by Emily Tilton
Second, he saw her love for him, and his own love traveled back across that gaze. To acknowledge inside herself that by her basic nature she yearned to belong to a powerful man had unlocked a well of affection inside her, Diyab thought he could see. Now, to be shared with his nobles, to be allowed to serve as the very focus of their wild delights, he saw in her eyes, only made her love him more.
Third, he saw the danger she presented. Something about this moment—perhaps about the sheer strength of her pleasure, or about the sensation of double, triple penetration—had made her think of something very different. Though the troubled expression only lasted a moment, Diyab felt sure he hadn’t imagined it. As Beatrice gave herself over to the sheikh who filled her mouth, and pleased him according to her training despite how very full of cock they had stuffed her, with more cocks waiting their turn, he made a plan to discover the nature of the danger.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Beatrice had begun to doze off in her own bed, weary and a little sore down there, but contented to have served Diyab so well, when Yasmin’s voice, calling from the doorway, pulled her back from the edge of sleep.
“Beatrice?”
The only light in the room came from the crescent moon, shining in the window that at night stood open to let the cool in, as during the day the servants shut it to keep the heat out. Beatrice could just make out the sheikha’s slim figure in her customary jeans and t-shirt.
“Yasmin?” she said sleepily.
“Oh, you’re awake!” Yasmin said, her bare feet pattering across the tile and the carpet until she could stoop over the bed.
“Mm-hmm,” Beatrice mumbled. She wondered why Yasmin had suddenly become the friendly girl of whom she had seen that brief flash on her first day, when Princess Aliya had received the caning. As she looked up into the face of Diyab’s second wife she saw trouble on the pretty brow—some conflict, perhaps, about having come.
“May I…” Yasmin started, and then Beatrice, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, saw that she was biting her lip.
“What, Princess?” Beatrice asked, wary but thinking, as she had thought that first day, that under normal circumstances she would probably like Yasmin very much indeed.
The other girl spoke in a rush, then, in an adorable, innocent voice. “May I get into bed with you, Beatrice?”
A memory of Mrs. Metz—Erin, Beatrice remembered to call her in her mind, now—and the day of Beatrice’s breaking in Washington came back. At the Institute she had learned to enjoy, though always with a blush, the sort of conduct between submissive girls that had seemed so terribly naughty when Erin first mentioned it. In Yasmin’s face she saw the same kind of shame she herself had felt.
“Of course,” Beatrice said, smiling. When Diyab had brought her back to her beautiful room, had stood embracing her for a long time, and had kissed her tenderly good night, she had thought herself utterly satiated. Now, though, even the soreness between her legs and between her bottom-cheeks seemed already to cry out for more—not of the sort of rough attention she had received in the hall of pleasure, but of the kind of tender caresses another girl might bestow. Her heart beat a little faster, and she wondered whether one or both of them might get into trouble for it, but she couldn’t resist adding, “Don’t you think you should take off your jeans, though?”
Insatiable. Yasmin bit her lip again, and gave a quick nod. She began to skin off the tight jeans, revealing a blue thong that made Beatrice’s heart beat even more quickly; she had been so close to all those girls just in their panties—and then, very soon, out of them—tonight, not to mention her time at the Institute, but something about the sight of the Arab princess’ underwear made Beatrice grow warm down below her own tummy.
Insatiable. As she waited for Yasmin to climb in beside her, Beatrice remembered the moment in the hall of pleasure when she was about to have three cocks inside her, when the sheikh behind her had pressed his manhood to the little place that only Diyab had ever entered—the place that Diyab had given to his friends tonight, to use and to enjoy, just as she had already had her mouth used as a place for the middle-aged sheikh to put his semen, just as she rode another sheikh’s penis now as they positioned her for gangbanging.
A picture had come to her that she thought for a moment must not be a fantasy but rather an actual memory, because of how vivid it seemed—how she could for some reason instantly name its actual geographic location: Georgetown—Senator Metz’ house. Senator Metz’ den.
She had opened her eyes, startled by the mental image, and found Diyab looking back at her from across the room, and the affection for him in her heart had made everything fall into place: Erin must have showed her around the house before the dinner party? And Beatrice, in making up her wild fantasies, had made one up in which the senator and Diyab shared Erin, filling her up with their cocks along every avenue of enjoyment. One in which Beatrice watched it all from the closet. One where what Diyab said about women’s insatiable lust and the need to control it led to fucking a pretty young wife until she cried out as if her body could bear no more pleasure.
Then, reassured, Beatrice had given herself over to enjoying the sheikhs’ mastery of her body. She had loved how her submission as their prized, degraded plaything excited their dominance and paradoxically put them in her power even as through her Diyab put them deeply in his debt. She had loved feeling insatiable herself, because she knew Diyab meant to do his best to sate her.
And now in her bed, though she didn’t think she wanted another cock inside her for at least a week—alright, a day—she felt insatiable again. She wanted Yasmin to kiss her, or she wanted to find the courage to kiss the princess.
“Will you get into trouble, Yasmin?” she asked softly as a kind of opening gambit, when they lay inside the silk sheets, Yasmin in her white t-shirt and panties and Beatrice in the short silk nightgown—very much like the ones at the Institute—Diyab had given her and requested that she wear when she hadn’t received any more specific instructions as to her clothing.
Yasmin’s brow furled. “With Diyab or with Aliya?”
“Both, I guess?”
The princess’ mouth twisted to the side. “Yes?” she said quietly. “But… well, I don’t want to be in trouble with Aliya, I guess, because…” Her voice trailed off, and her dark eyes darted to the corner of the room and then back to Beatrice’s own. She spoke in a true whisper. “I wouldn’t mind being in trouble with Diyab.”
Beatrice couldn’t help it: she put her arms around Yasmin, loving the softness of the little body she held, and, though the princess drew back at first, she kissed her gently on the lips.
“Are you in trouble now?” she whispered.
Yasmin nodded.
Beatrice wanted to keep kissing, but she also couldn’t suppress the, well, insatiable curiosity she felt about everything that had to do with Diyab and his culture. “Why?”
“I don’t know?” Yasmin answered, twisting her mouth again, so adorably that Beatrice had to kiss it before Yasmin could speak again. “They say it’s because of tradition, but I think it’s just because girls aren’t allowed to do anything like that. These two girls got whipped at school for kissing, once. I…”
Her eyes fell away from Beatrice’s. “Did it make you feel funny?” Beatrice asked very gently. Yasmin nodded.
“There are these stories, like what you call the Arabian Nights, and others from the old days when we had sultans and things.” The princess’ words came out in a rush, her eyes flickering up to Beatrice’s and then down again.
“Like… harems?”
“Harim,” Yasmin corrected gently. “The teachers all said they weren’t true, but how could they not… I don’t know… kind of be true?” She searched Beatrice’s face desperately, as if for reassurance.
“What does Aliya say?” Beatrice asked. “Or Diyab?”
In the dim light Beatrice had no way of knowing for certain, but she felt sure Yasmin blushed, then. “Oh, I would never ask.”
“Diyab knows you’re submissive, though, doesn’t he?”
Another twist of her little mouth. “We’ve never talked about it. But, you know, he spanks me sometimes, and… when he, you know, has me… he’s like…”
“Dominant,” Beatrice said, nodding. “And he knows you like it?”
Yasmin nodded, a little smile occupying the pretty mouth that Beatrice found herself again unable not to kiss.
Yasmin seemed to change the subject then: she confused Beatrice by saying, “Ali—the chauffeur, you remember?—keeps telling Talitha that Aliya should make Diyab cane you.”
Beatrice frowned, at first trying to work out the path of the information, then pondering the implications.
“Talitha is worried that Aliya will get caned again, but she thinks Ali is right. They all want you caned.”
Beatrice swallowed very hard, and bit her own lip at this news.
Yasmin seemed to veer off to another topic, then. “Did they punish you tonight? In the hall of pleasure?”
Suddenly Beatrice thought she understood.
She nodded. “Yes, with a strap.”
“Did it hurt?”
Beatrice smiled. “Of course, but Diyab made sure they didn’t do it very hard. It wasn’t too bad.”
Yasmin rushed onward, an expression of rapt attention and morbid curiosity on her face. “And… and… lots of them…”
“Fucked me?” Beatrice finished softly.
“In your… in your…” Yasmin’s eyes pleaded, now.
“Yes. In my bottom, too.” She studied the princess’ face, and saw what she had thought she would see. “I know you envy me,” she finally said. “It’s alright.”
Yasmin took her turn at lip-biting. Beatrice kissed her lightly, then kissed her again and found the princess’ mouth open, the second time, so that the kiss could go on for a long while, and Beatrice could boldly reach a hand out to Yasmin’s t-shirt, touching gently and discovering that, as she had suspected, the princess wasn’t wearing a bra. Through the fabric, her nipples came to eager arousal, and Yasmin gave a whimper into Beatrice’s mouth.
At last the little sheikha broke the kiss. “But how can I? Aliya is so mean to you, and… and I’m a princess. I know I’m submissive, and I know I like it that Diyab is firm with me, and… and… fucks me like that, but…”
Beatrice smiled, remembering the way she had spoken to Erin. Could it really be only a little more than a month ago? At least Yasmin could admit that she had fantasies.
“Shh.” Beatrice kissed her again, then she grew even bolder. “May I raise your t-shirt, Princess?”
But Yasmin reached down to raise it herself, and show her perfect little breasts, as she looked into Beatrice’s eyes. “Should I take off my panties, too?” she asked. “I’m bare down there, just like you. Aliya is too—you saw that. We’re taught to shave it when the hair first grows there. They say it’s for hygiene, and I know that’s why Aliya does it, but…”
“You like doing it for Diyab?”
Yasmin nodded.
Now boldness seemed the only way. “Can I see?” Beatrice asked.
Yasmin nodded again, tight-lipped.
“Go ahead and take down your panties, then, and show me,” Beatrice commanded, feeling like she had begun to impersonate an Institute trainer, or perhaps Miss Charlotte herself. “You can look at me, too.”
She reached to the nightstand and turned on the little lamp there. Yasmin gave a startled little cry, and then another, softer one as Beatrice reversed her position so that each girl could inspect the other’s pussy at close range. She pulled the hem of her nighty up, and Yasmin gave a gasp. Only a few inches away Beatrice could see that a wet spot had appeared on the blue fabric of the princess’ thong.
“Pull them down, Yasmin,” she said. “I want to see.”
Though only a moment before Yasmin had been eager to do it, now that she knew how much Beatrice would see as soon as the panties came down and now that she herself could see another girl’s secrets, it seemed she had become newly modest. The naughty aroma of the princess’ pussy seemed to inflame Beatrice, though, and now she refused to be denied. She leaned her head forward and kissed the fragrant blue nylon.
Yasmin made a kitten sound. Beatrice said, “Take these down, Yasmin. Let me see how pretty you are, where my master puts his cock.”
To her astonishment, Diyab stepped out of the shadows, wearing his black silk robe. “Let me help you, darling,” he said. He had reached the bed a moment later, and had his hands on Yasmin’s flanks, pulling the panties down, and then all the way off, to reveal a demure little pussy that made Beatrice feel a little faint as she wondered what would happen next. Would Diyab punish one of them? Both of them?
“Would you like to see me fuck Yasmin’s little pussy, darling?” he asked, stripping off the robe and climbing into bed behind his junior wife. “It will take her mind, and yours, off the caning I have to give you both tomorrow in front of the whole household.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“What do you think?” Charlotte asked, sitting down between Steven and Joe in the control room, as they watched the charming little threesome in far-off Rashan.
“I think he’s probably worried about nothing. As far as I can tell, the suggestion is holding up just fine. I told him—and you, Charlotte—from the beginning that she would probably recover moments from the senator’s den, but that she would recover them as fantasy.”
Steven tried to keep the reproach from his tone, but he failed rather miserably. On the other side of Charlotte, Joe, whom Steven knew to be of two almost evenly divided minds on the matter, stayed stonily silent, regarding the monitors in front of them. His highness had entered Yasmin now, and held her knee up so that he could make Beatrice kiss his junior wife’s clit as he moved his hips easily back and forth and fucked the slick pussy. A close-up on the right monitor showed a lovely picture of Beatrice using her now-skillful tongue upon Yasmin’s tiny pink bud and her master’s cock in alternation. Yasmin cried out, her 10 flashing again and again as she experienced forbidden sex of a kind she thought she would never get, all under the threat of the caning she had clearly longed for and dreaded for so long.
Beatrice, for her part, stayed at a steady 9, probably—Steven thought—because of her concentration on pleasing Yasmin rather than the wife’s lack of skill in the little kisses she planted at her husband’s encouragement between his concubine’s legs.
“Please, Steven. If it were my call I would trust you, though I would have to take a more jaundiced view of the risks. The stakes are too high, and we’ve never used hypnosis in this situation.” Charlotte put her hand on his arm and looked into his eyes gravely. The serene beauty of the academic dean in her blue nightgown (Steven wondered who the lucky trainer summoned to her office had been) charmed him out of his annoyance.
“I get it,” he said. “And it’s not as if the plan he proposed has much downside except for him.”
“You think he’s in love with her?” Charlotte said. She spoke very neutrally, Steven noticed. The question of what people generally still called romantic love even in the world of big data and an erotic fluidity never before known in the West tended to produce either snorts of derision or earnest lectures about outcomes from assessors and psychologists alike. Joe, on Charlotte’s other side, coughed, probably in order to conceal his snort.
Steven didn’t think the question irrelevant, though, because it made a difference to the sheikh’s state of mind. Romantic love might be chimerical, but it could change the way people acted nonetheless. The simple idea I am in love with her or I am in love with him had very little representation in the datasets collected by the Institute’s sensor arrays, but on the macrodynamic level—used with caution—speculation on whether an owner spoke thus to his soul, or a concubine to hers, could sometimes help with predicting outcomes.
The close-up of Yasmin’s face on the middle monitor showed her looking very intently at Beatrice’s bott
om, which bore fading welts from the strap wielded by the sheikhs in the hall of pleasure. Steven noted with some relief that those marks would indeed be gone by the time the two women were strapped side by side over whipping blocks in the palace courtyard. If any doubt existed on that score, he wouldn’t have hesitated to intervene—the cane atop bruises from a previous punishment carried serious risk.
In the princess’ face Steven could read quite clearly that—as any submissive would, in her situation—her thoughts had turned to the cane as her husband thrust his manhood inside her. Beatrice’s poor, pale bottom—this poor, pale bottom, Yasmin must now be saying to herself—would bear the same stripes she had seen upon Princess Aliya’s on the day the concubine arrived. And her bottom, too, would bear those terrible stripes. She bit her lip and cried aloud under the sheikh’s cock and Beatrice’s tongue.
Yasmin, as if overcome by her thoughts and the sensations between her legs, suddenly began to lap with much greater eagerness at the Western girl’s clit, perhaps in an attempt to imitate the skill with which Beatrice performed down below. Beatrice’s arousal went to 10, and she gave her own little cry, her hips moving helplessly in search of more pleasure.
“Where should I come?” the sheikh asked. “Who should I come in?”
Yasmin made a forlorn little sound as he pulled his cock from her pussy and made Beatrice suck it. He stroked his sheikha’s bottom, cupped it, held it, parted it, and touched between.
“Diyab… oh, please…” Yasmin said. “You… you mustn’t…”
“Don’t tell your husband what he mustn’t do,” the sheikh said. He took his manhood from his concubine’s mouth. He lowered Yasmin’s knee and drew it up almost to her breast. He put the head of his well-lubricated cock to the tiny, virginal anus of his second wife.
“Darling,” he said in a very different voice. “Should I fuck my blossom’s bottom?”
Steven said to Charlotte, “He’s definitely in love with her.”