“Ohhh,” she said in a teasing tone, “this naughty fellow is every bit as eager as his female counterpart.” She grasped her husband’s male member in one hand, the other hand moving around to stroke his taut buttocks. Her tongue snaked out and encircled the deep ruby-red tip of his manhood. “Hmmmmmmm,” she murmured, and then took him in her mouth.
Jamal Khan stiffened with almost painful pleasure as her mouth began to draw upon him. Her skill was such that had he not been absolutely positive of her virginity when they had first come together, he would have believed her the most skilled of courtesans. But she had been a virgin. A virgin with an incredible appetite and an equally incredible aptitude for sensual delights. There was little she did not enjoy or was not willing to do. He groaned as her tongue and lips worked him to a fever pitch. Being encased in her mouth was, he was certain, like being in the mouth of a volcano. Her tongue was like silken lava, swirling and flowing all around him. When he found himself in danger of imminent explosion, he grasped her dark head with his fingers and begged her through gritted teeth to cease her wonderful torture.
Reluctantly Yasaman obeyed him through the mists of her own desire. Bending, he raised her to her feet again and they looked deeply into each other’s eyes. This silent communication between them had been there from the beginning. Jamal Khan lifted his wife into his arms and carried her over to the striped silk double couch where he lay her down. Yasaman held out her arms to him and he came into them.
Near their terrace was a small tower used by the Muslim clerics attached to Akbar’s court to call the faithful to prayer five times daily. Within the tower Prince Salim stood viewing the terrace of the guest house. Hidden within the deep shadows of the structure, he watched his sister and her husband through the carved latticework, his face dark with lust. Jamal’s buttocks contracted and relaxed as his lingham thrust back and forth within Yasaman’s yoni. Salim half closed his eyes and imagined himself in his brother-in-law’s place. Her love passage would be hot and tight, but she would gladly accept his mighty lingham even as she was now accepting that of her husband.
Jamal’s seed overflowed his wife’s womb, and, laughing together
at the wonderfulness of their passion, they bathed each other’s parts with the love cloths their servants had thoughtfully left earlier upon the terrace along with a basin of scented water. Once more they began to make love, kissing and caressing each other with growing fervor while the man in the tower above them continued to observe their deep and increasing desire for one another. Salim reached down and began to massage his own lingham, which was hard with his need.
Jamal Khan lay on his back upon the couch. Salim watched, fascinated, as his sister roused her husband once again, her dark hair spilling over his loins as she teased him with lips and tongue. When she deemed the time appropriate, Yasaman mounted him, lowering herself over his manhood, absorbing him slowly, inch by precious inch, her firm thighs grasping his narrow hips to hold them both steady. Leaning back upon her arms, she began to ride him, her beautiful face a mask of tempestuous, excited feeling. Her head thrown back, Salim could see her eyes were closed, her lips half parted. He could hear her small mewling cries in the stillness of the night. Jamal Khan reached up with both hands and, grasping her full breasts, began to fondle them as she moved upon him. Very shortly thereafter Yasaman collapsed upon him, once more spent.
Everything he had believed her possible of, Salim thought, she was indeed capable of doing. Yasaman was absolutely his match upon the field of love. He could scarcely wait to conquer her himself. Strangely, he found, he did not resent his young brother-in-law’s possession of Yasaman. Virgins were generally boring. Now she would come to him somewhat experienced in the sensual arts, thanks to Jamal Khan. He looked back to the terrace to find that although Yasaman had been satisfied in her last bout with her husband, Jamal Khan was not.
Salim smiled and his lingham tingled with anticipation as he saw Yasaman turn onto her belly. Leaning forward and resting upon her arms, she arched her back, raising her bottom to her master for his pleasure. Jamal Khan knelt behind his wife, and then grasping her hips in his two hands, he thrust hard into her fiery yoni. Salim heard his sister cry out, but the sound she made was not one of pain. His own lingham was burning his hand and he groaned low, the erotic tableau before him arousing him in a way he had never been aroused before.
For a moment Salim thought that his brother-in-law was resting, but then peering closely through the moonlight he realized that Jamal Khan was thrusting with quick, tiny movements
into his wife’s yoni. The older prince nodded to himself with approval, silently admiring the younger prince’s skill. The boy knew how to wield his lance well.
“Yes,” Salim hissed softly to himself as Jamal Khan leaned forward over his wife’s bent body and, reaching out, grasped her breasts.
Yasaman began to whimper in her inflamed need for release. Her graceful back curved more deeply and she pushed her bottom back at her husband with increasing rapidity as the intoxicating ecstasy engulfing them began to reach its climax.
“
Please!
”
Salim distinctly heard her even from his vantage point.
“
Please!
”
Jamal Khan’s thrusts became faster and fiercer. His hands moved back again to her hips as he drove deeper and deeper into her burning body. Then suddenly they cried out in unison, their mutual heaven attained. And in his tower, still hidden by purple shadows, Salim Muhammad, heir to his father’s throne, spilled his own seed. It spattered against the stone of the structure’s wall, making a creamy puddle between the upturned toes of his slippers. He looked at it dispassionately, then he looked down onto the terrace where the two lovers, satisfied, had entwined themselves within each other’s arms and had fallen asleep.
“Enjoy her while you can, my brother Jamal,” he said to himself. “You will not have her much longer.” Then he exited the tower as silently and as secretly as he had come, to return to his own palace.
Several days later the great celebrational Darbar honoring Akbar’s fifty years of rule was held in the Hall of Audience at the Agra fort. A great procession preceded Akbar’s formal entry. Every noble who could manage to come to Agra was there, and every one, whether he could afford it or not, had brought a gift for the emperor. Many were raised in rank, promoted to higher offices and given more land to have charge over. All had been warned beforehand of the honors to come, so no one honored was missing from the festivities.
The procession began with the clergy: Muslim muezzins, priests of the Hindu faiths, the Buddhists, the Jains, the Christians, and even rabbis from the two ancient Jewish communities of India. These were followed by those Akbar honored the most in his kingdom, the scholars. The one leading them, an
ancient gentleman with a long white beard, recited Akbar’s royal lineage that none doubt his right to his throne, or for that matter, Salim’s right to follow his father.
The ladies of the royal household were seated in a balcony overlooking the Hall of Audience, where they had an excellent and unobstructed view of all that was going on below them. They had dressed themselves in their best finery, but in the heat of the new day, Yasaman thought, the commingling of the different and various scents was quite overpowering. She had had to arise early to be here and was uncharacteristically tired after another long night of lovemaking with her handsome husband. Nur Jahan was next to her, reeking of roses. Yasaman’s head was beginning to ache terribly as the royal heralds entered the hall, preceded by drummers who beat upon their skin instruments, calling all to attention.
“Be aware! Be aware! There approaches the Protector of the People! The Provider of Grain! The Dispenser of Justice! The Pearl of Purity! The Diamond of Restraint! The Shadow of God on Earth!” the herald cried.
Behind the heralds came the standard bearers carrying the symbols of Akbar’s monarchy. There was a large open hand carved realistically from ivory, the nails stained red, set upon a bejeweled golden pole that indicated the administration of the empire. Silver heads representing the elephant, the crocodile, and the tiger symbolized the Provider. There were standard bearers with glorious full sheaves of peacock feathers and beautiful white horse tails that fell gracefully from gold cones. These were the symbols of war and conquest. Finally came the fabulous royal sword of the kingdom, which stood for Justice.
At last Akbar was carried into the Hall of Audience, seated in his golden palanquin which blazed with diamonds and emeralds, the royal umbrella held high over his head. The pale blue silk parasol represented the sky, which was, of course, the emperor’s direct access to God. His conveyance was set down. The Grand Mughal, garbed all in white and sparkling with diamonds, got out to seat himself cross-legged upon the simple red silk pillow set on the raised dais that was his throne.
Rugaiya Begum shook her head worriedly. “He does not look well,” she whispered to Jodh Bai. “This is too much for him.”
“I know,” her friend agreed, “but you cannot tell our dear husband anything he does not want to hear.”
Rugaiya Begum nodded, for Jodh Bai had spoken the truth.
The presentation of the gifts began. As Yasaman had mischievously
predicted to her husband, there was a preponderance of elephants offered to Akbar. Salim presented his father with one quite magnificent fighting elephant, and his brother, Prince Daniyal, sent his father two female elephants and a fighting male. Daniyal was absent from the Darbar because he would not come to Agra while his brother was in residence.
Yasaman preened proudly before her female relations when her husband presented her father with the Wular Blue sapphire.
“What is it? What is it?” demanded Salima Begum. “I am unable to see clearly from here with these old eyes.”
“Jamal Khan has given the emperor a sapphire as large as a cat’s head,” Rugaiya Begum answered.
“Aiiiii!” hissed Salima Begum. “He does well, Yasaman’s handsome young husband.” She turned to the girl. “Does he love as well?” she teased, and then she cackled. “I can see he does from the purple circles beneath your eyes! Heh! Heh! Heh!”
Yasaman blushed, but she smiled. Salima Begum meant no harm.
The gift-giving continued. There were smaller jewels, and animals, and birds, and carved ebony and ivory boxes filled with pearls, and bolts of beautiful cloth, and rare books, and slaves of all races and both sexes, most young and beautiful, as well as chests of silver and gold coins.
Then came the honors Akbar was to bestow upon the loyal and upon those valuable civil servants without whom the Mughal could not have administered his vast empire. Prince Khusrau was honored. It was but the gesture of a loving grandfather. Akbar had already told those closest to him that in a few days the diwans of revenue, ministers, and officers would be placed under Salim’s jurisdiction. Jamal Darya Khan was created governor of Kashmir for life, and publicly pledged his fealty to both Akbar and Prince Salim.
Yusef Khan could scarcely contain his pride, but his two elder sons were openly unhappy at Jamal’s success. Salim noted this and several days later called Yaqub Khan and Haider Khan to him secretly. The two Kashmiri princes came, afraid, yet unable to refuse a royal summons.
Seeing them, Salim knew he had found the tools he needed to rid himself of his brother-in-law. “Sit down,” he told the two men before him. “You will have wine, of course.” He poured them goblets of a particularly good vintage he had imported
from Europe, which had already been mixed with a very strong opiate.
“Wine is forbidden by the Prophet,” Yaqub Khan said piously.
“Is not the forbidden usually the best of experiences?” Prince Salim rejoined. He raised his goblet. “To the new governor of Kashmir,” he said and smiled toothily at the pair before him.
Reluctantly they raised their goblets to drink. What hypocrites, the prince thought to himself. He knew that both these Kashmiri lords drank regularly. He watched them over the rim of his goblet for a long moment, then lowering the vessel, he said, “You do not seem pleased that your younger brother has been appointed by my father to rule Kashmir.”
Yaqub Khan and Haider Khan remained silent.
“Are you not relieved that one of your own is to again have charge over that land your ancestors have ruled for so many generations? Jamal Khan’s mother was the daughter of one of your father’s civil servants, wasn’t she? Admittedly you are the eldest, Yaqub Khan, but still, even having the youngest rise above you to govern your homeland is better than having strangers sit in your father’s palaces, is it not?” Salim smiled again at his two guests, wondering as he did so how long it would take for them to show their true colors. It was obvious that they were both terribly jealous of their youngest sibling. He did not have to wait long.
“I am my father’s heir,” burst out Yaqub Khan angrily. “It is I who should have been made governor of Kashmir by the Mughal!”
“You are a fool, Yaqub Khan,” Salim replied coldly. “I remember you when you came to my father’s court. You were cowardly and you were pompous. My father remembers it well too. You rebelled against the emperor even after he had conquered Kashmir. Your father had already sworn fealty to mine and taken a command in his army; but you rebelled, hiding out in the hills for months. Why would my father appoint you his governor? He cannot trust you.”
“I have since proven my worth,” Yaqub Khan said sullenly.
“How?” Salim answered him mockingly. “By lolling about your palace with your women and causing no further rebellions?”
“I am my father’s firstborn,” Yaqub Khan said angrily. “It should be I who received Kashmir back yesterday and not Jamal!”
Salim burst out laughing. “There is your greatest weakness, Yaqub Khan. Your overweening pride caused you to rebel in the face of defeat. Will it once again defeat you, I wonder, or can you be of use to me?”
“What do you want of us, gracious lord?” Haider Khan asked, perhaps a bit too eagerly. He had been silent until now.