Superfan Isaiah Montgomery Proctor sent me this mystical revelation of a poem retelling the story of The Spice Merchant in rhyme. This is erotic poetry at its absolute finest and classiest. Take it all in.
The Spice Merchant*
By Isaiah M. Proctor
Prince Bihaj was well known to crave new, rare delights
from the farthest-flung regions explored.
His demands were unceasing, but supplies were finite;
in result he was jaded and bored.
At the whim of this indolent prince, without glee
came Salim, a spice merchant, with haste
to the opulent palace, where glut and ennui
had impaired the monarch’s sense of taste.
Surpassing his agents, Salim (the prince heard)
had gone farther, and was said to possess
some new flavor. So, summoned to court with a word,
did the woebegone merchant confess:
“Beloved of heaven, blessed with wisdom and might,
it is true: by omission, I’ve lied.
But I kept this thing secret, intending no slight,
for this flavor has yet to be tried.”
“In a desert of dread this enigma was found;
who knows what harm may come from one sip?
I, your servant, most abject, should be burned, beaten, drowned
before letting poison cross your lips.”
“May I offer up cardamom, saffron and sage?”
begged the merchant till brought to a halt
by the snarl of the prince, voice vehement with rage:
“These are plain to my palate as salt!”
“Risk of poison is nothing!” Bihaj roared with dark mirth.
“Is my ‘servant, most abject’ implying
that his prince, the true gods’ incarnation on earth,
shares the fear lesser men have of dying?”
Salim, in his mind, weighed his choices and odds:
“If the flavor IS poison, that’s treason.
But if truly it’s harmless (please merciful gods)
then why pay offense without reason?”
On the shoulders of stout men aglisten with sweat
was borne into the hall a container
that gleamed (all gold-plated, with emeralds set),
captivating Bihaj’s retainers.
Salim prayed and perspired, and looked into the fire
blazing in his lord’s eyes. In despair,
he brought forth the key to the chest. Like a choir,
in sync, the whole court drew in air.
Eyes and ears were affixed to the chest; every click
of the key pushing tumbler and pin
held the whole court transfixed. The tension was thick
as queer smoke billowed out from within.
The lid swung ajar, and a man quite on par
with archangels in beauty – heartrending! –
emerged amidst smoke. As from some reservoir
the mist spiraled and spread out, unending.
Heeding the stares of the court not at all,
like a spider dancing on silk spokes,
the man leapt from the chest to the floor of the hall.
At this point Prince Bihaj feared a hoax.
“Tell me, what are you called? Are you man or mirage?
Answer true, or you risk my disfavor.”
The thing bowed, full of grace, then stood facing Bihaj:
“I’m not called, O great prince… I am Flavor.”
The influence, subtle at first, of the plume
and the man (violet-eyed, almond-skinned)
seemed to pulse through the veins of all men in the room
save the spice merchant, shocked and chagrined.
A frenzy was born: clothes were torn and discarded.
The court felt – and fell prey – to such lust
as they never had known. Worlds of pleasure uncharted
unfurled while Salim watched, nonplussed.
With their hands and their tongues men explored this new feeling,
as they fondled the flesh of their fellows.
Sweat and seed soon flooded the floor, and the ceiling
was rattled by cries and by bellows.
Here two vassals at once fucked the ass of a servant
who rejoiced to be doubly impaled.
All three heaved and writhed, enraptured and fervent,
as the spell of the Flavor prevailed.
The chest-bearers, once of the merchant’s employ,
spared no thought to their master’s disquiet.
Each took turns bending over the chest to enjoy
getting tongue-fucked while watching the riot.
Prince Bihaj, for his part, observed all, face impassive
(though beneath his fine robes was erect),
and though masterfully masked, his desire was massive.
The prince spoke, his voice clear and direct.
To Salim: “My esteem you have earned with this wonder.
In your work you’ve no equal or peer.”
To the Flavor: “This spell you have placed my court under
has awakened my hunger. Come here.”
And so, sure that his mind was too strong to ensorcell,
Bihaj took the strange man’s offered finger
between lips, upon tongue, just like any new morsel,
and then flinched as though pricked by a stinger.
Not of pain or discomfort was that shuddering born,
but from beauty and bliss. Such a blending
of sweet-spicy-salt-sour did Bihaj taste, his sworn
strength of mind fell to pleasure unending.
Beneath cool notes of citrus lay a bold, potent zest
and a silkiness sweeter than sin.
Before he could get bored, the taste always refreshed
in new ways to keep luring him in.
And while bathed in this ever-expanding strange taste,
Bihaj found his new prize bittersweet,
for he knew, as the last of his mind was erased,
that in truth he was tasting defeat.
The thing smiled as it watched the slave, once a prince, fall
to his knees then to suckle and savor.
Thus Bihaj, like the court, did succumb to the thrall
of the beautiful spectre called Flavor.
One last glimpse Salim risked as he fled, full of fear:
Prince Bihaj, once imperious and regal,
on the throne, to the flavor presenting his rear,
eyes glazed over and posture spread-eagle.
And for many days since have the lust-maddened men
at the demon-called-Flavor’s behest
fucked, reveled, and orgied again and again,
without hope, without thought, without rest.
*The poem wasn’t technically titled, but since it’s a fairly faithful retelling, I retained the title of the original story. If the author asks, I’ll change it.