[fic: multi-chapter] harem part 1
Title: Harem (working title)
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: NC-17, NWS
Characters: Turkey/France, various nameless humans
Warnings: shota, dub-con, controversial issues of feminism and religion including slavery, human names, weird kinky stuff eventually...
Summary: I wanted to write a harem fic for a while, inspired by some Japanese fanarts with these two, but never found a suitable kink meme request. So this is for my own guilty pleasure. I hope you enjoy it, but if you don't, I would not be surprised. Again, this fic reflects the attitudes of a medieval culture and the Muslim/Arabian lifestyle, and I do not wish to propagate any sort of misconception or prejudice. (Also as the deus ex machina, Francis and Sadiq are nations but for some reason I have yet to figure out, they don't know that the other is also a nation as well. Just in case you're wondering why they were acting particularly dense.)
It took a while to find the rat skulking around the palace, but Sadiq prided himself on his hunting skills, and before long, he had backed the thief into a corner of a storage room full of rugs. The thief attempted to make a dash for it, only to be blocked by the arms of his captor, who promptly hauled him off to his own quarters.
Sadiq set the struggling child down, keeping a firm grip on a thin grubby wrist. Without a word, he pulled the veil off of the child’s hair, and then stared dumbfounded once he realized exactly who he had caught. Not a brat from the women’s quarters, not a servant, but a foreigner, no more than fourteen years of age, with long blond hair and deep blue eyes and skin pale enough to evoke a concubine’s envy. His first thought was that this must be an errant offspring of the European traders established in the city’s ports, but judging by the child’s filthy condition, it was more likely they were an escaped slave. Troublesome, either way.
“Can you understand me, child?” Sadiq asked quietly, and the boy or girl stared back at him blankly, not understanding. He repeated the question, but in Greek, and that seemed to elicit some comprehension as the phrase was mentally translated and followed by a nod.
“Good. I won’t hurt you, so calm down, okay?” Further questioning revealed the child was actually a boy despite his pretty features, orphaned and from France. Breathlessly, the boy related how he was separated from the acting company he was traveling with a few weeks ago, and some scary men found him, but he ran away while they were arguing and hid in a shipment of jars before ending up in the palace cellars. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Sadiq had to wonder how the boy had managed to escape the traders in the first place, who would not let such a valuable commodity out of their sight. A young slave from France, or any of the countries to the far north and west of Europe, were especially hard to obtain, and would bring outrageous profits to the trader lucky enough to find an unscrupulous merchant willing to separate a peasant child from their family. Sadiq could only hope they had given up finding this one because the more he stared at the boy standing before him, the more he wanted him for himself.
“Well, I won’t question you any more tonight,” Sadiq said. “Rest in my quarters for now while I decide what to do with you. And if I catch you stealing any of my things, I’ll cut off your hands, just like that.”
The boy nodded his head vigorously to show that he understood.
Chuckling, Sadiq reached down and patted the golden curls. “My name is Sadiq Adnan, little one.”
“Francis Bonnefoy,” the boy replied, smiling sweetly.
Angels above, but he was adorable.
Sadiq knew better than to ask an official directly about a potentially dangerous matter, and so he directed his inquiries to their trusted slaves. It was a high-ranking eunuch of the harem who told him that Sadiq’s status in the sultan’s army would most likely grant him protection if he wished to claim the escapee as his own servant, though it would also depend on how desperate the merchants were to reclaim their goods. The eunuch paused, a curious look in his glittering black eyes, and asked if this boy was worth the danger. Smiling, Sadiq said that yes, he was, and that was why he hoped to call on a favor from the head of the harem herself, the sultan’s mother.
Once the eunuch relayed this intriguing story to the sultan’s mother, Sadiq did not have to wait long before he was requested to bring the slave to the harem, where he would always be welcome if refuge was required. Sadiq must, of course, find other means to defend himself.
He returned to his quarters, finding Francis fast asleep in his bed. Sadiq’s hand wavered uncertainly over the boy’s shoulder, and then he decided to draw back the covers, wanting to see more of this rare and fascinating foreigner with his own eyes. Ever so gently, he felt the skin of the youth’s hands, slightly callused, but with perfectly maintained fingernails, obviously having worked before, yet used to a life of relative luxury. His gaze swept over the thin body obscured by a tattered white knee-length tunic, and he let his fingers trail across the boy’s soft cheek. Francis started at the touch and his eyes shot open, but upon seeing he was safe, he closed his eyes and nuzzled at Sadiq’s palm gently.
“Does he even know what he’s doing to me?” Sadiq wryly thought to himself, trying to keep the sudden flare of heat in his loins under control. But he could not indulge in this contact for too much longer, and Francis needed to be fed and cleaned up under the close eye of the harem servants.
“Francis, I’m taking you to the women’s quarters,” he said softly. “The sultan’s mother, the head of the harem, wishes to see you. If you behave well, then she will grant you protection, even though you are my servant, and not the sultan’s.”
Francis’ eyes widened at this explanation, and he asked, “Will I have to stay in the harem? I want to stay with you, Sadiq.”
“Well, if that’s what you want, then sure.” He certainly had no objections. “But it’s just that you are a very special child, and the harem is the safest place for you to be.”
“Oh, you mean those scary men, they might try to find me and take me back.” Francis shuddered, and Sadiq just barely managed to resist the urge to embrace him. For now, he handed the boy some fruit to eat until the evening’s meal, and bade him cover his hair before they left to meet the dowager.
It was with some reluctance that Francis separated from Sadiq’s side, and the older man laughed and promised to return for him later that night. Abandoned, he had no other choice but to follow the tall dark-skinned eunuch to that part of the palace forbidden to men. They passed by beautiful white halls decorated with dazzling mosaics and curtains woven in deep jewel-like hues, so much more extravagant and luxurious than the cold castle keeps he called home. He tried but could not keep track of the twisting turns they followed, and at last they reached the airy rooms inhabited by the concubines and their children.
To Francis’ surprise, the sultan’s mother was European, probably Hungarian, and she spoke to him in flawless Greek, commenting that he was very blessed in all ways. Then the youngest of the concubines were summoned, and they led him to their private baths, where they scrubbed him clean of weeks of grime, dousing him with warm scented water and drying him with soft towels. One of them was Venetian and could understand some French, and so he revealed the most important parts of his story to her as she and her colleagues brushed his hair and dabbed fragrant attar of roses onto the skin of his wrists and ankles.
Though he tried to not stare too openly, Francis was overwhelmed by the variety of feminine beauty among the concubines, none of whom were the typical shrouded Muslim women he had expected to see. There were the intellectual Greeks and friendly Italians, along with elegant Slavs and fiery-tempered Balkans, and even one or two exotic women from Egypt and the Orient, a veritable collection of lovely birds and butterflies forever trapped in a gilded cage. As the girls led him to the dressing rooms, bundled in a robe finer than even his prettiest gowns a lifetime away in Europe, he caught a glimpse of a group of children playing in another room, and vaguely wished he could join them. But he was older than they were, far older, and his life was already caught up in a struggle for power that not even the concubines could comprehend in their petty daily rivalries.
The girls picked out an outfit for him while he ran exploratory fingers over the silks and embroidered velvets and damasks and furs, marveling at the colors and textures. But when they showed him what he was to wear, he frowned.
“This looks like a Greek’s tunic,” Francis muttered, and giggling, the women assured him that the captain’s preferences ran thus. They slipped the silky fabric over his head, and he attempted to sit still as they cooed over him. If the boy had turned up as their rival, then there would have been some trouble, but as he was not for the sultan, the concubines were more than happy to treat him as their doll.
There was only one moment of awkwardness, as they were braiding pearls and lilies into his hair and sliding gold and jewels onto his fingers and ankles, when Francis innocently asked if they were happier here than they were in their homelands. Perhaps it was best that there was no French woman among the concubines, for they all eventually agreed, that yes, the palace life was far better than what they would have experienced at home, where they would have been stuck in a life of poverty and drudgery, their bodies drained from work and giving birth.
“But you are slaves!” he protested, feeling somewhat angry at their compliance, affronted that they would prefer a Muslim’s decadence to an honest Christian life. “Don’t you want to be free? I would! How can you possibly be content being imprisoned like this?”
And they answered sadly that being born a female had already ensured their future as a slave, by name or by fact, and that a man’s pretty words have not and will not change reality. This was the best they could ever hope for, and not being able to see the outside world was worth escaping the fate of their mothers and sisters.
Francis mulled over this as the Venetian girl brought him his meal and set the dishes out on a beautiful table inlaid with chips of precious stones. But he was too hungry to feel betrayed any longer, and ate and drank everything that he was given, finding the food and drink rich and delicious. The young concubine lingered by his side, occasionally answering his questions about the meal, and finally she cleared her throat and asked if he knew anything about how to please a man.
Chewing thoughtfully on a sticky sweet, he decided to be honest and replied, “Yes. Basically. Is there… something I should know?”
The girl smiled and nodded serenely. While the women of the sultan’s harem were not exactly free to wander the palace as they pleased, Francis discovered that their combined knowledge of certain persons and their predilections, gleaned from servant’s gossip, was vast and horrifyingly detailed.
“I-I see… Thank you for warning me, I… shall do my best.” Francis did not consider himself prudish on this particular matter, and he had his own range of experiences, some more pleasant than others… but this would take some getting used to.
Once it was time to leave, the concubines giving Francis farewell kisses and hoping he would come back soon, the eunuch handed him a bundle of the rest of his clothing, draping the kaftan over his shoulders, and then a dark hooded cloak over that. Silently, the eunuch loped off to the rest of the palace, and Francis ran after him, eventually pulling the flowers out of his hair and stuffing them into a random vase or jar. By the time they reached Sadiq, masked and hooded and smoking a pipe, Francis looked rather disheveled and breathless. But he returned the other’s toothy smile, and did not object to having his hand held as he was led to back to his living quarters.
“They’ve obviously given you a bath. Did they feed you as well?” Sadiq asked as he removed his hat and mask, setting his pipe down on a table.
“Yes. They treated me kindly, though I am glad to see you again, Sadiq.” Francis watched warily as the older man proceeded to remove his kaftan and tunic, until he was shirtless, wearing only the baggy salvar trousers and his shoes. Smiling lazily, a desert lion used to getting what it wants, Sadiq sat down on the edge of his bed and motioned Francis over, eager to unwrap the present the harem had given him.
Before he could lose his courage, Francis blurted out, “They told me you would free me, if I served you well.”
“When you reach your majority, I’ll definitely free you,” Sadiq murmured, ready to make heedless promises in exchange for a night of pleasure. Somehow, Francis looked even more worried than before, and he shifted nervously from foot to foot as the other man let the cloak fall to the floor, and then opened the front of his kaftan. Chuckling to himself at the choice of costume, he slipped the robe off of the boy’s arms, and watched indulgently as the boy suddenly shivered, the material of the tunic thin and draped artfully over only one shoulder.
“Come into bed with me, Francis, and we shall warm ourselves.”
“Is that what I have to do for you? Keep you warm in bed?” Francis asked curiously as he crawled into the bed, and Sadiq nodded and let the curtains fall back into place. Something like that, anyway.
Gathering the delicate body into his embrace, Sadiq brought Francis’ chin up and kissed him deeply, pleased to feel him respond with enthusiasm. He licked and sucked at the boy’s lips, letting his hands roam over the smooth cool skin, warming him with his own body heat, which had only increased as Francis occasionally wriggled in his lap. When they finally paused to take breath, Sadiq grinned to see Francis blushing and smiling coyly up at him.
“Hey, you’re pretty good,” he whispered, kissing him one last time before untying his belt and undoing his tunic. Francis squeaked as he was disrobed and then pushed back against the mattress in one smooth motion. Before he could protest, Sadiq had already pounced on him, smothering his face and neck and arms with open-mouthed kisses, disregarding the bracelets and jewelry decorating his limbs.
It was not the first time Francis had found himself in such a position, and Sadiq may have guessed it as well. But out of politeness’ sake, the older man did take the time to gently massage warmed oils onto the skin of Francis’ thighs, assuring him that this would be painless, and they would sleep afterwards, presumably to save the rest for another day. Not that he could deny Sadiq what he wanted, shutting his eyes when he felt something thick and hard plunge down between his closed legs and then thrust back and forth vigorously for what seemed like an eternity before something hot spilled onto his hips. Cautiously, Francis opened an eye, noticing Sadiq now reclining on his side, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he tried to catch his breath.
His grin only grew wider as Francis reached for his softening cock, gripping it lightly before bringing a wet finger up to his lips and licking it with a childlike curiosity. That gesture was nearly enough to make Sadiq hard again, but he controlled himself well, conscious enough to grab the abandoned tunic and wipe the mess off of the boy before falling asleep.
[to be continued...]
chapter two
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: NC-17, NWS
Characters: Turkey/France, various nameless humans
Warnings: shota, dub-con, controversial issues of feminism and religion including slavery, human names, weird kinky stuff eventually...
Summary: I wanted to write a harem fic for a while, inspired by some Japanese fanarts with these two, but never found a suitable kink meme request. So this is for my own guilty pleasure. I hope you enjoy it, but if you don't, I would not be surprised. Again, this fic reflects the attitudes of a medieval culture and the Muslim/Arabian lifestyle, and I do not wish to propagate any sort of misconception or prejudice. (Also as the deus ex machina, Francis and Sadiq are nations but for some reason I have yet to figure out, they don't know that the other is also a nation as well. Just in case you're wondering why they were acting particularly dense.)
It took a while to find the rat skulking around the palace, but Sadiq prided himself on his hunting skills, and before long, he had backed the thief into a corner of a storage room full of rugs. The thief attempted to make a dash for it, only to be blocked by the arms of his captor, who promptly hauled him off to his own quarters.
Sadiq set the struggling child down, keeping a firm grip on a thin grubby wrist. Without a word, he pulled the veil off of the child’s hair, and then stared dumbfounded once he realized exactly who he had caught. Not a brat from the women’s quarters, not a servant, but a foreigner, no more than fourteen years of age, with long blond hair and deep blue eyes and skin pale enough to evoke a concubine’s envy. His first thought was that this must be an errant offspring of the European traders established in the city’s ports, but judging by the child’s filthy condition, it was more likely they were an escaped slave. Troublesome, either way.
“Can you understand me, child?” Sadiq asked quietly, and the boy or girl stared back at him blankly, not understanding. He repeated the question, but in Greek, and that seemed to elicit some comprehension as the phrase was mentally translated and followed by a nod.
“Good. I won’t hurt you, so calm down, okay?” Further questioning revealed the child was actually a boy despite his pretty features, orphaned and from France. Breathlessly, the boy related how he was separated from the acting company he was traveling with a few weeks ago, and some scary men found him, but he ran away while they were arguing and hid in a shipment of jars before ending up in the palace cellars. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Sadiq had to wonder how the boy had managed to escape the traders in the first place, who would not let such a valuable commodity out of their sight. A young slave from France, or any of the countries to the far north and west of Europe, were especially hard to obtain, and would bring outrageous profits to the trader lucky enough to find an unscrupulous merchant willing to separate a peasant child from their family. Sadiq could only hope they had given up finding this one because the more he stared at the boy standing before him, the more he wanted him for himself.
“Well, I won’t question you any more tonight,” Sadiq said. “Rest in my quarters for now while I decide what to do with you. And if I catch you stealing any of my things, I’ll cut off your hands, just like that.”
The boy nodded his head vigorously to show that he understood.
Chuckling, Sadiq reached down and patted the golden curls. “My name is Sadiq Adnan, little one.”
“Francis Bonnefoy,” the boy replied, smiling sweetly.
Angels above, but he was adorable.
Sadiq knew better than to ask an official directly about a potentially dangerous matter, and so he directed his inquiries to their trusted slaves. It was a high-ranking eunuch of the harem who told him that Sadiq’s status in the sultan’s army would most likely grant him protection if he wished to claim the escapee as his own servant, though it would also depend on how desperate the merchants were to reclaim their goods. The eunuch paused, a curious look in his glittering black eyes, and asked if this boy was worth the danger. Smiling, Sadiq said that yes, he was, and that was why he hoped to call on a favor from the head of the harem herself, the sultan’s mother.
Once the eunuch relayed this intriguing story to the sultan’s mother, Sadiq did not have to wait long before he was requested to bring the slave to the harem, where he would always be welcome if refuge was required. Sadiq must, of course, find other means to defend himself.
He returned to his quarters, finding Francis fast asleep in his bed. Sadiq’s hand wavered uncertainly over the boy’s shoulder, and then he decided to draw back the covers, wanting to see more of this rare and fascinating foreigner with his own eyes. Ever so gently, he felt the skin of the youth’s hands, slightly callused, but with perfectly maintained fingernails, obviously having worked before, yet used to a life of relative luxury. His gaze swept over the thin body obscured by a tattered white knee-length tunic, and he let his fingers trail across the boy’s soft cheek. Francis started at the touch and his eyes shot open, but upon seeing he was safe, he closed his eyes and nuzzled at Sadiq’s palm gently.
“Does he even know what he’s doing to me?” Sadiq wryly thought to himself, trying to keep the sudden flare of heat in his loins under control. But he could not indulge in this contact for too much longer, and Francis needed to be fed and cleaned up under the close eye of the harem servants.
“Francis, I’m taking you to the women’s quarters,” he said softly. “The sultan’s mother, the head of the harem, wishes to see you. If you behave well, then she will grant you protection, even though you are my servant, and not the sultan’s.”
Francis’ eyes widened at this explanation, and he asked, “Will I have to stay in the harem? I want to stay with you, Sadiq.”
“Well, if that’s what you want, then sure.” He certainly had no objections. “But it’s just that you are a very special child, and the harem is the safest place for you to be.”
“Oh, you mean those scary men, they might try to find me and take me back.” Francis shuddered, and Sadiq just barely managed to resist the urge to embrace him. For now, he handed the boy some fruit to eat until the evening’s meal, and bade him cover his hair before they left to meet the dowager.
It was with some reluctance that Francis separated from Sadiq’s side, and the older man laughed and promised to return for him later that night. Abandoned, he had no other choice but to follow the tall dark-skinned eunuch to that part of the palace forbidden to men. They passed by beautiful white halls decorated with dazzling mosaics and curtains woven in deep jewel-like hues, so much more extravagant and luxurious than the cold castle keeps he called home. He tried but could not keep track of the twisting turns they followed, and at last they reached the airy rooms inhabited by the concubines and their children.
To Francis’ surprise, the sultan’s mother was European, probably Hungarian, and she spoke to him in flawless Greek, commenting that he was very blessed in all ways. Then the youngest of the concubines were summoned, and they led him to their private baths, where they scrubbed him clean of weeks of grime, dousing him with warm scented water and drying him with soft towels. One of them was Venetian and could understand some French, and so he revealed the most important parts of his story to her as she and her colleagues brushed his hair and dabbed fragrant attar of roses onto the skin of his wrists and ankles.
Though he tried to not stare too openly, Francis was overwhelmed by the variety of feminine beauty among the concubines, none of whom were the typical shrouded Muslim women he had expected to see. There were the intellectual Greeks and friendly Italians, along with elegant Slavs and fiery-tempered Balkans, and even one or two exotic women from Egypt and the Orient, a veritable collection of lovely birds and butterflies forever trapped in a gilded cage. As the girls led him to the dressing rooms, bundled in a robe finer than even his prettiest gowns a lifetime away in Europe, he caught a glimpse of a group of children playing in another room, and vaguely wished he could join them. But he was older than they were, far older, and his life was already caught up in a struggle for power that not even the concubines could comprehend in their petty daily rivalries.
The girls picked out an outfit for him while he ran exploratory fingers over the silks and embroidered velvets and damasks and furs, marveling at the colors and textures. But when they showed him what he was to wear, he frowned.
“This looks like a Greek’s tunic,” Francis muttered, and giggling, the women assured him that the captain’s preferences ran thus. They slipped the silky fabric over his head, and he attempted to sit still as they cooed over him. If the boy had turned up as their rival, then there would have been some trouble, but as he was not for the sultan, the concubines were more than happy to treat him as their doll.
There was only one moment of awkwardness, as they were braiding pearls and lilies into his hair and sliding gold and jewels onto his fingers and ankles, when Francis innocently asked if they were happier here than they were in their homelands. Perhaps it was best that there was no French woman among the concubines, for they all eventually agreed, that yes, the palace life was far better than what they would have experienced at home, where they would have been stuck in a life of poverty and drudgery, their bodies drained from work and giving birth.
“But you are slaves!” he protested, feeling somewhat angry at their compliance, affronted that they would prefer a Muslim’s decadence to an honest Christian life. “Don’t you want to be free? I would! How can you possibly be content being imprisoned like this?”
And they answered sadly that being born a female had already ensured their future as a slave, by name or by fact, and that a man’s pretty words have not and will not change reality. This was the best they could ever hope for, and not being able to see the outside world was worth escaping the fate of their mothers and sisters.
Francis mulled over this as the Venetian girl brought him his meal and set the dishes out on a beautiful table inlaid with chips of precious stones. But he was too hungry to feel betrayed any longer, and ate and drank everything that he was given, finding the food and drink rich and delicious. The young concubine lingered by his side, occasionally answering his questions about the meal, and finally she cleared her throat and asked if he knew anything about how to please a man.
Chewing thoughtfully on a sticky sweet, he decided to be honest and replied, “Yes. Basically. Is there… something I should know?”
The girl smiled and nodded serenely. While the women of the sultan’s harem were not exactly free to wander the palace as they pleased, Francis discovered that their combined knowledge of certain persons and their predilections, gleaned from servant’s gossip, was vast and horrifyingly detailed.
“I-I see… Thank you for warning me, I… shall do my best.” Francis did not consider himself prudish on this particular matter, and he had his own range of experiences, some more pleasant than others… but this would take some getting used to.
Once it was time to leave, the concubines giving Francis farewell kisses and hoping he would come back soon, the eunuch handed him a bundle of the rest of his clothing, draping the kaftan over his shoulders, and then a dark hooded cloak over that. Silently, the eunuch loped off to the rest of the palace, and Francis ran after him, eventually pulling the flowers out of his hair and stuffing them into a random vase or jar. By the time they reached Sadiq, masked and hooded and smoking a pipe, Francis looked rather disheveled and breathless. But he returned the other’s toothy smile, and did not object to having his hand held as he was led to back to his living quarters.
“They’ve obviously given you a bath. Did they feed you as well?” Sadiq asked as he removed his hat and mask, setting his pipe down on a table.
“Yes. They treated me kindly, though I am glad to see you again, Sadiq.” Francis watched warily as the older man proceeded to remove his kaftan and tunic, until he was shirtless, wearing only the baggy salvar trousers and his shoes. Smiling lazily, a desert lion used to getting what it wants, Sadiq sat down on the edge of his bed and motioned Francis over, eager to unwrap the present the harem had given him.
Before he could lose his courage, Francis blurted out, “They told me you would free me, if I served you well.”
“When you reach your majority, I’ll definitely free you,” Sadiq murmured, ready to make heedless promises in exchange for a night of pleasure. Somehow, Francis looked even more worried than before, and he shifted nervously from foot to foot as the other man let the cloak fall to the floor, and then opened the front of his kaftan. Chuckling to himself at the choice of costume, he slipped the robe off of the boy’s arms, and watched indulgently as the boy suddenly shivered, the material of the tunic thin and draped artfully over only one shoulder.
“Come into bed with me, Francis, and we shall warm ourselves.”
“Is that what I have to do for you? Keep you warm in bed?” Francis asked curiously as he crawled into the bed, and Sadiq nodded and let the curtains fall back into place. Something like that, anyway.
Gathering the delicate body into his embrace, Sadiq brought Francis’ chin up and kissed him deeply, pleased to feel him respond with enthusiasm. He licked and sucked at the boy’s lips, letting his hands roam over the smooth cool skin, warming him with his own body heat, which had only increased as Francis occasionally wriggled in his lap. When they finally paused to take breath, Sadiq grinned to see Francis blushing and smiling coyly up at him.
“Hey, you’re pretty good,” he whispered, kissing him one last time before untying his belt and undoing his tunic. Francis squeaked as he was disrobed and then pushed back against the mattress in one smooth motion. Before he could protest, Sadiq had already pounced on him, smothering his face and neck and arms with open-mouthed kisses, disregarding the bracelets and jewelry decorating his limbs.
It was not the first time Francis had found himself in such a position, and Sadiq may have guessed it as well. But out of politeness’ sake, the older man did take the time to gently massage warmed oils onto the skin of Francis’ thighs, assuring him that this would be painless, and they would sleep afterwards, presumably to save the rest for another day. Not that he could deny Sadiq what he wanted, shutting his eyes when he felt something thick and hard plunge down between his closed legs and then thrust back and forth vigorously for what seemed like an eternity before something hot spilled onto his hips. Cautiously, Francis opened an eye, noticing Sadiq now reclining on his side, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he tried to catch his breath.
His grin only grew wider as Francis reached for his softening cock, gripping it lightly before bringing a wet finger up to his lips and licking it with a childlike curiosity. That gesture was nearly enough to make Sadiq hard again, but he controlled himself well, conscious enough to grab the abandoned tunic and wipe the mess off of the boy before falling asleep.
[to be continued...]
chapter two