Chapter 5

August 1872

We got some much-needed relief last week. The tail end of a typhoon swept in from the Bay of Bengal and, for a good few hours, the heavens opened and the wind blew like a good 'un. This, of course, caused its own problems and we received numerous reports of flash floods and people and animals being swept away. A deputation from one of the villages arrived claiming that their entire stock of rice was ruined by the sudden storm. I commanded the quartermaster to fix them up with a wagonload from our stores but I have also sent merchants out to secure fresh supplies, as our own reserve is all but exhausted. At least the rain settled the dust and the air feels much cleaner and fresher as a result.

The storm broke around midnight and I rushed out onto the terrace with Cat and Baljit by my side. We watched the lightning come up on the wind and felt those first revitalising drops splatter and plop all around us. Pretty soon there was a steady downpour that extinguished the torches in their iron sconces and I stripped off my shirt and britches and danced naked in the rain. It wasn't long before Cat and Baljit also shed their clothes and I watched, caught between lust and admiration as they pranced about before me. Cat is as slender as a lath and her body is taught and firmly muscled. Baljit is more voluptuous and I was much taken by the way her heavy breasts bounced as she danced. Indeed, I was so moved that I seized her up and bent her over the balustrade, slipping into her yoni from behind. Cat, not to be left out, hopped up onto the top of the top of the wall and stood bent-kneed, legs wide apart, offering her yoni to my eager lips. It had been some weeks since we last disported ourselves and so it took no time at all before I was hollering and yelling and pumping a quantity of accumulated seed into Baljit's accommodating yoni. Quick as a flash, Cat was on her knees, pulling me clear of Baljit and clamping her lips around the head of my lingam and sucking like a vacuum pump. Once she drained me to her satisfaction (and mine) she switched to Baljit and thrust her tongue deep into that girl's yoni, exploring every crevice and licking out any of my seed that might have escaped her.

The sight of this soon had me raring to go again and as Baljit moaned and wriggled under the ministrations of Cat's tongue, I crouched behind Cat and slammed into her, alternating between her yoni and her arse and reaching round in front of her to play with her jewel. Soon she was mewing like her namesake and all three of us reached a massive climax almost simultaneously. I suppose it must have been the effect of prolonged abstinence but it wasn't long before I was ready for a third bout and this time it was my turn to sit on the balustrade while Baljit and Cat set to work with lips and tongues on my member. I leaned back and relaxed while one nibbled gently on the head of my lingam while the other laved my balls and sucked gently on them. The feeling was indescribable and I shut my eyes and tried to guess which of them was doing what at any given time. It wasn't long before it ceased to matter and I was delighted to see that they each had their hands between the other's legs and periodically left off from sucking me to nibble on a nipple or to embrace each other with my member sandwiched between their breasts.

It is not hard for me to understand their pleasure in each other. After all, who would have a man when they could have a woman? Women are soft and fragrant whereas men are sweaty, scratchy and rough. I cannot for the life of me understand how pederasts can possibly be attracted to a man. Baljit was by now giving it her all. Her head was bobbing up and down like a jack-in-the-box while Cat tugged and played on her nipples. Her other hand was wrapped about my balls, squeezing them and milking me and I felt that irresistible force begin to rise at the base of my spine. I bellowed aloud that I was coming and Baljit pulled back, pumping me with her hand and directing the flood of seed over the pair of them before darting back and sucking like a new-born babe as my lingam slowly collapsed. Cat was on her hands and knees licking my seed from Baljit' breasts, neck and face and I shut my eyes and sighed with utter contentment, letting the rain wash over me and cool my aching body.

September 1872

Once again we are called upon to march up country. It seems that we have been invaded by a tribe from over the border and they are marauding through the hill villages, robbing and killing as they go. Of course, this is just the latest manifestation of some old blood feud but, even so, I must act to dive out the insurgents or word will get around that the kingdom is easy pickings and we'll be up to our oxters in hairy-arsed tribesmen before me know it. The most damnable thing is that the perpetrators and their victims are closely related - cousins or very near it - but that seems to make little difference to the ferocity of the attacks. By the time we get up there the latest bunch will no doubt have fled back over the border and there is little point in trying to garrison the passes as there must be a hundred different little trails they can take if they've a mind to.

October 1872

My predictions proved entirely accurate. By the time we struggled up to the hill country, all was quiet. My old adversary, Shohib Khan was one of the victims this time around. They left his head on a lance just outside his village and none had quite found the courage to take it down. We reunited the grisly trophy with the rest of its owner and gave him a good funeral, which surprised his son, Amir, who has now taken over. We had a long chat and I explained that I was happy for him to rule his little patch as long as he stayed away from the lowland villages. I have no desire whatsoever to usurp the local tribal chiefs and as long as they keep to their side of the bargain, there will be no trouble. Indeed, I offered him assistance with any cross-border raiders and he was grateful if mightily puzzled by my attitude.

What the young bugger would really like from me is a couple of my six-pounder mountain guns but he has more hope of flying. Artillery is the one real advantage I enjoy and I'm damned if I'll give it up. Of course the natives have a few bronze cannon but my mule-back guns can go where such heavy pieces never can. I've a mind to order some of these new German howitzers that can be broken into mule-sized loads to augment the six-pounders. The rough, rocky terrain is suited to explosive shells but a few air-bursts from the howitzers might add a bit of a spice and make life a tad more unpleasant for any wily tribesman sheltering in a nullah or behind a wall of rocks, immune from everything bar a direct hit.

We spent a couple of weeks patrolling the frontier area and there was the odd long-range skirmish. I think the mountain guns did score a couple of times but the devils sloped off before we could ever really try conclusions with them. We were hampered by the weather, which was wet and foggy in the mountains. It was mostly low cloud but really restricted visibility. Then word came of some other unpleasantness on the far side of the border and our insurgents melted away to join in the general mayhem. I brokered a deal between Amir and his neighbour. The two would co-operate in fighting any cross-border incursions in return for a yearly stipend from yours truly. I count the odd lakh of silver rupees money well spent if it keeps order up on the frontier for a while.

I ordered the army back to the capital and we returned yesterday. It is clear that there is an air of boredom about the place when the troops are in barracks so I have decided to introduce Nambhustan to the magnificent mysteries of the noble game of cricket. I sincerely believe that if we British spread the game of cricket instead of our rather killjoy religions, the world be a far happier place. Indeed, let us all play cricket and leave religions to whither into the dust of history.

(Editor's Note: The man's quite mad!)

December 1872

You would be amazed at the impact of cricket on the locals. We now have six teams and play matches every weekend. There are two army sides, a palace XI that I captain myself, a Hindoo team, a Musselman team and one from the city itself. I think it won't be long before we have at least one more city side. Preparing a suitable wicket on which to play has been the most difficult part but a little ingenuity and a couple of elephants soon flattened out a square on the maidan. We play in front of wildly excited crowds. One might suppose that the land of India has been waiting specifically for cricket, so enthusiastically have they embraced it. The standard of bowling may leave something to be desired as yet but there are already some first class batsmen.

At present, we are having to improvise with the equipment but I have placed a substantial order with Messrs Gunn and Moore of Nottingham so by next season we will have the full set of gear. My palace team is the best so far but I am even-handed with my coaching and the others are not far behind. We have had many close and exciting games and the few Chinese who reside in the city have gone into a gambling frenzy every time a match is played. Maybe I'll recruit a professional next year to really teach the boys how to play.

It was after one such game when I returned, hot and sweating from the field having just beaten the army by a mere sixteen runs, that I found Cat waiting for me in a state of great agitation. I flung my bat into a corner and headed for the bathhouse, needing to soak away a couple of bruises as well as refresh my tired muscles. No sooner had I dropped my grateful, aching body into the fragrant hot water than Cat leapt in beside, fully clothed. She was so beside herself that she was chittering at me in her native language of which I speak not a word. I managed to calm her by the simple expedient of ducking her head under the water and keeping it there until the struggles lessened. This had the effect of restoring her coherence, as well as half drowning her. It transpired that the cause of her massive loss of composure was the visit to the palace of a delegation from her own land of Siam. This would not normally cause much of a stir - we receive several such visits each year - but this particular deputation included Cat's own younger sister, a maid of about seventeen as far as Cat could tell.

Cat was adamant that her sister, whose name was something like Bandong, should join our establishment. I had no objection to this in principle but feared there would be some difficulty in achieving such an harmonious arrangement. Cat's sister was clearly the concubine of the plenipotentiary leading the Siamese delegation. Cat, however, would brook no objections and insisted that she and her sister must be reunited after all these years.

I used Christmas as the excuse, explaining to the Siamese minister the Christian tradition of exchanging gifts. (Bloody religion can have its uses, don't y'know.) I managed to manoeuvre the old boy quite expertly. I took him to the seraglio and had the girls, excluding Cat and Baljit, parade before him and invited him to take his pick. I thought he'd expire with excitement at the beauty on display. He took hours making up his mind but at length he selected a Madrasi girl with skin so dark that it seemed to shine with almost a blue hue. The contrasting pink of her yoni was indeed a wonder and he was drooling by the time the selection was made, poor chap. I could tell he could hardly wait to sample her delights but good manners forced him to reciprocate and he paraded his own harem for me to choose from.

Ordinarily I would have been singularly unimpressed with the girls on offer. Cat's sister was far and away the prettiest and the youngest by a wide margin. It was clear that the remainder had been with the chap for years and the amount of flabby stomachs, sagging bosoms and stretch marks had to be beheld to be believed. I was surprised, therefore, at his palpable relief when I chose Bandong. He expressed his heart-felt gratitude that I did not choose one of his more mature ladies, as he had grown very attached to them all over the years. It was also clear that he was finding Bandong a bit of a handful and I could fully understand this, particularly if she was even remotely like her sister.

In the end, the whole thing was accomplished rather neatly and to everyone's satisfaction. Cat and Bandong fell on each other and rushed off, chattering like a pair of magpies; the minister retired to sample the delights of his new concubine and Baljit and I retired to bed to make love in a rather sober and unhurried fashion that was very sweet and enjoyable for all that. Sometimes a change is as good as a rest.

January 1873

Looking back, I find have been keeping this journal for five years and have been in this strange but beautiful land for a few months more. In all this time I have never really tried to describe the country itself. Nambhustan lies in the foothills of the Himalayas, divided from the Raj by the great sweep of the Nambhu River. The river is navigable at least as far as the main city, Nambhupore, and the land either side is rich and fertile - a veritable rice bowl. The North West of the country is wild and mountainous, home to lean, hard men whereas to the east is lush, thick jungle down to the coast where little fishing villages sit beside the white sand fringing the Bay of Bengal.

The people of Nambhustan are a polyglot bunch. By and large, hill tribes excepted, they are gentle and courteous and while the majority may seem poor to European eyes, they consider themselves affluent enough if they have a full belly and shelter from the elements. Their skin-tone is not particularly dark and their features regular. One of the things that some visitors to this country find a trifle disconcerting is the very fact that the natives look only a little different from a dark-eyed Englishman. It is true that their hair tends to be truly black, rather than the various shades of brown encountered in London, but their features are very much the same as ours. There is none of the marked difference of say, your Chinaman or African.

This happy circumstance I have used to my advantage on a number of occasions. A simple vegetable die to colour my hair and eyebrows and with my brown eyes and heavily tanned skin, I can pass among the local populace unnoticed. My command of the language and my, by now, Nambhustani accent permit me to come and go in the bazaar untroubled. Thus it is that I am able to 'take the pulse' of the people from time to time.

This is fortunate because, on my latest foray, I started to hear the same rumour repeated over and over, like a mantra. Basically, the word in the bazaar was that the King had been killed in an expedition up country and the man who now sat on the throne was an impostor, some sort of devil who changed its appearance to resemble the good king but was utterly bent upon the ruination of the kingdom. Sensible men repeated this sort of nonsense as though it were the Gospel truth. I found one purveyor of the peculiar tale and demanded that he explain to me why he believed such utter rubbish. He looked at me askance and then coolly informed me that it must be true, he'd heard the story from one of the mullahs. A djinn had taken up residence in the palace and was busy impregnating the palace women with a host of little afrits. Soon the entire land would be overrun by devils, great and small.

The only possible response to all this will have to be a grand durbah at which the king will present himself to the people and demonstrate that there is no truth in the outlandish stories. However, it is sadly true that there will always be those who will see conspiracies and plots where none exist and with whom one can never win. If I ignore the rumours they will see this as a tacit admission of guilt but if I refute them vigorously they will claim I'm protesting too much. Either way, they will claim, the king and government are attempting to gull them in some way although to what purpose, they are unable ever to say. Nothing I do will convince these types that nought is amiss.

It is an article of faith with them that there must be something going on and that the government or the king are obviously at the back of it. However, if I do nothing, their mad ramblings will become accepted on a wider basis and that will never do. Who knows what mischief might be worked if the people believe that the kingdom lies prey to supernatural forces.

It will take a couple of months or so to organise properly as we must summon representatives from outlying towns and villages. I made a point of despatching each messenger in person so that they might tell any who ask that the king is alive and well and they have seen this with their own eyes.

March 1873

Yesterday we held the grand durbah. Villagers and tribesmen descended on the capital and the whole of Nambhupore was en fete for the occasion. An extremely closely-fought cricket match, which spectacle delighted the locals but puzzled the visitors to the city no end, preceded the actual solemn ceremony of the durbah. Once the excitement died down somewhat, I gave the word and a Royal Pavilion was erected at one end of the maidan while hawkers and peddlers set up their own stalls and stands at the other. With the pavilion in place and the sun starting to set, we paraded down from the palace by torchlight. There must have been fully forty thousand people on the square and a low buzz arose as we approached.

I'd stationed my own trusted agents among the crows and these began now to hail their king in loud voices and, gratifyingly, it wasn't long before the crowd took up the chant so, by the time elephants knelt to let us disembark from the royal houdah, the ancient walls of the city were echoing to the shouts of acclamation. I was accompanied by as many Brahmins and Mullahs as I could lay my hands on and once we were all assembled on the platform under the silken canopy I held up my hands for silence.

"Who among ye here tonight believes the king is dead and his place usurped by an evil djinn?" I cried. "Where is the child so credulous? Where is the woman so superstitious? Where is the man so foolish as to believe these things? I, King Harry, stand before you. With me are the priests and holy men. Would a djinn remain in their presence? Would not the evil one be burnt by their collective piety? I ask you now: Does anyone here believe I am not your king? If such a one exists, let him step forward without fear. Come up beside me, touch my flesh, feel the warmth of a man alive not the fire of a wild spirit nor yet the pallid chill of a corpse. Come! Satisfy yourself, examine me as you see fit. If there be any who doubt come here now and let this be an end to all such nonsense. It is true that men plotted to poison me but they failed and paid with their lives. Here I stand, your true king and your true friend."

The same low hum of conversation resumed along with much shuffling of feet and averted glances from some who had been at the forefront of spreading the tale of my demise and were now clearly being challenged by their fellows to take up my offer of examining me in person. At length, the crowd parted and a small, filthy, twisted old man clad in the meanest rags was shoved forward. "Let the guru see the King!" was the shout and the ancient itinerant holy man limped up beside me. "Spit, please, Your Highness," he said and I duly spat. His seamed face broke into a one-toothed grin. "The King is the King!" he shouted to the crowd, "For do not all men know than an affrit can make no moisture?" The crowd took up the shout and "The King is the King" reverberated around the maidan. "Say: God is great," shouted a man from below me, "For all men know that devils cannot say His name." I duly obliged and once more the chant of "The King is the King" rang out.

Sensing this was the opportune moment I clapped my hands and on this signal, a horde of cooks and servants, who were awaiting my command, made their way down into the square and began setting up a free feast for all the assembled multitude. I hired about five hundred extra staff simply to meet the size of the task and we soon had succulent sheep roasting on spits while others prepared dishes of curried vegetables and other delicacies so that both Hindoo and Musselman could gorge to their hearts' content. Soon the night was filled with the strains of music and impromptu dancing began. It was like one of the great holidays but all the better for not having been eagerly anticipated for weeks. Usually, in such cases, I find the anticipation of the event greatly superior to the actual experience. As the man said, "It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive." The same could not be said of my first experience with Cat and her sister. Whatever I may have imagined was unmatched by the reality.

Bandong, for such proved to be her name, was every bit as lithe and slender and Cat with even smaller breasts. Indeed, her bosoms were little more than the smallest bee-stings on her chest and to see her beside Baljit, for the pair were much of an age, was a startling contrast. On the other hand, her yoni was wholly unlike Cat's, being extremely long and full-lipped. Indeed, her fleshy petals protruded a good inch and a half from her plump, outer folds. Her hips and rump were nicely rounded and her dark hair fell to her waist. She was nervous when Cat first brought her too me and kept her eyes down, avoiding my gaze. I soon found this was a temporary condition for, once, the ice was broken, so to speak, she proved to be every bit as bold a baggage as her elder sister.

I commenced proceedings by gently lapping at those extraordinary lips and soon she was emitting a high-pitched squeal that put even the ever-vocal Cat in the shade. She wriggled and undulated her hips as my tongue slipped into her core and flicked back up to lave her exposed jewel. I clung to her hips and gripped her tightly to prevent her evading my flickering tongue and softly nibbling teeth. Bandong was utterly transported, her eyes rolled back in her head and she kept us this high keening as her yoni spasmed in climax not once but thrice with scarcely an interval between each one. I do believe she could have kept on with one crisis after another all night. As it was, it was Cat who pulled me away and encouraged me on to my back. Then Bandong went to work.

Her first act was to sweep me with her long, silky hair from head to toe. No other part of her touched me but it was sensational. Those little bee-sting breasts swelled to the size of oranges even if most of the swelling was chocolate brown areola and hard little nipple. Her breath hissed as I ran a finger into her sopping yoni and she gripped with it her muscles and then imparted a strong rippling sensation, the like of which I have never experienced heretofore. Such powerful clasping and rhythmic rippling boded well and I was not wrong. However, before she attempted such heightened pleasures, she lowered her head and began to sweep me with her lips and tongue where, as moment before, she had used her hair. Her lips circled my nipple and her tongue swirled about it at truly phenomenal speed. The feeling of this communicated itself straightway to my rampant lingam and I was so hard I feared my skin would like a serpent.