“Are you satisfied?” he asks, positioning my naked body between his legs, facing away from him.
“No,” I reply. Easily this time, dripping with the obvious answer.
“Good…” he says before lowering me down. He lines me up and begins to slowly sets me down on his bulging erection. “You’re soaking, habibti,” he teases when he slides in more easily than expected. “I’m beginning to think you can’t get enough.”
I could deny it, but my long moan when he pulls me all the way down is the only evidence he needs. Fully embedded, he moves his heavy thighs beneath mine so I’m once again sitting.
I get a sense of his true strength then. We are no longer in the water, and with my hands tied, I can’t provide any help at all in this position. But he lifts me up and down on his dick, doing all the balance and muscle work, until I’m creaming all over him in a babble of breathless words. And it turns out I’m not quite as powerless as I previously thought. My vagina clamps down around his staff as I seize up, tighter than a fist, and he abruptly comes soon after, flooding me with his cum.
I lose my day count not long after that, but the next morning, a fleet of replacement suits are brought in for Zahir to change into after our “meals.” And we spend the next few days lolling about like cats. Eating only to sustain ourselves and barely noticing as Nabida and Raima come in and out. I lose track of how often I enter subspace, but it is a lot.
Which makes the nights that much harder to manage. Zahir lolls but never sleeps in the same bed with me. And the one time I point out to him that he might as well stay the night since there are now at least ten of his suits hanging in the walk-in closet, he stiffens.
“Pardon me. I have a business meeting in early tomorrow morning and I must leave.”
It’s a lesson, I sense as I watch him get up from the bed and leave. And I’m right. He stays away for two days.
The fight when he returns is one for the ages. “You could have just said no, Sheikh Zahir,” I point out. “Instead you bounce and leave me hanging like a straight up cowardly mother fu—!”
That’s as far as I get. He ruthlessly subdues me, pinning me against the wall. “You will not talk to me in this manner,” he informs me. “I am your boundary. I am your control.”
He brutally takes me, his beard rough against my shoulder as he drives himself in. And I come apart on a choked gasp, my breath disappearing like my anger inside the cage of his arms.
“Go sleep in your own bed,” I tease him afterwards as we lie side by side, spent and happy. “Take another two days off if that’s how you’re going to come back to me.”
He grumble laughs, but then says, “Do not ever call me by my title again.”
My eyes bug out and I turn my head to look at him. “Seriously, me calling you by your title?—that’s what got you so angry?” I ask. Because, I would have laid odds it was the “cowardly motherfucker” part.
“Yes, seriously,” he answers. “My title is not what I want from you. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”
Then he turns onto his side and kisses me for a very long time…before getting up and leaving to sleep in his own bed.
This is how we fight. And this is how we make up.
Fucked up. That’s the only way to describe what we are in the days that follow. So very fucked up. But it’s paradise to me, a routine I quickly become used to, and I feel weirdly at peace. I’m even able to start studying in earnest for the bar exam. Save those two punishment days, I see Zahir on the sexy regular, and three days before he’s due to leave for Asia, he drops by for afternoon tea. I think he’s trying to bank more time with me, since he’ll be gone until right before Ramadan. I’m going to miss him while he’s away and he’s going to miss me, too. We don’t tell each other that, but it’s obvious in every touch.
I also talk or text with the twins daily, thanks to him letting me have regular phone time after our Two Unnecessary Days Away fight.
The girls miss me but seem to be thriving. Kasha only has to be left behind once by her much more studious sister to figure out how to get ready on time. And after spending spring break with Holt and Sylvie, Sasha books them both a gig at a Tribeca Film Festival after-party.
Everything is strange, but everything feels right.
Until it doesn’t.
Chapter Fourteen
One day, Raima wakes me and says instead of Zahir meeting me for a late breakfast, Nabida will escort me downstairs to join Her Highness, Sheikha Mahirah, and her daughter, Aisha, for tea.
Less than an hour later, I enter a gold and white sitting room behind my two rarely seen female guards and Nabida beside me—just in case I need “attending,” I guess. At first glance, the room appears less colorful than mine. Yet in spite of its muted tones, it is one of the most ostentatious rooms I’ve been in thus far with its gold inlay columns, overstuffed Queen Anne sofas, and crystals dripping off everything from the chandeliers to the beige silk curtains. Forget the medallion carpet...this room has a large Persian rug draped over the marble flooring. I suspect the pattern has its own special name, like Carrara or Emperador.
The room gives off a vibe that makes me instantly afraid to touch anything, but the woman in the fashionable rose print silk abaya and hijab looks completely in her element as she rises to greet me.
“Princess! Princess!” Aisha calls out, jumping to her own feet.
“Ms. Princess, please,” her mother chides. Then she turns back to me and gives me a kind “assalamu alaikum” before introducing herself with her full, and very long, name. “But you may call me Mahirah,” she finishes warmly.
“Wa alaikum assalam,” I carefully reply. “And please, I insist you both call me Prin.”
“Of course. Aisha begged me to bring her when her father mentioned he would meet with the sheikh today. You certainly made quite an impression on her at the wedding.”
“And she on me,” I answer, grinning at the little girl.
“You are very kind,” Mahirah says. “Typically, children do not attend weddings in the UAK. But the sheikh made a special exception for Aisha because the bride and groom’s children attended.”
“How thoughtful,” I say, trying not to feel awkward about participating in simple small talk after weeks of playing Zahir’s psychological sex games. I scramble for something else to say to a woman—a princess, no less—who from what little Nabida told me on the way down, never attended school abroad like Zahir and his brother. I super doubt she watched His Majesty when it was on. And I can’t imagine her listening to hip hop or R&B…or having any interest whatsoever in intellectual property law.
Thankfully, she asks after my family. “I hear you have two eighteen-year-old half-sisters who will graduate from high school this spring.”
“Yes, I do. They’re singers. In fact, they’ve got a show tomorrow for this after party at the Tribeca Film Festival.”
“You must be very sad to miss it.”
“I am sad to miss it, too!” Aisha says. “I wish I could go to America and hear your sisters sing.”
“Well, maybe one day…” I begin. But then I notice Mahirah purse her lips and quickly change the subject. “And your husband, Rashid…how is he?” I ask with a wince when it dawns on me there’s probably a title or something I should have tacked in front of his name.
However, Mahirah sets down her coffee cup and leans in like she’s been waiting for me ask this very question. “Oh, health-wise he is doing well. But he is quite stressed at the moment. I worry for him.”
“Oh no!” I answer, not sure what else to say. Seriously, out of all the places I have been, this overly grand room with the elegant sheikha is the least comfortable.
Mahirah nods as if I’ve said exactly the right thing. “Yes, it really is too bad,” she says. “I’m afraid my husband’s grandfather is putting him under terrible pressure about the Kingdom Mall project.”
“Kingdom Mall? Oh, you mean that unfinished construction project? I can see it from my window.”
>
“As can we,” Mahirah says with a sigh. “And that is what my husband has come to discuss with the sheikh today. There have already been too many delays, and his approval is needed for extra workers if we are to complete the project by the end of Ramadan.”
“Oh, that sounds tough,” I say, even though I am not sure why the mall needs to be finished by the end of Ramadan.
Mahirah’s face suddenly lights up as if she’s had the most brilliant idea. “You’ve never gone shopping in Jahwar, have you? How lovely it would be if you came with me, Aisha, and some of my household staff to the mall’s soft opening! Oh, I hope the sheikh approves the restart of the project and the extra workers.”
And that’s when the penny drops. Ah, I think, relaxing a little. Mahirah didn’t swing by because her daughter insisted on it, or even to make a social call. She’s here because she thinks I might have some pull with Zahir. Mahirah is a user, like nearly everyone I encountered during my His Majesty years.
I guess some of my training with Zahir actually took. Because instead of rolling my eyes and volleying back an answer that starts with, “Bitch, please…” I smile and say, “Sure, that sounds nice,” acknowledging the request but not committing to a thing.
“Very nice,” Mahirah says, her voice becoming a little less friendly than before.
I say nothing. Just smile as inanely as the person she probably imagined me to be before her little “visit.” Not only because I have zero hope that Zahir would let me leave the palace to go shopping, but also because of the conversation I overheard at Sylvie’s wedding. Hadn’t Zahir said something to Holt about the mall project being a disaster for some reason?
Thankfully, my total lack of enthusiasm for the proposed shopping trip is Mahirah’s cue to get the hell out of here. “Sadly, I must prepare myself for a tennis lesson in the next hour. It was lovely to sit and chat with you,” she says.
“And you,” I reply, imitating but not quite landing her dulcet tones.
But neither of us takes Aisha into account. After nearly twenty minutes of being seen and not heard, the little girl isn’t nearly as calm about leaving so soon. “But we just got here!” she cries to her mother. “And I wanted to spend more time with Prin—I mean Ms. Prin.”
Annoyance flashes across her mother’s carefully placid face, but before she can chide Aisha I say, “Do you mind if she stays with me for a little bit? Aisha and I could sit by the pool until your husband is done with his meeting.”
Mahirah hesitates and I add, “Besides, Zahir adores little Aisha. I’m sure he’ll want to hear how excited we both are about a possible shopping trip.”
I can almost see the mental calculations she’s running on leaving Aisha in the care of a bad influence like me versus the possibility of me advocating for her mall cause with Zahir. And my “pro” column must get more check marks because she gives me another serene nod and says, “I’ll text Rashid and let him know to pick Aisha up before he leaves.”
I play it cool, but Aisha cheers…then cheeses when her mother shoots her a censorious look.
We both watch as Mahirah leaves with the staff member she brought, trailing behind her.
“Now we can finally dance!” Aisha says as soon as her mother is out of earshot. “I know the perfect place.”
Chapter Fifteen
The perfect place turns out to be a room laid out exactly like mine. But layout is all the two rooms have in common. The furniture, including the bed, features a lot of brass and has a delicate look with swaths of sheer, gauzy fabric strung about as if a production of A Mid-Summer’s Night Dream might break out at any moment. And unlike my comparatively spare room, this one is stuffed with a collection of random artifacts. A bright pink 80s-era child’s bike with an overlong seat; several planks of wood; a surfboard; a number of colorful kites; and even a sideboard console—the kind that used to come with built-in record players.
One wall is comprised of shelves stuffed with paperbacks and hardcover books. But it seems an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves isn’t enough because each shelving block has several stacks of books piled in front of them. The piles are taller than Aisha and only a little shorter than me. I get the feeling they were probably not nearly as organized when the former resident lived there.
When they lived there. Not to get all superstitious like Sylvie, but I can almost feel the presence of a spirit linked to this room. Vibrant and messy, even though someone has gone through a lot of trouble to neatly stack the books and push the assortment of vintage stuff against the walls. Neither my mother nor father kept in touch with their parents, but this room helps me better understand the phrase, “like your grandma’s attic.”
At first, the room is delightful—like stumbling into a treasure-filled vault.
But then I look past the collection of random hodgepodge and begin to notice the walls. Someone has scribbled all over them in a swirly language that reminds me faintly of Thai or Japanese but is neither…nor is it Arabic. In some places the writing is neat, but in others it is little more than angry slashes. There are also angry slashes on the hardwood floor. Some appears to have been written using the same ink, but there are a disconcerting few that are clearly shallow carvings. The kind that can only result from using a butter knife or fork…
I look over my shoulder at Nabida who is peering around the room as if she is equally as wonder and horror struck as me.
“Who lived here?” I ask Aisha. The little girl has crossed the room to the sideboard console, slid open its bottom door, and begins picking through the collection of brightly-colored records neatly shelved inside.
“Ama Hiba, but she’s dead now.” Aisha pauses just long enough to let her shoulders sag. “I miss her. Baba used to let me visit our aunt whenever he came to speak with the sheikh. But she died right before Amo Zahir became king and I had no one here to play with.”
She brightens. “But now I have you! And I’ll make Baba bring me every time he comes to meet with Amo Zahir.”
I can tell the little girl is lonely and I try not to feel guilty that I’ll only be here for another five months and then I’ll probably never step foot in Jahwar again.
“Your aunt…is she…was she your uncle’s mother?”
Aisha tips her head in the way of a child who has never given much thought to how people are connected to anyone but herself. “Yeah, I guess she was,” she answers.
I turn my gaze to Nabida for confirmation but the little attendant quickly lowers her eyes, as if defending herself from any questions I might want to ask her.
I look at the books… the record-filled sideboard…the easels and dark ink. And though I already have a feeling I won’t like the answer, I have to ask the little girl, “Aisha, did you ever see her outside this room?”
“No, she was very sick inside her head and because of that, she was not allowed to come out.”
I check with Nabida and her stoically lowered head tells me this version of the story must be true.
Not allowed to come out. She was the wife of a sheikh, but like me, she was kept in a gilded cage far from where people could see her.
A chill runs down my back.
“Oh, here it is!” Aisha pops up back to standing with a tomato red record in her hands. “This was my favorite to dance to with Ama,” she says lifting up the hinged lid of the console to reveal the record player embedded inside. “But we must wait a few minutes for the music guts inside to warm up…”
She presses down on a switch and the sideboard powers up with a thunk before emitting a heavy hum. I notice this particular piece of furniture is not like the walls and floor. It’s lacquered wood remains unmolested and gleaming with care. Zahir’s mother must have really loved this old-fashioned music device, and I imagine her in here, listening to the record player like I listen to music on the smart speaker when I’m studying or all alone.
After a few minutes, the humming stops and Aisha slides the record out of its sleeve. She puts it on the turntable so e
xpertly, I can almost see the amount of time she’s spent in this room as she places the needle. A few sterolicious clicks later, what sounds like sixties-era Bollywood dance music fills up the room.
I’ve never heard music played on one of these vintage consoles. And the sound quality is shockingly rich and warm without the electronic circuits of the smart home speaker to modulate.
And as for the music…
I don’t understand a thing the Elvis-esque male crooner and reedy-voiced female singer are saying. But I easily bounce up and down to it, following Aisha’s lead. I can’t imagine anyone staying seated while this particular upbeat song is playing—though Nabida shakes her head and both hands when I try to get her to join in.
“This is something else Ama taught me!” Aisha yells over the music, knocking her hands back and forth and swirling them down to the rhythm of the wild syncopated drum beat. I do it, too, laughing and glad we finally get this chance to dance together. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun—
We both come to an abrupt stop when we see the man in a floor-length tunic and a black-and-white-patterned head dress, standing in the door with two elite guards behind him.
“Amo Zahir!” Aisha yells over the music. At first she looks as if she might give him another of her running hugs. But she falters when she sees the look on his face. Thunderous and outraged.
“Turn off the music.” Strange, Zahir doesn’t appear to be yelling, but we can easily hear him over the full orchestra playing underneath the song.
I walk over to the sideboard and flip the switch, stopping it and the record player all in one go. By the time I’m done, Aisha’s face looks like it’s on the verge of crumpling. “Amo Zahir, I was only showing Princess—Ms. Prin—Ama’s room! Why are you so angry with us?”
Zahir doesn’t answer, just speaks to Nabida and my female guards in low, angry Arabic. Nabida steps forward as soon as he’s done and escorts a tearful Aisha from the room while a female guard says to me, “This way please.”
ZAHIR_Her Ruthless Sheikh Page 10