by Emily Tilton
“Certainly,” Charlotte replied. “You’d like that done while you watch, I assume, before you have the bottom?”
Beatrice’s eyes were closed, now, and her breathing came harshly through her nose.
“Yes,” Diyab replied. “Precisely.”
* * *
On Saturday night, as Diyab watched from a throne-like chair placed to the side so that he could see both Beatrice’s face and her upturned bottom, Master D fastened the leather straps around her wrists, waist, and lower thighs. The whipping block stood only a few inches off the floor, its height perfectly adjusted to permit Diyab to enter the girl’s anus at his favored angle and with maximum comfort and pleasure, after her punishment. All the rest of the Institute’s concubines watched, kneeling there in the grand salon on the special mats that had their names displayed with the writing turned toward the dominant viewer.
When the naked girl lay bound and ready for punishment, Master D picked up the wooden-handled punishment strap from a side table and turned to Diyab. “Do you wish your girl whipped, sir?” he asked, very formally.
Beatrice gave a little wail, which Diyab found both moving and oddly heartening; in the video stream from her training he had seen her disciplined many times, and had seen her masturbated, tasted, and fucked afterwards, to climaxes as great as he had ever seen a girl achieve. Every time she seemed to give that wail, before being punished, as if it put her in the moment as the concubine in need of correction.
Diyab knew, though, that if the lesson were to be effective, it must be harsh. “Yes. Thirty lashes on the buttocks and the thighs.”
Beatrice cried out, “Please, no, sire!” A murmur went through the audience. The severity was unusual: he thought he caught them saying ‘sheikh’ and ‘Arab’ as they whispered in alarm.
But Master D said, “Yes, sir,” and he began to whip the girl’s backside.
She grunted with each lash at first, but soon enough she yelped. A tracery of angry red appeared on her lovely bottom, her slim thighs. She squirmed against the straps, to no avail. Diyab could scarcely comprehend how the sight moved him—his pity and his arousal seeming to grow together in a mixture that would have made him call a halt if he hadn’t known it all to be for Beatrice’s good. Her shrieks, as the final five lashes fell square across both bottom-cheeks, made him wonder if he could ever bear to see her caned, even as his merciless cock told him that he certainly could.
“Prepare the anus,” he commanded, and Charlotte stepped forward with the little vial of lubricant. Beatrice whimpered as she received the ministration that would ease the narrow path for her master’s hardness.
Diyab shed his robe as he stood, and another murmur went through the girls as they caught sight of his cock, long and hard. He walked the few steps to his lovely concubine’s well-punished backside. His first thought of course had been to enter her, enjoy her, and climax inside her immediately—ruthlessly, even, as she cried out under his cock, herself forbidden any pleasure. But Charlotte had approved an alternate plan, and now Diyab carried it out: he freed Beatrice’s right wrist. The audience whispered.
“Play with yourself, darling,” he said in a commanding voice. “You may be my ass girl—but you will be the ass girl of a benevolent prince.”
With a drawn-out moan, Beatrice reached her hand under her tummy and obeyed, and Diyab thought he could see in the very tension of her neck the struggle against the lingering shame that had led to the scene in the senator’s den. The murmur in the audience seemed approving now, containing many giggles and ‘awws.’ He smiled, looking down with affection, as he stepped to his rightful place, his legs spread in the crouch necessary to get into her bottom properly, which also kept her pussy well displayed as Beatrice wanked herself frantically to her first orgasm just as her master put the head of his cock to the well-oiled rose of her bottom.
She sobbed, and opened to him as they had trained her to do. Diyab felt himself engulfed in the tight, velvet depths of her little backside, prettily covered in the welts he had commanded appear there in order that she arrive in his country already the picture of the subordinated ass girl. He looked down at his dark cock in her pale bottom, her pink anus, and knew a pleasure greater than he had imagined possible: the girl from the closet, who had seen him in the ass of the senator’s wife, now had his manhood between her own punished cheeks.
She came again, and it did not take Diyab himself very long; he held her hips and cried out his shuddering climax, greeted with the applause of the audience. “Good girl,” he said in his gentlest voice, stroking her lovely bottom. “Such a good girl.”
* * *
Twenty hours later, after a refueling layover in Reykjavik, Diyab’s royal jet landed in Rashan. On the plane, after it had stopped near the royal limousine with its waving green and white flags, Beatrice changed from her pink Institute nightgown into the abaya and niqab she would wear from now on, outside the palace.
Under it, Diyab had decided, she would wear his favorite Western lingerie: a lacy black set of bra, panties, garter belt, and stockings, with black pumps upon her feet. The abaya concealed it all, just as culture demanded.
As soon as she had, with trembling, nervous hands, covered up her pretty lingerie in the loose black garments, though, the need came upon him urgently to reveal his beautiful possession again. While the limo driver, visible through the plane windows, waited impassively in the sun, Diyab bent Beatrice over the leather-covered bench seat along the side of the royal jet, and lifted the abaya’s hem, rolling it past Beatrice’s waist to expose her bottom, upon which the cruel marks of her whipping hadn’t faded, but had changed to a more purple hue. She had sat on her hip practically the whole flight, and now she gave little whimpers as he fondled her before taking down the skimpy black panties.
“Shh,” Diyab said, as he lowered his trousers, then his boxers. “Shh, darling. Welcome to Arabia.” He found her very wet, and wondered if the abaya and niqab had aroused her, somehow. Certainly fucking a Western girl in these apparently most modest garments got him so hard and so ready that he came inside her pussy very quickly. In the end, his pleasure on the plane, before he instructed Beatrice to put herself to rights and prepare herself to play her very simple public role of silence and modesty, didn’t keep the chauffeur waiting long.
She played the part perfectly in the limo, which of course posed no problem; Diyab didn’t introduce her to Ali, the driver, nor did Ali remark upon the presence of the girl he must know from palace gossip had arrived as his prince’s Western bed girl. Diyab had cautioned Beatrice again, just before they landed, that the servants would not acknowledge her presence, and that she must ask him or Yasmin or Aliya to request anything from them. They would keep her room in the palace, to which Diyab would come to use her bottom, very clean, and would take care of her clothes as well, but in the hierarchy of his service Beatrice stood lower than the assistant cooks, though her sire treasured her above everything he possessed.
So, when they arrived at the front of the palace, he told her, “I will get out of the car in front, and Ali will drive you around to the servants’ entrance. The housekeeper will meet you there.”
“Yes, sire,” Beatrice whispered. He heard a catch in her throat, and his heart went out to her, but it could not be any other way if he were to keep her, and the world, safe.
Chapter Twenty-One
As soon as the car pulled away, after Diyab had emerged and begun to greet the two abaya-clad women who stood in front of the others and thus must be Aliya and Yasmin, his wives, the chauffeur said, in heavily accented English, “You are the ass girl? You are blond down there, even? How many times has his highness had your ass so far?”
Beatrice did not answer. She had expected humiliation, but she supposed she had not expected it so soon. Still, having known, and keeping in mind Diyab’s words about how much he treasured her, she felt she could bear it.
The drive from the palace’s grand front steps to the servant’s entrance in back to
ok five minutes. The building itself, built in a style that seemed to blend European classical with the kind of arches and towers Beatrice’s mind instinctively called Moorish, perhaps from childhood reading of the Arabian Nights, loomed above them as they passed wing after wing.
The palace grounds stretched a quarter mile or so, and then what had seemed, as they drove from the airport, a residential district began. Beatrice had marveled as she looked out from the limo at how lush the lawns looked and how starkly they contrasted with the arid dirt and sand around each one of them, whose dry color dominated the view so that the green seemed defiant—and doomed.
Now, though, a high wall of sandstone concealed all those surroundings: the palace grounds were a confined expanse of extravagant green that somehow reminded Beatrice of a baseball stadium.
Ali stopped, finally, by an entrance dominated by a loading dock where a crew now unloaded big boxes of groceries. All of them must, Beatrice thought, have come a very long way to reach the Arabian desert, judging from the European brand names that contrasted so starkly with the flowing Arabic script on the truck and on the dock itself.
The chauffeur tried again to assert his superiority, this time in a more roundabout way.
“Princess Aliya is going to be very hard on you, girl,” he said in a tone Beatrice could tell he meant to sound both authoritative and ingratiating, though in fact he only sounded insincere. “If you are good to me I will try to help you.”
Beatrice supposed Ali might even think he could dominate her, the way he probably knew his master liked to do with the Western girls he brought to the palace. Though the man himself repelled her, the little fantasy her imagination spun at the thought made her shift uncomfortably in her seat.
“If you are not good to me, maybe I tell the princess you steal something? Everyone knows you will get the cane, girl.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice said, reaching for the door handle and suddenly wondering whether the chauffeur would try to lock her in. The abaya moved in a way so different from Western clothing that she found it terribly distracting; it wasn’t like a nightgown because the fabric was heavier, and she felt constantly aware of the contrast of the lacy lingerie underneath with the modest garment above. The niqab covering her face and head seemed to keep the heat of her blush in and make it grow. From the first moment she donned it, on the plane, she had felt it made her stand out, paradoxically, as if she weren’t wearing it correctly.
The door opened. Ali said, “You want to play the princess, blond girl? You remember what I say. Maybe after they cane you, you come back to Ali and ask to suck his cock so that he will help you next time.”
The Institute must be watching. Miss Charlotte said they would always be watching. The thought helped a little.
“Thank you,” Beatrice said again, and stepped out of the limo. She saw now that in front of a doorway next to the loading dock a woman waited, her identity of course concealed by her own abaya and niqab. Something about her roundness, though, and her uprightness, made Beatrice think, housekeeper.
“Come here, girl,” the woman said in slightly better English than Ali’s. Beatrice couldn’t see her mouth, but there seemed no other woman here who might have spoken.
Beatrice kept her eyes down as she walked up steps utterly devoid of the grandeur of those Diyab had ascended. She wondered if the men unloading the English beef and French cheese would behave to her as Ali had. She couldn’t even know whether they looked at her at all, since the niqab cut off her peripheral vision.
They said nothing, though, as far as she could tell; their boisterous flowing Arabic speech, which Beatrice thought sounded so musical, seemed to have none of the special half-interrogative tone men, in her experience—including the one just now in the limo—reserved for degrading girls. Perhaps the presence of the housekeeper, a high-ranking servant and a true one, as opposed to the prince’s blond bed girl, restrained them. Or perhaps they didn’t even know that the woman who had stepped from the car was destined for the sheikh’s bed, that she would have her bottom fucked as a matter of course, that she would soon be inspected by the royal princesses, wives of the sheikh, and perhaps punished on some slight pretext. Beatrice shivered despite the heat, and blushed anew as she realized she had grown warm between her thighs at these terrible thoughts.
These terrible fantasies. I have come a long way, but I don’t have to admit it, do I? She thought of Diyab, and how he had awoken those fantasies from the first moment in the senator’s office. Is she for sale? Yes, it turned out, Beatrice had been for sale, and now she belonged to the master of this castle. They might humiliate her, but they would never know how badly she needed that humiliation, would they?
The eyes of the housekeeper looked out darkly at her. Beatrice had drawn close enough to see the wrinkles around her angry eyes that seemed to tell of a woman past fifty, before she lowered her own gaze again, to the black abaya that matched her own.
The housekeeper’s voice emerged, a little muffled, from the niqab. “Her highness will hear that you looked me in the eye.”
“Oh, please,” Beatrice said. “Please don’t tell her.”
“Don’t be foolish, girl. Do you think I will miss an opportunity to win my mistress’ favor?”
Beatrice’s heart thumped and she felt faint. The heat oppressed her and she felt desperate to take off the strange garments. The heat of the desert was very dry, but inside the abaya Beatrice’s body seemed to have created a humid atmosphere, above all, to her shame, between her stockinged legs and inside her lacy panties.
The housekeeper turned without another word and walked inside the palace. Beatrice followed her, and they began to traverse a long series of modern-seeming hallways that must be part of a vast kitchen complex. Through swinging doors she saw men in kitchen whites at long counters.
They emerged abruptly into a grand, high-ceilinged hallway, blazing with gilt molding. The floor was tiled in designs that suggested both growing vines and Arabic letters. Beatrice gave a little gasp at the suddenness of the transition from utility to opulence, from modernity to a sort of dream of antique royalty. Her heels clicked on the tiles and the sound seemed to echo through the magnificent space.
The housekeeper, turning her head over her shoulder even as she led Beatrice on, said, “This is the public part of the palace. You will not see it often.”
The tone of the woman’s voice, even as filtered through the black veil that covered the lower part of her face, seemed to hold something foreboding. Beatrice sensed that the housekeeper meant at least to make the Western girl think that she would be shut away, and she suspected that it must be true to some extent, from what she knew of the culture so far.
The turn they took, then, through an archway, seemed to suggest the opposite, though, for suddenly they came into a stunning courtyard, planted with palm trees and echoing with the plashing of four fountains. Arches surrounded it, and it seemed somehow to breathe coolness amid the stifling heat of the desert. Vines grew up the high walls, and all seemed white or blue, those coolest of colors. In an enormous cage, by a grand staircase on the other side, birds sang as if in a fairytale.
Beatrice gasped again.
“This is the courtyard. It is private for the family and the domestic servants,” the housekeeper said. She had stopped now, and turned to Beatrice, who had to remember to lower her eyes again. The temptation to raise them then became nearly irresistible, though, because the housekeeper said, “Take off your niqab and abaya. The sheikhas will inspect you now.”
“Here?” she whispered.
“You must call me ma’am,” the woman said. “Or I shall tell Sheikha Aliya.” Not the slightest degree of sympathy seemed to inhabit her voice.
Beatrice’s breathing came very quick and very harsh. The Institute is watching. They must be watching.
“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered. It’s like calling Miss Charlotte miss. It’s just like that.
“Well, go ahead, then, girl. Take off those modest
clothes that do not belong on a slut like you.”
“But, ma’am…” All the coolness of the courtyard seemed to have vanished as Beatrice tried to mumble a protest. Then she heard the sound of footfalls on the courtyard tiles, and a female voice calling in Arabic. The housekeeper replied. Beatrice turned to see two beautiful women, dark-haired and dark-eyed, coming from the bottom of the staircase toward them. The one in front, who seemed the senior, wore a flowing blue robe. Her long hair trailed down her back. The younger woman, who seemed only a few years older than Beatrice, wore jeans and a green t-shirt, and had her hair in a ponytail.
Where is Diyab?
Aliya—Beatrice knew it could only be she—spoke in Arabic again, and the housekeeper answered in an exasperated tone. Beatrice felt sure the princess must have asked why Beatrice hadn’t yet undressed, and received the reply that the new bed girl had decided to be naughty right from the start. She gave a little whimper of fear.
The princesses crossed the courtyard, walking among the fountains and the lovely trees and shrubs. When they had come near to where Beatrice stood with the housekeeper, the other woman, who must, Beatrice thought, be Yasmin, spoke in English just as perfect and musical as Diyab’s. “You had better take off your abaya, Beatrice. We know you have something wicked under it, and we want to see it.”
Aliya said something to Yasmin, then, in angry Arabic. Yasmin replied in a respectful tone, and then Aliya addressed Beatrice in English for the first time. “Take those clothes off, or we will remove them for you.”
“Please, your highness,” Beatrice said, looking at her beautiful blue slippers. “Please let me put on something suitable before…”