The four-master, Coq d'Or, voyaged through the night to Al Nen Drowd.
In her berth, Lacie slept fitfully, puzzling over her curious adventures.
Wondrous, that men should want to see her strip. Strange, that they could have such diverse reactions to what they saw. She'd hated the lascivious slobs of sailors. But she could happily have stayed undressed for Captain Sindwell all night. He'd exuded such innocent delight that she longed for more, even when his eyes caressed her most private places. She felt wanted. He desired her; but to love and enjoy, not to devour.
Then there was the Sultan; depraved and bloated, for all the magnificence of his raiment. His cold eyes had terrified her until she realised the power she had to tease and melt them. Her body played his eyes the way she played her violin. But there was still the threat of his two axe-bearing bodyguards, should she displease him. If she succeeded in her two 'tasks', whatever they were, he was going to 'take' her; a great honour according to the Captain. And if she failed?
Was it to be bedding or beheading?
Could he? These days? Surely the Captain would look after her?
'Dear Captain Sindwell,' thought Lacie. 'He's such a darling, and so like a nautical Santa Claus. He was so happy to see me nude; I didn't feel ashamed at all.'
What must it feel like to be truly glamorous, like H'adĭn, her lissome, Persian guide? 'If only', Lacie thought, 'I had an exotic figure like hers; tall, slender, and olive-gold. My pale Caucasian body must have looked so much more naked and vulnerable in front of them all than H'adĭn's did. No wonder her name rhymes with Queen.'
Her thoughts would not let her sleep. Her hands kept creeping towards her waist and hips. Hot, moist stirrings cried out to be soothed. She drew her hands together till they covered her mound. She clasped it firmly; moulded her hands around it; even began to sink into the softnesses between lips she'd never really thought about before. In her mind, she could still feel the pollution of the sailors' lust, but it soon gave way to the soothing memory of the Captain's unfeigned delight. She squeezed her hand between her thighs as though it were the Captain's. She needed to put her hands where his gaze had caressed, and where the Sultan's merciless stare had probed.
Oddly, she began to remember strange things she'd seen sister Elsie doing in her bedroom. She'd spied through the keyhole and seen her, naked, reeling and writhing in ecstasy. Lacie, even at sixteen, hadn't understood how Elsie could derive such excitement from that humble organ between her thighs. She'd been even more puzzled when she'd spied brother Till in his room, coaxing pleasure from weird articles between his boyish legs.
But now, awakened, her whole body wanted that pleasure, and this time she knew where it was to be found.
Her hands explored all that her mound had been hiding. Tender petals, secret lips, deep softness, and a hidden nub that made her cry out when she rubbed it.
She couldn't stop. An imaginary Captain Sindwell encouraged her, affirming her with his happy eyes. She'd felt those eyes tracing her labia, and her hands had to follow. She threw off night clothes and sheets. This was what nudity was all about. She tended her awakened body to give her all the ecstasy she was capable of. She found the hidden nub again, and let out a sound, half laughter, half squeal, in her new exhilaration.
She'd called the Captain a maritime Santa Claus. This was his gift to her. He'd unlocked a secret she knew would last a lifetime, ever to be renewed. Music flowed into her heart again. She heard Scheherazade's violin anew; intense, now not satisfied with single notes, but needing to caress two strings at a time, and to soar, no, leap, higher than ever before.
So felt Lacie. Now it was her turn to reel and writhe as Elsie had done, crying out and moaning in pure happiness. Fingers, hand, fist, drew all the world's ecstasy out of her pussy, her cunt, her snatch, vulva, vagina, her nest of joy. Every name she'd heard it called rang through her ears in jubilant harmony with Scheherazade's music.
She buckled, gave a cry of uncontrollable bliss, fell back onto her bed and, still naked, slept the sleep of a child.
In the morning, the Golden Cockerel approached Al Nen Drowd, the exotic port, and gateway to the principalities of Persia. An ebullient Captain Sindwell summoned Lacie and H'adĭn to the port deck. "Come and see, we're approaching the city.".
Minarets and domes shimmered in the sun, mirrored in subtropical blue water. On the hillsides glittered the towers and turrets of vast palaces.
When they'd harboured, the Captain turned to Lacie. "See, the high palace, with golden towers, flying the flag of Al Nen Drowd?"
Lacie looked up the hillside. The flags showed a 'gryphon rampant' and a 'chat riant'.
"This," continued the Captain, "is where we are to ride. While we await our carriage, H'adĭn will tell you your first task."
"The palace," began H'adĭn, "is called Al Swanek. There lives the Prince Igor Kyaskovitch. He is the son of neighbouring King Albavirek, who has ordered him to marry the Princess Tatiana of Polovtsia. But he has never loved a woman before. Intimately he has only encountered men, for whom he has a great and noble love. Nobody else must ever learn this except his confidant, the King's chemist Dr Odinbor. The Prince attempted once to mate with a woman but caused only heartbreak. He is a kind but sad person. He is famous in this land as a musician; you will have many pleasant matters to discuss.
"But you have also a task. He does not want to lose his love for men, but he seeks someone who will teach him to love a woman, too. That is why you are here. Tomorrow there is another task. If you succeed at both these tasks, things will go well for you with the Sultan."
Prince Kyaskovitch was indeed a mild, gentle person, poles apart from the crude sailors of last night.
With him was a gentleman of the court. "This is the chemist of my father, the King. He has cured me of many indispositions in the past. Unknown to my father he has brought a potion which will help me when I encounter you. His name is Alexander Odinbor."
The chemist bowed deeply and left.
"Sit here with me," the Prince exhorted Lacie; 'here' being the richest, most voluptuously upholstered chaise longue Lucy could imagine. "I will sit beside you. It behoves me to learn to be close to a woman."
"Thank you, Your Highness," said Lacie. "Tell me about yourself."
"I am a prince. I must bear myself like a prince. Full of confidence, and not sparing of a joke or two. People say if I were a musical instrument I would be a bluff bassoon. But that is not how I feel. Being a prince is a sad and heavy journey. I would love to marry another prince—even a commoner if he loved me. But at the palace of Al Swanek, it would be 'off with my head' and probably his also. Mademoiselle Lacie, I have tried so hard. Four years ago I even wrote an overture. I told in my most passionate music the story of Romeo and Juliet. Why cannot I love a woman like that? They will not rest until I do."