Tamed by the Sheikh
Page 13
Ordinarily a girl coming to her owner for sampling in the evening would wear pink or at least blue, but as part of Beatrice’s special protocol Charlotte had ordered that she be unfucked and unspanked that day, to increase her sense of separation. At dinner in the refectory, she was the only girl in white at either of the long tables: a seeming virgin in a sea of pink and blue. The other girls remarked upon it, of course, whispering among themselves in speculation as to what terribly severe treatment her owner must have planned for her.
The Beatrice whom Steven saw on the monitors, then, accompanying Charlotte, wore a look almost of despair. Over the past three weeks, like every Institute concubine, she had learned just how thorough were the safety precautions under which she lived. She had seen girls tended to after fainting in class by the medical team, and she had experienced the thorough, probing assessments in Charlotte’s office. But Steven had also made sure that her fantasies of wild severity at the hands of her new owner be fed much more than other girls’.
Her face showed terrible anxiety, yes, but her arousal stood at 8: she was wet down below, inside the bare pussy so excitingly framed by the harness’ silver chains, running along the creases of her thighs and down between them to secure the widener in her bottom.
They stood now before the door of the sheikh’s suite. Charlotte said, “When his highness opens the door, after greeting him you will go to the center of the room and kneel, then lower your face to the carpet.”
“Yes, Miss Charlotte,” Beatrice said in a quavery voice, looking down at her bare feet.
Charlotte rang the bell. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing Sheikh Diyab once again in his black silk robe.
“Hello, Charlotte,” he said. Then, “Hello, darling.”
Beatrice, very well trained now, kept her eyes lowered. “Hello, sire.”
“Go now,” Charlotte said. Beatrice obeyed, as the sheikh and the dean watched, walking gracefully, her hands folded in front of her, to the center of the Turkish carpet, then kneeling, and finally bending all the way to the floor with her bottom high, offered to its master though still covered in the translucent fabric through which the belt, the chains, and even the base of the widener itself could be clearly seen.
Charlotte walked over, behind Beatrice, and uncovered the bottom, lifting the hem of the nightgown and tucking it into the belt. The round little cheeks, humiliatingly claimed by leather, metal, and invading rubber, seemed to quiver as their master looked upon them. The adorable slit of Beatrice’s vagina peeped out invitingly between the delicate chains.
“There,” the dean said with satisfaction. “I’ll leave her with you, now. Please don’t hesitate to call the front desk if you need anything, your highness. We know you have a choice in your concubine purchases, and we thank you for choosing the Institute.”
Chapter Nineteen
As soon as the door had closed behind Miss Charlotte, Beatrice felt Diyab’s hand on her bottom, for the first time in three weeks. She had wondered, since the very first moments of waking, naked and bound to a cot, in the little antechamber that constituted her first view of the Institute, whether her impression of him from their first night together could have any reality behind it. Now, as he began to fondle the round little cheeks held so shamefully apart by the harness she wore, she knew that his touch, at least, measured up to her memory.
Beatrice had remembered her Arab master, her sire, her sheikh, as the man who made her the girl in the images—no more and no less. As the images, under the ceaseless pressure of the patient-though-stern trainers and the sympathetic new friends, became an undeniable part of her mental landscape; as, finally, she had to call them fantasies because she no longer had the same urgent need not to be a girl who had fantasies; as she underwent discipline and submissive sex meant to make her the best bed girl a prince of the desert could ever have, Beatrice had thought of him, of Diyab, so much more than she thought of anything else that the moment she had come under him, his cock deep in her pussy and his weight atop her, stilling her struggles, had begun to seem like it could only truly be a fantasy rather than a memory.
His touch, though, brought the memories of that first night of breaking back like a tidal wave. Beatrice could not even see his hands—she had to imagine their darkness against the pallor of her young backside as he enjoyed the privilege that belonged to him as her owner and simply handled the little bottom he intended to deflower so very soon, now. That mental picture—that fantasy—made her whimper into the red carpet just as much as his delicate fingertips did when they laid hold of the widener in her anus and tugged it gently back and forth.
“Is this ready for me?” He had stooped, she realized, and his mouth must be close to her ear; she could feel his warm breath upon her shoulder as he spoke. “Is this little hole ready for my hard cock, yet?”
Might she speak? Were the questions rhetorical?
“You may answer me, good girl.”
But that seemed to make it worse, because Beatrice wanted so very much to please him with her answer, but she didn’t know whether Diyab wished the truth or a falsehood that might please him.
“I don’t know, sire,” she finally whispered softly to the floor.
“Good girl,” he said. “That’s a fine answer. I’m very glad they’re training you so well. I can wait a few days to have your anus, since after that I will have you there so often.”
She couldn’t hold back a little sob in response to this news—nothing new, to be sure, since Master D said at least once a day that Beatrice must expect her sheikh would use her bottom nearly exclusively since it was a pleasure he couldn’t easily get elsewhere. “The good news,” Master D occasionally said when he brought up the topic, “is that he probably won’t share your anus the way Western men generally do. He’ll share your mouth and your cunt, of course, but you should take some solace, Beatrice, in knowing he reserves your bottom for himself.”
“Yes, sire,” she whispered, quickly containing her anxiety—Miss Charlotte would be proud.
In her imagination, though, the fantasy of being shared had taken hold now, and she wondered why that fantasy seemed nearly always to involve Senator Metz and Erin, along with Diyab. Sometimes Beatrice herself wasn’t even the one being shared, but watched Erin receiving the two powerful cocks, heard Erin cry out as the powerful men rode her.
Then, of course, in her fantasy, they made her do what Erin did, and Erin helped them, lubing Beatrice’s bottom for her master to enjoy and making her young friend please her between her milky thighs, somehow, as the senator entered in front and the sheikh behind. Beatrice had come so far in accepting her imagination that she could even giggle at the impossible bodily positions her mind seemed capable of inventing. She put Erin on a swing, her pussy at the level of Beatrice’s mouth and her legs widespread to demand the tribute of the younger girl’s tongue.
And this fantasy took no time at all, of course, as Diyab continued to caress her, his fingers now moving downward and forward, to rouse the places he had claimed for himself when he first enjoyed her. Many trainers had enjoyed them since, but none had been her sheikh.
Suddenly her face went hot as she realized just how much need she had down there. She had, in her second week, begun to slip into the rather casual attitude she had observed in her fellow concubines toward fucking. Beatrice of course received frequent reminders that she had a different destiny from that of her new friends, all destined it seemed for wealthy Americans, Europeans, and Asians. For the most part, though, her life was like that of the other girls, and they all received sex and discipline so regularly that, at least in the course of training, it couldn’t help but become routine.
But… today she still had her white nightgown on. Her friends—Renée, Master D’s head girl, in particular—hadn’t understood it; usually girls to be sampled wore pink, having received a final polish in the morning of the day on which they were to go to the guest wing for their first trial under the hands and cock of their owners.
He seemed to read her mind, though more likely—and more wonderfully, Beatrice thought with a little clench of her pussy—he had a need to fuck her as great as her own need to be fucked. “I’ll put my cock in here soon, darling,” he said softly, “but I must speak to you a few words about what it will mean to be my concubine, when we reach Rashan.”
“Yes, sire,” she whispered, hoping he would at least keep rubbing in those little circles while he talked, as tormenting as they felt when she knew his cock must be hard and ready for her.
“You must understand that as a Westerner, and as a young woman, your social position in my palace will be very low.”
He did keep rubbing, keep her on the boil, as he spoke, and so these terrible words made Beatrice give a little cry of passion, despite herself. She had become the girl in the images, the girl who knew she belonged in a low social position, but she had not parted with her reason—in fact, as her training at the Institute had helped her come to terms with the darker parts of her imagination she had felt her rational faculties take flight, no longer weighed down by the need constantly to push against her wicked yearnings. Her reason said that to assume, to accept, a very low social position, even in a palace, did not fit her still deeply held ideas about her identity and her destiny. The girl in the images—Beatrice, when she gave into her erotic needs—might crave subordination, but her intelligence did not.
On her first day at the Institute, Master D had told her that she should imagine that Renée was one of her senior wives in her sheikh’s palace, and that she had received a command to make her superior come three times before Beatrice would be allowed to rise from her knees. Beatrice had blushed fiercely as she contemplated Renée’s bare pussy, between legs spread over the seat of the easy chair in which Master D had placed the more experienced girl for the exercise. Threatened with the paddle, though, Beatrice had kissed, licked, and felt Renée’s hand atop her head, pressing her mouth down and forcing the taboo pleasure. It had tasted strange and naughty, and her face had felt strange covered in another girl’s sexual juices, but… it hadn’t been real. Beatrice and Renée were both concubines, and another time Renée might have to pleasure Beatrice down there. Or they might have to lie with one another so that Renée could ride Beatrice’s face even as she gave little licks and soft kisses to Beatrice’s pussy.
But she could hear in Diyab’s voice that her subordination in his household would be real. It made her heart beat very fast, but her reason and her imagination could not agree on why. Her reason feared what his wives might do to her. Her imagination cried out for it, and down below her pussy clenched again under her sire’s skillful fingers.
“I’m sure you are wondering what that will mean for you,” he went on in the same soft, even voice.
“Yes, sire,” Beatrice moaned, knowing that he owned her, in the way she arched her back and even bounced her hips a little, so shamefully, in search of more stimulation from his hand.
“It will mean above all that you must behave very respectfully to me and especially to Aliya and Yasmin.” The circles became firmer, became the pushing of three fingers against her aching clit as his thumb arrogantly pressed inside the slick opening as if to tell her that he could possess her this way just as he pleased. Beatrice cried out. Oh, God, was she going to come this way, as he informed her of the cruelties his wives would visit upon her? She had heard their names for the very first time, now, and she thought of them as shadowy figures, wielding… wielding…
“I am going to allow them to cane you, if they see fit,” he said, then, even more softly, so that Beatrice had to strain to catch the words over her own sexual noises. “That is only appropriate, I think, since they will know that I have anal sex with you every night.”
She screamed, for she felt she must, how could she not? She screamed, and came, under his words and his hands as he took hold of the widener with his left hand, still invading, still pressing, with his right. He meant to make sure she understood, about her bottom and what his use of it for his pleasure would entail. He meant to tell her, so that she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt, of the position of the Western girl who took the prince’s cock in a place no self-respecting wife would ever allow her husband’s penis to go.
It meant that Diyab’s wives would seek every opportunity to punish her, using the terrible implement that Beatrice had seen used twice at the Institute, on girls who had played with themselves, in the weekly disciplinary assembly. Charlotte had caned them, and the girls had screamed as the long, livid welts had appeared across their young bottoms, bared and upturned over the whipping horse. They had walked away in tears, stiffly, to be tended by their friends as they lay on their tummies in bed with their well-disciplined backsides telling a tale of misbehavior corrected.
But when Aliya and Yasmin caned Beatrice, she wouldn’t have any friends, would she? As the orgasm left her legs, her hips, she gave a little sob, though even the erotic release hadn’t released the girl in the images from her need, or Beatrice’s reason from her fear.
But then she felt Diyab’s hands leave her, and she felt his strong calves on either side of her thighs and his cock mastering her pussy at last. He did not speak again for a long time, but merely held her hips and rode her hard, like the white horse of the marauder, moving fast across the desert.
Chapter Twenty
All night Diyab used her. By morning, he found he couldn’t deny that the thought of her degradation in his palace aroused him almost as much as it troubled him. He woke her at five to suck his cock, instructing her with his hands as to his need, wordlessly moving her down the bed so that she would do as she knew she must, and herself be silent but for the lovely wet sounds of skillful fellatio.
“You’ve learned so much, darling,” he said, his wits hardly at his command from the pleasure Beatrice gave, taking him so deep into her throat that he felt instantly on the verge of orgasm. He made her ride him, then, facing away so that he could caress her bottom to his heart’s content as she cried out her pleasure. He had taken her harness off just after commanding her into the big bed; now, during his final fuck before calling Charlotte to take her back to her training master, he put his thumb in the taboo place where she soon must take his cock, making her ride a submissive one despite her position atop him.
She sobbed as she felt it, and the rhythm of her ride changed, became urgent, as if she knew she must make her master come inside her as quickly as she could. Diyab found that with the permission given him by Charlotte and Dr. Franklin, he had no qualms about re-emphasizing the thing they had requested he impress upon the beautiful blond girl he would soon carry off to Arabia.
“They will call you my ass girl, darling,” he said, his voice sounding very thick to his own ears, “because that is what you are for. They will punish you, but they will be jealous, too, because I love to fuck your bottom just as much as I love to fuck their cunts. They will hear you scream with the pleasure I force on you, as I ride. Rub your clit, darling. You may come, as you ride my cock.”
The delirium of his senses linked the chain of reason; if he commanded this delight for Beatrice she would know, perhaps, that despite his coarse words he treasured her as much as any girl he had ever desired, possessed, and cared for.
She did scream, just as he had said she would in his far-off palace, and her pussy contracted around his cock and made him cry out too. Her little bottom, impaled with his thumb, bounced entrancingly atop his thighs as she came, and drew his climax from him as well.
“Sire,” she sobbed. “Sire.”
When Charlotte arrived half an hour later, Beatrice stood with downcast eyes waiting for Diyab to voice his wishes for her final training. She wore now only her harness, with the widener in her bottom; she would have to don her blue nightgown when she returned to her room, to show that her owner had used her already that day.
Diyab’s first instinct was to tell Charlotte that his new concubine had performed brilliantly, and that she needed no polish. But he remembered the emphasis they had placed on preparing Beatrice for life in the palace, and he said sternly and patronizingly, “You’ll make sure the anus is ready for Saturday? She’s still quite tight there.”
He watched the blush spread over Beatrice’s face and found it the most charming sight in the world.
“Of course,” Charlotte said. “Beatrice will wear the next size up starting today. You’ll find she takes you very sweetly, despite the discomfort for her.”
Diyab went on, willing himself not to hesitate, but to use the same severe tone. “She’ll need to mind her manners from her first moments in my country. I’d like her whipped on Saturday, so that my wives can see she’s a properly disciplined young woman when they inspect her.”
Beatrice gave a little sob, and Diyab saw her hands, folded before her pretty pussy, tremble. The idea of the inspection had come to him just now, in a recollection of an old tradition. It seemed the perfect way to accomplish the goals Dr. Franklin had set out, and Diyab had to admit his cock had given a leap at the notion.
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