by Emily Tilton
A sound of protest came from Aliya at that, resentful-sounding words in Arabic.
Diyab said, “Aliya, you will speak in English in Beatrice’s presence, or you will be flogged every day until you do. If Yasmin wishes Beatrice to look her in the eye like an equal, that is her choice. Yasmin, you may give the permission yourself, as you may also punish Beatrice if you must, to contain her jealousy or her need for sensual pleasure.”
Yasmin said very brightly, “Look at me, Beatrice. You may always look at me.”
Beatrice raised her eyes, but as she did so she experienced a funny phenomenon, in her mind. Diyab’s last words, her jealousy or her need for sensual pleasure, seemed to echo strangely in her mind, as if they had come both from the man standing over her and Yasmin, now in the white robes that truly made him a sheikh in her eyes, and from some other version of him, long ago and far away—not in Arabia but in America, in Washington, in Georgetown, in…
She had trouble focusing on Yasmin’s words, so odd did she feel, mentally, and so she paused after the princess finished speaking for a second or two before she understood that Yasmin had merely said, “I hope I see you soon.”
Beatrice managed a weak smile and said, “You too, Yasmin.”
The strange impression faded as she followed Diyab up the stairs, now feeling acutely how naked, Western, and out of place she must seem to the female servants they passed as they made their way to the beautiful room it seemed would be hers, the sumptuous bed hung with flowing colored cloths and the floor covered in rich carpets like a royal bedchamber in a tale from the Arabian Nights.
There Diyab took her in his arms and kissed her. “I am so sorry, darling,” he said.
“But you saved me, sire!” Beatrice protested, a little breathless from his ardor.
Then he lowered her to her knees and taught her how to find her way under his flowing white thobe, where to her surprise she found white silk boxer shorts from which she could free his manhood with her skillful hands. She found him very hard, and she took him deep as he held her hair so he could thrust inside just as he pleased.
He laid Beatrice on the silk sheets—even the Institute didn’t have silk sheets!—and he tasted her for a very long time, her soaking panties still on, until she screamed and begged to come, though to no avail, for her sheikh did not desire her to climax until he had his cock deep in her bottom. He turned her over, and lay her across the bed with a bolster under her hips to raise her backside properly for his thrusting manhood. He pulled the panties aside so that he could anoint her, and impale her, but he left her lingerie, and even her high heels, on for her first ass-fucking in his palace.
* * *
Over the first five days in the palace Beatrice became used to the luxurious routine of her new life. A maid named Raia brought her a breakfast in bed of fruit and yogurt, though Beatrice sensed the young woman’s disapproval and scrupulously avoided looking her in the eye. She had a morning workout in the vast but empty exercise room where she sometimes saw Yasmin but only exchanged pleasant greetings with her—Beatrice thought she could tell that Princess Aliya had warned her junior wife about treating the ass girl with familiarity.
Diyab came to use her in the afternoon, and had dinner with her after fucking her at great length and with apparently unquenchable ardor. He spanked her once, on the fourth day, for looking Princess Aliya in the eye the previous evening in the courtyard. She knelt before him, when he told her that the princess had accused her of the disrespect, and Beatrice had confessed. She had been curious as to the senior wife’s mood, and she had been thinking about jealousy and need for sensual pleasure and wondering why the words had made her think of Washington.
“I must spank you, darling,” Diyab said very firmly though with what seemed to Beatrice real regret. Then he took her over his knee and used a leather-soled slipper at great length to teach her the lesson she had earned, until her bottom blazed and she cried out how sorry she was. The princess, stopping Beatrice later as she crossed the courtyard and making the concubine take down the loose cotton shorts she was now allowed to wear much of the time and the lacy panties she had to wear inside them, inspected Beatrice’s bottom and pronounced herself satisfied.
After dinner Diyab went to drink coffee with his friends. These were the loneliest times for Beatrice, but she had as much entertainment as she could read or watch from all over the world, and the time passed quickly though she often wondered what Yasmin was doing. At midnight Diyab would come to her again, and wake her—for she always fell asleep reading—his cock stiff and his need for her so urgent that he made Beatrice cry out as he entered her and rode her to his release. Then he would soothe her between her legs as he whispered tender apologies for his roughness, until she came or—once—fell asleep in his arms.
By morning he was always gone, back to his royal work.
On the sixth day, however, when he came to Beatrice’s cool, shuttered room in the heat of the day, he sat beside her on the bed and told her that the night to come would be different.
“Tonight I will share you, darling, as my fellow sheikhs will share their girls with me. We have an important business deal to celebrate. There will be a banquet, and afterwards you and the other girls will be displayed and then enjoyed by those who choose you.”
Beatrice had known this kind of service must be in her future: Master D had told her to expect it, and the other girls at the Institute had whispered about it. Still, she heard the quaver in her own voice as she said, “Yes, sire.”
He put his arms around her. “I will protect you, as I promised the Institute I would. I will watch you as my friends find out what a treasure I have acquired.”
“Yes, sire,” Beatrice whispered. “A treasure for you to ruin.” Need for sensual pleasure. She felt a rush of warmth between her legs as the images unfolded: Diyab watching other Arab men possess his blond concubine, his ass girl. Contain the jealousies of women, and their insatiable needs for sensual pleasure. Contain. Words came into her throat, her mouth, into the air without her conscious volition. “Will they whip me?”
“They may, darling,” Diyab said softly but firmly. “I will tell them so when I display you. It is a pleasure I do not wish to deny them.”
Tears of anxiety came into Beatrice’s eyes, but she nodded against his white-robed shoulder. “Yes, sire.” She did not want it, because it would hurt so much. But she needed it: she needed the sensual pleasure of it though she knew a woman like Princess Aliya could never see a whipping as a sensual pleasure. Yasmin, though… Beatrice felt sure Yasmin would understand this need that Beatrice still reveled in knowing she need not confess.
Insatiable. Where had that word come from? Diyab had not said it, when he told Yasmin she was allowed to punish Beatrice. It was a perfectly good, very evocative word, and Beatrice used it in her mind frequently these days to describe Diyab’s own passion for her. But the way she heard it now, as she imagined him for some reason describing his wives, once again made her think of Georgetown—of a house in Georgetown.
Why?
Chapter Twenty-Four
The grand dining room in the royal palace of Rashan had a soaring ceiling whose intricate Arabic script Diyab had always loved to look at during the long, boring state banquets of his youth. Now, as he ate, looking around him at the other sheikhs, he wished he could return to those days and simply cast his eyes upward. If he could do that, his thoughts wouldn’t be dominated by the mingling of fiery jealousy and cock-hardening arousal he felt knowing that the time when he must share Beatrice would arrive very soon.
He was grateful for two of his people’s traditions, though when in the West he had very few qualms in violating them: the injunction against alcohol and the custom of saving conversation for after the meal in order to savor the good things sent by providence. His sheikhs might prove very demanding of the girls who waited in the hall of pleasure, but at least the debauchery would not be compounded by drunkenness. And while he prepared himself, and forti
fied himself with the many dishes brought by the servants to the low tables spread through the dining room, he need not carry on a pleasant chat with the nobles who ate beside him—to whom he must in a few minutes offer his most precious possession.
Diyab knew—for he would make a very poor prince if he did not—that when many of these sheikhs reveled in their own homes, the liquor flowed freely and the Western girls they imported for their guests’ pleasure sometimes suffered accordingly. Though he had developed at Oxford a fondness for wine, scotch, and bourbon, he had no need of alcohol when he sought enjoyment. He knew his friends—or rather those sheikhs he must call his friends, as opposed to his very few true friends beyond his seneschal—grumbled about it, but Diyab had the excuse of wishing to keep the royal family above suspicion.
But soon enough the knafeh was served, and the men rose with their coffee in their hands. The hall of pleasure adjoined the dining room. Diyab’s grandfather had designed it to feel very intimate after the dining room, though the low, richly upholstered benches that lined the walls, for the sheikhs first to recline and later to enjoy the girls, marked the chamber as a ceremonial space.
The middle of the room had no furniture; upon the vast blue carpet knelt the girls, their abayas shed in the special entry chamber in which they had waited after arriving and had eaten their own dinner. Diyab couldn’t resist a primitive thrill of arousal to see twenty beautiful young women from Europe and North America, attracted to Arabia by the promise of sharing in his nobles’ prosperity, kneeling ready as in ancient times captives of the sultan might have knelt, waiting for his court’s pleasures.
They knelt in a circle, facing outward, their eyes downcast. They wore, as Diyab had specified, only their panties, though the array of different sorts of underwear seemed enormous: from virginal white lace to red satin with an opening visible behind, to indicate that the auburn-haired girl who wore them was explicitly offered for bottom sex.
Beatrice knelt with the others; Diyab wished his brother-sheikhs to understand that he regarded his royal gift as no more important or special than their own. The girls must be enjoyed together, as a symbol of his amity with the men who helped their prince govern this little nation. Beatrice wore the black lace in which Diyab had found he liked to see her best: a very skimpy thong that set off her pale skin and the bareness between her legs to great advantage. The narrow strip of fabric just covering her rear cleavage made her pert bottom look unbearably hot. Yes, he thought, with a jealous pang, you will be whipped, darling.
Diyab’s grandfather had, he heard, always maintained that a night of desert pleasure for the people of Rashan had always begun, and must always begin, the same way. First the prince, and then each of his sheikhs, must choose the captive girl in whose mouth he would climax, before the party moved on to other carnal pleasures.
“Silence them first,” they told Diyab he had always said, “in the way best suited to their purpose.”
Still in their thobes, the sheikhs milled about the circle of girls, one girl for every nobleman, finishing their coffee and beginning to converse amicably—principally about the nearly naked girls kneeling before them but also about the oilfields and the next day’s polo match. Diyab put down his coffee, and walked around the circle of girls as he must, making his choice. He wished he could speak to Beatrice and reassure her again that she need not worry, that even if she were whipped he had it well in his power to make the whipping only the merest shadow of what he had decreed for her on her ass night. He wished he could tell her by how very much he thought her the most beautiful girl in the hall of pleasure, and how he longed to violate sacred custom—as legend told that a prince had once done, to his family’s downfall—and choose Beatrice for all his joys that night. Though he would not be a man if his cock were not stiff at the prospect of the group sex that would now happen here in his palace, he longed to tell his lovely, golden-haired treasure that he would have declined it all in a heartbeat if he could lie with her, in her bed, kiss her, and stroke that golden hair.
He chose the girl in the red seatless panties, on the other side of the circle, so that Beatrice wouldn’t find herself distracted by his presence nearby. He took his stand before her, as the coarser of his sheikhs made ribald jokes and even clapped to see the prince raise his thobe and expose his cock. He knew to satisfy his court he must say something to begin the revel, so he said to the girl, “Look at me, girl.”
She obeyed, her eyes wide.
“Have you ever sucked a royal cock?” he asked. The girl’s auburn-haired head moved side to side in negation. “Open your mouth and put your tongue out. You’re going to learn what a prince tastes like.” Her jaw dropped and her tongue emerged. With a little grunt of pleasure, Diyab sheathed himself in the velvety cavern of the girl’s mouth and began to take his pleasure.
Around him, sheikhs who would not get to choose for several minutes clapped again and offered crude encouragements to Diyab to use the red-haired girl roughly. Barely heeding them, he watched the most senior sheikh, Kadir, choose Beatrice, and close his eyes in an expression of bliss as he felt her skill upon his cock. It fired Diyab’s blood, of course, to watch another man use the sweet mouth into which the prince poured his seed every day, but another part of him took a very simple pleasure in the way the young woman he had to admit he loved pleased Diyab’s old friend and trusted adviser.
Soon enough, all the girls’ mouths were full of the cocks of desert nobility, and the wet sounds of submissive service filled the room along with the continued ribaldry, all of course in Arabic. Diyab felt more than happy to spare Beatrice’s ears the sorts of things the younger sheikhs called out. The idea behind the ceremony was the show of unity that appeared when the whole court reached their climaxes and spurted their white essence into the Western girls at once.
Since the youngest sheikhs chose last, it generally worked out fairly well, though Diyab found that he had to slow his pace and enjoy the red-haired girl gently for a good while before the circle had reached completion. Then he called out, in the traditional way, “Let us ride,” and only a few moments later the shouts of pleasure rent the air. Diyab was glad, but entirely unsurprised, to see that Kadir joined in the triumph—sheikhs, as they approached middle age, tended discreetly to maintain the polite fiction of having reached their orgasms in the circle while not actually spilling their seed. The advent of Viagra had changed that somewhat, but Diyab knew Sheikh Kadir as a proud man.
The delights proceeded from there. A Western observer, Diyab knew, would almost certainly have called the delights an orgy, but he and his forebears shunned the European decadence of the word, using the absence of wine as a distinguishing feature. An orgy, too, such as a Roman emperor might enjoy, Diyab thought, implied a relaxing of mastery and of majesty, and such seemed to him the opposite of the delights of his palace. These Western girls had come here in order that a desert people might enjoy them dominantly. Though only Beatrice—as far as Diyab knew—had received true training in submission, all the girls present had fully consented to submit to the men who kept them in luxury here in Rashan.
Each sheikh retained the girl he had chosen from the circle, from a technical standpoint. Very few, however, confined themselves to individual sex even at the start. Those so enamored of their chosen girl that they wished another pleasure from her generally bent the girl over a bench, facing the wall, and took down her panties, wanking her for a few moments before entering to ride the old-fashioned way.
Elsewhere, however, more complicated groupings and more recondite pleasures held sway. Several girls now received discipline sessions, some for alleged faults in their conduct in the circle, other simply because the sheikh wished to punish a Western girl. Diyab felt no surprise to see that Kadir had fetched a short strap from one of the chests that stood in the corners of the hall of pleasure, and had invited another sheikh of his own age to take turns whipping their girls, and in interspersing the strap with other dominant joys. Beatrice now had her bottom u
p and her panties down, while another blonde was made to prepare her backside properly with fingers, lips, and tongue, before Kadir offered his friend the strap. As Beatrice cried out under the lashes she got, the other girl worshipped Kadir’s manhood.
Diyab himself bestowed the bottom of his redhead, in its seatless panties, on a young sheikh who had worked very diligently on his behalf over the past few months. Gratefully the man arranged her head-to-tail with his own girl, and with the help of some lube from the nearest chest enjoyed both bottoms in turn as the girls cried out their submission.
He wandered, cock in hand from time to time as he saw something particularly arousing, offering words of praise and encouragement of as sedate a nature as he dared, his eyes always turning to Beatrice’s submission though he did not approach. Kadir decided, after her bottom and the other blonde’s bottom both bore a pretty tracery of red, that she should be gangbanged, a fate that traditionally befell the royal gift, and so she was. The other girl played attendant, and prepared her even more thoroughly, while Kadir lined up six of the other sheikhs, whose girls kept them ready as they waited their turn inside Beatrice.
Kadir had placed her atop his friend, and she rode with her eyes closed as the first two men from the queue got into position, very ready to use her mouth and anus to reach their masterful release. Diyab, standing and watching, had a sudden longing that she would open her eyes and look at him. To his astonishment she did, and what he saw made his heart skip a beat.
First, he saw her experience: he knew from the summaries Charlotte had sent him during her training that she had, like every other Institute girl, received instruction in how to perform in a gangbang. Her skill, which she could claim to herself they had forced upon her, opened to Beatrice a world of pleasure now that she could relax into the fantasies that still made her blush although she could at last own them.