Major Andre Cotard sat in the armchair beside the hearth, gazing into his glass of brandy as he made it churn with a circular movement of his wrist, as if he could divine some great truth from its stirring surface. The only light was that of the fire, the orange-red flames licking at the air like the lashing of tongues, making strange shadows grow and fade on the walls around him. Outside the large picture window, beneath the drearily heavy damask curtains and just beyond the thick panes, snow was falling. Behind the great oaken pocket doors in a darkened room sat the pianoforte, untouched.
It was Christmas Eve. He should have been happy. But he wasn’t. Here he was sat in a house that did not feel like a home, in a country that welcomed him but one in which he did not feel welcome. No family of his own, his friends all celebrating with their own kin. He wasn’t truly melancholy as such, rather more alike boredom. He missed the grand merrymaking, the balls, and the pretty ladies with their dimpled smiles. The pretty and willing ladies. He missed the ladies.
He began to doze off, his chin resting upon his chest and his head sagged. The grandfather clock in the hallway roused him as it chimed midnight. Christmas Day. Joyeux Noel. He stretched, his tall, limber legs sprawling out in front of him. Time for bed. He made it up the stairs and nearly to his bedchamber before he remembered something, stashed away, probably in the garret. Not worth the effort, really, just an old trunk of his parents’ belongings, most of what was left of the Cotard estate. Rubbish really, odds and ends thrown together. Did he really have anything better to do than crawl into a cold, empty bed?
He threw back the lid of the aged and worn chest, sending a flurry of dust into the air, obscuring the lantern for a moment. Nothing much of terrible interest, as he’d suspected; a few horrendously outdated frocks he could only presume belonged to his grandmother, a small box filled with rather intimate notes written by his father to his mother which he avoided with a cough. Hello there, what was that gleaming dully like unpolished brass hidden over there in the left hand corner?
Exactly what it had looked like in the first place, a tarnished piece of what was most likely brass, maybe even tin. A lamp in an oriental design, he could tell it had been curiously well taken care of in its time for a traveler’s trinket. There was writing on it, obscured by age and dirt; there was no telling whether or not he could read the arch, slanted writing if not for the grime. He pulled the sleeve of his frock coat up to his knuckles, gathering it in his palm as he used the material to rub the filth off.
He dropped it when he felt what he thought was a pulse coming from within; it landed with a ringing clank upon the floorboards at his feet. No, he wasn’t mistaken, he heard it again! And once more, getting faster and stronger each time. And, no, it was not his imagination that a rosy glow swelled from within with each throb.
‘Mon Dieu,’ he thought, ‘I must be asleep and this must be a dream.’
A thick, cherry-colored smoke began to issue from the spout of the lamp, clinging low to the ground as it gathered into a swirling eddy, at its center a shape, obscure at first but more substantial, tangible as the cloud suddenly dispensed as if he was seeing in reverse, back into the lamp. The form unfurled itself like a restive pixie just waking as the petals of the smoke opened out like a flower, the petals of a rose. It was a woman, most definitely a woman with her voluptuous curves, round and firm bosom and bottom, something to really grasp onto. And, by the manner of her dress, she wasn’t ashamed of it either!
Her breasts were bound by a band of gilt fabric that shimmered in the candlelight, the blouse, if a mere ribbon of cloth could be called such, was gathered inward in the valley between her abundant breasts, accentuating their titillating form and volume. Recklessly draped just below her slim waist, resting upon her shapely hips was a golden sash, tiny medallions dangling from its edge. This flourished into harem-style pants of the finest, silkiest gossamer that allowed him to observe every contour and bow of her attractive, if short, legs.
And finally, her last, misty veil fell away and revealed was her face. And what a face! Round, it was, full blushing cheeks, large, lucid hazel eyes framed with black lashes and two thick, archly-shaped eyebrows. Her hair was straight and almost scandalously short, cut in a manner that clung to her face and barely went past her chin. It was dark, too dark in this light to tell whether it be brown or sable, but he could make out clearly the generous streaks of blonde, almost silver, that marked her tresses. A broad pink mouth completed the picture, its corners quirked slightly in an inquisitive smile.
“I am Aissa,” said an intoxicatingly melodious and husky voice, waving her hand and producing a cutlass which she used in a graceful, sinuous display as she spoke, “and I have been called the Jewel of the East. I have been a treasure to kings, a slave to man’s dearest desires. You have released me, handsome stranger, and therefore I am forfeit to your deepest needs. I grant to thee three wishes, no matter how...wicked.”
Andre could simply face the situation in the only manner he knew: He laughed, a wry sound that favored one side of his lips. “I only just wanted to read the writing on the brass,” he said, not sure if he was talking to himself or this apparition before him. “I was wiping away the dust...”
“Well, fancy!” Aissa replied rather sardonically. “It says ‘Stroke here to release Aissa, Jewel of the East, treasure to kings!’ Glad that little inscrutability is resolved. I am yours, master, do with me what you will!” Andre only stared disbelievingly, mistrusting his own eyes. “Come on then, wealth, power, forbidden cravings, what’s your pleasure, eh? Still don’t trust me, do you?” Andre stared back at her confounded, astonished, still incredulous. “Right, how about I give you one complimentary wish--just the one mind--to prove the sincerity of my words.”
“You are in earnest,” he spoke with dubious amusement, “I am sure. And quite an agreeable invention of my imagination at that. Right, you require my faith in your proclamations? Take me to Paris.”
“Where?” she inquired simply.
Andre scoffed skeptically. “You do not even know where Paris is?” Still, there was an inscrutable smirk on those lips of his, an amused arch to his brow as he folded his arms and leaned his long legs against a nearby bureau. Aissa felt herself flustered, blushing and indignant at his countenance of easy indifference.
“I *know* where Paris is,” she insisted tetchily, pouting slightly; she knew it would make her look like little more than a child but she wanted to stamp her feet, to throw a tantrum, anything to shake off that smug look on his face. It would only make him behave more patronizingly, she thought. “I just haven’t been there for a few hundred years, not that it should make a difference,” she sniffed proudly. “My meaning was dissimilar, monsieur, to your understanding of the question; I should have inquired as to when you wanted to go to Paris.”
He shrugged with an arrogant manner of unconcern. “As soon as possible, I suppose.”
“You misread me again, monsieur,” she replied haughtily, wanting to add an aloof ‘ha!’ but deciding against it. “Past, present or future?” When he remained condescendingly unresponsive, she screwed her face up, nearly boiling at his blatant affront. “All right then. Have it your way!” She raised both hands and snapped her fingers in unison. By the time the thumb reached the forefinger, it was as if a fire had ignited from within her palms and was now growing and consuming the both of them. He felt, only for an instant, what it was like to be completely enveloped in that thick, perfumed smoke of hers and, when he came to his senses after a dizzying moment where he felt he might lose the contents of his stomach, he found himself standing in a flourishing green field. It was dotted with rolling hillocks of waving grass, and in the distance, he could see what appeared to be a garrison crafted of finely hewn, thick wood planks.
“Paris!” Aissa announced grandly, spreading her arms. “Mind you, a few hundred years before you were even a dream in the eye of the universe! I give you,” she flourished majestically with her arms, “the past!”
“A cow pasture?” he asked plainly though she could still read that self-satisfied lilt in his voice.
“In the past!” she replied defensively. “Behold the wonder that is...Well, all right, so it’s not that impressive and perchance I’m thinking I should have brought you to the future where you could marvel at...technological wonders and, and...OH!” she exclaimed, aggravated. He was crawling under her skin in an alarmingly rapid space of time, her irritation perhaps a pretense or a reaction to the fact that he was not falling reverently at her feet.
“What is wrong with you?” she snapped. “Even when they don’t accept what I say as truth, I’m usually on my back within moments! Or my knees. Or on all fours, but that is not the point! I offer you the world on a salver and you, you just stand there and...leer! It is exasperating! *You* are exasperating!”
A low whistle caught their attention as it swiftly changed to a menacing whine; the looked to the azure sky simultaneously. The flaming head of an arrow was growing hurriedly closer, both of them jumping out of the way as it landed with an agile thump, imbedding itself in the ground between them.
“Oh, ha ha,” she tittered nervously, shuffling her feet, “Vercingetorix; what a lark, that man! The times we had! Still, better to be safe...” And, as a rain of arrows headed in their direction, Aissa raised her hands again, snapped her fingers and...
With a belly churning tumble through the fragrant, misted oblivion, Andre found himself sprawled out on the most supple, restful velvet cushion, feathered pillows of gold, violet and crimson beneath his head and scattered amongst the expanse of the round mattress. The air was heavy with spice; he recognized the heady bouquet of incense from his time in India. In point of fact, this all seemed rather familiar, it dawned on him: The elaborate gilt tiles and lavish drapes upon the walls, the ornately curved doorjambs and beaded curtains, the bed’s canopy of ornamental gossamer...
A harem! He was lounging on his back in the middle of a harem!
But it was more like a gentleman’s whimsy, his fancy of a harem, than the genuine thing; the colors were too bright, the embellishment too fanciful, like something read in a book. He started as Aissa’s face flit into view above his own; she was smiling broadly, most likely satisfied at catching him off his guard.
“This is what is ordinarily wished for by men such as you,” she sighed contentedly, clearly pleased with her own work as she rocked to and fro upon the heels of her feet, her arms folded behind her back. “Delights of the flesh, surprisingly more potent, more compelling than great wealth, might or influence. Oh,” she gasped lightly, “but where are my manners? Bring on the girls!”
She snapped her fingers and there appeared, dancing gracefully upon their tiptoes like a bevy of alluring nymphs, two undulating processions of veiled ladies, barely clad in their garishly colored and bejeweled attire. There was an array to select from, from tall to short, light to dark, cropped hair to flowing tresses, petite waists, petite breasts, large, buxom backsides; there was an arrangement of practically everything dreamt of by man and God. They surrounded the mattress, falling to their knees, each pleading with him in many different accents, intonations and enunciations to choose her above the others to pleasure, fawning, nearly crying to be the one to serve him and sate his carnal appetites.
He laughed with strained good nature as he pried their clutching grasps from his limbs. “And what if I am convinced now?” he queried of Aissa, quirking an eyebrow as the women sought to demonstrate their prowess on each other, pinching and twisting nipples, burrowing their heads betwixt the thighs of the girl beside them, nuzzling the fragrant little thatch there before penetrating it with their tongues. “Mon Dieu,” he cleared his throat, trying to keep himself focused. “Will you dispose of these...these creatures?”
It wasn’t merely distaste for the spectacle playing before him like an ancient relief from some hedonistic eastern country, for it was quite pleasing to his eye and to his nethers, which had begun to throb delightfully with an inrush of hot blood. No, it was more the thought of these women belonging only to this daydream reality, not separate in any way, made only with one purpose. And an agreeable purpose it was, at that! But, try as he might, he could not become completely aroused by these visions for they were hollow, empty things, not women at all.
“Is that what you wish?” Aissa frowned a little as if she could not comprehend. “Truly, to be rid of them?” The harsh look he shot at her was all the confirmation she needed and, snapping her fingers once again, they were gone. Andre breathed a discernible sigh of relief. “You still have three wishes left, in case you were wondering,” she said awkwardly. “This was a trial, you know. I chose. Wrongly, it would seem.” The frown was back on her face. She sat at the edge of the mattress, her back to Andre as she slumped down a little. “What’s your name, anyways? Don’t think I ever asked.”
“Andre,” he answered softly, studying her from behind; her posture, her bearing which had been so plucky, so hotheadedly spirited was now replaced with a countenance of disappointment, even defeat. Perhaps he didn’t fully comprehend what was happening here; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time a woman’s conduct had completely mystified him and, with luck, would not be the last. “Andre Christophe Cotard. I-I feel as though I must ask for forgiveness though I am not entirely sure as to why.”
“Cotard,” Aissa said in a tone that suggested a sort of reflective melancholy. “Yes, now I recall! A Cotard bought the lamp from a merchant in the Marrakech night market. His name was...Raoul, yes I remember it quite clearly now! He squandered my gift spitefully, wishing the pox upon his neighbors’ cattle, a bought of most unattractive warts upon his beloved’s other suitor and a particularly nasty case of dyspepsia upon his sweetheart’s mother! He blamed me for his extraordinarily dull wishes, stuffed me in and bottled me up as if it were my fault he had an astonishingly dreary imagination!” She turned on him, the spark coming back into her eyes as she spoke with renewed fervor, “My purpose, my responsibility, my pleasure is to give pleasure, do you not you see?”
He had to confess that he did not entirely understand; women who peddled pleasure as a trade by and large were a pitiful lot, looking only for the next recompense to pay for a meal, maybe lodgings, and refuge from the bitter night. And here was a girl who seemed slave to such an existence in essence beseeching him to regard her as such! He shook his head slowly, scrutinizing the eager look upon her young face.
“The only Raoul within the family line that I can call to mind was my great-grandfather’s brother; he married a gypsy woman he had met during his travels, brought her back to Brest. That went over favorably, as you can well imagine,” he raised a sardonic eyebrow, his mouth twisting wryly. “They used to say...They used to say that anyone who crossed him fell under his wicked hex, that they took ill...”
“Me,” Aissa confirmed sheepishly. “A long way from bestowing bliss, wasn’t it? I never really cared all that much for vengeance, though a few outbursts of hives here and there, a misplaced mole, was always a spot of amusement. It was truly the delights of the flesh that made my task particularly satisfying.”
To illustrate her point, she raised her shapely legs up upon the mattress and ran an enticing hand across the tantalizingly soft curves of her body, her fingers lingering in the luscious valley between her scarcely concealed breasts.
Andre licked his dry lips, a thirst he had not previously detected making his blood hum in his ears as his mouth went parched. The enthusiastic thrumming of his cock made itself known altogether insistently as it strained against the cursedly binding fabric of his breeches; moving his thigh to try and suppress his massive erection only made things more severe, the friction of the wool and the coarse hairs of his groin against his inflamed prick making his hiss through clenched teeth in his wonderful agony. He realized it then: He desired not some anonymous female form to taste, to tease, to tickle, to plunder her womanly secrets with raging cock until she was forced to yield them to him. He wanted her, Aissa, with her proud bravado, her impetuous fire. And such was his dilemma, for he would never take advantage of a woman in her situation. Unless...
He grinned wolfishly. “I do believe I have thought of my first wish,” he told her huskily.
She gasped jubilantly, raising herself onto her knees upon the feathered mattress, sinking in a bit. “Tell me what it is!” she squeaked keenly. “Oh, don’t be a tease and do tell! You are a ruthless master! Tell me of your heart’s desire and I shall make it so!”
He lifted himself upon the cushion, moving closely to her as he sprawled out on his side. He bent his head so that his burning mouth was only inches away from the exposed arch of her neck; his breath scorched the smooth skin of her shoulder, which was the dusky hue and texture of fresh cream straight from the swollen belly of a milch cow and smelled like spice and dried jasmine. As he leaned to whisper in her ear, he smiled, arrogantly satisfied as the sensation caused her to shiver; he could feel her, unconsciously or no, incline ever so slightly towards him.
“I wish...” he made her wait a moment before continuing, watching as she breathlessly anticipated his every word. “I wish that you service my every sinful, iniquitous lust, my insatiable craving for womanly flesh with your own body...
“...only of your own free will.”
