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The Devil Of The Sands and The Desert Rose

Mastertank1

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The Devil Of The Sands and The Desert Rose
A Tickling Romance by Mastertank1
Inspired by the song Desert Rose, by Sting
(Note: Your enjoyment of this story may be enhanced by listening to the song referred to above while reading it.)​
The war was over. The mercenary general had won. Ameenah, the princess of the 20 Oases of Gaddai, had needed his help to save her small kingdom.

The vast armies of Bal-Shaddai, the empire of evil, had easily crushed her much smaller forces. In a single battle at the Wells Of Trumo, the first stop on the water source to water source route that led to her realm from the east, Ameenah’s army had vanished like mist in the desert sun.

That was when Lord Mikran the Hammer had come to her royal court. He had offered to bring his own army to fight the overwhelming foe, with no payment due unless he won. The payment of gold to his troops was well within the capacity of her overflowing treasury. She could easily afford it. It was the price of his personal services that dismayed Ameenah. That price was herself, as his bedslave, for the space of one year. After that year, he would leave with his troops.

Mikran had brought to the war an army from nowhere in her world that Ameenah knew of. No one else at her court knew of it either. Not even the greatest scholars.

There were many contingents of horsemen and camel cavalry. They came from lands with unknown names, like Morocco, Algeria, Tripoli, Tunisia, Cyrenaicia, Egypt, Sudan and Arabia. The various companies were known by the most outlandish tribal names; Berbers, Bedouins, Tuaregs, Riffs, Rualla, Ruweilli, Aegeyli, Juheina, Mountain Howeitat, Desert Howeitat and Coastal Howeitat.

Those were the ones who seemed civilized. Then there were the true barbarians, or so they seemed to her eyes and those of her subjects. From places with names still more exotic; Minnesota, Dakohta, Texas, Mechico. The names of these tribes were just as odd, just as exotic to the ear as the homelands they hailed from; Hunkpapa, Oglalla, Comanche, Chericahua, Mescalero, Yaqui, Cheyenne, Dinneh and Blackfoot.

All were true desert warriors. They coalesced out of nothing to strike deep, wounding blows at the Shaddahai, then vanished into the great dry. Their leader was soon named the Devil Of The Sands, by friend and foe alike.

Blow by blow the great enemy lost, while Mikran’s forces seemed ever to increase in power. The foe advanced inexorably, but steadily decreased in strength.

Then came the final battle. Just beyond the borders of her domain, in a place she could see well from the towers of her palace. Ameenah watched in awe as Mikran’s 20 tribal companies converged on the army of Bal-Shaddai. In a single coordinated charge, the enemy formation was shattered and the massive army dissolved in chaos and route.

Showing great consideration for the fears of her people, Mikran had left his troops encamped outside the walls of her capital city of Shalimar. To make an unmistakable point, they were encamped all around the city walls.

He came in with a delegation from every tribe to receive their promised gold. They took the pay back to the camps. Sometime during the night, troops and camps vanished. Everyone knew that they could return as swiftly and undetectably as they had departed. Point made. Ameenah did not dare try to evade her personal payment to Mikran.

Tonight was a great feast to celebrate victory. Tonight Mikran was to claim his prize, and she was to be his for a year. Well, Ameenah was ready. Her mother, the ruling Princess before her, had trained her well.

Ameenah knew she could not rule Mikran by wealth or by force of the men at her command. She knew she could not outwit him. She believed that she could rule him by the ancient womanly wiles of the bedchamber. The same way her ancestors, for untold generations back in the female line, had ruled the succession of strong and capable men who been the consorts of those female rulers. It was a game that her line had played well for a very long time, and it began with verbal sparring at the feast.

Mikran had asked Ameenah if she planned to dance for him. He had heard that she was better at the dance than any other woman in her domain. She had coolly replied that any man who expected the ruling princess to dance for him must first dance for her.

She thought thus to put him off balance and embarrassed, setting the stage for later domination in bed. Ameenah was therefore not pleased when he smiled and said; “But of course. It has been far too long since I had the chance to show off the dance skills I learned in my youth. Among my people it is a part of every warrior’s training. Give me a moment to change clothing.”

With those words, Mikran opened a door in midair and stepped through it, closing it behind him before anyone caught more than a glimpse of what seemed like an opulent corridor beyond. It was a mere few seconds later that he returned, in completely different clothing and followed by a group of five oblong boxes linked by cables. The boxes floated in midair, and seemed to follow him of their own volition.

In place of the formal banquet raiment of floor length, heavily brocaded robes, he now wore a dancer’s costume, pants and jacket of light cotton muslin. The fabric clung close except for the cuffs of the pants, which flapped loose, and the sleeves of the jacket, which left his massively muscled forearms bare.

For the first time, Ameenah saw the shape of Mikran’s body. It was not the vee shape of those men who spent entirely too much time and effort on their bodies. It was rather slabbed and corded with layers of muscle, the belly and sides straight and flat rather than tapered. With the battle scars that seamed his limbs, he seemed a boulder of mountain granite which had risen on two legs and walked.

Ameenah thought that this next year might be less of a burden than she had feared. She had no way to know that what seemed to be a healthy and vigorous man in his early thirties was actually just under 9000 years of age, far too old and wise to succumb to the wiles she intended to use.

Mikran’s costume, like his fighters, came from the world he liked best for both rest and recreation, and for recruiting fighters for his mercenary armies. It’s natives called it earth. The costume had been made and tailored for him by the official costumers of St. Petersburg’s world famous Kirov Ballet. He wore magic boots rather than toe shoes.

The moves of the dance he meant to perform were from an obscure, seldom performed work of Rimsky-Korsakov’s. It was the Ballet Taras Bulba. The piece he meant to do was called ‘The Cossack Warlord’. It was a male solo, one of the few in ballet. In it, the dancer expressed overpowering, raw, masculine dominance in a way that was no longer ‘politically correct’. Perhaps that was why the ballet was so seldom performed.

Performed to its original music, the balletic solo was majestic and stately, deliberately building to a peak of dominant male control. Mikran had re-choreographed the dance, to a much more uptempo piece of music. He would dance to Sting’s ‘Desert Rose’.

Mikran had also rewritten the lyrics slightly, and used his magic to alter the CD single he had bought of the song, so that his own voice, a powerful and resonant basso profundo to baritone, was heard singing the slightly altered words when the CD was played. It was a concert version of the song, and lasted for the full 9 minutes and 22 seconds of Mikran’s version of the dance.

Mikran had been very attentive and flattering to Ameenah every time they met. He appeared to be courting her. Given the fact that she was already committed to giving herself to him for a year, she could only conclude that he was being so nice out of genuine regard for her, which pleased her greatly. With closer acquaintance, as she became more and more impressed with his many abilities, her acceptance of the bargain she had had to make grew easier for her.

Mikran had begun some time ago to call Ameenah his Desert Rose. In a world where roses did not exist, he had produced a magical rose bush for her, which bloomed a half dozen perfect mature roses every day. Each day’s blooms were of a different variety. Being compared to such a beautiful and fragrant flower pleased Ameenah deeply.

Gazing up at this vision of masculinity in his translucent and tight fitting costume, Ameenah felt her womanhood responding to his overwhelming presence. She found that she liked the idea of belonging to him, and this worried her.

Mikran gestured at the cable linked boxes that had followed him across the floor. The five flew up to hover just below the center of the ceiling. He gestured again, and the four larger ones flew to the corners of the ceiling, unreeling their cables behind them. They assumed positions angling downward. They were one of the most recent toys Mikran had acquired on Earth; a quadriphonic stereo CD player.

Moving to the center of the floor, Mikran assumed the starting stance, feet planted wide, fists on hips, eyes fixed on Ameenah where she sat amid her nest of cushions, on her dais ten steps above the floor. He blinked, and the music began, the exotic, mideastern minor key melody filling the room. When the backup singer, the Arabian diva Mam Chali, began the lead in in Arabic, Mikran began to dance.

Where the original music made this dance stately and majestic, the faster tempo of this newer music made it overwhelming, almost terrifying in it’s raw expression of dominance. Then Mikran’s voice began singing the melody, in English words which his magic let all present understand.

Desert Rose: Lyrics written by Sting, modified by M. J. Geller a.k.a. Mastertank1
I dream of rain, (elai, elai)
I dream a Goddess in the desert sand.
I wake in pain, (elai, elai)
I dream of love,
as time runs through my hand.

I dream of fire, (elai, elai)
these dreams are tied,
to a love that will never tire,
and in the flames, (elai, elai)
her shadows play,
in the shape of my desire.

This desert rose, (elai, elai)
each of her veils,
a secret promise holds.
This desert flower, (elai, elai)
no sweet perfume,
ever drew me more than this.

Now as she turns, (elai, elai)
this way she moves,
in the logic of all my dreams.
This fire burns, (elai, elai)
I realize,
that nothing is as it seems.

I dream of rain, (elai, elai)
I dream of gardens in the desert sand.
I wake in pain, (elai, elai)
I dream of love,
as time runs through my hand.

I dream of rain, (elai, elai)
I lift my gaze,
to empty skies above.
I close my eyes, (elai, elai)
This rare perfume,
is the sweet intoxication of her love.

I dream of rain, (elai, elai)
I dream of gardens in the desert sand.
I wake in pain, (elai, elai)
I dream of love,
as time runs through my hand.

Sweet desert rose, (elai, elai)
each of her veils, a secret promise holds.
This desert flower, (elai, elai)
no sweet perfume,
ever held me more than this.

Sweet desert rose, (elai, elai)
this memory of Eden haunts us all!
This desert flower, (elai, elai)
This rare perfume,
is the sweet intoxication of her love!

(Elai, elai is an ancient Hebrew exclamation, also used by many Arabs, meaning My God, my God. It is pronounced el-lay, el-lay. Like the abbreviation for Los Angeles.)

The words and the music continued and repeated, then ended as Mikran effortlessly leapt from the floor to finish the dance standing directly in front of Ameenah, on the top platform of her dais ten steps above the floor, in the same stance he had begun the dance from.

The dance had exactly the effect Mikran intended. Ameenah felt dominated. Happily, gladly, joyfully dominated. Never before had she felt so submissive, and at the same time so safe and protected, so right. She gazed up at this towering, handsome man. His body radiated masculine power. His face was alive with the keen intellect that dwelt within. Even the clean scent of his sweat was intoxicating. It was all she could do not to prostrate herself and kiss his feet!

Mikran removed that temptation by stepping back and around, landing lightly on the floor ten steps below. He resumed his seat, and said to Ameenah; “Your turn I think, oh Desert Rose, my Goddess of the sands.”

For the first time since childhood, the thirty year old, still youthful beauty blushed. Her people had addressed her as ‘Goddess’ all her life, but somehow, to hear this man do so affected her deeply. She gracefully arose, and descended the ten steps to the floor.

Ameenah paused by Mikran’s side where he sat crosslegged, her emotions in turmoil, then almost fled across the floor. She had made a decision. It was a surprise to herself, as it soon would be to all her subjects. To herself, it seemed so right, she had to do it.

Ameenah paused to speak to the head musician. He first looked scandalized, then rebellious, then mulish, and finally resigned, as his princess remained adamant regarding the order she had given him. Turning to Mikran, she said; “I, too, must now change clothing.”

While she was gone, the musicians changed music, looking astonished by what they were about to play. When Ameenah returned, she was swathed from neck to floor in an opaque robe. She took her stand not in the middle of the floor, but directly in front of Mikran. Then she swept her robe off and tossed it onto the steps of her dais.

Beneath the robe she was dressed in a harem girl’s pantaloons and jacket, made out of transparent gauze, like a floating mist. There were translucent places, just the right size and positioned perfectly to maintain modesty. She wore a wide, soft leather collar around her throat, with matching cuffs on her wrists and ankles. Everyone except Mikran gasped.

Ameenah snapped her fingers and the music began. Her court emitted another scandalized gasp as soon as the music was recognized. Ameenah had made a last minute choice to change her dance.

She had originally planned to perform a dance of promises denied, of delights withheld. It was known as ‘The Dance Of The Cruel Mistress’. Instead, she was now performing a dance that expressed eager, anxious submission. This one was called ‘The Dance Of the Willing Slave Girl.’ No wonder her courtiers gasped.

Ameenah was a very accomplished dancer. She performed on this occasion with gusto and elan, and heartfelt emotion. She danced for nearly ten minutes, displaying to the full her beauty, her litheness, her agility, her deftness, her skill, her sheer athleticism and her stamina. Although all present could see her, Ameenah was dancing for Mikran alone.

Her dance concluded with a stylized posture. Ameenah knelt with her ankles crossed behind her, bent forward so that her hair brushed the floor, veiling her lovely face. Her arms were fully extended toward Mikran, crossed at the wrists. The posture also had a name. It was called ‘Slave Girl Begs To Be Bound’.

Mikran grinned. He opened one of his infamous doors in midair. This time it was a small one. He drew forth a sirik.

A sirik is a special form of restraint, used only on the most highly valued slave concubines. Laid out on a surface, it looks like a child’s stick figure of a person, only rendered in chain, and with some form of fastener at each of the five ends of the chains. This one was a thin platinum chain studded with diamonds, with platinum snap hooks on the ends. Mikran attached the five snaphooks to the appropriate rings on the collar and cuffs Ameenah wore, bringing her to a standing position to do so.

Ameenah stood amazed, looking at her beautiful new adornment in wonder and delight. Then she looked at Mikran and silently mouthed the words; “Thank you.”

Mikran took in the sight of her with a long, lingering gaze of appreciation. His regard began with her cute, round little toes. It went up over her short, wide, high arched feet with their perfectly smooth and soft skin.

Tracking his gaze, Ameenah rose to stand on her toes and the balls of her feet, as if to display her smooth, deep arches. Mikran took in her delicately turned ankles, the sweet curves of her calves, nicely accentuated by the way she was standing. Her knees were exquisite, her thighs delicious, tiny trickles of sweat visible on them through the gauze harem pants.

Her buttocks, hips, groin and belly were delightfully shaped, promising great enjoyment to he who might possess her. Ameenah’s torso was femininely curved perfection. Her rounded breasts were exactly the right size for her body, neither too large nor too small. Her aureolae began to shade a darker pink, her prominent nipples to rise, as though Mikran’s lingering glance were a physical caress.

Her finely formed hands and arms were lovely, her shoulders enticingly rounded. Her sweetly carven collarbones and the perfect column of her elegant neck and throat seemed to invite, almost to demand a lover’s kisses.

Ameenah’s elfin, heart shaped face with it’s curved lips, slightly pointed chin, high and broad cheekbones, huge, slightly tilted almond shaped eyes, lush, expressive brows and high, clear forehead was a study in perfect female beauty. Her waist length jet black hair fell naturally in a few loose, wide curls and waves, its healthy natural gloss brilliant in the torchlight which awakened it’s deep blue highlights.

Ameenah’s eyes were a deep, deep blue that was nearly black, startling against the brilliant whites. Her skin was a dusky olivine with a slightly rosy undertone, a noticeable shade or two lighter on her palms and the inner sides of her fingers, the same on the bottoms of her feet and toes. The rosy shade was more pronounced on her cheeks than elsewhere.

Mikran rose to his feet in an impossibly sinuous motion. He stared intently into Ameenah’s eyes. She gulped, nodded yes, and faintly grinned. She silently mouthed; “Yes. I am yours. Take me.”

Mikran swept Ameenah up in his arms. He opened a large man sized door in the air to his right, stepped through it and closed it behind himself. It was gone, leaving no trace. The throne room erupted into a buzz of agitated speculation. Mikran had taken their beloved princess. When, if ever, would he return her?

Ameenah took in the details of the same luxurious corridor she had glimpsed earlier when Mikran went to change clothes. She saw rich mosaics, gorgeous woven hangings and carpets, beautiful statuary and paintings, lovely furniture. Every chair, table, cabinet and case was a work of art, and more works of art were displayed on and in them. There were statuettes, wonderful books open to richly illuminated or illustrated pages, paintings, cameos, miniatures, decorated weapons and utensils, ancient arcane scrolls, all manner of marvelous artifacts.

Then a pair of huge, exquisitely and intricately carved doors across the corridor were opened by unseen hands. Mikran carried Ameenah through, and the doors closed behind them. They were in Mikran’s bedroom.

The furniture was a simple, smoothly shaped style, made of dark, well polished black walnut. There was a huge four-poster bed with no canopy, with two matching night tables. There were two matching dressers, three chests of drawers, two armoires, a vanity table, a round breakfast table with four chairs, a huge wing chair with a round side table and a desk. All were made of the same rich wood, in the same simple, unadorned, elegant style. The wood of the furniture was thick, heavy, sturdy pieces. The upholstery of all five chairs was a deep red-brown, accented with bronze rivets. The overall effect of the room was as intensely masculine as it’s owner.

Mikran deposited Ameenah on the bed gently. Then he gestured, and the sirik chains to her limbs contracted until the four cuffs were only ten inches apart. Mikran gestured again and the chains became rigid, holding her hands and bare feet just too far apart to touch each other. A third gesture, and the now rigid assembly of chains and cuffs rose until the center was 20 inches above the bed, balancing Ameenah on her shapely rear. A fourth gesture, and the dark blue color of the sheets, pillowcases and bedspread changed to a burnt orange color, perfectly showing off the dusky olivine shade of Ameenah’s flawless skin.

Mikran said; “Your feet are dirty, Ameenah.”

Then, to the air, he said; “Fetch a basin of hot water, an empty basin, soap and cloths.”

A moment later a basin of steaming water, a bar of soap and a stack of cloths floated into the room. The side table moved over from its place beside the wing chair, and the items placed themselves upon it. Mikran wet one cloth, then soaped it well and began to clean the bottoms of Ameenah’s lovely feet.

Ameenah instantly began laughing. She complained, between bursts of laughter; “ Heeeee! That tickles! Hahaha! Please, haha stop! Heeheehee! It tickles sooo bad! Hahahaha! Please! Eeeeheeeehee!”

Mikran just smiled. He kept on methodically washing her feet until they were clean. He dropped the cloth in the empty basin, then took a second cloth, wet it and rinsed the soap off, making her laugh again. He added that cloth to the empty basin, then took a third cloth and dried her feet off, making her laugh yet again.

Mikran stood up and stepped out of his boots, then peeled off his jacket and pants. Ameenah couldn’t help licking her lips. He looked even more impressive unclothed, thousands of years worth of battle scars making a veritable tapestry over his muscular limbs and torso. He sat on the bed beside her. She eagerly anticipated his touch.

Mikran began by caressing Ameenah all over. His hands roamed freely, exploring all the planes and curves of her body. She found herself responding strongly to his skillful touch. Her body arched into his hands, trying to maximize contact. She reveled in the sensation of his hands on her skin. When he began to nibble and kiss around her neck and collarbones, she moaned with pleasure and turned her head to try to kiss back.

She kissed any part of him that came within reach of her mouth, eventually finding his own busy lips and pressing her own to them. His hands teased and excited her like no other man’s ever had. So did his kisses. Then Mikran drew back, grinned a wide and wicked grin at Ameenah, and gently began to tickle her.

Mikran began playing with Ameenah’s sides, grazing the soft, smooth skin with the tips of his fingers. She burst into sweet, warm laughter at his first tickle. He resumed nibbling on her shoulders and neck while his fingers glided up and down her tender flanks. He loved the way his deft teasing made her writhe as she laughed. It was intoxicating.

As for Ameenah, after only a minute and a few seconds, she was feeling helpless and out of control as she never had before. Yet she knew, somehow, that she was safe from all harm because Mikran was here, and he would protect her in her helplessness. These feelings only enhanced her already intense arousal. She loved the way Mikran was making her feel.

Mikran began a ticklish exploration of Ameenah’s taut, lean belly and her deliciously rounded groin. He played tickling games with her thighs and her crotch, the backs of her knees and the curves of her calves. He tickled her ankles. He tickled her hips. He rolled her to one side and tickled her buttocks.

Mikran tickled Ameenah’s back ribs and up and down her spine, over and over again. He tickled her arms and her shoulders. He tickled her luscious breasts, paying particular attention to her hardened and erect nipples. Even they were ticklish.

Mikran tickled Ameenah’s neck, ears, throat and chin. He even made her laugh by tickling the top of her head. She could feel her entire body coming alive under his hands. Her nerves were lighting up in ways they never had before. He was driving her wild, and she adored the feeling.

Some ticklish places made her giggle, some made her laugh, and some made her howl. Turned on and out of control with laughter and arousal, she wanted to beg him to take her right now, but was laughing too hard to speak coherent words.

Mikran spread his tree trunk like legs to either side of Ameenah, sitting behind her as he happily tickled away. His broad back rested against the headboard of the bed. After a while, he slid Ameenah forward on her lovely backside, then spun her around. Her wonderfully shapely feet were now almost in his face.

Earlier, accidental, incidental tickles on her feet had made Ameenah react powerfully. Now, Mikran’s deliberate, relentless stroking of her sensitive feet, her most ticklish part, was making the desert beauty crazy.

Ameenah’s beautiful mouth opened wide as she laughed loud and long. Mikran’s fingertips slid in little circles around her heels. They made figure eights around the balls of her feet. The stroked relentlessly up and down the flats of her soles, alternately making them wrinkle as she scrunched them up, then smooth out as she stretched her toes back. The delicious, delicate sensations were utterly maddening, yet somehow she just couldn’t get enough of them.

Mikran knew she was way beyond ready, all the way to desperate. She wanted him as she had never wanted anything in her life. He raised Ameenah’s legs just a little farther above the bed, and pulled her closer. His erect member entered her easily, slipping smoothly between her soaking wet labia. As he drew her closer, his body readjusted its size and shape in certain parts, responding to a spell he had recently cast on himself. This changing was for her pleasure; his new size and shape were perfectly suited to stimulate all her internal and external trigger points in the best possible way. No other lover had ever given her such pleasure. She squirmed happily, moving herself against him, increasing her pleasure and arousal.

That was when Mikran began to tickle Ameenah’s toes. His big fingertips played with the cute, rounded little digits as the wiggled in a frenzy, desperately trying to escape. Ameenah threw her head back and laughed more than ever. Her stunning body was writhing and twisting in joyful agony, as the laughter poured helplessly out between her wide open lips.

Every move Ameenah made sent new waves of pleasure shooting from her crotch where she ground against Mikran right up her spine to her brain. Soon she had the most intense, powerful and prolonged orgasm of her life, but the next one was better, and the third better still. There seemed to be a direct connection between how wildly out of control she felt and how good her orgasms were.

The flood of hormones those orgasms released into her body had intensified her tactile sensitivity, making her ever more desperately, frantically ticklish. The more ticklish she became, the harder she struggled and laughed. The harder she struggled and laughed, the better she came. And so on. A later age would call it a positive feedback loop. She just knew it was incredibly good.

Then Mikran’s tickling fingers abandoned her toes and began instead to torment her even more tenderly responsive, even more frenziedly ticklish, deep, smooth and sensuous arches. The gentle stroking there tickled far, far more intensely. She laughed harder than ever, struggled and squirmed harder than ever. She came harder than ever too. Once, then again, then a third time.

Then, Ameenah felt her man cumming inside her, and that triggered her biggest orgasm yet. But, her lord was not done. He remained hard after climax, and kept right on teasing her wonderfully ticklish, exquisitely lovely feet.

Now, as a final touch, Mikran leaned forward to increase Ameenah’s ticklish torment. While his fingers continued to tickle her arches, his lips and his tongue engulfed her toes while his long, silky beard teased the balls of her feet.

It was simply unbearable. It was sensation beyond anything Ameenah had ever imagined. Her mind simply turned itself off, leaving her entire being awash in sheer feeling, overwhelmed with pleasure. Intoxicated with joy. Possessed by happy torment.

She began having rapid fire orgasms, one after an other, closer and closer in time until the interval vanished, leaving Ameenah caught up in one, seemingly endless, continuous climax. After a couple of minutes that stretched like an eon of ecstasy, Ameenah felt her master cum inside her a second time, and she felt her entire being simply explode with pleasure. This time, it seemed as if every nerve ending she possessed, inside or out and top to toes, participated in the orgasm.

Now, they were done. Mikran dried them both with a soft, clean, absorbent cloth. He loosened the sirik until Ameenah’s freedom of movement was almost unrestricted. He easily lifted her with his mighty left arm, then flipped back the quilt with his right hand. He slipped them both under the covers and pulled her tight against himself. Now his touch cuddled and soothed and calmed her, instead of arousing and teasing.

Ameenah felt comfortable, relaxed and safe as she lay with her back against his front, her head tucked under his chin. He pulled the quilt up to just below her chin, kissed the top of her head and held her until she fell asleep.

Her last thought before drifting off was; “So. This is love. It feels good. No wonder so many women give themselves up for it. I thought I never would, until I met Mikran, my master, who truly deserves to own me.”

Contented, she slept, blissfully unaware of the incongruous irony of such feelings in a ruling monarch. For perhaps the first time since early childhood, Ameenah was truly happy.

For his part, Mikran had been happily surprised at Ameenah’s capacity for pleasure, joy and love. He resolved then and there; he would not leave at the end of the year. He had essentially unlimited time. He would remain as her consort for as long as she lived. He would give her children and help her raise them to adulthood. When the time came, as it eventually must, he would hold her in arms and comfort her when she died.

After all, now that he had extended his own life span almost indefinitely, he had plenty of time. Time to learn. Time to grow. Time enough for love.

The End.
The link below leads to a photo of what Ameenah looks like in modern clothing.

http://www.celebrityfeet.it/pics005/sofiamilos15.jpg
 
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