by Emily Tilton
And Sheikh Diyab made it wonderfully clear that he considered her a good girl, now—that he wouldn’t cane her tonight, now that she had shown she could please him. “Good girl,” he said. “That feels so good. That’s it, darling. That’s it.” Then, most gratifying of all despite the shame and the ache in her jaw, “Get… ready…”
He grunted, and held her head so tight that it took every remaining shred of her reason to remember to breathe. The hard penis jerked in her mouth and suddenly she felt, and tasted, the warm, shameful jets of semen he had shot into her. For a moment her body seemed to have forgotten how to swallow, even though that girl knew she must show her respect in this wicked way.
Beatrice Graham had thought once of giving her regular boyfriend a blowjob. One thing she had considered, as she considered the prospect, had been the problem of where the semen would go. She had decided that it must go on him—specifically on his belly, after she removed her mouth from his penis and pumped it a few times for good measure, the way the women’s magazines told their readers.
She had never even considered the possibility of swallowing: girls who swallowed existed only in fantasies (which other people had—not Beatrice) and porn videos (which Beatrice didn’t watch, but had heard about because especially in the era of the New Modesty, porn was a topic of intelligent, hand-wringing discussion in political circles). But the girl in the images, the girl under discipline… that girl had no choice: that girl swallowed.
She swallows. I swallow. And if I do that… Other images—associated now with things Master Samuel had said that Beatrice had pushed away and refused to absorb. A girl—that girl—bent over, her bare bottom raised for a different kind of discipline.
With the flash of the image came the bodily memory of how to swallow, and Beatrice for the first time became that girl, in her mind, because now, in this instant as her owner came in her mouth for the first time, she could not pretend she wasn’t that girl; she swallowed the essence of her submission as the cock jerked and spurted on her tongue.
Chapter Sixteen
Diyab could scarcely believe how pleasurable his first climax inside Beatrice had been. He had had at least a dozen Western girls before, and dominated most of them, so he hadn’t anticipated his experience with the blond girl from the senator’s office to feel so… well, he had to admit, transformative. But to own her… and, perhaps, to know that he must own her, if the safety of the world were to continue… He did feel transformed—and apparently so did his cock, which had already begun to rise again, even while still inside his young concubine’s pretty mouth, still making her show her obedience in swallowing her first semen.
Now he concentrated on being the benevolent master he had always known he could be, to a girl who truly belonged to him. Diyab did indeed believe very strongly in firm discipline, and he took seriously what he had heard from Charlotte about the probability that Beatrice would need severe punishment from time to time, of a kind Diyab had generally spared Aliya and Yasmin. When a young concubine did her duty, though, and had accepted the thrusting penis and the seed it spurted, she deserved praise and reward. That didn’t represent anything new in Diyab’s erotic life, to be sure—but it felt different to look down upon the pretty blond girl with the cock in her mouth when he had paid a great deal of money for her, and would take her, once fully trained to please him, back to the desert to serve in his bed.
“That felt wonderful, darling,” he said. “You may look me in the eye.”
Beatrice obeyed, the softening penis—though already not as soft as Diyab would ordinarily have expected of himself—held gently in her mouth. Her mascara had run, and he had spoiled the majority of her beautifully arranged hair, but he didn’t think he had ever seen anything as beautiful as this new treasure with her first virginity already plucked. Her eyes showed an entirely understandable uncertainty: it was for Diyab to tell her what would happen next, but those fantasies she had always refused to acknowledge must be offering troubling suggestions of what her new master would do now.
Even a benevolent master—or at least one of the kind Diyab felt called to be, as the scion of the desert’s royal people—enjoys the sight of his manhood in the mouth of a girl he owns, and its shameful implication: that her mouth has no nobler employment than as a second cunt. He made Beatrice continue to suck as he delivered his next command, stroking her cheek to encourage her as the sweet sensation of her still nearly innocent tongue under the shaft of his cock distracted him more than he would have thought possible just after a climax.
“I’m going to reward you now, darling,” he said, “although you’ll probably find it rather embarrassing. When I pull my cock out of your mouth, you will rise, go to the bed, and take the covers off it entirely. Then you’ll lie on your back and raise your knees, and hold them wide open for me.”
He watched her brow furrow in alarm at this news. He wondered if the examination by Dr. Franklin, which the doctor had suppressed with the post-hypnotic suggestion, might be breaking through as a mental picture. To be opened as he had just told Beatrice she must now be opened for him represented a powerful fantasy for many submissives—as the converse fantasy, of opening a girl that way, did for dominants. But Charlotte had said that Beatrice would only now start to acknowledge such things as part of her psyche; now in her face Diyab could see how hard it would be.
He resolved to help with the process as much as he could, and gave an inward chuckle to realize that of course he would resolve that, because it represented the royal road to his pleasure as well—literally. The brilliance of the Institute’s therapeutic mission struck him very forcefully. If they didn’t charge so very much for their concubines, he thought, they might claim to be a philanthropic organization.
With great regret, he pulled his penis from her mouth, already half-erect. “Go now,” he said softly.
For a moment he thought he saw rebellion in her eyes, and for the first time he thought that perhaps the soft voice might provoke that in her. He would have to consult with Charlotte on the matter, but he wondered whether after enough firm discipline Beatrice might be more grateful for the tender mastery Diyab preferred. He certainly didn’t intend to employ a stern authority, which he knew would quickly grow tedious, though he had no intention of sparing her that severity when she needed it. He merely hoped she wouldn’t need as much of it as her service continued.
“Go, girl,” he said more sternly. “Do as you’re told.” He thought he could see, on her face, the memory of what he had said about the cane, and her mouth turned down in a woeful curve. She started to turn and to rise.
“Acknowledge my command, Beatrice,” he said, then, feeling the need to make it even clearer that defiance wouldn’t be tolerated. “And thank me for coming in your mouth and letting you taste royal seed.”
She turned back, alarm in her eyes now. “Yes, sire.” She licked her lips, perhaps unconsciously, and Diyab couldn’t help finding the gesture charming. “Th-thank you, sire.”
“For what, darling?”
“F-for… for…”
Diyab could see how much difficulty this presented, but he could also see how much she needed it: he felt very sure he would find her freshly wet in the white lace panties, from having to obey him like this.
“For…”
He bent down and, taking her entirely by surprise, bent her face to the carpet with his left hand upon her neck, stepping to the side, while with his right hand he swept up the pink nightgown and took hold of the waistband of Beatrice’s panties, to raise her bottom high.
“Oh, no… please, no… Th-thank…”
Diyab spanked his new concubine for the first time, then, atop the now quite faint welts of Sam’s strap. He brought his hand down very hard once in the middle, once on her pert right cheek, once on her pert left one, leaving red handprints where he had struck.
Beatrice cried out as she was punished, breathless and unable to finish the expression of her gratitude until he had stopped. He continued to
hold her in the disciplinary, submissive position, as she sobbed, “Thank you for coming in my mouth, sire. Please don’t spank me anymore! It hurts so much!”
Still he held her in the position of chastisement—the position of the salaam. Diyab had had little use for salaams to this point in his life, but he thought perhaps Beatrice should learn the practice. Certainly holding her here and punishing her here had aroused him greatly despite his intention to be kindly with her after she had pleased him so much with her mouth.
“I must make it hurt, darling,” he said, trying again with the soft voice. “I must teach you. You need firm discipline.”
Beatrice gave a little whimper at that, and then, to Diyab’s astonishment, she said, “Yes, sire. Thank you, sire.”
Was it the word discipline? Had he seen that in one of the summaries Charlotte had sent him? The soft voice seemed to have worked this time, for when he released her, she knelt up and, with her eyes fixed on his penis, now nearly erect, she asked, “May I go to the bed, sire?”
“Yes, darling, you may,” he replied, and watched her rise—very gracefully, he thought, above all after what she had just endured—and walk a little stiffly the few steps to the bed.
She held her head low, and he had the feeling once again that he could read her mind: Beatrice, he felt sure, held gratitude in her heart for the rule against meeting her master’s eye without permission. Forbidden to see what expression Diyab wore on his face, she could dwell inside herself as she came to terms with needs she had always thought so wicked and primitive that she could never admit them. To hold her head low must mean, he realized, that she had told herself she obeyed him to escape further bare-bottom correction.
Beatrice climbed onto the bed, turned onto her back. Diyab stood still, not wanting to advance toward her yet but rather simply to watch, and see how thoroughly he possessed her, how when he commanded she must lift her knees that way, must part them that way, must show him the sweet, narrow lace that covered her virginal pussy and her virginal anus so scantily.
She had closed her eyes very tightly, and he saw in those scrunched-up lids the confirmation of his ideas about her inner turmoil. He did advance then, and she must have heard his footfalls, for she gave a little whimper as he came to stand, looking down at his eighteen-year-old Western bed girl, in the sheer pink nightgown that showed her perfect breasts, whose hem had fallen upon her tummy to reveal the pretty white wrapping on the part of her that he would now enjoy, and the part he would enjoy in a few weeks, if he could restrain himself tonight.
Diyab reached his right hand down, and very gently, as if stroking a real pussycat, he caressed his sweet blond virgin. Beatrice made a mewing sound, too, like a kitten needing milk, and she bit her lip. Her face had become a mask of erotic need: shame and desire and fear of the unknown so strong in her that the sight of her pouting mouth made his cock leap. He couldn’t help putting his left hand down to pump his hardness at the loveliness of the prospect before him, as he continued to wank her gently through her pretty panties. The lingering slickness from her mouth and his climax made him smile.
“Sire,” she whispered. “Sire.” She spoke so softly that Diyab felt sure she meant the word for herself, to confirm that she belonged to man whom she had to call sire, or he would cane her. “Please, sire.”
“Please what, darling?” Diyab asked. He hooked his forefinger inside the narrow strip of lace, which had now become completely soaked with Beatrice’s private wetness. The tiny pink bow just above her cunt attracted his eye and put a smile on his lips.
“Please…” She seemed to search for her next words, then, even more softly, she said, “Please be gentle, sire,” she murmured, her eyes still closed but the lids perhaps a little more relaxed.
“Are you ready for fucking, then?” Diyab asked more sternly, pulling the gusset of the panties aside. Beatrice gasped at the word, and perhaps as she understood how much he could see: her adorable pink inner lips, nestled sweetly in the paler outer ones; her tiny clitoris in its wrinkly hood; her coral button of an anus, so demure and small.
He didn’t wait for her to answer, because he wanted her much readier than she was right now, as ready as she might suppose herself. Diyab wanted blond, eighteen-year-old Beatrice Graham to beg for his royal Arab cock in her maiden cunt, and he knew how to accomplish it. He bent his head, and Beatrice gave a cry of alarm, and then another, helpless, writhing one of need and passion as her master tasted her for the first time.
She tasted marvelous, the heady, mineral tang of young cunt filling his senses as she bucked her hips in, it seemed, an attempt both to flee his lips and tongue and softly biting teeth and to bring more of her naughtiest part up for him to savor. He used his fingers, now, teaching her what it would feel like to have a man enter her, though with something bigger and harder.
“Hold still, girl,” he said, more because he knew it would increase her arousal than because he really minded her lascivious struggles.
“Please…” she cried. “Oh, please, sire.”
He lifted his head and said again, “Please what, darling?”
“Please… please…”
He lowered his head, used the tip of his tongue where he knew it would provide the very best preparation.
Beatrice shouted, then. “Please fuck me! Oh, God. Oh, please.”
Chapter Seventeen
She couldn’t believe she had said it, let alone shouted it. For a few moments, as his highness had kissed her down there where she had always resolved she wouldn’t allow herself to be kissed by a boy, it had felt like Beatrice who had to lie still and hold her thighs wide open for the man who owned her. Not a boy at all. Sire.
But when he had gently moved his fingers there, and she had felt even as their tips pushed gently against the place where the way was still closed, where a man who owned a girl would make her yield to his hardness, she had seen that girl again. The girl in the images was the kind of girl who said fuck, who even begged for it, as Beatrice had just begged Sheikh Diyab.
When she felt his weight come fully upon the bed, she opened her eyes, careful to keep them directed downward, so she couldn’t see his face as he loomed above her, holding his cock in his left hand and gently pumping it. He had shed his robe, now, and her master knelt over her, fully revealed. Something about the nightgown, about the way he had refused to pull down her panties as he began to enjoy her, made Beatrice feel more naked than her master—as if you could come out the other side of naked into a state even more exposed and more submissive, when a powerful man dressed you for your defloration.
She knew his eyes must be fixed on her face, as she looked at his hard penis, brandished and ready to ruin her innocence just as he and Master Samuel had promised. Sheikh Diyab al-Rashani had bought a pretty blond girl’s virginity, and now he would make use of it as best pleased him. She felt the heat come into her face even as it came down below, too, more and more. From above he looked down on all her charms: the face he had fucked so resolutely until he spurted his semen down her throat; the little breasts with their nipples peeking through the thin pink fabric that meant Beatrice had needed discipline; the bare pussy from which had pulled aside the lacy panties, and…
The other place. The place I don’t think about. The most private place. When Master Samuel mentioned it, my mind just skipped over it. It’s too small, and too narrow. The girl in the images doesn’t want to be fucked there, does she? She pleads with her master not to use her there.
“It’s time for your panties to come down,” his highness said then. “You may lower your knees.”
Beatrice had to close her eyes again as she obeyed, her face blazing. The old maternal admonitions about who should touch a girl’s panties—including a prohibition against even touching them herself when it wasn’t absolutely necessary for hygiene’s sake—seemed to make the feeling of Sheikh Diyab’s hands on her waist, inside the elastic band, tugging the now-soaking lace down over her thighs, past her knees, feel almost as sh
ameful and arousing as his mouth and fingers and felt, in the place the lingerie had veiled. Good girls don’t let men take down their underwear, do they, Beatrice? Good girls keep their panties on.
“Someday soon,” the sheikh said as he dropped the panties onto the bed, “I shall fuck you with your panties still on. But a girl should be naked between her thighs when she is deflowered.”
Beatrice bit her lip and opened her eyes again. He knelt beside her now closed legs, looking down upon the demure cleft that represented all that remained visible of her pussy. Beatrice could barely see it herself, from her angle with her head on the pillow, but her master could see that bare hint of the place he had acquired for his cock’s enjoyment.
Her whole body trembled at the idea that she might be entered with panties on, though she hardly knew why. It had some basic transgressiveness that the girl in the images would have to endure from the man who possessed her—as if the knowledge that her owner could command the pleasure of her vagina simply by pulling aside its cover and entering meant that he could do so when and wherever he wanted: in the street, in a shop, in a car.
“Raise your knees again, and hold them open for me, darling. It’s time.”
Time. Time for the end of that girl’s innocence. He pumped his penis in his left hand. His right came casually down to rub at the top of the little furrow, where the gentle pressure communicated itself to the aching place just below, the bud she had found on her own, twice, but had never thought could deliver such wild, urgent sensations. She whimpered and raised her knees, spread them, took them into her hands.