljit by my side. We watched the lightning come up on the wind and felt
those first revitalising drops splatter and plop all around us. Pretty soon
there was a steady downpour that extinguished the torches in their iron
sconces and I stripped off my shirt and britches and danced naked in the
rain. It wasn't long before Cat and Baljit also shed their clothes and I
watched, caught between lust and admiration as they pranced about before me.
Cat is as slender as a lath and her body is taught and firmly muscled.
Baljit is more voluptuous and I was much taken by the way her heavy breasts
bounced as she danced. Indeed, I was so moved that I seized her up and bent
her over the balustrade, slipping into her yoni from behind. Cat, not to be
left out, hopped up onto the top of the top of the wall and stood
bent-kneed, legs wide apart, offering her yoni to my eager lips. It had been
some weeks since we last disported ourselves and so it took no time at all
before I was hollering and yelling and pumping a quantity of accumulated
seed into Baljit's accommodating yoni. Quick as a flash, Cat was on her
knees, pulling me clear of Baljit and clamping her lips around the head of
my lingam and sucking like a vacuum pump. Once she drained me to her
satisfaction (and mine) she switched to Baljit and thrust her tongue deep
into that girl's yoni, exploring every crevice and licking out any of my
seed that might have escaped her.

The sight of this soon had me raring to go again and as Baljit moaned and
wriggled under the ministrations of Cat's tongue, I crouched behind Cat and
slammed into her, alternating between her yoni and her arse and reaching
round in front of her to play with her jewel. Soon she was mewing like her
namesake and all three of us reached a massive climax almost simultaneously.
I suppose it must have been the effect of prolonged abstinence but it wasn't
long before I was ready for a third bout and this time it was my turn to sit
on the balustrade while Baljit and Cat set to work with lips and tongues on
my member. I leaned back and relaxed while one nibbled gently on the head of
my lingam while the other laved my balls and sucked gently on them. The
feeling was indescribable and I shut my eyes and tried to guess which of
them was doing what at any given time. It wasn't long before it ceased to
matter and I was delighted to see that they each had their hands between the
other's legs and periodically left off from sucking me to nibble on a nipple
or to embrace each other with my member sandwiched between their breasts.

It is not hard for me to understand their pleasure in each other. After all,
who would have a man when they could have a woman? Women are soft and
fragrant whereas men are sweaty, scratchy and rough. I cannot for the life
of me understand how pederasts can possibly be attracted to a man. Baljit
was by now giving it her all. Her head was bobbing up and down like a
jack-in-the-box while Cat tugged and played on her nipples. Her other hand
was wrapped about my balls, squeezing them and milking me and I felt that
irresistible force begin to rise at the base of my spine. I bellowed aloud
that I was coming and Baljit pulled back, pumping me with her hand and
directing the flood of seed over the pair of them before darting back and
sucking like a new-born babe as my lingam slowly collapsed. Cat was on her
hands and knees licking my seed from Baljit' breasts, neck and face and I
shut my eyes and sighed with utter contentment, letting the rain wash over
me and cool my aching body.

September 1872

Once again we are called upon to march up country. It seems that we have
been invaded by a tribe from over the border and they are marauding through
the hill villages, robbing and killing as they go. Of course, this is just
the latest manifestation of some old blood feud but, even so, I must act to
dive out the insurgents or word will get around that the kingdom is easy
pickings and we'll be up to our oxters in hairy-arsed tribesmen before me
know it. The most damnable thing is that the perpetrators and their victims
are closely related - cousins or very near it - but that seems to make
little difference to the ferocity of the attacks. By the time we get up
there the latest bunch will no doubt have fled back over the border and
there is little point in trying to garrison the passes as there must be a
hundred different little trails they can take if they've a mind to.


October 1872

My predictions proved entirely accurate. By the time we struggled up to the
hill country, all was quiet. My old adversary, Shohib Khan was one of the
victims this time around. They left his head on a lance just outside his
village and none had quite found the courage to take it down. We reunited
the grisly trophy with the rest of its owner and gave him a good funeral,
which surprised his son, Amir, who has now taken over.  We had a long chat
and I explained that I was happy for him to rule his little patch as long as
he stayed away from the lowland villages. I have no desire whatsoever to
usurp the local tribal chiefs and as long as they keep to their side of the
bargain, there will be no trouble. Indeed, I offered him assistance with any
cross-border raiders and he was grateful if mightily puzzled by my attitude.

What the young bugger would really like from me is a couple of my
six-pounder mountain guns but he has more hope of flying. Artillery is the
one real advantage I enjoy and I'm damned if I'll give it up. Of course the
natives have a few bronze cannon but my mule-back guns can go where such
heavy pieces never can. I've a mind to order some of these new German
howitzers that can be broken into mule-sized loads to augment the
six-pounders. The rough, rocky terrain is suited to explosive shells but a
few air-bursts from the howitzers might add a bit of a spice and make life a
tad more unpleasant for any wily tribesman sheltering in a nullah or behind
a wall of rocks, immune from everything bar a direct hit.

We spent a couple of weeks patrolling the frontier area and there was the
odd long-range skirmish. I think the mountain guns did score a couple of
times but the devils sloped off before we could ever really try conclusions
with them. We were hampered by the weather, which was wet and foggy in the
mountains. It was mostly low cloud but really restricted visibility. Then
word came of some other unpleasantness on the far side of the border and our
insurgents melted away to join in the general mayhem. I brokered a deal
between Amir and his neighbour. The two would co-operate in fighting any
cross-border incursions in return for a yearly stipend from yours truly. I
count the odd lakh of silver rupees money well spent if it keeps order up on
the frontier for a while.

I ordered the army back to the capital and we returned yesterday. It is
clear that there is an air of boredom about the place when the troops are in
barracks so I have decided to introduce Nambhustan to the magnificent
mysteries of the noble game of cricket. I sincerely believe that if we
British spread the game of cricket instead of our rather killjoy religions,
the world be a far happier place. Indeed, let us all play cricket and leave
religions to whither into the dust of history.

(Editor's Note: The man's quite mad!)

December 1872

You would be amazed at the impact of cricket on the locals. We now have six
teams and play matches every weekend. There are two army sides, a palace XI
that I captain myself, a Hindoo team, a Musselman team and one from the city
itself. I think it won't be long before we have at least one more city side.
Preparing a suitable wicket on which to play has been the most difficult
part but a little ingenuity and a couple of elephants soon flattened out a
square on the maidan. We play in front of wildly excited crowds. One might
suppose that the land of India has been waiting specifically for cricket, so
enthusiastically have they embraced it. The standard of bowling may leave
something to be desired as yet but there are already some first class
batsmen.

At present, we are having to improvise with the equipment but I have placed
a substantial order with Messrs Gunn and Moore of Nottingham so by next
season we will have the full set of gear. My palace team is the best so far
but I am even-handed with my coaching and the others are not far behind. We
have had many close and exciting games and the few Chinese who reside in the
city have gone into a gambling frenzy every time a match is played. Maybe I'
ll recruit a professional next year to really teach the boys how to play.

It was after one such game when I returned, hot and sweating from the field
having just beaten the army by a mere sixteen runs, that I found Cat waiting
for me in a state of great agitation. I flung my bat into a corner and
headed for the bathhouse, needing to soak away a couple of bruises as well
as refresh my tired muscles. No sooner had I dropped my grateful, aching
body into the fragrant hot water than Cat leapt in beside, fully clothed.
She was so beside herself that she was chittering at me in her native
language of which I speak not a word. I managed to calm her by the simple
expedient of ducking her head under the water and keeping it there until the
struggles lessened. This had the effect of restoring her coherence, as well
as half drowning her. It transpired that the cause of her massive loss of
composure was the visit to the palace of a delegation from her own land of
Siam. This would not normally cause much of a stir - we receive several such
visits each year - but this particular deputation included Cat's own younger
sister, a maid of about seventeen as far as Cat could tell.


Cat was adamant that her sister, whose name was something like Bandong,
should join our establishment. I had no objection to this in principle but
feared there would be some difficulty in achieving such an harmonious
arrangement. Cat's sister was clearly the concubine of the plenipotentiary
leading the Siamese delegation. Cat, however, would brook no objections and
insisted that she and her sister must be reunited after all these years.

I used Christmas as the excuse, explaining to the Siamese minister the
Christian tradition of exchanging gifts. (Bloody religion can have its uses,
don't y'know.) I managed to manoeuvre the old boy quite expertly. I took him
to the seraglio and had the girls, excluding Cat and Baljit, parade before
him and invited him to take his pick. I thought he'd expire with excitement
at the beauty on display. He took hours making up his mind but at length he
selected a Madrasi girl with skin so dark that it seemed to shine with
almost a blue hue. The contrasting pink of her yoni was indeed a wonder and
he was drooling by the time the selection was made, poor chap. I could tell
he could hardly wait to sample her delights but good manners forced him to
reciprocate and he paraded his own harem for me to choose from.

Ordinarily I would have been singularly unimpressed with the girls on offer.
Cat's sister was far and away the prettiest and the youngest by a wide
margin. It was clear that the remainder had been with the chap for years and
the amount of flabby stomachs, sagging bosoms and stretch marks had to be
beheld to be believed. I was surprised, therefore, at his palpable relief
when I chose Bandong.  He expressed his heart-felt gratitude that I did not
choose one of his more mature ladies, as he had grown very attached to them
all over the years. It was also clear that he was finding Bandong a bit of a
handful and I could fully understand this, particularly if she was even
remotely like her sister.

In the end, the whole thing was accomplished rather neatly and to everyone's
satisfaction. Cat and Bandong fell on each other and rushed off, chattering
like a pair of magpies; the minister retired to sample the delights of his
new concubine and Baljit and I retired to bed to make love in a rather sober
and unhurried fashion that was very sweet and enjoyable for all that.
Sometimes a change is as good as a rest.


January 1873

Looking back, I find have been keeping this journal for five years and have
been in this strange but beautiful land for a few months more. In all this
time I have never really tried to describe the country itself. Nambhustan
lies in the foothills of the Himalayas, divided from the Raj by the great
sweep of the Nambhu River. The river is navigable at least as far as the
main city, Nambhupore, and the land either side is rich and fertile - a
veritable rice bowl. The North West of the country is wild and mountainous,
home to lean, hard men whereas to the east is lush, thick jungle down to the
coast where little fishing villages sit beside the white sand fringing the
Bay of Bengal.

The people of Nambhustan are a polyglot bunch. By and large, hill tribes
excepted, they are gentle and courteous and while the majority may seem poor
to European eyes, they consider themselves affluent enough if they have a
full belly and shelter from the elements. Their skin-tone is not
particularly dark and their features regular. One of the things that some
visitors to this country find a trifle disconcerting is the very fact that
the natives look only a little different from a dark-eyed Englishman. It is
true that their hair tends to be truly black, rather than the various shades
of brown encountered in London, but their features are very much the same as
ours. There is none of the marked difference of say, your Chinaman or
African.

This happy circumstance I have used to my advantage on a number of
occasions. A simple vegetable die to colour my hair and eyebrows and with my
brown eyes and heavily tanned skin, I can pass among the local populace
unnoticed. My command of the language and my, by now, Nambhustani accent
permit me to come and go in the bazaar untroubled. Thus it is that I am able
to 'take the pulse' of the people from time to time.

This is fortunate because, on my latest foray, I started to hear the same
rumour repeated over and over, like a mantra. Basically, the word in the
bazaar was that the King had been killed in an expedition up country and the
man who now sat on the throne was an impostor, some sort of devil who
changed its appearance to resemble the good king but was utterly bent upon
the ruination of the kingdom. Sensible men repeated this sort of nonsense as
though it were the Gospel truth. I found one purveyor of the peculiar tale
and demanded that he explain to me why he believed such utter rubbish. He
looked at me askance and then coolly informed me that it must be true, he'd
heard the story from one of the mullahs. A djinn had taken up residence in
the palace and was busy impregnating the palace women with a host of little
afrits. Soon the entire land would be overrun by devils, great and small.


The only possible response to all this will have to be a grand durbah at
which the king will present himself to the people and demonstrate that there
is no truth in the outlandish stories. However, it is sadly true that there
will always be those who will see conspiracies and plots where none exist
and with whom one can never win. If I ignore the rumours they will see this
as a tacit admission of guilt but if I refute them vigorously they will
claim I'm protesting too much. Either way, they will claim, the king and
government are attempting to gull them in some way although to what purpose,
they are unable ever to say. Nothing I do will convince these types that
nought is amiss.
It is an article of faith with them that there must be something going on
and that the government or the king are obviously at the back of it.
However, if I do nothing, their mad ramblings will become accepted on a
wider basis and that will never do. Who knows what mischief might be worked
if the people believe that the kingdom lies prey to supernatural forces.

It will take a couple of months or so to organise properly as we must summon
representatives from outlying towns and villages. I made a point of
despatching each messenger in person so that they might tell any who ask
that the king is alive and well and they have seen this with their own eyes.


March 1873

Yesterday we held the grand durbah. Villagers and tribesmen descended on the
capital and the whole of Nambhupore was en fete for the occasion. An
extremely closely-fought cricket match, which spectacle delighted the locals
but puzzled the visitors to the city no end, preceded the actual solemn
ceremony of the durbah.  Once the excitement died down somewhat, I gave the
word and a Royal Pavilion was erected at one end of the maidan while hawkers
and peddlers set up their own stalls and stands at the other. With the
pavilion in place and the sun starting to set, we paraded down from the
palace by torchlight. There must have been fully forty thousand people on
the square and a low buzz arose as we approached.

I'd stationed my own trusted agents among the crows and these began now to
hail their king in loud voices and, gratifyingly, it wasn't long before the
crowd took up the chant so, by the time elephants knelt to let us disembark
from the royal houdah, the ancient walls of the city were echoing to the
shouts of acclamation. I was accompanied by as many Brahmins and Mullahs as
I could lay my hands on and once we were all assembled on the platform under
the silken canopy I held up my hands for silence.

"Who among ye here tonight believes the king is dead and his place usurped
by an evil djinn?" I cried. "Where is the child so credulous? Where is the
woman so superstitious? Where is the man so foolish as to believe these
things? I, King Harry, stand before you. With me are the priests and holy
men. Would a djinn remain in their presence? Would not the evil one be burnt
by their collective piety? I ask you now: Does anyone here believe I am not
your king? If such a one exists, let him step forward without fear. Come up
beside me, touch my flesh, feel the warmth of a man alive not the fire of a
wild spirit nor yet the pallid chill of a corpse. Come! Satisfy yourself,
examine me as you see fit. If there be any who doubt come here now and let
this be an end to all such nonsense. It is true that men plotted to poison
me but they failed and paid with their lives. Here I stand, your true king
and your true friend."

The same low hum of conversation resumed along with much shuffling of feet
and averted glances from some who had been at the forefront of spreading the
tale of my demise and were now clearly being challenged by their fellows to
take up my offer of examining me in person. At length, the crowd parted and
a small, filthy, twisted old man clad in the meanest rags was shoved
forward. "Let the guru see the King!" was the shout and the ancient
itinerant holy man limped up beside me. "Spit, please, Your Highness," he
said and I duly spat. His seamed face broke into a one-toothed grin. "The
King is the King!" he shouted to the crowd, "For do not all men know than an
affrit can make no moisture?" The crowd took up the shout and "The King is
the King" reverberated around the maidan. "Say: God is great," shouted a man
from below me, "For all men know that devils cannot say His name." I duly
obliged and once more the chant of "The King is the King" rang out.

Sensing this was the opportune moment I clapped my hands and on this signal,
a horde of cooks and servants, who were awaiting my command, made their way
down into the square and began setting up a free feast for all the assembled
multitude. I hired about five hundred extra staff simply to meet the size of
the task and we soon had succulent sheep roasting on spits while others
prepared dishes of curried vegetables and other delicacies so that both
Hindoo and Musselman could gorge to their hearts' content. Soon the night
was filled with the strains of music and impromptu dancing began. It was
like one of the great holidays but all the better for not having been
eagerly anticipated for weeks. Usually, in such cases, I find the
anticipation of the event greatly superior to the actual experience. As the
man said, "It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive." The same could
not be said of my first experience with Cat and her sister. Whatever I may
have imagined was unmatched by the reality.

Bandong, for such proved to be her name, was every bit as lithe and slender
and Cat with even smaller breasts. Indeed, her bosoms were little more than
the smallest bee-stings on her chest and to see her beside Baljit, for the
pair were much of an age, was a startling contrast. On the other hand, her
yoni was wholly unlike Cat's, being extremely long and full-lipped. Indeed,
her fleshy petals protruded a good inch and a half from her plump, outer
folds. Her hips and rump were nicely rounded and her dark hair fell to her
waist. She was nervous when Cat first brought her too me and kept her eyes
down, avoiding my gaze. I soon found this was a temporary condition for,
once, the ice was broken, so to speak, she proved to be every bit as bold a
baggage as her elder sister.

I commenced proceedings by gently lapping at those extraordinary lips and
soon she was emitting a high-pitched squeal that put even the ever-vocal Cat
in the shade. She wriggled and undulated her hips as my tongue slipped into
her core and flicked back up to lave her exposed jewel. I clung to her hips
and gripped her tightly to prevent her evading my flickering tongue and
softly nibbling teeth. Bandong was utterly transported, her eyes rolled back
in her head and she kept us this high keening as her yoni spasmed in climax
not once but thrice with scarcely an interval between each one. I do believe
she could have kept on with one crisis after another all night. As it was,
it was Cat who pulled me away and encouraged me on to my back. Then Bandong
went to work.

Her first act was to sweep me with her long, silky hair from head to toe. No
other part of her touched me but it was sensational. Those little bee-sting
breasts swelled to the size of oranges even if most of the swelling was
chocolate brown areola and hard little nipple. Her breath hissed as I ran a
finger into her sopping yoni and she gripped with it her muscles and then
imparted a strong rippling sensation, the like of which I have never
experienced heretofore. Such powerful clasping and rhythmic rippling boded
well and I was not wrong. However, before she attempted such heightened
pleasures, she lowered her head and began to sweep me with her lips and
tongue where, as moment before, she had used her hair. Her lips circled my
nipple and her tongue swirled about it at truly phenomenal speed. The
feeling of this communicated itself straightway to my rampant lingam and I
was so hard I feared my skin would like a serpent.

Her mouth trailed down my chest and stomach with aching slowness, teasing,
nibbling, licking and sucking until I thought I would pass away from pure
lust. At length, just as I reached the point where I believed I could stand
it no longer, she pounced, taking my lingam into her mouth and sending bolts
of pure pleasure coursing through my body. Not content to concentrate her
ministrations on the head of my member, she pushed herself down on it,
ingesting more and more of my length. I felt the tip butting against the
back of her throat and she withdrew slightly, repositioned herself and then
swallowed the entire damned thing. I was stunned. Her nose was pressed tight
against my lower belly and her eyes were wide and locked on mine. She then
did something quite incredible with the muscles of her throat and produced
those same waves of sensation that she wrought upon my finger with her yoni.
I cried aloud and shot my bolt, pumping a massive load of seed into her
belly. She fought back the urge to choke and swallowed and pulsed her throat
muscles until I was wholly spent. The sensation grew too intense and I was
forced to push her away.

I lay there gasping and panting like a stranded fish, my mind roiled in
turmoil occasioned by such exquisite physical pleasure. And to think, she is
but some seventeen or eighteen. Cat watched this performance through
narrowed eyes before falling upon me and pushing her breasts into my face,
demanding that I suckle upon them. Baljit's reaction was one of utter
fascination as though, like me, she was not quite able to believe what had
taken place. She crawled over beside me and pressed herself against my
flank, her heavy breast flopping on to my chest. She asked me in a whisper
what it felt like and I could only sigh, "Amazing." Bandong, now recovered,
helped herself to some wine and chattered to her sister. Cat said "She says
she has never done that with so large a lingam. The ambassador was not
blessed as you are, my lord." I could only grin dreamily by way of reply.


May 1873

My immediate household has either swollen to three others or reduced to just
Baljit and I, it is hard to say which circumstance applies with any
certainty. Cat and Bandong seem to have taken the harem by storm. Bandong's
ability to sustain a state of climax for hours at a time is something of a
wonder and the harem girls work shifts, lapping at her phenomenally
sensitive yoni while Cat cradles her sister's head and the latter suckles on
Cat's breasts while she shudders and thrashes from one peak of passion to
the next. They come to me when I summon them and I must confess that this is
not all that often, the sensations imparted by Bandong's muscular throat or
twitching yoni are almost too intense to be repeated over much. Cat has
grown strange, slightly fey, one might think and exhibits all the signs of
jealousy when her sister lavishes her attentions on me. I cannot say which
of us is the object of her envy. I have questioned Baljit but she merely
shrugs and tells me these things will pass. Cat has been separated from her
sibling for so long, she is now uncertain how to react and Bandong is
turning out to be something of a spoiled brat, demanding the attentions of
the other girls and, because of her young age and peculiarly strong
responses, has become a pet among them.

I try to get to the other harem girls every couple of months but, to be
quite frank, I find increasingly that the prospect lacks appeal. Tupping
sixty-odd females may sound like every young rake's dream but the reality is
unfortunately different. It demands limitless self-control and leaves me
sore and aching for a couple of days after each lengthy bout. I can manage
about fifteen at a time so there are four or five sessions to be got through
and, in the days following, my appetite for carnal matters is much
diminished. It is possible after all to have too much of a good thing.

My real worry, however, is Cat. Her mental state is causing me definite
concern. She can be seen about the place, slack-jawed, eyes unfocussed and
walking like a somnambulist. Whenever I try to address the matter with her,
her face clears and she insists that everything is fine, I am imagining
things and that she has never been happier now that she is reunited with her
sister. All other evidence, however, points to the contrary but I cannot
fathom what the problem should be.

On the positive side, Miss Emma Jones seems to have come to her senses and
we reached an accord whereby she may continue to prosthelise her religious
beliefs as along as she does not preach sedition against either the kingdom
or my person. It has taken a while but I do believe that she understands
that I have these people's interests at heart and am not the vile exploiter
that she first imagined. In fact, it could be said that our relations are
now most cordial and although she professes to despise me still, she does
join me for a drink or a meal with increasing frequency. Now that the odious
Piepsecker has departed to plague somebody else with his homespun philosophy
and sanctimonious scribblings, we are two of only a handful of Europeans in
Nambhustan and, consequently, are thrown much upon each other's company.


July 1873

I will confess that I little imagined that Emma Jones and I would ever
become lovers but such an unlikely occurrence has come to pass. I have
already related how we reached an accommodation and I have to confess it
came as no surprise me after the little bazaar rumours I planted that she
has not managed one conversion, much to her chagrin. She blamed me for this
state of affairs originally but has now to own that I have played no hand in
her lack of progress. I haven't bothered to disabuse her.

One evening we were sitting on my terrace with Baljit enjoying the relief of
a cooling breeze and some long nimbu pani when I happened to mention Cat's
worryingly strange demeanour of late. Emma was all solicitude, promising to
spend some time in Cat's company and get to the root of the trouble. Our
conversation then turned to what she termed the lasciviousness prevalent in
hot climes. It is her contention that the heat of the sun so affects the
temperature of the blood that, in the white races at least, it counterfeits
true passion, making men more demanding and women more prone to seduction.
She claimed that she did not ever have one impure thought back home in
Birmingham but since arriving in Nambhustan, had often been plagued by an
itching in her loins that was previously unfamiliar to her.

Baljit muttered to me that was all humbug. The reason Emma felt able to
disport herself and indulge in unimagined lewdness was that there was no one
here to censure her. Of the two explanations, I find Baljit's theory the
more compelling. Be that as it may, the upshot was that Emma attempted to
vamp me in the most clumsy fashion imaginable. It appeared she had forgotten
her punishment session entirely or, rather, she chose to pretend it never
happened. She asked me archly, and in as roundabout a fashion as it is
possible to ask a question and still have the object of the interrogation
understand one's meaning, whether or not I ever felt the lack of a white
woman. I answered truthfully that I did not. The more exotic ladies of my
harem have much to commend them over their paler sisters, I replied. For a
start, they were quite happy to ask for what they wanted and made an effort
to please their man. Did she not find this with her Asian lovers?

At this she coloured prettily and denied any liaisons other than the one,
the undeniable one, with Jahengir Khan that brought his death and her
humiliation. She confessed that she had long admired me (a lie) and that she
wished that she should could be as free of morals and inhibitions as my
concubine (a hand waved at Baljit) while completely forgetting that said
concubine speaks excellent English and understood every word. Baljit grinned
at me and yawned ostentatiously. "Why don't you just get on with it and ask
His Majesty to fuck you?" she asked and Emma blushed scarlet to the roots of
her hair. Baljit led her into our chamber and started to help Emma undress.
I caught the tone of voice if not the words exchanged. It appeared to me
that Emma was protesting and Baljit was telling her not to be a hypocrite.

All went silent as Baljit took Emma down to the bathhouse attached to our
rooms while I sat on the veranda and smoked a cheroot and waited for them to
complete their ablutions. The next thing I heard was Baljit softly calling
my name. "She's in there," she said nodding towards our sleeping quarters.
"I won't come in for the moment - better give her time to get used to the
idea she's a 'fallen harlot' or somesuch rubbish she was spouting in the
bath." She gave me a quick kiss on the lips, grabbed my lingam and
whispered, "Save some for me," before disappearing into the main palace
corridor.

I opened the door to the chamber slowly, not wishing to alarm Emma. I needn'
t have bothered, she was sprawled across the big bed in as abandoned a style
as any wanton. Her big mat of pubes had re-grown but, even, so, I could see
the pearly glint of moisture on her ample lips and her eyes were heavily
lidded and her speech thick with lust. I said not a word but stripped off my
clothes and jumped up beside her. I seized a good handful of her luxuriant
pubes and tugged firmly in an up and down motion. Her initial shriek of
outrage gave way to a low rumble of contentment as the motion I'd initiated
had the effect of moving the hood of her jewel back and forth across that
little button's sensitive surface, exactly as I planned. I leaned over and
captured the tip of one of her large breasts in my mouth, grazing it with my
teeth and worrying it into a firm stalk while tugging on her maidenhair all
the while.

Emma wriggled a little and her knees fell even wider apart and I took this
as an invitation to insinuate a finger into her. She was dripping wet as
though she'd suffered her own personal monsoon and I used the liquid to
moisten her rear entrance and soon shoved two fingers in her yoni and one up
her arse while she shrilled a complaint with her voice but shoved her
backside at me to give easier access to my probing fingers. "Emma," I told
her, "You are a royal pain in the arse or should that be a pain in the Royal
Arse. For Christ's sake stop pretending and let yourself go. I promise that
we'll both enjoy it a whole lot more if we're not constantly stopping for
imagined moral boundaries or misplaced sensibilities."

At once she burst into tears and to prevent any great outburst of
self-loathing or recrimination, I stuck my lingam into her mouth. That
seemed to turn the trick for she gobbled it like she was starving and with
my prick in her mouth and my hand up her yoni, she reached her first climax.
After that it was plain sailing. Once the first crisis was over I turned her
onto her back and went at her with a will. The force of my thrustings made
her buttocks wobble in the most jolly fashion and after she came once more,
I shifted my aim, ploughing into her fundament without so much as a murmur.
Her fingers were a blur on her button and I could hear the sloppy, sloshing
noises as she fingered herself to yet another orgasm. Her cries of ignited
passion combined with the pulsing contractions of her internal muscled
served to push me over the edge and soon I was pumping another load of seed
into her bowels. This time, however, she was fully conscious throughout and
urged me on to greater efforts with cries of "Harder! Faster!" etcetera.


August 1873

My immediate household is now a m�nage a cinque with Baljit, Emma, Cat and
Bandong. Emma is still wary of the others, particularly Cat who loves to
play with Emma's huge hairy bush, plaiting it and styling it in wondrous
ways. She is not averse to having the other girls slurp on her yoni but as
yet, will not return the compliment. It is all she can do to pinch another
woman's nipple between her fingers and that act is accomplished at arm's
length. On the other hand, she is not averse to being on the receiving end
but shuts her eyes tightly, no doubt pretending that her breasts, yoni,
buttocks etc are being pleasured by a score of men rather than three very
adept women. The exception is Bandong. Emma is fascinated by Bandong's
unique abilities and will refuse the girl no intimacy. Just the other day I
entered our chambers to find Emma on her knees lapping avidly at a keening
Bandong while ploughing the lass's plump yoni with two fingers like one of
Mr Stephenson's steam engines.

I needed no second invitation and flipped Emma's skirts over her waist and
slammed into her from behind and riding her to her climax at a furious
gallop. She stopped off from licking Bandong's yoni long enough to voice her
own satisfaction. I pulled out and went to kneel by Bandong's face. Sure
enough, as quick as you can say, "knife" that little wanton had me buried
deep in her gullet and was wriggling and flopping about on the bed even
harder. She began that strange gulping motion that set in train a host of
exquisite sensations and before long I was streaming my seed down her throat
while she huffed and puffed through her nose. She never broke her cadence
once as Emma managed to slip her entire fist inside the girl's yoni and was
pummelling her interior like a prize-fighter in training. Her eyes grew wide
as yet another climax hit her and her exotic ministrations somehow prevented
me from losing any of my hardness.

In a trice I arranged the pair top-to-toe with Emma underneath on her back
and Bandong stretched about her. Each girl had her mouth glued to the other'
s yoni and was also frigging furiously with her fingers. I grabbed a vial of
oil and rubbed it around Bandong's fundament. I hadn't yet taken her in this
way and was surprised when she demurred. I wouldn't put up with that so
started to spank her soundly, each slap ringing out on her rounded silken
buttocks. She bucked a bit at that and even more when I spotted my riding
crop in the corner of the room and gave her a half dozen sharp cuts with
that. None of this caused any sort of break in her sequence of climaxes,
indeed, if anything, it seemed to speed up the process and I could see Emma'
s face absolutely drenched in Bandong's juices despite the sterling efforts
she was making to swallow every drop.

I grabbed the oil again and this time she stuck her backside up in the air
for me, separating her buttocks with this action so I enjoyed a clear sight
of her little brown sphincter. I used a lot of oil, for she felt very tight
and I worked it into her well with my fingers. After about ten minutes of
massaging, her arsehole opened a little and I slipped the head of my lingam
into her about an inch. I could feel the pulsations of each successive
orgasm as it hit her and although I was not properly inside, feeling these
rhythmic contractions excited me greatly. At the first hint of a little
give, I shoved into her, having to force myself to slow down and move
easily. I was consumed by the desire to pound up her as hard and as fast as
I possibly could. She raised her head from between Emma's thighs, took a
deep breath and slammed herself backwards onto my prick so that the whole
length of it disappeared inside her and she gave a loud shriek as she did
so. I must admit that I also let out more than a small gasp.

I stayed absolutely still. I felt Emma's mouth close entirely around one of
my balls and I nearly fainted clean way in a combination of fright and
pleasure. Emma sucked gently, first on one and then the other, taking the
whole sphere into her mouth and then insinuated her own finger, well
moistened with Bandong's juices, into my fundament. That made me hop about a
bit at first but then I stretched out and she was able to insert a second
finger and began to manipulate me deep inside. I have no idea what she did
to me but in a flash I was pumping another massive load of seed into Bandong
's arse. Emma felt my climax hit and grabbed my member, unceremoniously
yanking it out of Bandong and sucking it deep into her mouth. Imagine my
surprise when Emma began to pull off Bandong's trick, taking me down her
throat and gulping and swallowing to beat the band.

All the while she twirled her fingers in my nether regions and unbelievably
another climax hit me almost immediately. Emma grew even redder and in the
face and her eyes rolled desperately before she was able to swallow this
second, unexpected load. When she had done, we all slumped across the bed,
exhausted and drained. It took a little while for us to recover and stumble
down to the bathhouse to clean up.

At least we were able to get to the bottom of Cat's strange behaviour. It
was guilt. For the first time in her remarkable life as a courtesan she felt
ashamed. This was not occasioned by any action on her part but by the sudden
realisation she was consumed with lust for her own sister. Once she
confessed this to Baljit and Emma, and, a little while afterwards to Bandong
herself, she began to improve. Bandong was far from horrified but welcomed
Cat's affection although she draws the line at actually making love
together. Cat struggled for a while with her demons but then accepted
Bandong's judgement and besides, she now had Emma to play with.

However, part of the settlement was that Bandong agreed to teach the girls
to take a man's lingam right down the throat. Neither Cat nor Baljit have
mastered the technique without gagging but Emma, apparently, turned out to
be a natural and can now perform exactly the same tricks with her mouth and
gullet as Bandong. Indeed, the entire harem insisted on making an attempt to
master this new style of lovemaking but only about five could actually
manage it to any degree and only Emma was able to achieve parity with the
teacher.

(Editors Note: How sadly amiss was I in my belief that this tender lass
would prove a benign influence. Alas, instead, he has corrupted her.)


October 1873

I have been taken ill for a couple of months with a touch of malaria. One of
the characteristics of the disease is that once a man has succumbed once, he
is cursed to do so again and again at unpredictable intervals. Once taken by
the sickness, however, the course of it is predictable with bouts of fever
coming and going over a fourteen-day period. Baljit says it is caused by the
bite of an insect but its very name suggests it is borne as some vague
miasma on foul air. Of which, it has to be said, there is plenty around the
time of the monsoon; thick and brooding before and dank and humid
afterwards. Still, once a man survives the first bout, it is rare that he
dies in a subsequent encounter so in this I count myself blessed. However,
all of which explains why my life has been singularly uneventful over the
last month and more and there is little to record in this journal.


December 1873

The effects of the malarial fever have left me somewhat enervated. It is
hard to concentrate and I am physically weakened to the point that I can
scarce set one foot in front of another by evening. Baljit assures me that
this is normal. She points to the skinniness of my flanks with their
prominent ribs as a sure indication that the illness has taken much out of
me. She bade the cook prepare thick potages of dhal and makes me drink
quarts of goats' milk to the point I sometimes feel my back teeth are awash
with the stuff. Cat merely shrugged. It is to be expected she says. Everyone
who contracts this vile pestilence suffers the same, first the fever then a
long, slow recovery. There is little that can be done and what cannot be
cured must be endured is very much her attitude. However, a little Chinese
girl from the local apothecary has made some infusions of a particular tree
bark that she says will help prevent a relapse while ridding my body of the
remaining fever and I must own that it does seem efficacious.

Falling ill at this time is doubly galling as it is the cricket-playing
season and the new equipment that I ordered arrived along with two
professional players, a Mr Hornbeam and a Mr Barlow. They come with a good
reputation and because they are at the end of their careers in England, are
prepared to serve out their time here teaching the locals. They have been of
great assistance in the better preparation of the maidan in its other
incarnation as a cricket pitch and I have allocated them some land down
nearer the river where, they promise me, with some luck and no little skill,
they will produce a first class field with a proper grass wicket. I have to
commission a set of pitch rollers for them of various sizes and weights -
the largest of which is so huge it will need a team of oxen or a draught
elephant to propel it. The idea is quite simply to impact the earth
comprising the wicket to such a degree it will be as hard as the impacted
mud of the maidan. The whole process will take at least a couple of years
but should be worth the effort - and the price in rubies.

Indeed, thank the Lord for the ruby mines. My lifestyle is much less lavish
than the rulers of yore but even so, what with modernising the army and the
purchase of additional staples for the reserves, if it were not for this
regular inflow, the treasury would be sadly depleted by now. I have been
fortunate beyond almost all men to have become ruler of such a place. Still
and all, I do find the task of being the king increasingly wearisome and
would gladly step aside for another if: a) there were a suitable candidate
and b) the bugger wouldn't immediately have my head on a spike. It is the
nature of things in these parts - and in most others, I venture, that a
ruler will not suffer his rivals to live. I fear only death will ever
extricate me from this magnificent bondage.

(Editor's Note: What an ingrate! He has been vouchsafed an opportunity to do
much good in the world and can only whine, moan and teach the poor benighted
heathens cricket.)


To be continued...

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+