Frey nodded and started out of the garden. Iskander led the man to the bazaar. The bazaar was a beautiful place worth seeing in the city.
“You have a bird city, Iska,” smiled Frey, hearing the buzz of the bazaar.
Iskander chuckled.
“It’s a bazaar, with a lot of amazing goods that you would never have seen if you hadn't come, and I'll give you money so you can buy whatever you like,” Iskander said, taking out a bag of coins and handing it to Frey.
“I have money, Iska,” smiled Frey, ignoring the pouch with the money.
“Come on,” Iskander said, shaking the coins. “You can buy a lot of things with it.”
“Unless I can use it to buy you back from the Sultan,” Frey shrugged, and the man held out his hand for the money, smiling.
Iskander gave him the money.
“The Sultan would rather give you to me for nothing,” the Sheikh said.
Frey laughed.
“I would have come. Anyway.” returned to the theme of the beauty of the city Frey and went through the bazaar. He caught the hand of a boy who, seeing two gentlemen in white, decided to check whether it was possible to get something from them.
The boy screamed, trying to pull away. The barbarian without noticing the attempts took out a knife. Iskander grabbed the hand of Frey with the knife. The man raising his eyebrow, in an almost forgotten way, and looked imperiously at Iskander.
“Let him go, there's no need to maim him.”
“But these are your laws,” Frey chuckled, in Celtic.
The boy quickly understood what was happening. Children are more sensitive and sincere than adults.
“Sir, make him let me go, I didn't do anything wrong, I just wanted to eat...kiss him, sir, make him let me go…”
Frey chuckled.
“Yes, Iska, kiss me,” he said in Celtic again.
Iskander shut his teeth and clenched his jaw. Frey deftly up the hand with the knife, turning to the boy. The Sheikh caught Frey's hand again. The northerner squeezed the boy's wrist until it crunched, and the boy screamed shortly in pain. Frey looked at Iskander. The man squeezed Frey's throat and spoke into his mouth:
“Let him go.”
“No, Iska,” Frey hissed, squeezing his wrist harder.
“Master, save me somehow!” the boy pleaded.
Iskander shot his eyes around and briefly bit into Frey's mouth, then quickly pulled away and spat.
“Thank you, sir!”
“Again,” grinned Frey.
“Oh,” the boy gasped.
Iskander shook Frey by the throat, growing fierce. The barbarian laughed. The boy gasped with the pain in his hand. Iskander pulled Frey by the throat and kissed him again. Frey threw the boy's hand away, who immediately disappeared into the crowd, and pulled his hand away from Iskander's. Sheik released the throat of the Frey.
“Well done, Iska,” sneered Frey, looking at the colorful trays.
“Don't try my patience, animal. Only out of respect for your wife, I didn't crash your face,” Iskander growled.
“Yes, you wanted her, didn't you, Iska? You probably still do.”
“She's your wife. Show some respect.”
Frey laughed.
“It's enough that you respect her. She does deserve the respect of a slave. Is the fact she's my wife a reason not to want her anymore?”
The barbarian, without waiting for an answer, went through the Bazaar. Iskander followed it.
“A slave? No, you're a slave now.”
Frey stopped abruptly, pinned the sheikh's wrists against the stone wall with his entire body, and lightly slammed the back of his head against the stone.
“You will be my slave, Iska, till and after death. Your god will give you to me, because you are mine, and in seven lifetimes you will also be mine.”
Frey hissed it into Iskander's mouth, lightly moving his hips, caressing the Sheikh's flesh with his, barely touching his lips. Frey ran his lashes over Iskander's scar and caressed his ear with his tongue. Iskander choked with anger, strange, inappropriate lust seared his mind. He would have liked to push the impudent man away in disgust, but it was more likely outrage and fear. Frey just as abruptly pulled away from the Sheikh and walked on. Iskander felt deceived and ridiculous, and dissatisfaction with annoyance splashed into the blood. Iskander caught up with the tormentor, who was standing in front of a flower stall, looking thoughtfully at the flowers, it didn’t fit with the image of Frey so much.
“Listen,” Iskander growled, turning Frey around to himself by the shoulder.
The barbarian held a taut, tender rosebud in his hands. The Viking raised his incredible sun-sea eyes to Iskander and placed the rose in his hand.
“Here, the same as your lips,” Frey said, releasing his shoulder and moving on, leaving the dumbfounded Iskander to ponder over his words.
The Sheikh stared blankly at the rosebud in his hands, crushed the elastic, tender petals, spat in anger, and threw the flower away. Anger turned to bewilderment, the moment was lost, and for Iskander Frey's behavior was a mystery. But running and explaining to Frey that he wasn't a slave was stupid. Frey would have laughed. Iskander trailed after Frey as he had been doing ten years ago, and the Sheikh felt awkward again beside the confident, unquestioning northerner. Frey looked at the handkerchiefs, ignoring the merchant, who was praising the product as if he didn't understand it. Iskander approached. Frey was looking at two bright handkerchiefs, one blue and one turquoise. The seller insisted that it was pure silk. The Sheikh pointed to the blue one.
“Take this one. This is silk, but this one is a fake, the threads are rubbed to shine.”
Frey nodded, took out a few coins, handed them to the salesman, and took the blue handkerchief.
“It’ll be a gift for your dear slut,” the man grinned, going further.
“Why have you married the one you're insulting?” Iskander asked grimly.
“To show you, Iska, you won't get her,” Frey hissed.
“Why don't you love me so much if you're willing to ruin your life just to annoy me?” Iskander asked.
Frey pressed Iskander to himself, put the hand in his trousers, in public, pressed the lips to his, speaking in them.
“I love, I was going to marry you, but the bride was fugitive. Ran away,” Frey hissed, crushing Iskander's genitals, expertly and imperiously. The way the Sheikh's body responded stronger and more intoxicating. Iskander exhaled, the muscles in his abs clenched with anticipation, and the Sheikh squeezed Frey's hand, trying to push it away.
“Take your hand away, Iska,” Frey ordered softly.
Involuntarily, a wave of animal fear washed over Iskander, and the man clenched his jaw to kick the momentary weakness away, his hand squeezed Frey's throat again.
“I'll break your neck if you don't let me go,” he warned menacingly.
“How many years have you been dreaming to say this, Iska?” – huskily laughed Frey, “If you try to kill me, remember, I'll manage to kill you. And you will be my slave at the feast of Thor.”
There was no fear of death in the wild man's turquoise eyes. He believed in what he was saying. Frey's hand caressed his genitals and Iskander’s bothering hand. He looked into the Sheikh's eyes. Iskander let the Frey's hand go and slammed the fist into Frey's jaw and gasped in pain. Frey didn't let go of his hand as he fell, dropping Iskander's cock on top of him. The Sheikh fell on the northerner, it was awkward to reach for the hand that was crushing his penis again. Iskander turned around, grabbed the tormentor's arm, and twisted it around. Frey's hand also on the break turned Iskander's penis.
“Let me go!” hissed Iskander, wringing, and released Frey's hand and squeezed the Viking's genitals through his trousers, gasping and squeezing the palm harder.
A crowd of onlookers gathered around first hugging and then falling to the ground men, trying to figure out whether they were fighting or they were in a passion. Frey ignored the crowd and looked into Iskander's eyes, caressing him. The Viking's eyes were burning, and he had almost forgotten how beautiful his slave was in his obstinate rage. Iskander tore at Frey's genitals.
“I'll rip everything out of you,” the Sheikh hissed menacingly.
Frey growled softly in pain as he shoved a finger into Iskander's urethra.
“You’re not the one to threaten me, Iska,” Frey said.
The man roared in pain, lunged, and slammed a knee into Frey's wrist, releasing the Viking. The northerner held agonizing Iskander in his numb hand for a few seconds, then released him, jumping up, being afraid that the slave would simply trample him out. Iskander hit Frey again, aiming for the head, but the Viking had already been expecting an attack, so he dodged and softened the blow, Iskander's fist passing casually as if forcefully stroked Frey's cheek. The Sheikh stopped, covering his groin with the hand. The fight could have ended in anything.
“Don't you dare touch me, jackal,” Iskander spat out, then turned and stormed through the crowd.
Frey smiled faintly after him. He brushed the dust from his white clothes and went on through the bazaar. The unfamiliar bird city fascinated him, and Frey decided to see as much as he could that day.
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