Abracadabra!

Chapter 11: The Emerald Concubine

Gregg Gilstrom unlocked the door of his room and slid gratefully inside. It had been a day of boring lectures but he felt he had to keep up appearances. There was still a great deal of fuss being made about the museum robbery – largely as a result of the director insisting that everyone was to blame except him and while he resented the fact that he wasn’t getting the credit, he was quite happy to be avoiding the attentions of the police.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he knew something wasn’t right, something was different. As soon as he clicked the light on he saw what it was. There, stretched out on his couch, looking up at him provocatively, was the woman he had seen in the square the day before,  Maxine Connor.

“Hello, Gregg,” she said in the same husky tone she had used the day before. “I’d hoped you be home soon.”

Gregg wasn’t at all sure what to do. The jewel he used to hypnotise his victims was locked securely in his desk. His crotch, no respecter of difficulties of opportunity, was telling him that he had to have this woman, but he knew that there would be problems if he did anything there in his room. On the other hand he thought, as he took in the shape of her stretched out legs and the dark cleft of her cleavage that was clear in the V of her jacket, her intentions looked anything but modest. “Err, how did you get in?” he said. “I thought I’d left the room locked.”

“You did,” Maxine responded, making no attempt to explain herself. “But surely, a magician knows there are no solid doors?” Gregg felt discomforted by the woman’s manner. She sat up and patted the seat beside her to indicate that he should sit down. “Now why don’t you tell me just how you did that trick with the tie?”

Gregg tried to recover his composure. He shook his head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” he said. “It’s an unwritten rule. A magician never explains his tricks.”

Maxine smiled and put her head on one side. Her long hair fell loosely across her shoulder.  “No, of course. I understand. Let me guess though. Was it some form of hypnosis of the audience, perhaps with the Swami’s ruby? Or was it something even more remarkable; the real Indian rope trick?”

Gregg’s jaw dropped open at the mention of the Swami. He stared at Maxine without saying anything and then sat down beside her.

“Hiram Heron wasn’t the only one that wrote about the Swami and his followers,” Maxine went on. “It’s surprising what you can find out in the museum and the library with a little research. He really was an interesting man, the Swami. He had the British administration worried for a while, there was talk of very strange events in Pradesh. That ruby of his was a powerful jewel if you believe everything that was written.”

“Very interesting,” Gregg said trying to recover his thoughts. “But why would you think I would be interested in this Indian Swami?”

“Someone interested in magic? Of course you’d be interested in the origins of the Indian rope trick! And if it wasn’t actually a trick? Well, imagine that.”

Actually, Gregg hadn’t really considered the implications of the power that the trick presented. He had been too amused by the hypnotic power of the jewel and the opportunities it had presented to fulfil the sexual drives that consumed him. Its use to acquire the emerald had been almost incidental.  He felt embarrassed that he hadn’t thought that it might be of any other use but on the other hand he was intrigued by what the woman was suggesting. Of course he might become the world’s most famous magician but that was hardly the heritage of the Swami; for him only infamous would do.

“So,” Maxine went on, “you possess the Swami’s ruby, and you have acquired the secrets of the cult of snakes. I’m not sure how you did that but it’s obvious to me that is what is behind the trick. And I think you took Saradamani’s emerald.”

“What makes you think that?” Gregg responded warily. “And why Saradamani’s emerald? I’ve not heard anyone call it that.”

“Sloppy research! Trivialised exhibits! Poor scholarship!” Maxine exploded. “That fool Rodwell is incapable of any academic rigour. He doesn’t understand what is behind Heron’s work; the fear that the British had for the Swami and his cult; the certainty that the Raj would have collapsed under drug fuelled sexual excess at his hands, if things hadn’t turned out differently.”

Gregg was surprised by her outburst. The alluring woman on his couch had been transformed into a spitting, vengeful, vixen. He wasn’t sure which he found more desirable.

Maxine calmed down as swiftly as she had become angered. “Do you really not know about the emerald?” she said, the question of whether Gregg had taken it evidently not needing an answer.

Gregg shook his head.

“It was - is, as I suspect you guessed, the twin of the ruby. To the Swami’s followers it signified cunning, guile and trickery while the ruby symbolised lust, appetite and power. The Swami always wore the ruby in his turban. The emerald was worn by his favourite concubine - Saradamani. It was she that stood by the Swami until the very end when he was besieged by British troops in the old Allahabad fort.”

“Interesting,” said Gregg, but I am not sure where this is taking us.”

Maxine sat  up. She unfastened a button of her jacket. It was obvious to Gregg that she was wearing nothing beneath it. “I thought you should have your own avaruddha Stree, your own ‘lesser wife’ as they say,” she said

The sexual urges of youth, amplified by the influence of the changes that the Swami’s hashish – or whatever it was – had wreaked upon his mind, pushed him towards Maxine. She didn’t resist him as he straddled her and pushed her back on the couch, diving with his mouth for her neck and pushing his hands eagerly inside her jacket. She responded, gripping him around the neck and pulling him down upon her. “Why should I worry?” panted Gregg, his cock stiffening by the moment. “Your research must have told you I can have any woman I want. Why should I want a concubine?”

“Because of this,” she said. Her hand flew to the fly of his trousers drawing down the zip slowly. “Your ruby can compel women to obey, but can it compel them to be active, engaged, vigorous partners?” She laughed as Gregg’s cock sprang free of his trousers, stiffening thickly in her hands. “You can have your ruby slaves for lust, but you need your emerald concubine for pleasure.”

Gregg looked sceptical for a moment.

“Wait,” said Maxine, “let me tell you about some of my other research. In the grounds of what was the Swami’s palace is a temple. The walls are covered with carvings which illustrate some exciting and interesting sexual positions. Heron made drawings of them. They were never published; too explicit even for the academic journals of the day. I found them. Perhaps we should try them out? After all, I am sure the Swami did.”

Gregg smiled and licked his lips. It seemed like a very good idea. “Just in the interests of academic study, then,” he said.

“Of course,” Maxine responded as she reached for his crotch.  

 © Freddie Clegg 2010

Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission. All characters and events fictitious.

Email: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com

Web group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/