The Seraglio Game
The Seraglio Game was my first escapade in writing for “fun”; it is the creative writing project that dares not speak its name; which is why I asked my close friend Giovanni Petrarca to take over an idea for a story that I was far too innocent to be able to encapsulate.
T’was begun during my Master’s, and penned, in part, as a response to some rather provocative writings submitted for mutual academic review by ladies of a particular conviction who were also studying on the same course.
Responding, constructively, to their works, Giovanni helped pen a piece which reflected some of his own concepts of ‘sexuality’ (i.e. Not my fault Guv!).
It traces the tales of several ‘troubled’ women who become embroiled in the efforts of the aspiring son of ‘a Great Man’ to earn his dying father’s respect; it explores fate and ‘submission’ in terms of age and gender. I have ‘tested’ the text with several female friends.
Oddly, despite most of them being what you might call (but, not to their faces) middle class and ‘mature’ ladies, their responses were “interesting” and/or “telling”, even. One, in particular, comes to mind; an elderly farmer’s daughter (I am a dead man if she ever reads this) who married a GP and her comment surprised the heck out of me: “Wow, there will be tens of thousands of respectable housewives wanting a copy of this for their bedrooms”. Life is full of surprises but, hey, who knows……?
Chapter Extract:
“Stand aside.” The instruction came from the shadows at the back of the room and was delivered in the slow, deep, baritone rumble she had come to know so well over the last several weeks. As ever, the voice commanded instant obedience, and the two women who had been fussing around her ceased their efforts and stood back. “Leave us.” The women exited leaving the two of them alone together in the softly lit chamber.
For a long moment, he looked at her and the image of her caught in the mirror behind her, noting the movement of her veil and the slight rise and fall as the fabric caught her breathing.
“Stand…. Turn slowly.” She arose softly on bare feet, allowing him to inspect what he had created and to see the results of the work of her attendants. Slowly and carefully his eyes moved, taking in all of her, missing nothing; somewhat in the manner of a bloodstock expert about to make a multimillion-pound investment for a client. He smiled approvingly and said gently “Come little one, it is time”.
He turned and picked up a large, hooded cloak which he held out for her as she walked slowly and gracefully towards him, as she had been tutored to do. Standing in front of him she turned and allowed the cloak to be placed on her shoulders and wrapped around to cover her entirely. There was a small rustle of chain at the movements of her arms. The hood of the cloak was raised into position and she walked ahead of him to the arena to which she knew she must now go and to what would follow.
She stepped onto a small stage set in darkness and sensed, rather than saw; that “he” was watching, as she had been told would be the case. She stepped, or rather was gently manoeuvred, into a small niche and turned to face what she knew instinctively was the front where her audience of one awaited the first appearance of her new self; “the Houri”. ……
