fuck me, yes?” she said as though nothing could be amiss.
“Oh, yes,” he mumbled. Where had his breath gone?
Sweet Sejenus.
“Fuck me many time? Eh, Baswutt?”
He laughed nervously. Peered through the rag curtain once again. Two men were cursing at each other, scuffling near enough to make Achamian flinch.
“Many times,” he replied, knowing this to be the polite way to discuss price. “How many do you think?”
“Think four … Four silver times.”
Silver? Obviously she’d confused his embarrassment for inexperience. Even still, what was money on a night like this? He celebrated, didn’t he?
He shrugged, saying, “An old man like me?”
In this particular language, the man was forced to deride his own prowess in order to strike a fair bargain. If he was poor, he complained of being old, infirm, and so on. Arrogant men, Esmenet had told him once, usually fared poorly in these negotiations—which, of course, was the point. Harlots hated nothing more than men who arrived already believing the flattering lies they would tell them. Esmi called them the simustarapari, or “those-who-spit-twice.”
The Galeoth girl studied him with nebulous eyes: she’d started petting herself in the gloom. “You so strong,” she said, suddenly thick-tongued. “Like Baswutt … Strong! Two silver times think?”
Achamian laughed, tried hard not to watch her fingers. The ground had started a slow spin. For an instant she looked pale and skinny in the dark, like an abused slave. The mat beneath her looked rough enough to cut her skin … He’d drunk too much.
Not too much! Just enough …
The ground steadied. He swallowed, nodded his agreement, then pulled the two coins from his purse. “What does ‘Baswutt’ mean?” he asked, slipping the silver into her small, waiting palm.
“Hmmm?” she replied, smiling triumphantly. She stashed the two white-shining talents with startling swiftness—What would she buy? he wondered—then looked back at him with large questioning eyes.
“What does that mean?” he repeated, more slowly. “Baswutt …”
She frowned, then giggled. “For ‘big bear’ …”
She was full-breasted, mature, but something about her manner reminded him of a little girl. The guileless smile. The rolling eyes and bouncing chin. The knees opening and closing like butterfly wings. Achamian half-expected a scolding mother to come barging between them. Was that part of the pantomime as well? Like the shameless banter?
His heart hammered.
He knelt where her toys should have been, between her legs. She squirmed and writhed, as though the threat of his mere presence would make her climax. “Fuck me, Baswutt,” she gasped. “ Emmm baswutt … Fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me … Mmmm, pleassseee …”
He swayed, caught himself, chuckled. He began hitching up his robe, glanced nervously at the shadowy stream of passersby through the curtain. They walked so close he could spit on their shins.
He tried to ignore the smell. His smell.
“Oooh, such big bear,” she cooed, stroking his cock.
Suddenly, his apprehension melted away, and some deranged part of him actually exulted in the thought of others watching. Let them watch! Let them learn!
Always the teacher …
Cackling, he seized her narrow hips, pulled her across his thighs.
How he’d yearned for this moment! To have licence with a stranger … It seemed there could be nothing so sweet as a fresh peach!
He was trembling! Trembling!
She moaned silver, cried gold. Faces turned in the passing crowd.
Through the knotted rags, Achamian saw Esmenet.
“Esmi!” Achamian hollered, barrelling through arms and shoulders. The Galeoth girl was crying out something behind him—some gibberish.
He glimpsed Esmenet again, hurrying along a row of torches that fronted the canopies of a Yatwerian lazaret. A tall man, sporting the matted braids of a Thunyeri warrior, held her arm, but she seemed to be leading.
“Esmi!” he cried, jumping to be
“Oh, yes,” he mumbled. Where had his breath gone?
Sweet Sejenus.
“Fuck me many time? Eh, Baswutt?”
He laughed nervously. Peered through the rag curtain once again. Two men were cursing at each other, scuffling near enough to make Achamian flinch.
“Many times,” he replied, knowing this to be the polite way to discuss price. “How many do you think?”
“Think four … Four silver times.”
Silver? Obviously she’d confused his embarrassment for inexperience. Even still, what was money on a night like this? He celebrated, didn’t he?
He shrugged, saying, “An old man like me?”
In this particular language, the man was forced to deride his own prowess in order to strike a fair bargain. If he was poor, he complained of being old, infirm, and so on. Arrogant men, Esmenet had told him once, usually fared poorly in these negotiations—which, of course, was the point. Harlots hated nothing more than men who arrived already believing the flattering lies they would tell them. Esmi called them the simustarapari, or “those-who-spit-twice.”
The Galeoth girl studied him with nebulous eyes: she’d started petting herself in the gloom. “You so strong,” she said, suddenly thick-tongued. “Like Baswutt … Strong! Two silver times think?”
Achamian laughed, tried hard not to watch her fingers. The ground had started a slow spin. For an instant she looked pale and skinny in the dark, like an abused slave. The mat beneath her looked rough enough to cut her skin … He’d drunk too much.
Not too much! Just enough …
The ground steadied. He swallowed, nodded his agreement, then pulled the two coins from his purse. “What does ‘Baswutt’ mean?” he asked, slipping the silver into her small, waiting palm.
“Hmmm?” she replied, smiling triumphantly. She stashed the two white-shining talents with startling swiftness—What would she buy? he wondered—then looked back at him with large questioning eyes.
“What does that mean?” he repeated, more slowly. “Baswutt …”
She frowned, then giggled. “For ‘big bear’ …”
She was full-breasted, mature, but something about her manner reminded him of a little girl. The guileless smile. The rolling eyes and bouncing chin. The knees opening and closing like butterfly wings. Achamian half-expected a scolding mother to come barging between them. Was that part of the pantomime as well? Like the shameless banter?
His heart hammered.
He knelt where her toys should have been, between her legs. She squirmed and writhed, as though the threat of his mere presence would make her climax. “Fuck me, Baswutt,” she gasped. “ Emmm baswutt … Fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me … Mmmm, pleassseee …”
He swayed, caught himself, chuckled. He began hitching up his robe, glanced nervously at the shadowy stream of passersby through the curtain. They walked so close he could spit on their shins.
He tried to ignore the smell. His smell.
“Oooh, such big bear,” she cooed, stroking his cock.
Suddenly, his apprehension melted away, and some deranged part of him actually exulted in the thought of others watching. Let them watch! Let them learn!
Always the teacher …
Cackling, he seized her narrow hips, pulled her across his thighs.
How he’d yearned for this moment! To have licence with a stranger … It seemed there could be nothing so sweet as a fresh peach!
He was trembling! Trembling!
She moaned silver, cried gold. Faces turned in the passing crowd.
Through the knotted rags, Achamian saw Esmenet.
“Esmi!” Achamian hollered, barrelling through arms and shoulders. The Galeoth girl was crying out something behind him—some gibberish.
He glimpsed Esmenet again, hurrying along a row of torches that fronted the canopies of a Yatwerian lazaret. A tall man, sporting the matted braids of a Thunyeri warrior, held her arm, but she seemed to be leading.
“Esmi!” he cried, jumping to be
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