mission, and he no longer found the company of prostitutes very entertaining.
So, the old lecher barely gave his servants more than a perfunctory response to their greetings before he marched into his private chambers. His harem already knew of his arrival, and were waiting for him on the huge bed which filled a goodly portion of the very large room which served him for a sleeping chamber. Wearing, needless to say, his favorite feminine apparel.
Which was precisely nothing. Jeschonyk had been quite truthful with Demansk. A satyr he might be, but his tastes were simple and straightforward. Granted, his pig-farming ancestors would have looked askance at the oral practices which the modern aristocracy had imported from the decadent Emeralds. But not even they could have complained about the rest of it. No outlandish perversions here—just a surprisingly vigorous old man greeting his concubines gaily and practically pouncing upon them.
They even seemed glad to see him, and to be enjoying what followed. And, who knows? They might have been.
* * *
Jeschonyk found himself wondering, an hour or so later, as he lay in their midst exhausted and sweaty. For a moment, he was even tempted to ask. But . . .
Whatever else he was, Jeschonyk was not a fool. There was no point in asking such a question. No slave concubine in her right mind, after all, was going to tell her master anything other than what she thought he wanted to hear. Especially not concubines who lived in such luxurious quarters and enjoyed such an easy life, the worst of which was simply satisfying the none-too-complicated lusts of their owner. A frequent chore, to be sure—but they had half a dozen of them to spread around the work.
Still, it made him a bit sad. He was quite fond of them, and not simply because of the pleasure they gave him. One of them, in particular—the oldest girl, Kata, the one who'd been with him longest.
So, the old lecher barely gave his servants more than a perfunctory response to their greetings before he marched into his private chambers. His harem already knew of his arrival, and were waiting for him on the huge bed which filled a goodly portion of the very large room which served him for a sleeping chamber. Wearing, needless to say, his favorite feminine apparel.
Which was precisely nothing. Jeschonyk had been quite truthful with Demansk. A satyr he might be, but his tastes were simple and straightforward. Granted, his pig-farming ancestors would have looked askance at the oral practices which the modern aristocracy had imported from the decadent Emeralds. But not even they could have complained about the rest of it. No outlandish perversions here—just a surprisingly vigorous old man greeting his concubines gaily and practically pouncing upon them.
They even seemed glad to see him, and to be enjoying what followed. And, who knows? They might have been.
* * *
Jeschonyk found himself wondering, an hour or so later, as he lay in their midst exhausted and sweaty. For a moment, he was even tempted to ask. But . . .
Whatever else he was, Jeschonyk was not a fool. There was no point in asking such a question. No slave concubine in her right mind, after all, was going to tell her master anything other than what she thought he wanted to hear. Especially not concubines who lived in such luxurious quarters and enjoyed such an easy life, the worst of which was simply satisfying the none-too-complicated lusts of their owner. A frequent chore, to be sure—but they had half a dozen of them to spread around the work.
Still, it made him a bit sad. He was quite fond of them, and not simply because of the pleasure they gave him. One of them, in particular—the oldest girl, Kata, the one who'd been with him longest.