| Disclaimer:No rights infringement intended Title: Sharpe's Training Characters: Sharpe, some ladies & a slashy voyeur Rating: Mature erotic sexual situation - a little bit of kink. Stop reading and click out now if this is not to your taste Length: 1,000 words Setting: Tippoo's palace, Seringapatam - in Sharpe's Tiger Disclaimer: Sharpe's luscious arse is tattooed with the words "Property of Bernard Cornwell." I'm just borrowing it for fun and games. Author's Note: I wondered one evening, what if. What if someone decided that our man was just too delicious to let rot in a prison cell? Govindar Sam is a character I made up. ~Sylvene |
Govindar Sam licked his lips. The tall blonde Englishman was truly delicious. He watched as the Tippoo's jettis stuck him again with the rod and still he did not cry out. He was gasping and breathing hard from the pain but had not cried out.
The other was beginning to gibber with fear, spilling their secrets. He wondered if the Tippoo would let the Tigers have them. It would be a pity to let the fair-haired one die to the Tigers. He could have so much pleasure out of him. His eyes gleamed as the Tippoo commanded that they be imprisoned. He would have to persuade the Tippoo to let him have the prisoner. After a suitable length of time in the cells of course, he would be suitably grateful then.
The beating had re-opened some of the newly healed stripes on Sharpe's back. Although it still hurt, blood had crusted over and scabs reformed. As the days passed in the dark dank cell, he realized how lucky he was. Gangrene had not set in and he had been spared a fever. Deep in the dungeons of the Tippoo's palace, they listened to the sounds above them each day. They were not forgotten. Their nightsoil buckets were emptied every morning by prisoners from the civilian jail and they were fed twice a day. Otherwise, they were left alone. Alone to brood, to listen to Hakeswill's mad gibbering, for Colonel McCandles and Lieutenant Lawford to teach Sharpe to read, to listen to the huffing breath of the Tiger as it prowled in the night.
Sharpe had no idea why he had been taken out of the cells. He was in a part of the palace he had never seen before. His hands were not bound, but the two gargantuan jettis that had taken him out of the prison each had a beefy hand wrapped around his arms. He was tall, but his feet barely touched the floor as they hustled him along corridors and up flights of stairs. Every now and again, he glimpsed dark, doe eyes behind ornate screens and heard the soft laughter of women. He was totally confused. Why was he being brought to the women's quarters? He'd heard of the Tippoo's harems of course. Of beautiful bibis that existed only for the Tippoo's pleasure. He hadn't been sure if he had believed the stories.
They stopped at a door flanked by two guards, it was opened by one and he was dragged in. His blinked in the dim light as the door closed and he gained an impression of sumptuous wall hangings, plump pillows and low chaises. Ornate lattice worked screens tempered the fierce sun and allowed sunlight to dapple the floor that was covered with rich rugs.
What the hell was going on? Sharpe was bewildered. He was dragged through another door which led to a bathing chamber. There, obsequious servants waited with soap, water and towels. Sandalwood scented the air. Then the jettis began to strip him. He cursed and fought them, lashing out with hard fists and boots. The servants chattered in alarm, waving their hands in a universal placating manner but Sharpe was in no mood to be placated. He had no idea what the fuck was going on, but he wasn't going to be stark naked when it happened.
A voice suddenly barked out an order and the jettis dropped him. Sharpe fell ungraciously on his arse before picking himself up and looking around warily. Govindar chuckled from behind a secret screen. How truly marvelous he was. The jettis had not removed anything but a boot, although his shirt was torn beyond salvation.
All the men retired, bowing themselves out and leaving him in the bathing chamber with a tempting tub of hot water. Sharpe ran a hand through his long dirty locks then scratched a flea bite. Now what? He heard soft giggles and spun around.
A gaggle of dark-skinned, doe-eyed sari-clad ladies entered the bathing room. Before he could protest or even decide what to do, they had their soft scented hands on him. They steered him to a bench. Sat him down. Then his remaining boot was drawn off. As he struggled for balance on the bench, his shirt and stockings were removed. Helpless against this enemy, he stood up, trying to fend them off without hurting them. They smiled. Patted him. Touched him with soothing hands and before he knew it, he was standing stark naked in front of them, his hands trying desperately to cover up his aroused body.
They smiled and giggled. Led him to the tub of water and again, before he knew what he was doing, he had gladly stepped into it. They bathed him twice. With the male servants bringing in large pitchers of fresh water. The ladies had discarded their saris, comfortable in only their cholis and petticoats, wet in large splotches that clung to their skin because he had struggled when they first started bathing him.
He gladly lay face down on the padded table when coaxed out of the tub, happy to hide his aroused body. His hair was combed and trimmed, soft hands massaging his scalp and temples. He was being carefully deloused. The ladies clucked at the state of his back. They soothed salve into the healing wounds. Someone was playing a sitar. Someone else was singing softly. His feet were picked up and massaged. His nails on his fingers and toes trimmed. Fragrant oils were being rubbed into his skin. Hands were massaging him. He groaned softly from the pleasure. Fell asleep despite the state of his body.
He was being prompted to do something. To move. Turnover. He groaned and sighed, obeying the soothing hands. He turned over. There must have been a beatific smile on his face because there were giggles as hands smoothed over it. Over the growth of beard. Hot towels were pressed on his face, then a froth of soap swept over it. His hair was being combed again and he could feel the sure strokes of a sharp blade scraping his face. He lay still. Oil slick hands rubbed over his chest and massaged his shoulders, chest, arms and legs.
It was soothing. It was arousing. It was
"Bludy hell" he whispered. The hands were not massaging now. They were stroking. Nails gently scoring his skin. Rubbing over his nipples. The warm towel over his eyes kept him in darkness. Intensifying the feelings. There were hands spreading his legs. Cupping his balls. Stroking up and down his hard length. His hands gripped the sheets he was lying on.
Govindar licked his lips again. He had a marvelous view of the proceedings. The ladies were careful not to block his line of sight. The Englishman was bucking now. Thrusting his pelvis high off the table. Where he had not cried out when he was being punished by the Tippoo's jettis, he was crying out now. The ladies knew their work. They were arousing him. Teasing him. Drawing out the pleasure. He was mumbling unintelligible words. Begging. Making small cries of pleasure until he climaxed with almost a scream, his back arched high, jetting his seed in an impressive fountain.
Thus, did Sharpe's training begin.
