Tamed by the Sheikh

by Emily Tilton

  Charlotte nodded, and Joe spared them another snort. The quality of his highness’ voice might not lend itself to analysis by the Institute’s algorithms, and the romance of the moment might well be lost upon Jane Austen or even Danielle Steel. But the affection in Sheikh Diyab’s words shone through nonetheless, even as he asked with clear sincerity for Beatrice’s counsel on the matter of whether to violate his culture’s taboo and take his submissive princess’ anal virginity.

  After issuing her highly ambiguous plea to be spared the ordeal and the shame of having to receive her husband’s penis in the forbidden place Yasmin had returned to pleasuring Beatrice—also, of course, forbidden. She hid her face between the Western ass girl’s thighs as if in blushing shame at what his highness did behind her, pressing his cock against the dark portal that a wife should, she had been told, always refuse him, should he in the wildness of his masculine desire attempt to enter there.

  Beatrice spoke in a very hesitant, very thick voice, interspersed with the whimpers Yasmin’s busy tongue enforced upon her. “You are our master, sire. Your word is law to us.”

  The sheikh moved his left hand from Yasmin’s bottom to stroke her cheek as he watched her frantically taste Beatrice’s pussy. “I will cane this bottom tomorrow, and fuck it tonight, blossom,” he said softly. Yasmin’s 10 flashed again, and she gave a long moan into the concubine’s lap.

  Beatrice helped Yasmin learn to open, as her master pressed relentlessly but gently into her most private place.

  “Shh, Princess. Try to relax. You can do it.”

  The sheikha clung to the concubine, holding Beatrice’s own bottom as if to reassure herself that another girl had undergone this trial, that Beatrice could help Yasmin endure the shame and the discomfort of her husband’s forbidden pleasure. Diyab pressed forward slowly and patiently, giving his younger wife the time she needed to learn this dark lesson.

  Beatrice kissed the princess’ soaking pussy, then flicked her tongue against Yasmin’s clit to make first anal the pleasure it should be, even if that pleasure had its thrilling ambiguity. She whispered, “Push, and he’ll be inside before you know it.”

  With a sob, Yasmin received the head of Diyab’s cock. The sheikh said, “Oh, blossom. That feels so good.” Gently he began to move inside her, as Beatrice ensured with her tongue that Yasmin’s submissive moans had in them the joy they should have.

  The assessment team watched in silent admiration. Finally, when his highness had entered the little backside nearly at full length and begun to thrust there, making Yasmin cry out into Beatrice’s pussy with each stroke, Joe spoke.

  “In terms of Beatrice’s arousal, which—I apologize for stating the obvious, but, you know, I’m anal…”

  Zoe snorted as she typed a note into the record at the front table. Joe made the joke with great frequency, but he had developed impeccable timing for it. Steven smiled tolerantly—he could barely feel any irritation, because he respected the assessor so much. Charlotte rolled her eyes.

  “In terms of Beatrice’s arousal,” he repeated, “which is the only thing for which my team is responsible, the caning presents no problem. If in fact she is in love with him, as he appears to be in love with her…”

  Only the faintest hint of disdain crept into the voice of the head of the assessment team, but he made his preference for hard data he could analyze quite clear.

  “…the caning could change that, depending on how he handles it, but the therapeutic value of her service won’t change. Her fantasy constellation centers on discipline, as her early net searches made perfectly clear. Even a real, correctional caning will arouse her in retrospect. If you want me to speak to Princess Yasmin, though again let’s be clear that my team has no responsibility for her, the caning will work the same way, even if it’s very harsh.”

  Steven nodded. On the screen, the sheikh had begun to breathe harder, and to utter dominant words in a voice half a murmur and half a grunt. “You girls… will go over the block tomorrow… you were so naughty tonight… so naughty.” His cock moved faster. Yasmin drew her head back from Beatrice’s pussy, her lips and cheeks shining and her eyes closed. “Make my blossom come… darling, make her come right now… Blossom, you too… kiss Beatrice. You both may come.”

  A look of shame, of desire, of dread, of passion appeared on Yasmin’s face. With a sob she bent her face again to taste Beatrice. The three intertwined bodies on the bed moved in a near-frenzy of arousal now, all seeking release and all seeking one another’s pleasure.

  Charlotte called Steven’s attention away from the very diverting events on the monitors, “Steven? Your brief is different. I want your honest assessment of his highness’ plan.”

  Beatrice, Yasmin, and the sheikh didn’t come precisely together, but Beatrice’s climax touched off Yasmin’s, and Yasmin’s brought her husband to the peak of his arousal with the arching of her back and her submissive cries. In a few more moments, their bodies lay spent. The girls seemed able only to make sweet cooing noises as Sheikh Diyab praised them in a soft voice, bestowing lingering caresses on their breasts, bottoms, and pussies, as if to ensure they remembered how thoroughly he had possessed and mastered them tonight.

  Steven’s brief, of course, was to guard the post-hypnotic suggestion he had left within Beatrice’s psyche, for the express purpose of her not remembering that a very sensitive arms-for-oil deal had been concluded over the pretty, well-fucked body of a senator’s wife.

  “I did my best to make sure that if Beatrice was in fact severely disciplined for lewdness, any recovery of memory would still not trigger true recollection. I don’t know how many times I have to say that.”

  Charlotte once again placed the reassuring hand on his arm. “You certainly don’t have to say it again, Steven.”

  He went on, a little mollified but still frustrated that he couldn’t arrange things in the royal palace of Rashan as he would like to have done.

  “I know what his highness is trying to do, and I think his goal is a good one, which could be beneficial for Beatrice and for him—and even for the world. But the risk in my judgment outweighs the benefit. Yes, if it works he’ll be able to keep her as long as he likes, and the Guard may gain a valuable asset. But if it doesn’t…”

  Charlotte finished his thought. “All your work gets undone for nothing.”

  Steven didn’t even nod, but instead just looked grimly back at her.

  “Okay, I will admit,” Charlotte said, returning her attention to the monitors, where the sheikh had commanded Yasmin to get dressed and return to her own bedroom, to await the morning summons to her punishment. “The idea of purposely breaking through the post-hypnotic suggestion you worked so hard on doesn’t make me happy. But what the sheikh saw tonight when they gangbanged her was real. You looked at the video too.”

  Joe snorted. “Real.”

  Charlotte turned to him and though Steven couldn’t see her face he knew exactly how sharp the daggers from the dean’s eyes felt to the assessor.

  Steven came to his defense. “I can see how his highness might have interpreted the expression as memory. I’m absolutely certain that it wasn’t memory—or, if it had memory in it, Beatrice experienced it as fantasy.”

  Charlotte looked up at the monitors, where the prince had now departed from his concubine’s room himself, so that Beatrice lay there, her hand furtively between her legs and her arousal at 8, undoubtedly thinking about her own summons to the whipping block. The dean looked down at her hands, now folded on the table, and sighed.

  “I concur,” she said. “But the sheikh is her owner.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Talitha came for Beatrice just after sunrise. “Get up, girl,” said the housekeeper, who wore her usual black uniform—not the abaya and niqab, for Beatrice and Yasmin’s flogging would be a family affair. At least, because the princess was to be punished alongside the Western concubine, Beatrice supposed, she would not be taken out to the palace square and stripped for

the eyes of men. She warmed, down there, at the terrible thought, of course—but she had learned so much about her fantasies in the past month that she knew that to become aroused at a frightful idea like public caning didn’t represent a wish to experience it.

  Beatrice had lain awake nearly all night, but for an hour or two of fitful sleep. Talitha roused her not from rest but from a reverie in which she alternately pled with Diyab to spare her the caning and to be as harsh in its application as he could possibly be, in order to show how jealous he felt of her body after seeing his nobles use it so very thoroughly in the hall of pleasure. Sometimes in the reverie she pled that Diyab would give her all the strokes of the cane he would otherwise mean for Yasmin, or perhaps all of them save a single one that he laid across his junior wife’s pretty bottom to satisfy her need for this strictest of chastisements.

  Beatrice didn’t feel guilty about getting Yasmin into trouble, because she had not the slightest doubt—Yasmin herself had confirmed it in so many words!—that the sheikha longed for more discipline than Diyab gave her. But Beatrice also didn’t think she understood, completely at any rate, the true intentions behind Diyab’s actions.

  He couldn’t be truly angry, she thought, for she knew he would not have fucked Yasmin’s bottom—or, especially, permitted the girls their orgasms—if he had felt some actual moral outrage over finding his second wife in his concubine’s bed. He must be bent on making some sort of example of Yasmin, or of Beatrice, or of both of them.

  What he meant by that example, however, puzzled her. Before she had lapsed into the half-dreaming state from which Talitha had called her with those ominous words Beatrice had decided it must have to do with Aliya and the rest of the household. Diyab must feel the need to demonstrate to them that he would cane both his wives and his Western ass girl when he decided they needed to be taught a lesson.

  She didn’t feel she had convinced herself of that proposition with any security, however, when she heard the middle-aged voice say, “Get up, girl.” A shudder went through her body; a thrill of fear and, though it warmed her cheeks as well as the treasonous place between her thighs, a thrill of arousal.

  She rose, very glad not to have to look Talitha in the eye, and went to get the simple flowing shirt and trousers she wore in the palace.

  “No, girl,” Talitha said, a note of triumphant scorn in her voice. “You are to come with me naked, like the whore you are.”

  Beatrice had meant to show no emotion to anyone but Yasmin and Diyab, but the suddenness of the housekeeper’s cruelty shocked her into a sob.

  “Take the nightgown off and come with me this instant.”

  Beatrice didn’t think she would ever get over how different situations could so deeply affect the way she thought about her shameful fantasies and the actions she must take because of them. To walk naked from her bedroom, along the hall, to the stairs, would have seemed like nothing special, at the Institute—nor to see that Yasmin already waited there, naked herself, tied to one of the two whipping blocks with Aliya beside her (had Aliya called her junior wife a whore?). To see Diyab, in his white thobe, holding the long, menacing cane in his right hand with the rattan resting upon his left—during Beatrice’s training, in a place where all girls underwent the same necessities, after the first week that would have seemed to her an ordinary occurrence. Here in Diyab’s palace, in the private world of the inner household where he kept his women, their nakedness made Beatrice’s heart feel as though it would pound through her ribcage.

  Talitha strapped Beatrice to the second whipping block. They had placed the blocks in the shade, but the heat of the desert day had already begun to lay its hold upon the morning air. She had not dared to meet Diyab’s eye, and he said nothing at all as he watched—Beatrice assumed—his blond ass girl prepared for flogging. The two blocks were separated by a yard, so that when Diyab thrashed Yasmin, on the right, he would be able to attain a free range of motion, standing between the penitents.

  Beatrice turned her head and saw that Yasmin, a little wild-eyed, was looking back at her. Beatrice forced a faint smile onto her lips, and Yasmin managed to return it. Beatrice had never before been punished with a friend, even at the Institute, and she found a little to her surprise that it definitely helped, at least here in the early part of the humiliating ordeal.

  At last Diyab spoke, and his voice came from directly behind them. He meant, obviously, to address not his two misbehaving young women but the rest of the household, which consisted, Beatrice had seen as she had descended the stairs, of the adult servants, maids, and cooks, perhaps a dozen of them, standing respectfully behind Aliya and Talitha.

  “These girls, bound naked in front of you, belong to me,” he began. “Last night they were found in a single bed, as naked as they are here and now, this morning, but with much less shame and modesty than I hope they feel knowing that their master will soon punish them as they deserve.”

  Yasmin gave a sob at that, and Beatrice turned to see her eyes bright with tears. Aliya’s voice rang out, “Eyes forward, girl. Diyab, the… the Western girl looked at the princess.”

  Beatrice thought she could hear a little annoyance at his senior wife in Diyab’s tone as he confirmed her judgment. “Eyes forward, Beatrice,” he said. “Or I will have to give you extra strokes.”

  Her fear of the rattan, despite all her fantasies of discipline, remained so great that she felt her face crumple as she obeyed, and hung her head to look at the white and blue tiles of the courtyard.

  “I am going to flog these girls now, in front of you, in order to demonstrate to them, and to you, how seriously I mean to take discipline in the palace from now on. Each girl will receive twenty-four—”

  Yasmin gave a startled, fearful cry, and Beatrice heard a murmur even from the servants, and pictured Talitha scowling at them.

  Diyab continued, though, without more than a moment’s pause, “—strokes of the cane, and then remain here on display for an hour.”

  When he spoke next, his voice sounded clearer, and Beatrice supposed he must have turned to face the naked backsides he would punish.

  “Girls like these, whether Arab or Western, need to know that the shameful sensual pleasures they desire so insatiably can have a terrible price when they seek them without permission.”

  Beatrice realized, too late to brace herself in any way, that he had moved as he spoke, until he stood close behind her, to her left side. As he said permission, she heard the whistle of the cane, which she remembered vividly from Aliya’s flogging on Beatrice’s first day in Rashan. Then she heard the crack and she felt the terrible burning line across her upturned bottom-cheeks. She gave a little yelp, then drew breath and gave another, for the pain built much more than it did under the strap.

  “One,” Talitha counted. It seemed to Beatrice a terrible humiliation to have her strokes counted by the housekeeper. She strained against the leather that bound her to the block, and her bottom clenched and unclenched. Arabic voices murmured, and she felt sure they were discussing the double line of red that must now cross her pale backside.

  Then she heard the whistle again, but on her other side, and she heard the cane crack across Yasmin’s bottom. The princess cried out much louder than Beatrice had. Aliya cried “one” in grim triumph. Yasmin gave a sob, and said something in Arabic that began with Diyab. Her tone sounded so pitiful that Beatrice’s heart felt like it would break. She willed Yasmin to remember the pleasures of the night before—how the idea of the cane had excited her.

  But Diyab, to her surprise, gave Yasmin another terrible stroke. The young woman cried out even louder as Aliya announced “two.” The wood of the princess’ whipping block groaned as she tried desperately to free herself from the straps, to flee from the cane.

  Left unpunished for several moments, with only the single stripe of the cane across her bottom to contemplate, Beatrice found to her blushing embarrassment that the inexorable process of converting the agony of discipline to the arousal of submissive passion had begun, inside her mind, her heart, her wicked pussy.

  The fantasies. They took over, and she knew she must let them, for her own sake and for Diyab’s—and even for Yasmin’s and Aliya’s, for the only way to find harmony in the palace in which Beatrice must serve as Diyab’s ass girl lay along the path of Beatrice’s self-understanding. She must know her place, and receive the love she knew her sheikh felt for her.

  Insatiable needs for sensual pleasure. Hers—and another girl’s. Yasmin’s. The heat built insatiably in Beatrice’s pussy as she listened to Yasmin sob, because their master was punishing them so terribly. She couldn’t help it: a wayward urgency came into her hips and she moved them, tightened her thigh muscles, desperate for the pleasure that would make the fire glow warm in front. Murmurs in Arabic. Talitha said, very clearly, “Whore.”

  Diyab said nothing, but caned her again, and all the heat again became the lesson in modesty across her naughty bottom as she screamed, for he had given her “two,” then “three,” and “four” in measured but much quicker succession, across her bottom, across her lascivious thighs.

  He returned to Yasmin, and though the fantasies had vanished into her agony while her master brought the cane down, Beatrice found them returning even more strongly as she listened to Yasmin’s sobs and pleas.

  The other girl. Not Yasmin.

  Erin. Erin with two cocks in her, crying out as if her husband the senator were disciplining her this way, putting a stop to the insatiable needs. Giving her the consequences with his firm hand, with his firm cock, with the firm cock of a sheikh.

  “We could hypnotize her.”

  Miss Charlotte, but… somehow before Beatrice knew her as Miss Charlotte.

  The fantasy about the closet, in the senator’s house. Not a fantasy.

  After the sixth stroke, Diyab quickened the pace of the floggings. Around the twelfth, both Beatrice and Yasmin only sobbed as they received their lesson, for the pain that had turned Beatrice’s whole backside into a fiery agony seemed not to grow very much worse but only to extend itself in time—time that she occupied with trying desperately to determine whether she could trust her own mind.

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