SCHEHERAZADE and One thousand and One Nights

Sorry, it's been awhile since I posted on here.

Scheherazade.  This artful, imaginative, articulate, Persian Beauty is an inspiration as a woman who frees herself from male oppression by ingenuity, intelligence, and imagination.

So, here we have the King of Persia, Shahriyar. who decides the best way to take vengeance on his unfaithful wife is to kill her. Convinced that the only way to keep a faithful wife is to have her for only one night, he decides to take a different virgin every day and after taking her to the matrimonial bed at night, he then puts her to death in the morning. Story has it: 3,000 times. 

Yes, the virgins weren't exactly lining up to be his wife.

But, being the King, he could summon any virginal beauty to his temporary bed of doom without a whisper of complaint. This massacre of virgins continues  until along comes our heroine Scheherazade - beautiful virginal daughter of the grand  vizier.  She pleads with her father to let her go to the King to be his wife and that she has a plan in mind for her survival and consequently the survival of other virgin females under the King's domain.   The grand vizier reluctantly agrees and Scheherazade, taking along her co-conspirator, (her sister) offers herself to the King.

 On the evening of the Wedding Night, as planned, her sister begs the King that Scheherazade be allowed to finish a most enchanting story because  she knows this will be the last opportunity for her to hear the ending.  The King agrees and, as the story progresses, he becomes more intrigued and captivated by the reader and the story.  Scheherazade moves into another story and with this one, he becomes even more mesmerized and oblivious to the breaking dawn. Scheherazade is careful not to finish the story, and desperate to learn the ending, Shahriyar gives her a stay of execution.,  The second night, Scheherazade finishes the story but quickly moves on to another, even more spell-binding than the before.  Again the night passes and the story remains unfinished, with the King even more entranced and beguiled than before.  Every night for one thousand and one nights, Scheherazade captivates the the King with her imaginative stories of Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad, and others (still enjoyed by us today) and with her eloquence of voice, and never quite reaching the end of the story that night, she continues to see another day.  Eventually, realizing that he cannot part with Scheherazade, and finding vengeance  long gone from his heart, he happily beds his wife each night and wakes to her in the morning.  In between story-telling she also managed to give him three children.

The femme fatale connection and moral is: Always leave a man wanting more!

MISTAKEN INTENTIONS

Certainly there are sexless men out there somewhere, people who feel that erotic pleasure is utterly uninteresting. The guys at work who spend all their free time checking out sports scores or fantasy league standings, or who are devoted exclusively to their model airplane collections. Admirable things, to be sure.

Certainly. He knew that. But it had never been like that for him. He had always noticed the curve of a calf, the sheen of stockings, the rosy flash creeping up a neck as a sign of embarrassment or incipient excitement. It was like a kind of radar or ESP. Sure, it had created awkward moments, a restlessness that wouldn’t go away. Every day, it seemed, there was a moment – an image, a thought, a flash of recognition in a passing glance, a sight that took his breath away – that resonated in his mind as he pleasured himself. Yet it was never right, never enough, and increasingly he imagined darker but unarticulated things. But several months ago, things started to go haywire, and it was only now that he realized things had gone beyond his control.

It started at the carousel at the airport. His bag was identical to Hers. By the time they’d sorted it out – he’d been helpful and deferential, of course – he’d not only been intrigued by Her perfume and the dangle of the bracelets on Her slim wrist but by the lacy hem of the leopard print slip he’d seen in Her bag when he’d opened it to show Her that the bag was his. He felt silly, of course, but also flushed: the rosy tint creeping up had been on his neck, not Hers. She’d simply smiled.

The shared cab ride, the drink at the bar of the bistro near her home with the twin bags on the floor, side by side, the dinner, the exchange of phone numbers, and then dropping her off and helping only to the door and the soft kiss of her hand on his cheek and the lingering scent – had she freshened it in the restaurant’s bathroom while he paid the bill? – as She said goodnight.

In time he’d discovered that She was every inch a lady, down to the tautness of Her neck as She arched her back before thrusting Her hips forward when on the edge of orgasm.

She epitomized the woman that had danced darkly in his imagination for so many years. Yes, of course he’d looked at porn and knew the allure of leather opera gloves and garter belts. But he’d never before felt the smooth bindings of stockings around his wrists as they were pulled out to be tied to the bedposts or the insane pleasure of being mounted and ridden as She rubbed herself to orgasm and collapsed against him, still hard, panting, and more aroused than he’d ever been in his life.

For the first time in his life, he discovered the most intoxicating form of arousal of all: the pleasure of a woman who feels no shame in the pleasure She experiences and is without reservation in making it happen.

Soon, things he’d started to say seemed to remain stuck in his mind. First it was during their lovemaking – how amazing She felt, how intense the pleasure was, how he’d all but begged her again and again to slow down so She would come first and how She’d breathlessly complied, often leaving him fully engorged until She’d regained Her composure and finished him off with a few twists of Her fingers. Not that he was complaining. For some reason, even with the minimal, casual, almost forgetful touch, he would come more intensely than ever.

And for the first time, when he was alone and making himself come, he thought only of his partner, of Her, and not the open, expectant gaze of an attractive woman waiting for him to approach her.

And soon, also, the things he’d routinely said to soothe the ego of a partner when out in public – “you look stunning,” “there isn’t a man here that wouldn’t want to be in my shoes,” “how can you stand being so sexy” – had a resonance and solidity. The words didn’t evaporate but stayed with him when they were apart. And when She had him repeat them, as She had him massage Her feet and kiss the tops of Her arches, they stuck even more.

When he confessed those feelings to her – surprisingly, after he’d released and was normally inclined to get lost in his regeneration – She’d smiled slightly and Her tongue would slowly and unconsciously glide across Her lower lip.

And then, things changed. There was a problem with Her bank account. Could she write him a check for $500 and get cash? He’d be able to deposit it later. Later became later and later still. And then one night when he was snugly bound and deep inside Her, She asked if he wouldn’t mind forgetting about the check. He said, ‘No, of course,’ and She paused and asked him to speak more clearly, asking if he was sure it didn’t matter, and that he was happy to forgive the debt, to admit that actually he was the one in debt to her. Which he did. Careful to articulate every word. She shuddered as She came, and he spasmed to his core.

The check – the checks, actually – were only part of it. Where they had regularly seen each other a couple of times a week, it became erratic, some weeks just once (and one time not at all), others three times. Sometimes it was simply dinner out, which became more provocative than he’d expected. He spent one weekend entirely with Her. They’d planned to fix things up, and had started. But She remembered a pressing need a client had, so while She worked on some code on Her computer, he scrubbed clean the grout of the bathroom floor. She was effusive in Her thanks and, when She had him sitting on the floor, between Her legs, pleasuring Her, She said, “Careful, or I’m going to program you.” He couldn’t stop thinking about Her for days, of Her fingers tapping over his body, instilling code.

Every couple of weeks, She would ask at especially delicate moments whether he’d ever known as much pleasure as he did with Her, even if he didn’t come exactly when She did. It became easier and easier to talk about how consuming the pleasure was, how deep and satisfying and meaningful, about how much She meant to him. And each time, She’d talk about his debt to Her and he found himself agreeing more and more easily. Without even realizing it, the statements came to be true, and each time, when she said, “I’ve brought a check,” he found his pleasure reached a new height and a new level of intensity. The numbers seemed arbitrary. 200. 625. 415. They meant little, just numbers, and when She slid them into his hand, kissing his forehead lightly, She would always say, “You can hold on to this for now, can’t you?” he always answered yes.

Then the routine, irregular as it was, was broken. Then a week passed, and a second. She was busy. But not unthinking. He received a parcel with a pair of Her underwear, smelling faintly of Her perfume. They talked on the phone. She was simply busy, which he didn’t doubt: She was always there when he called, happy to hear from him, even if a little distracted. He was careful not to be pushy in saying how much he missed Her, careful not to be too pleading. Often She said only, “Hmm…” letting it dangle before reassuring him that She missed him also.

Despite the enforced hiatus, he found himself coming only to thoughts of Her. The blistering red nails of the woman who shared his table at Starbucks, even as she applied her lipstick – things that once would have consumed his erotic attention for days – were soon forgotten. When an attractive colleague at work (who had once filled many of his fantasies) dropped her cup of coffee on the floor he had been quick to help clean it up, but he’d barely noticed the color of her underwear as she squatted to clean it, as well.

Then another envelope with a note inside and another envelope, as well. The note was brief. “Please call me when you’ve received this, but wait to open the other envelope.” Excitedly, he picked up the phone and dialed, relieved to hear Her voice, which was warmer and fuller than it had been for weeks. She asked him to rub himself through his pants, asking that he hold back for now, and asking if he was free for dinner in a half hour. Of course he was, and She asked him to open the other envelope. Inside was a pair of Her underwear scented both by Her perfume and the scent of her mound, a scent he loved more than any in the world. Also in the envelope was another envelope, this one business size, with a single word inscribed on it: “Take me to dinner, unopened.”

The restaurant was quiet, the martinis were dry, the meal delicious, Her warmth and obvious pleasure in seeing him irresistible. As they swirled the cognac snifters and inhaled the fumes, She asked if he’d brought the other envelope. She slid closer to him, and brought Her lips to his when he said yes. She talked about missing him, about missing the intensity of their time alone together. Her hand slid to his crotch. He found himself saying all the things he’d said to Her when they were intimate. She asked about indebtedness and the checks and he said he’d forgotten about the latter. She kissed him deeply, her tongue forcing itself deep into his mouth. She asked if he liked the checks, Her hand taking the lower part of his crotch firmly. He stiffened more as he said, “Yes.”

She asked that he open the last envelope. He did, and he pulled out a check. It was different. It was an unsigned check of his, made out to Her, in the amount of $5,000.00. The memo line read, “Just the first.” She took his ear lobe between her teeth and said, in a clenched, slightly choked voice, “Make me come.” 

 

The next afternoon, when he answered the phone and heard Her voice, he sat up straighter in his chair, as if She could see him. “Thank you,” she said, “it’s never been that intense for me before. And do you know what I love most? There’s nothing you can do to change things.”

The line went silent. For a moment the room seemed to darken and then come into focus with a crystalline clarity.

There was nothing he could do to change things.

DELILAH

We all remember, don’t we, that Sampson fell in love with Delilah, who was bribed by Sampson’s enemies to find his weakness. Wary of her questions, he said first that if he were bound with bowstrings he would lose his supernatural strength. (Had you forgotten than he was into bondage?) So Delilah, clever girl that she is, waits for him to fall asleep and ties him up. He wakens and breaks the bindings. She asks again – uh, Sampson, think anything’s going on here? – and he says new ropes will do the trick. Again, she waits until he slumbers and practices a bit of bondage, and again he wakes, and breaks the ropes. Ever persistent, patient, and greedy for those thousand pieces of silver promised her by the Philistines, Delilah once again asks the question. Sampson, by now, weakened by his own love and lust for the Delilah, moves closer to the truth - that he will lose his strength if his hair, which truly is the source of his strength, is woven together. As he sleeps that night, she gives him a hair weave and ties him up, and the next morning, he awakes and unbraids his hair.

Not to be dissuaded from her potentially profitable enterprise, Delilah yet again asks Sampson the source of his strength. And poor, simple Sampson (he’s male, after all, and clearly had forgotten the story of Eve and the serpent), says that if his hair is shorn he will lose his strength. Sure enough, Delilah waits until he is asleep, and then with his head resting in her lap, she has a servant cut off his hair. His strength removed, Sampson is captured by the Philistines, turned into a slave, and, after his hair has grown back, brings down their temple and kills all those inside.

That Sampson. That Delilah. No photographers were there at the time to record the events and post them to Twitter, so artists – mostly men, of course – used their imaginations. But for the visually inclined, there are a couple of points of interest.

Point 1: Delilah is usually, though not always, shown clothed and Sampson unclothed, an early example of the CFNM (clothed female, naked man, for the fetistically illiterate) kink. (During the presumably suppressed Victorian period, women, too, were shown topless.)

Point 2: Sampson is slumbering, presumably in a post-coital state, which leads one to ask exactly when it was that Delilah cajoled his secret out of him. Just before she manipulated his secretions out, one might reasonably expect. Those among us who are moral know well that information divulged and promises made at the height of edgy arousal (promises erectus, in Latin) are less solid than the member of the person making the disclosures or vows. But some people – Delilah, you go, girl! – are a bit less moral.

Point 3: Sampson often has his head in Delilah’s lap. Let me think, where does one often see a sleeping male with his head in a woman’s lap? Why, at any event that goes on too long where a mother has brought her son! Interesting that artists associate this tender, maternal moment, normally associated with protection and comfort, with the story of a venal femme fatale, no?

Point 4: Sampson felt pretty silly when he woke up with his new hairdo. But Delilah thought it was just adorable!

Moral, for women: in his weakness there is our strength.

Moral, for men: never get an erection.

The Femme Fatale

Definition of FEMME FATALE

1   a seductive woman who lures men into dangerous or compromising situations

2   a woman who attracts men by an aura of charm and mystery

Origin of FEMME FATALE

French, literally, disastrous woman

First Known Use: 1912

There are some men who just cannot resist the power of Femme Fatale.  She glides, she moves, she manipulates, she seduces, and the victim (the man) for the most part is trapped by the vision she chooses him to see.

Having been beguiled and seduced, he becomes too weak to resist, with no thought of the consquences attached.

Welcome to my blog. 

Short Stories - 1 The Senator

Our femme fatale has been hired by a huge corporation.  Her mission is to lure a highly respected, straight-laced senator into such a compromising position, he will be forced into exercising his influence in getting a certain bill passed.

She has done her research, hacking into his personal laptop, obtaining his schedule of appearances.  She knows where he shops, his friends and family, and his daily routine.  All documentation gathered.  She is now in position to catch her prey.

________________________________

Time: 11.30 p.m.  Place: The Astoria Hotel, 7th floor.

Femme Fatale: Dressed in an ankle length fur coat with a shiny leather thigh high cocktail dress underneath, Large Designer sunglasses, black patent leather stiletto heels, a wide diamond choker,  black soft leather opera gloves and... a hotel room key card that just doesn't seem to be working...

Oh gosh, would you mind helping me, please.  I can't seem to make this card work.

The senator, moving towards her, on his way to his room, smiles and stops to aid the damsel in distress.  His smile seems to convey an open friendliness and at the same time a chauvinistic air.( She is blonde.)  He takes the key from her hand and slides it in the thin slit. Hearing the click, he releases the card and the turns the handle.

Oh, goodness, I feel so silly.  My only excuse is, I've had a few martinis in the bar.

The senator moves back and still smiling makes to turn away and head down the hallway.


No, please.  Wait a moment.  You are my knight! Please, let me at least give you a hug.

She moves in, the large fur collar brushes up against his lips and nose as she wraps her arms over his shoulders.  The senator, taken off guard, tries to pull back

That really is not necessary.  Please, madam, remove your..... arms..... and.....

 Her insistent hugging is having a very strange effect on the Senator and his tongue is beginning to feel numb.

Oh my, you do look a bit weak.  Gosh, I hope you aren't allergic to Mink.

The senator tries to answer but his tongue feels thick in his mouth and a numbing sensation is filling his cheeks and moving down his jaw.  He stumbles with words and movement.

Look, you must come in.  I insist.  Something is really wrong here.  Please, just lie down on the bed and just relax.  I'm sure it will pass.

The senator lays back, anxious of what is causing the acute and mysterious attack on his body.

Let me remove your jacket.  And, maybe loosen this tie, and undo these shirt buttons.  That's feels better, I'm sure. I'm really concerned.  Let me remove your shoes, socks, and... well, maybe the trousers are too tight.  I better just carry on and remove the underwear.   Feel better?   Your  body can breath now.

The senator feels a numbness in his feet and hands.  He looks up at the woman, imploring with his eyes for her to call and get help.

Relax, senator.  Yes, I know who you are, and you are going to be fine.  I've watched you, you know, on  TV.  I've always thought you hot.  Just looking at your naked body now is actually making me very hot. Let me take off this fur coat.. I think it's done it's work, anyway.

I'm going to turn on the video camera now.  You see, senator, we're going to have sex, and well... there are certain people who want to make sure you play ball with them.   I can be honest with you because the sound isn't on.  I think just the visual will be more than enough.
Now, just enjoy it.  Honestly, I want you to.  I'm going to stroke you now.  Even though your extremities are numb, your penis isn't and... we need to get that nice and hard.  Oh, look... it is getting hard!

The senator watches as her soft leather clad hand strokes the shaft.  He cannot help but respond to the sensation of  her touch, and the visual of her outfit and curves and sensuous red lips. He can't help but think under far different circumstances she would be his fantasy woman, but what the hell does she mean... play ball?  Is she an assassin?  Is this an elaborate frame?

As if reading the senator's mind, she smiles and there's a kindness in her eyes.

I promise you, this is going to be pleasurable, and all mobility will return to you, and you will walk out that door on both two legs.  You know, senator, i knew you would be a darling boy. You see,  I saw on your home computer that you like to look at domination sites.  Yes, I was thrilled... pleasantly surprised... that the straight-laced senator, who does so much in his church community, was actually hooked on porn.  And that is such a turn-on for me.  Really.  We have something in common.

The Senator's mind reels at this information, as he tries to separate the fear and anger from the stirrings of arousal her hand is inducing.  He's used to fighting and winning.  He cannot believe the absurdity of the situation.

She leans over and kisses his inner thighs, slides her tongue up over his stomach, and moves up to his nipples and gently bites.  She smiles as she moves back and lifts the hem of the black shiny cocktail dress to reveal the wide band of her black nylons and a large black shiny dildo hanging between her thighs..

It's okay, darling, I'm going to be gentle.  I promise it will make you cum really hard.  And see, you're already rock hard.   Do you know, I sometimes masturbated while watching you on TV?  Yes, really.   I fantasized about mounting you and taking your cock inside me.  Of us making love, endlessly.  Through the TV you gave me many orgasms.  I just knew... underneath that aloof conservative stance, there had to be a hot lover.  Maybe another time, when I'm not working, we can hook up and explore that.  Would you like that, darling boy? 

With her words swirling around in his head, the senator stares at the black shiny dildo strapped between her thighs.  He never imagined those images on the Internet would ever be his reality.  The senator's finding it more and more difficult  to hold on to any cohesive thought.  The feeling of arousal  overtaking anger and humiliation.  She's so beautiful, so powerful...

Now, I'll just push myself in between your legs and curl them around me. That's better.  Look into my eyes, darling boy.   There... slowly sliding in.  A little deeper now.  Just moving nice and slow, in and out.  Your cock is hard.  That's going to be your downfall, you know.  Not that you can do anything about it.  You find me just as attractive as I do you.  Pushing in... that's right, darling, I can feel you trying to lift up towards me. Responding unconditionally.   Harder now... harder... deeper...  all the way in now.  I do find you so very sexy, you know.  And, I wish, really wish, you could be making love to me, that I could enjoy your hands on me,  but this way, it's more... in-forcible, if you understand what I mean. 


Aaaaah....    Mmmmmmmmmmm........    Yes, yes.... yes....

She rolls her head back, softly moaning, as her vaginal spasms quicken to an orgasmic crescendo.  Stroking harder and faster on the shaft as if masturbating herself with it, the cock pulsates uncontrollably, helplessly, in the palm of her tightly squeezing  hand.  The senator, too weak now to fight the inevitable climax of burgeoning pleasure,  watches as his ejaculate spurts out over the black leather gloved hand...   Both now breathing in unison, as the internal ebbing rhythms still move in their bodies.

Oh, so good.  Sooooo good, darling.  You came hard, didn't you.  Me too. I know your lips are still numb, but I do so want to kiss you.  Plus... it'll look good.

After a long and gentle kiss on the senator's lips, she slides away and climbs off the bed.  She peels off the gloves, one of which is soaked with the senator's semen.  She turns off the camera; packing it away; removing the dildo, she slips it in to plastic bag, along with the gloves.  She smiles down at the senator as she smooths out the dress, and slips the fur coat over her shoulders.  Looking around the room for anything she might have left....

Senator, in about fifteen minutes from now, all feeling will be back in your extremities.  You'll be just fine. The toxin on my coat collar will leave no trace in your body, and only has a limited period of effectiveness.  I'm sorry I had to use it on you, and  I'm sorry I can't give you my number, but don't worry--I'll find you, darling.  You will receive instructions, through a third party, on a certain bill that needs to get passed.  It's been wonderful, and I've really enjoyed you, but now I really must go. 

She exits the hotel room door, and the senator waits for the return of movement, knowing... his life as he knew it, will never return.  The real absurdity, he realizes, is that he hopes she does find him.

Disclaimer:  I don't actually believe in wearing the fur of any animal.
The idea, for this story came about through a fantasy conversation with a man.  He was the senator.  I, of course, The Femme Fatale.
 
copyright Ms. Londoncalling.