Forced Submission

by Claire Thompson

  At the open door stood a handsome pair who smiled in greeting as Sir and M climbed out of the jeep and made their way up the path. The prince himself was younger than she’d imagined, perhaps in his early thirties. He wore a flowing shirt of white cotton open at the throat, the hem of the sleeves embroidered with brightly colored patterns, and matching loose white pants. His shoulders were broad, his tall, lean body muscular, but it was his face she found so compelling it was hard to look away.

  His skin was like smooth, dark chocolate over high, sculpted cheekbones. He had a wide, hawkish nose, the nostrils flaring slightly over a large, sensuous mouth that curved up in a wide smile, revealing very white teeth. His large, expressive eyes were black, except for a curiously beautiful ring of gold around each iris. There were laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and a genuine kindness in his smile that recalled someone or something in her life, though she couldn’t remember what exactly.

  The woman who stood beside him exuded elegance despite her bare feet and the sheer silk shift she wore that did little to hide the graceful, naked body beneath it. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her skin the color of cinnamon brushed with gold, her eyes an unexpected and beautiful emerald green. She wore a thick choker of beaten gold at her throat and her dark hair hung in a long, thick braid down her back, plaited with gold ribbons. Each time she moved, little bells tinkled on the gold bracelets she wore around her slender ankles. M felt dowdy in comparison, despite the lovely dress Sir had bought for her with its matching silk turban and the elegant, if uncomfortable, high heels on her feet. She was relieved when introductions were made to realize this was not the woman Sir had come to acquire.

  “I am Kamau and you are most welcome to my home,” the prince said as he ushered them into the cool of a huge marbled entry hall with vaulted ceilings and brilliantly woven throw rugs scattered over shiny blond hardwood floors. He extended his hand toward Sir, who shook it, and nodded graciously toward M, his smile so warm and sincere she found herself smiling back, and realized with a small shock that it had been a very long time since she’d smiled.

  “This is Jira, my consort, my submissive, and the love of my life. And may I call you Ellis?” he said, smiling now at Sir.

  “Oh.” Sir cleared his throat. “Well, yes. Yes, of course.”

  Ellis. His name is Ellis. Ellis Hughes. What is my name?

  “We don’t go on ceremony here,” the prince said, reaching out to pat Sir’s shoulder. “Master E is fine for the internet, but I prefer real names when meeting in person.” He turned now to M, adding, “We know you only as M. With your Master’s permission, please tell us your given name, lovely one.”

  “Her name is M,” Sir interrupted sharply, making both Jira and M jump. “Please don’t confuse her.”

  The prince frowned, his brow furrowing a little as he gazed inquisitively at M’s face. She felt herself coloring and looked down at the ground, praying she hadn’t somehow upset Sir. After a beat, the prince said, “All right. We’ll leave it at that for now.” He touched M’s arm, his fingers cool and smooth against her skin. “Jira will take you to the harem to get refreshed. With your permission, Ellis, we can give M something cooler to wear while here on the island.”

  “Yes. That would be all right. Uh,” Sir hesitated and then said, “M’s head is kept shaven. We both find it heightens the erotic experience.” He reached for the turban, plucking it from M’s head. M kept her eyes downcast, not sure what was expected of her.

  “You have lovely bones,” Jira said in a pleasing accent, her voice rich as smooth honey. “Not everyone could carry off that look and still retain their beauty as you do.” The woman reached for M’s face, her fingers moving lightly over M’s cheek. M realized she had tensed in anticipation of a blow, and she felt almost silly. She was so used to being only with Sir. All this attention was stressful. She wanted to be left alone. She longed for the safety and quiet of her sleep cage.

  Instead, Jira held out her hand toward M. “Come, dear one,” she said gently. “You must be weary after your long journey. A refreshing bath and a change of clothes will do you wonders.” M did not take the woman’s hand. Instead she glanced inquiringly up at Sir, not sure what he wanted, not sure what was expected.

  “M likes to stay close to me,” Sir said, placing his arm firmly over her shoulders. “Perhaps you can show us both to our room?”

  “Your attachment is admirable, I’m sure,” the prince said, still smiling, though M thought she detected a coolness entering his tone. “But surely you can be parted for just a little while? You are both guests in my home. Jira will take the utmost care of your sub girl, I can assure you. Meanwhile, I’d like to introduce you to Zahara. She is waiting oh so patiently for her potential American Master. Surely you want to see the girl you have traveled so far to meet?”

  “Oh, well. Yes, I, uh, that is…” Sir trailed off. M was disquieted by his hesitation. She had never known him to hesitate about anything. He was always so sure of everything, so certain of what needed to be done. He dropped his arm and gave her a little push in Jira’s direction. “Of course. Go with Jira, M. And remember what we talked about.” M heard the warning in Sir’s tone, and she nodded, looking down, but not before she saw the frown on the prince’s face.

  Jira took M’s hand and led her down a long, wide hallway toward a huge, airy room filled with plump pillows scattered over a marble floor. Huge windows lined the walls of the room, hung with gold silk that filtered the sunlight. There were easily a dozen women in the room, some talking quietly, some resting, some sitting at a low table eating from a huge bowl of exotic-looking fruit, each woman more beautiful than the last.

  When Jira and M entered, all eyes turned toward them, their expressions both welcoming and expectant. “Everyone,” Jira said, giving M’s hand an encouraging squeeze. “Welcome our guest, come all the way from America.” She dropped M’s hand and stepped back, looking into M’s face with a kind smile.

  “We’re alone here, just us girls. Tell us, what is your given name, dear one?”

  “M,” she said automatically. “I am M.”

  Jira shook her head. “Yes, yes, we understand that. Your Master calls you M. But what is the name your mother gave you when you were a babe? What did your brothers and sisters call you?”

  M understood she must have at one time had such a name, but for the life of her, she couldn’t recall it. She stood there helplessly, wishing desperately Sir had been there to tell her what to do. All the women were staring at her, waiting for an answer.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted finally, shame and exhaustion making her knees suddenly give out, so that she sank to the ground beside Jira. “I don’t remember.”

  Chapter 11

  Zahara heard the men enter. As they walked through the receiving room toward her, the image in her mind of the vast blue-green ocean dappled with coins of golden sunlight slid away. Zahara folded her mental wings and returned from her inward journey. Keeping her eyes downcast, she saw the familiar sandals and flowing white pants of the prince, and beside them a pair of gray trousers over black leather loafers.

  It was really happening! The months of training and full submersion in the submissive lifestyle had come down to this moment. The American had seen her pictures and read about her on the website. He had chosen her, and flown around the world to make his final decision. It was all up to her now. Her stomach clenched in nervous anticipation, while her nipples perked with excitement to meet the man who might claim her before the night was over.

  “May I present Zahara,” Prince Kamau said. “She has been waiting in this position for over an hour. She could stay this way for another ten, if that pleased you. As I’m sure you read about on the website, Zahara is extremely skilled in all the classic slave positions. She can endure intense bondage with grace and utter self-control.”

  The prince placed his hand under Zahara’s chin, indicating with his touch that she should lift her head, which she did. Th
e American was regarding her with an intense gaze from fine brown eyes fringed with thick gold lashes. He was very handsome, recalling to her mind the American actor Brad Pitt, except that the American’s eyes were brown instead of blue.

  “Her photos don’t do her justice,” the American said. His eyes flickered over her face and breasts, and she could see the hunger there, and something else. There was a hardness in his gaze that sent a shiver down Zahara’s spine. A blade of doubt slipped like a knife into her happy expectations.

  “Indeed,” the prince, who hadn’t seen the man’s cold expression, agreed warmly. “Zahara is as lovely as any princess, but her real beauty lies in her heart. As you know from reading about her, Zahara’s submissive passion lies in service. She lives to serve and longs to please. She will happily meet your every sensual need. She is learned in the art of pleasing a man in any way you desire, and in ways you may not even have thought of yet.” The prince chuckled. The American did not.

  “May I touch her?” he inquired in a polite voice.

  “Of course. Zahara, stand down and assume inspection position.”

  Zahara slid from the dais with as much grace as she could muster, pushing past the stiffness in her limbs from remaining on her knees for so long. Surely she had made too much of the man’s cold gaze. Perhaps he was just tired from his long journey, or perhaps, in her nervousness, she had read something in his face that wasn’t there. Too many confine their exercise to jumping to conclusions, she could almost hear her father whispering in her head.

  Reclaiming her calm, Zahara assumed a wide stance, lifted her arms behind her head, laced her fingers together at her neck and arched her back, thrusting her breasts forward. She had to admit the American was a very fine specimen of a man. He was tall, nearly as tall as the prince. His shoulders were broader and even hidden by the Western clothing he wore, Zahara could see he had a powerful build. She found herself speculating about the size of his cock, and a small shudder of excitement moved through her at the thought of pleasuring him.

  Finally addressing her directly, the American said, “Turn around and bend over. Keep your legs wide and grab your ankles.”

  Zahara pivoted gracefully, aware the man would want to examine her thoroughly, and quite used to such attention from her months of erotic training. She reached easily for her ankles, keeping her legs perfectly straight as she thrust her ass out for inspection.

  She felt the man’s hands moving over her ass and along her thighs. Despite her training, she stiffened a little when his fingers moved between her legs, stroking her sex. But his touch was both gentle and skillful, moving like sensual butterfly wings. Despite her earlier misgivings, Zahara felt herself swell and moisten, but then the man’s hand was abruptly withdrawn.

  “There wasn’t much on the site about this girl’s tolerance for erotic pain,” the American said from behind Zahara. “I’d like to see how she handles a caning. Will you give me a demonstration? Or better yet, I’d like to do it myself.” The pleasure Zahara had experienced at the man’s touch evaporated and she very nearly rose from her position in protest, but found the will to remain still. Though her English was very good, perhaps she had misheard?

  “I think there has been a misunderstanding, Ellis,” the prince said, to Zahara ‘s relief. “Zahara is not a masochist. Surely you understood that when you read about her on the website. She does not take pleasure from erotic pain, as some in my harem do. Her strength, as I’ve mentioned, lies in service and submission.”

  “Of course,” the American said smoothly. “Not a problem. I’m sure we can find plenty of common ground.” She felt a tap on her back. “You may stand up, Zahara. My apologies for the confusion.”

  Zahara released her ankles and stood upright, turning gracefully to face the two men. The American regarded her gravely. “Your devotion to service and passion for erotic submission mean more to me than an ability to handle erotic pain, I assure you. M and I will welcome you into our home and our hearts. I look forward to the beginning of something beautiful between us.”

  Suddenly he smiled, his eyes sparkling, a deep dimple appearing in his left cheek. He held out his hand, and despite her reluctance, Zahara placed her own in his. As he gazed into her eyes, one of her father’s many proverbs slipped into her mind: Be careful when a naked person offers you a shirt.

  ~*~

  Ellis lifted the glass of crisp white wine and held it to M’s lips. Not all the slave girls were kneeling on cushions on the ground, he’d noted, though some were. But others, including Zahara, were seated at the table, using their own utensils, and chatting away merrily with no sense of their proper place.

  Ellis had given a mental shrug at this. This prince, if he really was a prince, did things his own way. Once Ellis got his hands on Z, she wouldn’t dare sit on a chair. She wouldn’t even get a cushion. No, she would kneel on uncooked rice on the stone of his kitchen floor as punishment for her arrogance. They would see how long she could maintain that position.

  He had to admit, the prince knew how to entertain. Dinner was a sumptuous affair, with crab curry, huge platters of shrimp, fragrant rice and steamed vegetables. The food was served by lovely young women, whose silky garments heightened rather than concealed the nudity beneath. Ellis also had to admit he was very impressed with the prince’s setup. The house, really more of a palace, was lavishly but tastefully decorated, and the suite of rooms he and M had been given were as fine as accommodations in a five-star hotel.

  Zahara was the most beautiful of the girls at the table, though there was another who also attracted Ellis’ attention. She was tiny, barely over five feet, and she looked young, too young to be legal, though probably that wasn’t a concern to the prince. She had almond-shaped eyes of a curious golden color, and perfect round breasts tipped with dark nipples that would be gorgeous with gold hoops hanging from them. Perhaps he could buy two girls at once. He could keep his own harem in the States, why not? He could certainly afford it, and who was to stop him?

  Excited by the idea, he leaned toward Prince Kamau, who was seated on his left. “Excuse me, but who is that lovely girl there? Is she for s—uh, is she available for consideration? She is exquisitely lovely.”

  The prince followed Ellis’ pointing finger and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. Jaleela is not ready. She only just joined us a few weeks ago, and she is barely eighteen. I don’t usually take such young girls, but she is the younger sister of one of my household, and is deeply attracted to the lifestyle.”

  Ellis cleared his throat, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Eighteen is legal, at least it is in the States. I would be willing to pay handsomely. I would train her myself with love and care, I assure you.”

  Again the arrogant son of a bitch shook his head. “I’m sorry. Money is not the issue. Jaleela is not ready. She is with us for training, but has expressed no interest in being placed outside the harem. She is not available for consideration.” Ellis heard the steel in the prince’s tone, though he kept that fucking smile on his dark face.

  Knowing when to retreat, Ellis nodded and shrugged. “I understand. Perhaps on my next visit…” He let the sentence hang. The prince didn’t respond and suddenly Ellis wanted to get the fuck out of this strange place as soon as possible, with M and Z in tow. He wanted to get back to New York and the privacy and safety of his home, away from prying eyes and judgmental pricks who cloaked what was obviously a prostitute slavery ring in holier-than-thou consensual harem bullshit.

  Once he had Z in his clutches, he would teach the little bitch all about pain, erotic or otherwise. M hadn’t known a thing about whips and canes when he’d first claimed her, and look at her now. He glanced down at his submissive girl, who was waiting patiently for her next bite of food.

  He looked toward Zahara, but the little bitch looked away when he tried to catch her eye. He would break her proud spirit soon enough. He would teach her humility. She would learn her place, and quickly. He would make M help him. He wou
ld have M beat the girl. He would force Z to bring M to orgasm and vice versa. As he had taught M, he would teach Z that pleasure and pain were intertwined, and to suffer for him was her only goal. His cock throbbed in anticipation. He wanted the damn meal over so he could conclude negotiations and get the hell out of this place.

  Dinner finally ended, and the prince stood. “Ellis, would you please join me in my study? I have something I need to discuss with you. With your permission, M will again join the other women in the harem.”

  Ellis stood. Finally. He would sign whatever papers were necessary, seal the deal and get this show on the road. He glanced toward M with a nod. She seemed to be doing fine on her own. He had trained her well. “Fine, fine,” he agreed.

  He followed the prince to a room that contained dark leather furniture, brightly painted carved masks on the walls. There was a large desk in the center of the room, and Ellis expected the prince to retreat behind it, as he would have done in similar circumstances. Instead the prince sat on one of two chairs set beside a huge window. On a small table between them there was a decanter and two brandy snifters.

  The prince lifted the decanter, removing the round crystal stopper. “Cognac?” he inquired. Ellis nodded, waiting while the man poured them each a few fingers, and then handed Ellis a glass. The prince leaned back in his chair, frowning into his glass as he swirled the amber liquid. Ellis sipped at his drink and waited, trying to keep the impatience from his face.

  “It seems,” the prince said at last, looking up at Ellis, “that we have something of a problem.”