by Scipio42
Greetings o worthy ones.
Greetings Masters! Welcome! Welcome to the world of my humble stories.
The slaves will be with you in a moment, when they have primped and powdered
themselves for your delectation. They will move among you with whatever you
desire.
Please don’t leave marks on the serving girls, master! Break it and you pay for
it!
Once again, we shall journey back through the years to the storied world of old
Bagdad. That magnificent city of fabled times, that metropolis of myth, a world
long gone, a world that no longer is, or perhaps it never was. For tonight we
go there for one specific night. One momentous evening among millions. A night
of legend.
This night we shall travel in the hopes of experiencing the one thousand and
first night of the stories of that queen of deferment, the wily and exquisitely
talented woman that today we know as Scheherazade
Are you sitting comfortably masters? Then we shall begin.
It is the reign of the Sultan Shariyah of blessed memory.
Well, about that …
For the last one thousand nights the sultan had been engaging in a battle of
wits with the daughter of his vizier Selim, the girl known as Shaharizad. The
sultan’s aims were simple and well stated - he would marry the maiden, deflower
her, and then the next evening, kill her and consume her rather delicious body,
just as he had with a myriad of others (Two hundred and thirty-five to be
precise) previously, after catching his first wife in the arms of a member of
his guard.
None of the sultan’s aims coincided with those of Shaharizad. Well, perhaps a
couple. She was the two hundred and thirty-sixth maiden that Shariyah – blessed
be his memory – had planned on consuming. But being the daughter of a wise and
clever man, and no slouch when it came to brains herself. she was doing her
utmost to avoid the killing part of the sultan’s plan.
To this end, commencing with their first evening together, Shaharizad had
presented the sultan with his most recent ex-wife and skilfully prepared her
for the eager ruler, slicing meat from her still-living body, before cooking it
over a charcoal brazier with a selection of coatings and dipping sauces, all in
a Bedouin tent set up in the palace grounds.
While the sultan was dining on the young lady, Shaharizad began to tell him a
long, detailed, and quite involved story, while pillowing his head on her ample
thighs. Sated on the exquisitely cooked girl meat (her father was not known as
the Chef of Bagdad for nothing, he had taught his daughter well) the sultan had
listened to the story, falling asleep before he could proceed on to the
ravishing and deflowering portion of the evening.
Faced with his failure to consummate the plan, Shariyah had dismissed it as
nothing, he would, he thought, simply do it the next evening.
Shaharizad, on the other hand, had other ideas and provided nightly meals in
various forms, drawing the story out, night after night - and incidentally
achieving herself a place in the annals of literature as she did so - until the
point where we are to begin our story.
The score, as the common people would have it, is currently Shaharizad 1000 –
Shariyah 0.
Of course, Shariyah only had to score once and the game was over, but the girl
was, as they say, playing her socks off.
Selim the Vizier was walking with his daughter in the grounds of the palace.
“Well, did you tell him the one about the island of men with one giant foot,
who move around by hopping, and who sleep in the hot sun, with their foot
raised above them as a shade?” her father asked.
“About two months ago.” His daughter said, disconsolately.
“The genie and the merchant?”
“Yes.”
“The giant Roc bird?”
“Done it.”
“How about the story of the Catoblepas(1)?” He suggested. “That’s always a good
one.”
“Last year.” She said glumly. The father and daughter sat down on a bench
over-looking a tranquil pool, where great golden fishes slowly circulated, in
the crystal-clear waters.
“A thousand nights of story-telling, father.” Shaharizad said glumly.
“Yes, beloved daughter of mine.”
“Nine hundred and ninety-nine slaves butchered and cooked.” The first girl had
not been a slave. All the others since had been from the market, much to the
relief of the nubility of Bagdad, the maidens of marriageable age.
“Indeed!” Her father agreed with her, after all he had paid for all of them
(and was sorely disappointed that he was never even sent the scraps). And the
demand for only the very best quality girl-meat had put a serious strain on
Bagdad’s markets.
“I’m tired father.” Shaharizad, “Tonight! Tonight, I am going to bring this to
an end.” (What she didn’t tell her father, was that over the last few months
she had come to the conclusion that virginity was an over-rated commodity and
that she was hoping to do something about it)
Selim, the vizier looked at his daughter with a mix of pride and sadness. He
was proud of the girl, because for the last one thousand nights she had
demonstrated all of the cleverness, the wit and the wisdom that a man could
hope for in an off-spring. But he was also sad because it was her femininity
that had brought her to this pass. Had Shaharizad been a male, Selim had no
doubt that he would have been training him as a successor.
“You are not going to do anything rash are you?” He asked cautiously.
“Hopefully not, oh beloved father. Hopefully not.” She said expressing a brief
prayer of hope that the Prophet might, if he had nothing else important to do,
intervene with God on her behalf. “But you never know. Listen, this is my plan
… “
Later that evening …
Much to the consternation of the sultan Shariyah his stomach rumbled – audibly.
Oh, for sure there were delicate sweet meats, candied dates, small slices of
the banana fruit, dried and sugared so that they were crisp and crunchy;
chilled grapes and balls of sweet sticky rice mixed with sliced strawberries.
There were all sorts of sweet diversions to be picked at and nibbled, but he
was missing his usual nightly feast of girl meat.
The nightly meals, along with Shaharizad’s intriguing story had become a part
of his life, so much so that his waistline had expanded considerably on a diet
of the finest quality girl-meat, cooked in delicious and exciting - and
enticing - ways,
“And so, after all their adventures Aladdin and the Princess Jasmine settled
down. Their lovemaking was most vigorous and the thief who became a prince put
many babies into his wife, so many in fact that in fabled Deriabar today, there
is not one person in twenty who does not have the lineage of the Prince Aladdin
in their veins. After the first twelve babies were born, the princess
eventually encouraged the prince to gather a harem, so that she could get a good
night’s sleep.
“And they all lived happily ever after … “
With that traditional end to this mother of all stories, Shaharizad signalled
to the sultan that she had finally – at last - finished her story.
Standing up in front of him she carefully removed her garments, folding them
and setting them aside on a small chest, before lying down upon a divan, arms
by her side, her lovely pale legs slightly parted, one knee slightly raised,
and raising her head she looked at the Sultan.
“I am ready of Master of the World, Commander of the Sands.”
“Ready for what, Shaharizad?”
“To be despoiled, oh Slaughterer of Virginity, Ravisher of the Innocent. My
story is done, there is no girl to cook tonight, so if you would oh Sultan of
my Heart, take me now so I can get on and prepare myself for your supper.”
Now the Sultan Shariyah was not, as some people believe, a stupid man. Hungry
yes, horny yes, but dumb? No. From the very first morning after their first
night together, he had surmised how Shaharizad had planned her campaign. He had
decided it would be good to allow it to play out.
After all the girl was clever, her stories entertaining, she was attractive and
boy, could she cook!
So, he had allowed the story to go on night after night, enjoying its twists and
turns, as he ate slave girls who had been boiled, fried and stewed, roasted,
grilled, raw, seasoned, tempura battered. So, he didn’t get to fuck her, there
were slave girls for that sort of thing, but Shariyah had come to respect
Shaharizad. They often talked about other things while she prepared his nightly
meal. She was respectful but honest, she never judged and when he asked her
advice on a matter, it was usually worth listening to.
And talking about listening, she was a good listener, but some nights, though
he would have denied it, all the sultan wanted to do was listen to her.
“One question, Mistress of loquaciousness?”
Shaharizad raised herself on one elbow. “Yes, my king?”
“If, after I despoil your maidenhood, you proceed to the cooking part … erm …
am I the only one that can see a surprising flaw in your otherwise immaculate
plan? I must admit that it seems like a major error for one who sustained a
tale for one thousand and one nights. Who is going to prepare and cook you?”
“That would be my part of the evening, your Magnificence!”
Shariyah’s head whipped round as his vizier entered.
“Selim? What is my vizier doing here?”
“I am not here as your vizier my lord, but in my original role – as the man
that your father named the Chef of Bagdad.”
“And you would do this?” Selim’s former career as Bagdad’s foremost cooker and
seller of girl-flesh was well-known. “To your own daughter? That everyone knows
you hold dearer than life.”
“I would, your Magnificence, if it was your will.”
“And what of your daughter’s will?”
“Oh King of the stars, who guides the mariners by your radiance, it is true
that I love my daughter, Shaharizad above all things, but she is a mere girl,
albeit a clever and talented one, but if it is your will, my Sultan then … “
At which point Selim drew a small tray from the side. On it were a selection of
knives and small bottles. Even from where he sat, Shariyah could see how sharp
the knives were. It is a measure of the sultan and his faith in Selim – who had
demonstrated his faithfulness so many times over the years, that Shariyah did
not feel threatened. That and two silent guards stood just behind him.
Still, the sultan paused for a moment. “So! I shall ravish your daughter, and
you, the Chef of Bagdad will prepare her for me?”
“Yes, your magnificence.”
“If you have taught even one tenth of what you know to Shaharizad, then it
would be a feast fit for … well, fit for a sultan!” Shariyah laughed.
The idea of dinner and show, was tempting to the sultan, his stomach was reminding
him how hungry he was, and the way that the girl displayed herself on the couch
was so very arousing. It was truly a dilemma such as you’d find in one of her
‘Arabian Nights’ stories, because, over the last two years, the sultan had
gotten over the disappointment in women that had set him on his destructive
path and he actually felt great affection for Shaharizad.
“You may leave us now, Selim, but wait close by. I am about to ravish your
daughter, which I do not think you want to witness. When I am done, I shall
call upon you again.”
The vizier left and the sultan leapt.
Mighty was his ardour, strong and hard and thrusting was his manliness. He
plunged his mighty burning sword deep into the maiden’s virtue, chasing away
her virginity like the sun chases away the night. As he would ride a fiery
mare, did he ride the no longer a maiden Shaharizad. Thrusting, gasping,
breathless passion, all played through their roles in the minutes that
followed. Shariyah sated his ferocious lusts upon the woman who had put him off
for one thousand nights.
‘Well, at least that’s that out of the way.’ Shaharizad told herself, as the
sultan pumped away on top of her.
Now, this may seem cold, and unfeeling of the girl, considering that she had
just been despoiled by the sultan. However, Shaharizad was focused on the long
game, and she hoped that there would be other nights when she could explore the
nature of passion, without the threat of a hot and spicy death hanging over her
head. She did, however, remember to express an ‘ooh’ and an ‘ah!’ at the right
moment, and she even congratulated herself on a timely ‘it’s SO big!’.
With his passion spent, and if truth be told, a little winded by his efforts,
the Sultan of Bagdad, master of the Tigris and the Euphrates, Shariyah the
Magnificent flopped onto the couch next to the woman Shaharizad.
“Shall I call my father, your majesty?” Shaharizad asked sweetly.
“What?!” The question pulled Shariyah out of his daze, as far as he had been
concerned that was one almighty despoiling, and a short lie-down was completely
in order.
“Shall I call for my father in his role as the Chef of Bagdad? I can soon wash
myself and I know he will not take long to prepare me.”
“Wait!” He commanded her. “Wait! Wait a moment Shaharizad!
“I know what you’re doing.” He said, as he sat upright quickly (making himself
a little dizzy in the process). “The same thing you have done every night for
the last thousand nights.”
The woman looked at him with innocent eyes. Eyes a man could sink into and
cheerfully die.
“Stop doing that too!” He snapped. “Each night I have come here, firstly to wed
you and then ravish you and after that devour you. And each night you use your
silky words and obfuscation to delay me, you feed me ‘till I fall asleep
listening to your stories and the whole thing gets delayed another night.
“Well, I’ve done one, we’re wed. That was two that we did just then. That just
leaves the devouring …”
“Selim!” The sultan bellowed.
The vizier appeared slowly, “Selim? If I ask you to do something, will you do
it?”
The older man nodded, though all could see it hurt him to do so.
“Then let me have your daughter … to be my wife.” The sultan laughed. Both
father and daughter gasped in surprise.
“She already is your Magnificence!”
The sultan waved his statement away. “That was more like a loan, let me have
her properly so that she can be my wife. If she will have me.”
Both Selim and Shaharizad said yes simultaneously.
Great relief was felt by all concerned.
“Good!” Shariyah exclaimed, “We’ll have a proper wedding tomorrow, but right
now, I am starving. I suppose as Shaharizad is off the menu I shall have to
find something else!”
“About that. If your Magnificence would, please?” Selim stood back and
indicated that the sultan should follow him.
The room next door, unbeknown to the sultan had been laid out ready for a
banquet, a glittery, shiny bejewelled banquet of lavish decorations, gold
plates and silver bowls. Smoking charcoal braziers sat amidst the dishes, with
tendrils of pungently scented smokes rising to the ceiling.
The smoke wasn’t the only odour that filled the air above the banquet, the
aromas of sauces and spices competed with the smoke and each other to get the
attention of the sultan’s nose. Fruits and vegetables of various hues all vied
with each other to assault the eye with their colours and textures. Lavish only
began to describe the opulence that sat upon the tables with their snowy white
cloths.
In the centre of it all, a tightly bound and gagged African slave was placed upon
a great platter. Her eyes flicked around her, the whites showing her fear as
she sought some escape from the fate that now advanced upon her.
Her efforts were useless of course. She was bound sitting upon her ample
backside, her rounded buttocks spreading out on the platter, her legs out in
front of her, with her ankles bound together and her hands tied to her knees.
The effect was to splay her legs open. Her full belly fell down in front of
her, overhanging the plump cunt that lay between her rounded thigh. Pendulous,
full, if slightly flattened, breasts sat on her chest. An apple had been wedged
in between her full lips, silencing her cries, but not muffling her whimpers.
The girl had been shaved all over and now she sat waiting for what was about to
happen, helpless before the sultan, his vizier and his new wife.
“And all without me knowing?” Shariyah laughed. “And if I hadn’t decided to
keep Shaharizad?”
“Then I would have sat where she is now, oh, my husband.” She told him, “And my
end would have been magnificent!”
“Truly!” The sultan told her. “But now I get to see what you can do?” He asked.
“Not I majesty.” Shaharizad told him, “My father will demonstrate his skills
for us.”
Selim bowed. “That is, if your majesty wishes?”
“Oh! I do Selim! I do wish! At least my wife can have a night off, tonight.”
The vizier Selim, reprising his role as the famed Chef of Bagdad stripped off
his richly embroidered robes, and rolled his sleeves up. It was getting late in
the evening and there was work to do.
It all came rushing back to him, from the days when his business and his
existence was hand-to-mouth. When the money from one day paid for the next and
profits were small. When men would line up for hours to watch him cook, in the
hope of getting a flat bread full of hot, sizzling girl-meat, cooked by the
acknowledged master.
It felt good. Too long now he had been a mover and a shaper, working for the
throne, a man of papers and reports, of intelligences and insights. The task
was in front of him and that was it.
The stakes were high – yet another banquet for the sultan, just like the first
one he had cooked for the current sultan’s father – but Selim’s confidence in
his own ability had never gone away. It was true he had taught Shaharizad all
she knew, but, and he smiled inwardly, he hadn’t taught her everything that he
knew.
“I have never been enamoured of live cooking your Magnificence,” he told
Shariyah as he re-positioned the meat-slave so that she lay on her back, her
head over a pail.
“It does no favours for the girl’s taste and complicates the process.
Bismilah!” With one swift movement he had cut the slave’s throat, allowing the
blood to fall into the bucket. He held her steady as she twitched and jiggled
on the table, making soft soothing sounds as she bled out under his hand.
Certain that she was dead, Selim began to carve portions away from her body and
thigh, from her buttocks and her arms. Her fingers and toes went into a pot of
broth, bubbling away next to the table. Spices and herbs - already measured and
portioned on a small dish - went in next and Selim adjusted the heat so that
the pot would come to a boil.
Next, he moved to some of the collops he had carved away from the girl, slicing
them rapidly into smaller pieces, finger-sized pieces of flesh. These were
immersed into various oils or sauces and skewered on slivers of wet bamboo
wood, then placed on one side.
While the sultan and his new wife billed and cooed on a heap of embroidered
cushions, Selim sliced a great slab of meat off the girl’s full belly. Placing
this on a cutting board, Selim cut it into smaller pieces, cubes half as long
as his finger on a side. These cubes also went into dishes of aromatic sauces –
including Selim’s signature pomegranate sauce – where they lay for a few
minutes soaking.
Selim finished removing the head from the slave and washed it, before placing
it on a platter of its own. After that he turned his attention back to the
assorted braziers in front of him. Into a shallow pan went some butter. Once
this was melted, shallots, garlic, and other herbs were added, and allowed to
brown or infuse the oil. The cubes of belly meat were dredged in flour, dipped
in the sauce again and fried until they were brown. It was a quick operation
and soon a stack of the glistening, hot belly meat was piled upon a plate of
rice.
Shaharizad got up from the cushions and brought the plate to her husband.
Sticking a cube with a small knife, Shariyah took one and bit into it.
“Allah be praised!” The sultan exclaimed. “This is incredible!”
Vizier nodded his acknowledgement but he had already moved onto the broth of
fingers and toes, it was time to reduce the boil on that, and having done that,
he moved over to the skewers.
Picking vegetables or fruits from the bowls on the table, Selim made up added
them to the skewers making sheesh-kabobs of girl meat.
The wet bamboo meant that the sticks themselves would not burn but the meat
sizzled and hissed as the fat and the sauces dripped onto the scented charcoal.
For a moment Selim once again felt a pang of nostalgia for his older, simpler,
life, but he was having so much fun, it was just a fleeting though.
Such small cuts did not take long to cook – one of the reasons Selim had gone
down this route, rather than his famous whole girl roast – and soon there was a
pile of the skewers on a side plate, which again Shaharizad brought to her
husband.
“This pomegranate sauce is incredible!” Shariyah was again in a transport of
delight.
Simple steaks, again cut into smaller pieces, sizzled away unadorned with sauce
or condiment, over a brazier. Just girl-meat, pure and simple, cut from the
meat-slave’s mighty thighs. As vizier to his sultan, Selim was well aware of
how Shariyah liked his roasted meats, so when he judged that these pieces would
be sufficiently cooked, with just a tiny hint of pinkness in the centre, he
arranged them on a bed of salad leaves, with dates, and handed them to his
daughter, who again brought them to her husband.
“Perhaps I should have married you Selim.” Shariyah said as he licked the
juices off his fingers. (Shaharizad offered him a bowl of rose-water but no,
Shariyah wanted to lick them.)
While the sultan enthused over the simplest of all the dishes so far, and by
far the most difficult to get absolutely right – Selim turned to the broth.
Dipping his finger tip in the soup, Selim tasted it. A pinch of ground black
pepper, and two of ground rock salt, were swiftly thrown into the pot.
Placing a bowl next to the cooking pot, Selim ladled the broth into it, pouring
it through a colander, before removing the slivers of flesh and dropping them
into the soup, then discarding the bones.
“I’m not sure I can eat any more!” Shariyah told his wife as she knelt in front
of him, presenting the bowl of soup.”
“At least try it, my husband.” She asked.
“Fuck me!” The sultan Shariyah the Magnificent exclaimed, in a most un-sultanly
manner. “That is the best yet! Selim, that is incredible.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” the secret is the amount of garlic, Selim said to
himself, there being none in the broth. “It is a little-known recipe said to
power your virility, they say that it almost guarantees off-spring, if followed
by conjugal activity.”
“Well then, I suppose we should be away and see if it works.” The sultan said
rising and drawing Shaharizad with him. They scampered away to the other room
to do the things husbands and wives do.
As they went, Shaharizad smiled to herself, this was the next part of the plan
– the wily ex-maiden was going to rock the sultan’s world. Over the last two
years she had been preparing for this night of nights, the poor schmuck had no
idea what was about to hit him.
Left with the remains of the meat slave and a whole table full of ingredients,
Selim went to do something he so very rarely did these days, cook for himself.
There was so much he could have done, so many recipes he enjoyed, but the Chef
of Bagdad wanted none of them.
As he sliced up some of the thigh meat, and a little of the finer flesh from
the girl’s arms, he thought about what had happened. He considered how his
daughter, when faced with almost certain death had conquered the situation and
turned it to her advantage. He had helped of course, but she was the one whose
stories and quick wits had turned the trick. Even now as she was in the
sultan’s bed, Selim knew that she would turn that in her favour, and he was
glad.
The sliced meat sizzled and browned. Slicing a flat bread, Selim filled it with
the hot meat and bit into it.
“Allah be praised” he said aloud, “That is good.”
You should know, good masters, that like her story of Prince Aladdin and his
bride Jasmin, Shariyah and Shaharizad lived many years together. Her cooking
skills, equalled only by her fucking skills, were the foundations of a happy
and lasting marriage.
And thus, reflecting on how sometimes it is the simpler things in life – a
bed-wrecking fuck, a lavish banquet of girl meat or just the hot juicy flesh of
a slave girl in a flat bread - that are best, we end the story of the Chef of
Bagdad.
Thank you. Good night and now it is time to go home. And please masters, be
remembering that we have neighbours and make not too much noise as you depart.
Thank you.
(1) The catoblepas is a legendary creature from Ethiopia, first
described by Pliny the Elder and later by Claudius Aelianus. It is said to
resemble a cape buffalo, with its head always pointing downwards due to its
great weight. Its stare or breath could either turn people into stone or kill
them.