Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 CONCUBINES

   By Ezra Zane

   I met Prince Mohammed, first son and heir of a sheik, my junior year
when he transferred to The Petroleum Engineering School at The University
of Texas.  We discovered we both liked hunting, golf, fast cars, a good
laugh and women, as well as the oil business.  We became best friends.

   Attracting women wasn't a problem for me.  My family wasn't in the
Sheik's class but my grandfather was a hell-for-leather wildcatter and left
us rich.  Dad added to the pile and I was hoping to expand it yet again
when it was my turn.  The truth is when you're big rich and good-looking,
the women swarm like bees on honey.

   Attracting women wasn't a problem for Prince Mohammed either.  He had
two wives, Nudara and Sara, and a concubine named Hasna.  Nudara, first
daughter of another sheik, married Mohammed when they were both fourteen in
an arrangement to bind the two sheikdoms together.  She was smart, sincere,
and tough enough to be the primary wife of a future ruler.  Sara, the shy
and sweet daughter of a wealthy, westernized Arab businessman, became his
second wife when he was eighteen and she sixteen.  They were polite,
intelligent, and demure women, devoted to their shared husband without a
hint of jealousy or discord.

   Hasna, a gift to Mohammed from his father, was a beautiful woman with an
open and ripe sensuality that she mastered in all its nuances.  Seeing her
made a man want sex in the same way that smelling fresh-baked bread made a
man want to eat.

   The Prince told me Hasna descended from a line of beautiful women bred
and raised to please men.  Ten generations ago, a fierce warlord began the
process in a mountain enclave.  Careful selection of men and women over the
years enhanced the breeding process.  Hasna was proof of their success.

   The Prince and I opted to enroll in the MBA program after we received
our Petroleum Engineering degrees.  The week before school was out for the
summer, an amateurish assassination attempt was made on his life.  I
responded to the situation and, fortunately, no harm came to the Prince or
me.  I didn't think I was doing something heroic.  In fact, I didn't think
at all.  I reacted.  But the Sheik saw it as heroic and credited me with
saving his son's life.

   At the Sheik's request, I accompanied Mohammed to the Sheikdom.  I met
the Sheik in a large, open room he used for meetings.  He sat on a large,
ornate chair some might call a throne.  Prince Mohammed was seated to his
left.  The Sheik motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite him.

   A woman in a white burqat knelt on a small Persian rug beside the
Sheik's chair with her head bowed.  The burqat is both a head covering with
an eye screen that allows its wearer to see but be unseen, and a full
costume consisting of the head covering and, in essence, an outer dress. 
The tail of the head covering falls to cover the breast.

   "Michael," the Sheik began.  "I can not thank you enough for saving my
son's life.  I want you to accept a small token of my gratitude." His white
teeth shone brightly against his dark face when he motioned to the woman
next to him.  "Your first concubine.  Her name is Kamilah."

   I was too shocked to respond.  Mohammed said, "I knew he would be
speechless.  Mike, my friend, she is Hasna's full sister, every bit as
beautiful and well-trained."

   For me, a westerner and commoner, to be given such a woman was a unique
honor.  To be given a woman like Hasna was blessing upon blessing.  "I am
truly thankful, Your Highness.  You've honored me beyond imagination." The
Sheik heard my hesitation.

   "Mohammed said you'd fear accepting because of your government's
official policy toward slavery and the ridiculous mores of your culture,"
the Sheik said.  I nodded dumbly as I stared at the tiny white form beside
him.  "I have a plan to discuss with you when the time is ripe, but now you
should enjoy her.  Go to his quarters, Kamilah, and prepare for your new
master."

   Silently, she rose and glided from the room like a ghost, accompanied by
the faint tinkling of bells.

   We three men sipped tea and talked for another hour or so before the
Sheik adjourned us.  I went to my quarters, a luxurious room containing a
large bed, a desk and chair, sitting area, and an adjoining modern
bathroom. On each side of the bed was a Persian rug, a coverlet, and
several small pillows for women to sleep on as they waited for their master
to call them to his bed.

   When I entered my quarters, Kamilah scurried to her knees.  The
all-encompassing costume trembled as I stood beside her.  When I touched
her head covering, she gasped and her hands clenched into tiny,
glove-covered fists.  I removed it to find she wore a hijab, or head scarf,
and a veil.  I pulled them away, revealing lustrous raven hair.

   "Look at your new master, Kamilah," I said quietly.

   Her head jerked upward and I stared into the magnificent face of a
sensual woman.  Wide, bright green eyes shone at me from round eyeholes
beneath heavy, black, slightly-arched eyebrows.  Nose straight from the
bridge.  High cheekbones.  Straight jawline.  Full lips.  Her skin tone
wasn't the olive of an Italian or the dark-brown of an Arab.  It was a
lighter brown, with no hint of black or green hues.  More a light pecan
color.

   She studied me as I studied her.  Her eyes softened.  She smiled,
showing straight, bright-white teeth, and a dimple on the left side of her
mouth.

   "Stand," I commanded, and she sprang to her feet.  "Remove your gloves."
She didn't understand so I assisted her.  Her small hands trembled in mine.
I removed the outer dress.  She wore an abaya, or dress, under it.  She
trembled with anticipation as I removed the abaya and her underclothes.

   About five feet tall with hair reaching her knees, she was a living
doll, an hourglass with large, ripe breasts and a prominent rump that
demanded a man's attention.  Her full, dull black bush lay below the Venus
mound pooch of her belly.  Her only adornment was a silver chain with eight
small, silver bells around her left ankle, like the one Hasna wore.

   "Turn," I said, and she didn't respond.  I made a circle motion with my
hand.  She turned on tiptoes.  "You are beautiful, Kamilah," I said
honestly.

   I didn't expect a reply because I thought she didn't speak English, but
she said, "I no understand."

   "You please me."

   "I happy please master," she said with a soft sultriness.

   "Undress me," I said.

   As I watched her face so alive with sexual promise and felt her
trembling fingers as they grazed my skin, I wondered how she was trained.
What did they do with her to make her so eager to please a man?  How did
they teach her to make each nuance so erotic?  Most women learn modesty and
propriety.  Maybe Kamilah was untrained woman, raw and visceral, alive and
sensual, as God made Eve before she met the snake.

   She removed my boots.  I stood to let her remove my trousers.  When she
tugged down my jockeys, my erect cock popped in her face.  Eyes wide, she
stared at it before turning red and slowly pulling my briefs down my legs
without taking her eyes off it.  She knelt with her knees together and her
hands folded primly in her lap.

   "Why do you keep staring at my penis?"

   "I no understand."

   "Looking at this," I said, making my cock bounce up and down.

   "Cock.  Master say 'looking at cock.' I not see live.  Only dead."

   "Dead?"

   "Not man.  Toy.  Not big like you."

   "Are you a virgin?"

   "I no understand 'virgin.'"

   "Has a man put his cock in you between your legs?"

   "In my pussy?" she asked horrified.  "No.  I no have man." She was
indignant that I should think such a thing, but her sexuality flared like
oxygenated coals and the heat covered me in waves.

   "Do you want a man?" I asked.

   She blushed in mahogany hues and smiled shyly with her head down-turned.
Those brilliant green eyes never left mine and her slightly arched back
offered her breasts to me.

   "I want please my master."

   I extended my arms.  She smiled widely as she rose.  When I cupped her
breasts and felt her hard nipples, she moaned.  I slipped my hand between
her legs.  Her plumped, oozing pussy and her whimper when my finger grazed
her slit testified to her readiness.

   I pointed to the bed.  She crawled on it and pulled her hair forward to
rest over her left shoulder like a bride adjusting the train on her wedding
dress.  With elbows on the bed and hands against the wall, she spread her
knees wide to offer herself dog-style.  No doubt we would fuck that way one
day, and the tiny winking bud of her anus between the rounds of her
asscheeks would receive my attention, but not tonight.  I rolled her on her
back.  She brought her legs up and held them open with her hands behind her
knees.

   I watched her face as I rubbed my cockhead up and down her slit,
lathering it with her copious juice.  She looked frightened for an instant
before unrestrained sensuality burst forth like sunshine.  I nudged my cock
against her opening, pushed her legs up, and pulled her hands down by her
head with my fingers around her wrists.

   I was in no hurry to fully penetrate this rare prize as she became
accustomed to the first man in her.  Her face told me she couldn't believe
what was happening to her or the sensations she felt.  She twitched and
moved as her muscles accommodated me.  I fought my desire to hurry, slowly
building the tempo toward an excruciating crescendo.  She began to sweat.
Her face signaled her surrender to her passions and muted groans heralded
her approaching climax.

   Her first orgasm exploded like a geyser and she bucked and screamed. 
Her pussy spasmed on my cock, but I fought my own reward and increased the
force and tempo.  She came again, astonished by her own pleasure, then
again as an unending stream of orgasms overtook her.  Her pussy pulled my
cock deep into her and held it there, massaging it, and drawing my seed to
her awaiting womb, before I collapsed on her.

   After recovering from her own pleasure, she started to inch away from
me. Concubines are taught to slip out of their master's bed without
disturbing him when their master's pleasure is complete, return to their
mat, and await his command.  I grabbed her and said, "Stay."

   "Yes, Master," she whispered.

   She lay beside me as I floated in that semi-comatose post-orgasmic
state. She didn't touch me, but her eyes caressed my face.  "I touch,
Master?" she asked.  I nodded.  She silently slipped under the heavy
comforter and disappeared from view.

   Her hands were on me, her breasts brushed against me.  Fingers slid down
my leg.  Lips brushed the top of my foot and a leg lay across me.  The
softness of a breast grazed my thigh.  The tip of a tongue touched my
cockhead.  She stopped and I could feel her heart pounding against me.  Her
tongue traced the underside of my cock, stopping to lick the base with her
little hand around the shaft, before gently licking my balls.

   I tugged her hair.  She flowed up my body until her head emerged from
under the covers, revealing a broad smile and dancing eyes.  I guided her
over my cock.  She knew what I wanted and quickly impaled herself.  The
fruit of her breasts swayed over my lips.  I nibbled as she rode me.

   She tried to control her rhythm, but her instincts quickly consumed her.
Her face contorted in the sweet agony of orgasm and she threw back her
head. Droplets of sweat fell on me.  I had not moved, letting her do all
the work.

   "Pleasure me," I demanded.

   She humped faster.  I massaged her breasts, stroked her thighs, and
tickled her clit, which was a hard and prominent knob of pleasure.  Orgasm
after orgasm wracked her, leaving us soaked in her sweat and love juices,
until she sagged on me too exhausted to move.  I rolled her on her back,
pinned her knees by her head, and released all my energy I had so carefully
contained, driving into her with hard, deep strokes.  Her heat rose.  Her
pussy throbbed around my cock until we came together and I fell limp on
her. I commanded, "Stay," before I rested with my head in the swell of her
breasts.

   It was the best fuck of my life.

   **

   The brilliant sun streamed through the glass door and awakened me. 
Kamilah's body was pressed against me with her hair tangled around us.  She
mumbled in Arabic when I awakened her and tottered into the bathroom with
me to bathe and dress.

   Breakfast was with Mohammed as Hasna and Kamilah, each dressed in an
abaya and hijab, served us.  That day, we met with several of the Sheik's
advisors to discuss the potential of a water-flood injection in an older
field.

   That night at dinner, I ate with the Sheik and Mohammed.  Wives were
absent and concubines again served.  Kamilah never spoke and her eyes were
always downturned, never meeting mine.

   After dinner, the Sheik said, "Since you have but one woman, I've
arranged for another to join you tonight, Michael.  No woman should be
taken every night.  They need their rest.  Your little Kamilah still feels
the effects of her first surrender as you can see by her movements." If she
knew what was said, she didn't show it.

   When I returned to my quarters that night, Kamilah was on her mat by my
bed.  Muna, who had served us at dinnertime, was on the other mat. 
Kamilah's eyes flashed at me, piqued with a haughty, uncontrolled jealousy
she made no attempt to hide.  Quickly, she looked away, but her tiny hands
were clenched in her lap.  I lifted her head to look at me.  Jealousy gave
way to fear and passive acceptance.

   I didn't speak to her.  I undressed and made my toilet before climbing
into bed.  "Muna, come," I said.  She crawled into bed and pleasured me.  I
commanded her to stay to tweak Kamilah's jealousy.  I wasn't angry with
Kamilah, but she would learn to accept what I did without resentment.

   I ignored Kamilah in the morning and that night when I returned to my
quarters.  She seethed on her mat as Nada, a buxom Slav, warmed and
pleasured me.  The next morning, Kamilah's anger was cool, but I ignored
her again.  She needed to learn.

   I dined with Mohammed, Nudara, and Sara that night.  Hasna, Kamilah, and
Muna served us.  When dinner was over, the Prince dismissed Muna to my
room.

   Sara glanced at her husband and he nodded.  "Michael," she said to me,
"May I command your concubine?"

   "Certainly," I replied.

   "Girl!  Come," Sara said with a snap of her fingers.  Obviously
frightened, Kamilah hurried to kneel by her.  Mohammed pointed to the floor
by his chair.  Hasna dropped to her knees.

   "Sara will translate all that is said for Kamilah," Mohammed said.  Sara
whispered in Kamilah's ear.  "I have learned your concubine was jealous and
petulant.  Is this true?"

   "Yes, it is, Mohammed," I replied.

   "Hasna filled her ears with stories that American men have only one wife
and no concubines.  Kamilah wishes to be that one woman to you, and they
have conspired to manipulate the situation." As Sara translated, Kamilah's
skin turned cherrywood red and her hands trembled.

   Mohammed continued, "Both need punishment.  There are hierarchies of
punishment as these bad girls are aware.  Punishment in private by their
master is the least form and punishment in public by the harem master is
the worst, with gradients in between." Tears slipped down Hasna's cheek as
the Prince calmly sipped his tea.

   "May I make a suggestion?" Nudara asked.

   The Prince nodded.

   "They have embarrassed us.  Private punishment is not in order," Nudara
said.

   "Continue," the Prince said.

   "I should punish Hasna in front of Michael, and he should punish Kamilah
in our presence," she said.  Her jaw was set and her eyes angry.

   Nudara's suggestion was a special humiliation for Hasna.  I would see
her naked and punished.  In the hierarchy of women, wives, like Nudara and
Sara, are always concealed from the eyes of men except their husbands and
certain family members.  Concubines, like Hasna and Kamilah, are shown or
not shown at the pleasure of their master, but never shared with another
man.  For example, I had only seen Mohammed's wives fully clothed.  I had
seen Hasna in a bikini, but not naked.  Slave girls, like Muna and Nada,
were seen and shared.

   Mohammed and I agreed with her suggestion.  He led the way, with his
wives escorting the wayward concubines, to a part of the Sheik's castle I
had never seen-the harem, the guarded and secluded area where the women
live.  He led us into a small room used for punishment.  Shackles and
chains on a pulley system hung from the ceiling.  Holding rings were
embedded in the walls and floor.  Against one wall was a flat table with a
cage underneath it.

   Nudara didn't wait for further permission.  She spoke to Sara. 
Together, they stripped Hasna as she cried.  The shackles were wide steel
cuffs.  Sara secured her ankles and Nudara her wrists.  The ankle shackles,
attached to rings in the floor, held her legs open so widely Hasna might
have lost her balance, but her wrist shackles, attached to chains dangling
from the ceiling, pulled her arms above her and held her upright.

   Nudara selected a whip with three strands of braided leather, barked
fiercely at Hasna in Arabic, and began.  The blows were well-spaced for
psychological and physical effect.  Nudara admonished her between each
blow. Hasna received ten blows before Nudara released her, and held her in
her arms to whisper in her ear until the harem master arrived to lead Hasna
away.

   "What did you say to her?" I asked.

   Nudara exhaled loudly and relaxed, her fury spent.  "I told her she was
an embarrassment to her master the Prince, her ruler the Sheik, our family,
and all womanhood, and I would not tolerate her embarrassing my husband.  I
said this was for her own good, to remind her to behave.  And that I loved
her."

   "Have you ever been whipped, Nudara?" I asked.

   She glanced at her husband and her eyes flashed sensually.  "Am I not a
woman?" she said.  Sara blushed and giggled.

   Mohammed asked, "Have you disciplined a woman, Mike?"

   "Yes," I replied.

   "Then you know the whip is key.  This one will burn, but not tear," he
said, handing me the whip his first wife used on Hasna.

   "Please translate, Sara," I said.  She agreed.  "Kamilah," I said as I
took her face in my hands, "Your spirit and body please me, but I am your
master and I will have your mind and your obedience.  I promise you nothing
in return except that your improper behavior will be severely punished. 
Bind your hair on your head."

   Kamilah sobbed, "Yes, Master," as she began to coil her hair on her
head. I bound her as Hasna had been bound, in an exaggerated Y.  Seeing
such a magnificent female helpless before me was a turn-on, but there was
no turn-on like seeing her face flare with passion when she was under me. I
wanted to secure her loyalty and her obedience.

   I whipped all of her, front and back, except that fragile flower between
her legs.  She wailed and screamed.  Between each blow, I took her chin in
my hand and brought her eyes to mine.  When I was through, I asked Mohammed
to call for the harem master to treat her wounds before delivering her to
my room.

   Mohammed, his wives, and I retired to his sitting room where we
discussed women and men and culture.  Sara said, "Mike, Kamilah never asked
you to stop or lessen the blows when you punished her.  She only begged for
forgiveness."

   "A good sign," Mohammed commented, and I agreed.

   Two hours later, I returned to my room.  Muna lay sleeping on the mat on
one side of my bed.  Kamilah was on the other mat with her hands bound
behind her and her right ankle shackled to the bed.  I released her bonds
before climbing into bed.

   "Come, Kamilah," I commanded.

   Kamilah slipped into my bed and squirmed against me.  She tried to
ignore the pain remaining from her whipping, but she moved gingerly and
winced when a particularly tender spot was touched.  "Forgive me," she
pleaded.

   "I forgive you." I kissed her softly for the first time.

   She was stunned and thrilled, returning my kiss with abandon as tears of
joy streamed down her face.  As she well knew, a master kisses a concubine
like that that way to tell her she is cherished and special to him.  We
fucked until we both were satiated and exhausted.  She was the best.

   The next day, the Sheik returned from his trip.  He explained the plan
he had to scam the government of the United States into supporting my
owning a concubine.  Of course, I readily agreed for the memory of Kamilah
under me kept my blood simmering.  I boarded his plane that night to take
me home.  I left a teary-eyed Kamilah with the promise I would return for
her.

   When I got home, there were phone calls from my parents, several
friends, and six women.  I called Nancy first, but she was out of town.  I
then called Estella who came over and spent the night.

   I received daily reports from Mohammed or Nudara about the progress of
negotiations between the Sheikdom and the United States concerning my
insulting the Sheik.  I hadn't, of course, but that was his scam.  On the
fourth day back, Mohammed told me the State Department wanted to interview
Kamilah.  We granted the interview, but Nudara, concealed by a burqat,
would pretend to be Kamilah.

   On the sixth day, Nudara called from the Sheikdom.  She said, "The
interview went very well, Mike, and there was a plus.  A woman named
Abigail Beavers represented your State Department.  You need to meet her."

   "Why?"

   "She's beautiful and intelligent.  Most importantly, she has the heart
and soul of a concubine."

   We talked a bit more before we disconnected.  I thought about this woman
I'd never met, and women in general and relationships, personal, family,
and otherwise.

   Mine was not a normal family, if normal means having a husband and wife
who live together and raise their children.  My grandfather, "Big Mike"
Price, was married and divorced seven times.  To Granddad, marriage was an
estate and tax planning tool rather than a commitment.  Each wife received
part of his millions upon divorce, with her wealth ultimately going to the
children she bore by him.  Divorce didn't mean abandonment.  Every wife had
a house in Granddad's compound.  Each night, all the wives and children ate
dinner and spent the evening together at his mansion before returning to
their own houses.

   My father's home wasn't "normal" either.  There was my father Patrick,
my mother Elizabeth, and me, Aunt Maria, her two children by my father,
Patricio and Eva, and Aunt Charlene.  We children had the second floor. 
The four adults shared the master bedroom downstairs.

   I never intended to have one wife forever and ever.  Two women I dated
suggested marriage and plainly stated I was welcome to play around. 
Another said she liked women as much as I did and offered a multitude of
options.  Something was missing with all of them.  Now, things were
starting to come into focus.

   **

   The State Department called the next morning.  They wanted me in
Washington and the FBI would provide an escort.  As I hung up, there was a
knock at my door.  Two men in dark-blue suits flashed their badges, waited
as I changed and packed, and took me to a private, unmarked plane.  Once
onboard, they gave me a cold sandwich, a bottle of soda, and an old
magazine before ignoring me all the way to Washington.  A limousine whisked
us to the State Department Building.

   My silent guards ushered me into a large office with a huge desk.  A man
and a woman sat opposite the desk silently waiting.  A little man about
forty with a combed-over pate marched from behind the desk and extended his
hand.  "I'm Cecil Potter Wainscot the fourth, Deputy Assistant Under
Secretary for Middle Eastern Affairs," he said smoothly.  "Thank you for
coming, Mr.  Price."

   "I didn't have a choice, did I?" I replied neutrally.

   He grinned.  "You didn't.  The President personally asked me to handle
this situation to his satisfaction.  This is Phillip Carnegie McReynolds
the third, and Amanda Abigail Beavers," Wainscot said.  McReynolds, a
slightly taller, younger, paler version of Wainscot rose and pumped my hand
twice as he gave me a tepid plastic smile.

   Nudara was right.  Miss Beavers was a beauty.  I extended my hand to
shake hers.  When our fingers touched, electricity crackled.  She jerked
and her eyes widened.

   "Miss Beavers," I said as I smiled at her.

   "Mr.  Price," she said with a soft sensuality.

   "Please, have a seat," Wainscot said.  I took the empty chair on the
end, turned it slightly so I could keep Miss Beavers in sight, and sat. 
"Let me get right down to the problem, Mr.  Price," Wainscot continued. 
"The Sheik offered you a gift and you refused, which is a great insult to
any Arab.  The Sheik and his country are vitally important to the economic
and strategic interests of the United States.  The President wants you to
make the Sheik happy and he wants it now."

   "I've talked with Prince Mohammed," I said.

   "What did the Prince say?" Wainscot demanded.

   "Exactly?"

   "Exactly," he commanded.

   "He said, 'Mike, you're being an ass.  Take the girl and enjoy her.'"
Amanda Abigail Beavers reddened and her hands trembled as she looked down
and away.

   "Those were the President's words, too," Wainscot said.  He sat back in
the large, overstuffed chair.  "And I agree.  You're being an ass, Mr. 
Price.  You saved the Prince's life and his father wants to reward you.  He
wants to give you a woman and an allowance that will maintain you and her.
Only an idiot would turn that down."

   "Did it occur to you that slavery is illegal in the United States?" I
asked.

   "I know that," Wainscot replied testily.  His fingers drummed his desk
and he scowled into space.

   Miss Beavers and I studied each other.  Big, submissive, blue eyes
behind oversized, round, black-framed glasses pleaded with me.  Her hands
twisted in her lap.  Unknowingly, she was confirming what I had been told
about her.  In that instant, the game plan changed.  I knew the Sheik
wouldn't mind.

   Wainscot's drumming stopped and he stared at me.  "No one needs to know
she's a slave," he said.

   "True," I answered.  "But, the gift of the woman is conditional.  If I
don't want to keep her, or if she causes problems, the Sheik will take her
back, by force if need be.  The women's groups would scream if they found
out.  Or, some overzealous do-gooder in the Attorney General's Department
could raise an issue."

   "The woman won't complain because she wants this.  Doesn't she,
Abigail?"

   "Yes, Mr.  Wainscot," she replied.  "She understands the situation and
its ramifications."

   "How do you know?" I asked.

   "Abigail is fluent in Arabic.  She had eight uninterrupted hours with
the woman and returned only yesterday.  What's her name?" Wainscot said.

   "Kamilah," Miss Beavers said.  "She speaks highly of you, Mr.  Price. 
She wants to be your concubine."

   "She may say she wants to be my concubine, but how do you know what's in
her woman's heart?" I asked of Miss Amanda Abigail Beavers.

   "I know, Mr.  Price," she replied softly.

   McReynolds missed her real meaning, but Wainscot didn't and neither did
I.  Miss Beavers flushed and her lower lip trembled.  Her eyes, wide and
soft and almost transparent, never left mine.  From the corner of my eye, I
could see Wainscot watching intently, his eyes flicking back and forth
between us.

   Wainscot was a pro and hid his feelings well.  "What can we do to get
this off dead center?" he asked.

   "You tell me," I replied.

   "We'll provide official protection for the Sheik and for you relative to
your acquisition of the woman, and his reacquisition, if need be," Wainscot
said.  I didn't reply.  "And appropriate documents to bring the woman here
and keep her with you in whatever relationship you want.  I'll even throw
in a State Department plane to take you there to pick her up."

   "May I make a suggestion?" Miss Beavers asked.

   "Go ahead," Wainscot answered.

   "I think if I'm assigned to Mr.  Price, I can ease the transition and
grease some wheels along the way."

   "Carn, would you excuse us," Wainscot said.  McReynolds left the room.

   Wainscot dropped his professional veneer.  A smooth, tough, and savvy
man was underneath.  "You want to be assigned to Mr.  Price and receive
your orders from him, don't you?" he asked.

   Amanda Abigail Beavers straightened her back and folded her shaking
hands in her lap.  She was perched on the edge of the chair with her feet
and knees primly together.  She looked directly at me.  "Yes, Mr. 
Wainscot," she said with unwavering assurance.

   "Please excuse us," Wainscot said.  After the door closed behind her, he
said, "I wondered what turned her on.  There were some signs it was
submission, but when I tried taking her down that path, she rebelled and
pulled up short."

   "What can you tell me about her?"

   "Professional and competent.  Smart.  Well educated.  A fabulous body
under those conservative clothes." Wainscot grinned lewdly.  "And a good,
but not great, fuck."

   "Does she do that a lot?" I asked.

   "Not as much as I want, but what woman does?  She's picky, not what I'd
call promiscuous, but she's no reluctant virgin either.  I can name
half-a-dozen guys she's done." His fingers did a rapid tattoo on the desk.
"No anal sex.  Her cocksucking is half-hearted.  But she humps with the
best of them." His fingers drummed again before he said, "I've always felt
she was holding back, that there was a depth she didn't let any man touch."

   "Maybe I can find it," I said.

   "Too true." His fingers danced a quick staccato.  "Well, good luck, not
that you'll need it."

   "Thanks," I said.

   "You're welcome," he replied.  He stood, came around the desk, and shook
my hand.  "State will deliver on my promises.  It's up to you, Mr.  Price,
to make the Sheik happy.  That will make the President happy and that makes
me happy.  Your gift and Miss Beavers should make you delirious with
happiness."

   I called the Sheik to inform him the arrangements were complete and
Amanda Abigail Beavers would be coming with me.  Miss Beavers was waiting
for me in the outer office.  I told her to pack and rejoin me here because
we were leaving tonight.  After she departed, I read her dossier Wainscot
gave me.

   Amanda Abigail Beavers was born and raised in Bucks County,
Pennsylvania, the younger of two daughters of a prominent Philadelphia
attorney and his wife, who had been a professional model.  Her older
sister, formerly a model specializing in lingerie, was the wife of a New
York industrialist.

   The dossier said Abigail was five nine, one hundred thirty-four pounds,
and in excellent health with no identifying scars or tattoos.  She did all
the standard things in high school like cheerleading, tried modeling but
didn't like it, and enjoyed skiing and dancing.  She was twenty-four, which
was my age.  She graduated from The University of Pennsylvania with highest
honors in Asian and Middle Eastern Studies with a double concentration in
Modern Islamic Nations and Arabic.

   Because she excelled at languages, The State Department schooled her in
Arabic, Farsi, and Urdu before assigning her to the Middle Eastern
Department as a translator.  She had been there almost two years and worked
directly for Wainscot.  There was nothing negative in her files.  Each
evaluation and report glowed with comments on her intelligence, poise,
competence, and dedication to duty.

   I observed she was beautiful, with a heart shaped face, big blue eyes,
and a slightly scooped nose of a perfect size for her face.  Her skin was
pale.  Her shoulder length hair was light brown with a glimmering mixture
of red-blonde highlights.  Her lips were feminine and of medium thickness.
She had narrow wrists and ankles, patrician hands and feet, and a stately
elegance of class and breeding.

   When she returned to the State Department office with suitcase in hand,
she wore a knee-length, loose-fitting black skirt and a pink blouse with
long, puffed sleeves.  The blouse buttoned to her neck and had a pink bow
under her chin, creating a package waiting to be unwrapped.  The State
Department limo whisked us to the State Department plane, which took us
away.

   Once airborne, we sat next to each other in the rear seats and talked at
length.  I learned about her family and her life, but not her sex life. 
Except for a tingling undercurrent of sexual tension, she was at ease with
me, as if I was an old friend, but she called me "Mr.  Price" even though I
called her "Abby."

   "You haven't asked any questions about me," I said.

   "I know about you," she said.

   "How?"

   "When this problem arose, Cecil ordered me to investigate.  I started
with the FBI files on you.  You've been under surveillance because of your
friendship with Prince Mohammed.  I re-interviewed some of your old girl
friends.  They were quite open with me.  A government badge and sympathetic
ear can have that effect.  I learned a lot about you."

   "Such as?"

   "All the standards things - intelligence, sense of humor, what you like
to eat or to do.  We talked a lot about your sexual qualities and
preferences."

   "Such as?" I asked again.

   "They all said you're a demanding lover, not cruel but strong and
commanding like a sheik or medieval knight, and that you treat a woman
well. All of them commented on your endowment," she said with a knowing
grin.  "One of the married ones said she was having an affair with you."

   "Patricia or Nancy?" I asked.

   She was surprised.  "I didn't know about Patricia," she replied.  "I
guess our investigation wasn't as thorough as it should've been.  Tell me
about her."

   "She likes a hard hand occasionally," I said.

   She had been relaxed, her face soft, eyes twinkling, and hands animated.
She visibly tightened and her eyes asked a thousand questions before she
continued.  "Ah, yes.  A hard hand.  Most of them said you could be a
gentle lover, but somehow you knew when they wanted a hard hand, as you
call it.  Then you became a master in the dominance and submission sense. A
master who demanded of them and gave them great pleasure." The smile
disappeared.  "Only one said she didn't miss you in her life.  She said
what you wanted from her scared her."

   "That would be Carla Chambers," I interjected.

   "Yes, it was.  Why did you want to have her pierced and tattooed?"

   "She was playing a game, a surrender game, but I wasn't playing a game.
I wanted her actual surrender."

   "Why?" she asked.

   "It makes no difference.  It's the way I am.  Let me reverse the
question.  Why are you submissive?"

   Her expression said she was deciding whether to tell the truth or turn
the conversation in another direction.  "It makes no difference," she
whispered hoarsely.

   "That's what this is about, isn't it?"

   "Yes," she whispered.

   "If I take you, Abby, I will have your surrender."

   Abby took a long time before saying.  "And if I don't surrender?"

   "Our relationship will be over before it's begun.  But you will." I
cupped her left breast through her blouse.  She froze, neither blinking nor
breathing, as beads of sweat oozed out on her forehead.  "Have you played
dominance and submission games?" I asked.

   "Yes," she gasped before sucking in a bushel of air.

   "With how many men?"

   "Two."

   "But they didn't give you what you needed." A tiny shake of her head. 
"When you learned about me, you sought me out, hoping I was the one." One
tiny nod of her head.  I opened the button on her blouse nearest her waist.
"In the games, submission is usually mild at first.  Gradually, it grows."

   With the second button undone, I slipped my hand in her blouse, pushed
her bra above her breasts, and rolled her hard nipple between thumb and
forefinger.  She quivered and licked her lips.  "There's a safeword to say
if you want the games to stop.  Did you have a safeword?"

   She nodded.  "Marigold," she whispered.

   I slowly increased the pressure on her nipple until pain showed in her
eyes.  She made no move to grab my arm.  "We won't be playing games.  Your
submission will be real." I released her and sat back.  She didn't move.

   "No safeword.  No stopping or going back.  Complete submission and
unconditional surrender.  Tomorrow this plane will return to Washington
without Kamilah or me.  You can return to Washington tomorrow, or you can
stay with me and I will train you to be my concubine."

   "What if I want to end it?  I mean, end the submission but not the
relationship?" she asked.

   "They are one and the same."

   "All right.  What if I want to end the relationship?"

   "You can end it now.  Get back on this plane tomorrow and go home." She
shook her head and blushed.  "No, you don't want that.  You want me to
bring out the true submissive in you, don't you?"

   She nodded and I commanded, "Speak!"

   "Yes, Mr.  Price.  That's what I want."

   "If you stay, I'll give you one more chance to end it.  At the end of
the summer.  Not before.  And if you stay then, it will be at my pleasure
and only I can end it."

   "I demand the right to terminate a relationship at any time." She was
testing me.

   "Not with me."

   "Then I don't want it," she said defiantly.

   "Liar.  What you want is to be taken.  Now.  Grabbed by the hair and
made to submit."

   I grabbed her hair, yanked her to me, and kissed her hard.  When my
fingers touched her thigh, her legs opened instantly.  She wore panties and
thigh-high stockings.  I slipped two fingers under the elastic and thrust
them deep into her throbbing pussy as my thumb raked her clitoris.

   "Come for me, girl," I demanded.  Miss Beavers orgasmed on my hand.  "Do
it again and don't fight it this time.  Let it go," I commanded.  Mouth
agape, lips wet, eyes diffused, her face contorted as she dug her nails
into my arm.  She screamed against my hand covering her mouth and went
limp.

   I stuck the fingers that had been in her pussy in her mouth.  "Suck them
clean," I said, and she sucked like a baby at its mother's breast.  "You
didn't let go, but I think I can teach you if you stay." I kissed her and
stood up.

   "Wait," she said, grabbing my arm.

   "Think, Abby." I unwrapped her fingers from around my wrist.  "I want
your answer when we land," I said.  I sat down two rows further up and on
the other side, covered myself with a blanket, and went to sleep.

   She awakened me about a half-hour before landing.  She'd been crying and
looked distraught.  "I'm frightened, very frightened," she said.

   "Of what?" I asked.

   "Of submitting to you." She sat down by me and I held her hand.  Her
grip was fierce.  "One of your girlfriends said she fully submitted but you
rejected her."

   I knew who she meant, but I didn't say.  "Do you know why?" I asked.

   "I can guess."

   "Then guess."

   "Chemistry.  A woman can meet many men, even if they're all special men,
without clicking with any of them.  She might go to bed with some of them.
She might even let them bind and whip her, or share her with their friends,
but something will be missing.  When she finds the one for her, everything
clicks.  Think of a safe with a combination containing ten numbers, or
fifteen or twenty, to complete the combination and open the door.  As each
number is tried, the lock clicks and the tumblers fall.  Most relationships
reach a point where there is no click.  But with the man for her, all the
combinations click and the door opens.  It's the same for men.  I suspect
she didn't make all your tumblers fall."

   "That's an excellent analogy," I said.  "I hadn't thought of it in that
way, but it's true."

   "I didn't ask to be assigned to you because I'm a good little
bureaucrat, or a bimbo wanting a quick lay, or a gold-digger after a rich
husband.  And it's more than finding a master.  Much more.  I asked because
what I learned about you clicked in me, and I learned more about you than
any man I've ever dated." She shook her head unbelievingly.  "When I saw
you, I thought I'd lose my mind I wanted you so much.  And talking to you?
My God, Michael, my tumblers and I are in free fall."

   I didn't reply.  "That's part of what scares me.  I can't read you.  I
don't know what's going on behind those cold blue eyes of yours," she said.
I didn't move a muscle.  "Bastard." She moved back to her seat.  I joined
her and waited until she looked at me.

   She smiled sheepishly.  "Well, your eyes aren't always cold.  Sometimes
they're hot and sexy.  Sometimes they're gentle and caring.  Look, I'm not
frightened of belonging to you, or of your sexual demands."

   "My demands may be severe."

   "Will I be bound and whipped?"

   "Of course."

   "Pierced and tattooed?"

   "Maybe, or branded, or whatever else I wish, but you will be brought to
heel like a well-trained bitch."

   Her eyes softened and she gave a half-smile.  "Have you been reading my
mind?" She blushed.  "Of course, you haven't," she said quietly.  She was
lost in her thoughts.  When she spoke to me again, it was with a
gut-wrenching honesty.  "What scares me, Michael, is that you will be 'the'
man for me, the one who makes the door open, and then you'll reject me.  I
don't think I could take that rejection."

   "I won't make any promises," I said.

   "I don't expect any from you." Her sigh reverberated in the air.  "It
makes no difference.  I have to know how many more combinations you open in
me even if you throw me away like an old shoe."

   Her lips touched mine, but I tangled my hand in her hair and pulled her
head away.  "Tell me what you want?" I demanded.

   "To be your concubine."

   "Are you sure?"

   "Yes."

   "How many men have you had?"

   Beet red, she said.  "That's none of..." She stopped and looked away. 
"Seventeen," she said when she looked back at me.

   "How many at a time?"

   "The most was three."

   "Have you had sex with one man on the orders of another?"

   "Yes.  Michael, I don't." I yanked her hair, which stopped her in
mid-sentence.

   "Women?"

   "Yes," she whispered.

   "Animals?"

   "God, no," she said.

   "You're a slut."

   "No, Michael, I'm not," she said intensely.  "I'm a woman looking for
the man to bring her joy and happiness.  If that man tells me to fuck
someone else, I will.  If he tells me not to, I won't."

   "A true concubine belongs to only one man.  For her, having sex with
another man is the equivalent of a Puritan wife committing adultery, and
her penalty would be banishment or death.  A slave girl is shared with
other men at the whim of her master.  Maybe you should be a slave girl."

   "I know the difference and the penalty.  I want to be your concubine,
not your slave girl."

   "And if I'm not what you want?" I asked.

   "I'll end our relationship at the end of the summer, but you are what I
want.  I'm not wrong about you."

   "Your fantasies and reality won't be the same."

   "I know, Michael.  I want the reality with you."

   Miss Amanda Abigail Beavers' body language reinforced her words.  She
exposed her innermost feelings and thoughts to me.  That required either
great strength or great desire.  Both are desirable and unusual qualities.
I raised the seat arm between us and pulled her into my lap.

   "Your concubine name will be Samirah.  It means a woman who entertains.
You will entertain me."

   "Yes, Master," she whispered.  She blushed and buried her head in my
chest with her arms tightly around me as I held and stroked her.  She
stayed there until the fasten-seat-belt sign lit.

   When we landed, I told the pilot to return to the states without us. 
One of the Sheik's limos drove us to the palace.  The Sheik and his family
were asleep, but the captain of the guards was expecting us.  He admitted
us and escorted us to my room.  Kamilah was asleep on her mat by my bed. 
She knelt, sleepy-eyed but quivering in desire, when she awoke.  I opened
my arms.  She ran to me and buried me in kisses.

   "Kamilah, this is Samirah, my new concubine," I said, indicating Miss
Amanda Abigail Beavers, formerly of Philadelphia and Washington.

   "Western women are no good, Master," Kamilah hissed as her eyes burned
into Samirah.

   "No jealousy, girl.  Have you forgotten your last punishment so
quickly?" I snapped.  "To your mat." Kamilah spun and twitched to her mat,
her ass saucily holding the eyes and inviting the hand.  She knelt primly
and her hot, jealous eyes never left me.

   "Come," I said to Samirah, and she stepped to me.  "Concubines sleep in
the harem or at their master's bedside.  You may not enter my bed unless
called.  You will be taught the rules - how to dress, when you may speak,
and so on." I had unbuttoned her blouse and untied the bow.  I tossed it,
and unfastened and discarded her brassiere.  She shivered.  I unzipped her
skirt and she wiggled out of it.  I pushed her panties down and she kicked
them away without hesitation.

   Wainscot was right.  There was a fabulous body under those conservative
clothes.  Long-waisted with large, firm breasts, and long shapely legs, she
was an appealing and beautiful woman.

   "Sit," I commanded, pointing to the floor.  "Give me your left leg." The
sheik had the harem master leave concubine bells, like Hasna and Kamilah
wore, on my bed.  I fastened them around her left ankle.  She grinned and
shook her leg to make them tinkle.  "Crawl to your mat." When she crawls, a
woman gives a delightful picture of her rump.  Samirah's rump was smaller
than Kamilah's, high and hard as if she exercised regularly.

   I shackled her to the bed by her right ankle, tossed the coverlet over
her, and said, "We begin tomorrow.  Good night, Samirah."

   "Aren't you going to use me?" she asked hotly.

   I gave her a dirty look, climbed in my bed, and called out, "Kamilah. 
Come."

   Replete and satisfied by her heat, I dozed off with Kamilah's body on
mine.  The tinkling of a bell and a woman's groan awakened me.  I peered
over the edge of the bed to see Samirah masturbating.  Her eyes were
pinched shut and she didn't see me.  Her left hand squeezed and twisted her
clitoris while her right thrust in and out of her pussy as she humped the
air.  I rolled back over.

   Kamilah whispered in my ear, "Good girl no do that.  Master gives
pleasure."

   "We'll train her, little one," I replied.  She reached for my cock. 
"Don't touch.  Sleep now." Kamilah put her leg over mine and snuggled with
her breasts against my side and her head under my chin.

   Samirah groaned and gasped on the floor beside us.

   **

   I awakened at dawn, the time the household normally arises.  Three hours
had passed since our arrival.  Since I slept on the plane, I had adequate
rest, but Samirah hadn't.  I roughly shook her and said, "Get up, lazy
girl."

   "No, Mike," she whined, trying to pull her coverlet over her head.

   I called for the harem master.  When he arrived, I said, "Bind her so
she can't pleasure herself.  I'll deal with her later." He flipped her on
her stomach, bound her wrists and ankles, and threw her over his shoulders
like a sack of potatoes.  Samirah's hot eyes stared at me as he carried her
away.

   "Come," I said.  Kamilah's ass twitched arrogantly as she pranced into
the bathroom where she bathed me and helped me dress.  She put on her abaya
and hijab and reported to the harem master for the day.

   I joined the Sheik, the Prince, and the Sheik's younger brother for a
business breakfast that lasted until mid-morning.  That meeting was the
start of a long and mutually beneficial business relationship between the
Sheik's family and mine.

   I had considered several ways of disciplining Samirah for the first
time. The old rule was she would be severely whipped, not to bring pleasure
but to punish, for first-time masturbation.  Her clitoris would be removed
for the second offense.  The old timers did that often.  Why?  I don't
know. But fortunately for her, the old rules didn't apply.

   Samirah had been bound for three hours when I reached the punishment
room.  She was on the padded table with her arms by her side and her legs
spread.  Shackles and chains kept her that way.  She was comfortable but
unable to sexually stimulate herself, although she tried by rhythmically
thrusting her pubis in the air.

   "Master," she said happily and her eyes danced.

   "You may not speak to me unless spoken to," I replied curtly.

   "Yes, Master," she replied without remorse.

   "Have you ever been whipped?"

   "Once, but he didn't know what he was doing."

   "I do," I said.  She grinned happily.  When I unshackled her from the
table, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me with her naked body
grinding into mine.  I suspended her by her wrists from the cuffs dangling
from the ceiling in the center of the room, leaving slack for her to turn
and twist as she enjoyed her bondage.  I shackled her legs to the floor a
little more than shoulder width.

   I massaged her body with sesame oil from her toes to her hairline.  My
hands were rough or gentle, demanding or teasing.  She trembled and
twitched and moaned her appreciation.  "My master's so good to me," she
purred.

   I fastened a shock collar around her neck, with the electrodes snugged
against her spine.  This collar didn't give the strong, quick charge of
pain like a dog training collar.  It emitted a low energy charge lasting
approximately three seconds to block the signals of pleasure coming from
her body to her brain.  I selected a whip designed for pleasure not
punishment, with a single strand about a foot long of thick, flexible,
rolled leather.

   Samirah couldn't be still as she swayed and twisted, enjoying her
restraints, relishing her availability as she imagined what was to come.  I
stood in front of her and she struggled to touch me, but her chains kept
our lips apart.

   "I've changed my mind.  I'm not going to punish you," I said.

   She stared at me until she realized I was kidding.  Her face was wild
and sexy when she said, "But your girl has been so bad, Master.  She
intentionally disobeyed you when you ordered her to get up this morning. 
She called you by a nickname.  Surely such a girl needs whipping."

   "Not if whipping is a reward instead of a punishment."

   "True, but you already punished her by not letting her pleasure you last
night.  She's earned a reward for wanting you so much she was delirious
with desire."

   "She rewarded herself by masturbating, which is a grievous sin I won't
tolerate."

   "She won't do it again, but now she deserves a whipping for her
misbehavior." I didn't reply.  "Please, Master.  Your concubine needs the
taste of your whip," she begged.

   I whipped her as she danced in her chains.  I whipped her as she moaned
and whimpered until her skin was on fire and her sweat pooled on the floor
and her love juices dipped from her pussy.  The first time I activated her
collar she froze when the persistent current numbed her body.

   "Oh, God, no, Master.  Please let me cum," she pleaded.

   I used the whip to stoke her fire and the collar to cool her down, to
keep Samirah, the concubine, simmering just below the boiling point.  When
her tears of frustration wouldn't stop, and her quivering was as much
exhaustion as desire, I flicked the whip between her legs.  Its leather
landed across her pussy and clitoris.

   "Yes," she hissed.  "Yes.  Yes!"

   I whipped her there again and again until she exploded in an orgasmic
fit, screaming and writhing in ecstasy before she fainted.  I released her,
lay her on the floor, and called for the harem master to bring me Kamilah.
When they arrived, I told him to have Samirah bathed and oiled and brought
to my quarters.

   I grabbed Kamilah's hand and raced for my quarters.  I had been with
Samirah over two hours and my balls were navy blue.  Kamilah's ankle bells
sounded an urgent call as she ran to keep up.

   Kamilah had two joys in life - pleasing her man and sex.  She stripped
and ran to stand beside my bed when we entered the room.  I threw my
clothes away, walked to her, and wrapped her hair around my left hand.  She
would've come willingly, but I dragged her into bed and brutally took her.
That's the way an animal would do it.  I was an animal.  And so was she.

   I vaguely remembered the harem master bringing Samirah and laying her on
her mat.  A servant awakened me to ask if I wanted dinner.  I told him to
bring food for three.  When I awakened my concubines, both were sore and
slow moving from their sexual battles.  I had them kneel naked on the bed
on either side of me and facing each other.  Using my fingers, I fed the
three of us from the tray across my lap.

   They studied each other as they ate and signals were silently passed. 
We were down to the sweets at the end of the meal when I said, "Samirah,
translate everything I say, including my instructions to you, for Kamilah."

   "Yes, Master," she said softly.

   I explained about my grandfather's and father's multiple women and how
those things really worked in the west.  I said I would have three or four.
Kamilah might be one, but only if she wasn't jealous because I expected all
of my women to be "as close and loving as sisters." She thanked me for
explaining and asked if she could ask questions.  I agreed.  The three-way
conversation in two languages became confusing, primarily due to Kamilah
asking rapid fire questions before Samirah had a chance to translate for
me, but we worked through it.  Kamilah seemed content now, knowing there
was going to be more than one woman in my life.

   We took a break and cleared the tray from the bed.  When we returned I
sat cross-legged and they kneeled.  Without the barrier of my legs between
them, they sat slightly further apart.

   "I enjoy seeing women make love to each other," I said.  Samirah blushed
as she translated.  Kamilah smiled knowingly, which surprised me.  "You two
will be lovers, but, as with all things sexual, only with my express
permission.  Ask her if she has had other women," I said.

   The rapid-fire answer was translated as, "Of course.  We know men like
to see us please each other, and we are trained to please men.  Learning a
woman's body makes us better lovers, too."

   "How many?"

   "About twenty," was the reply.  Samirah blushed and looked away from
Kamilah's hot eyes.  Kamilah started to reach for her, and stopped, folding
her hands in her lap.

   "There will be time for that later," I said.  "Samirah, ask Kamilah what
we did this afternoon."

   Samirah gasped at the answer, and translated as, "You had sex three
ways."

   "Anal sex isn't a turn-on for me, Samirah.  It is an act of dominance
and having you submit definitely is a turn-on.  That's why I'm going to
take your ass now and whenever I wish."

   "Yes, Master," she replied.

   "Go prepare yourself."

   Taking Samirah's ass was a pleasant task, but it was a task, something
that needed to be done rather than something I wanted to do.  It was
painful for her, as ass-fucking often is.  In spite of the pain, she
orgasmed as she whimpered and called my name.

   I called for the harem master, which surprised both of them.

   "The Prince and I are going to Paris and London on business.  We'll be
back in ten days.  You will sleep in this bed together while I'm gone, but
you may not pleasure each other." I waited while Samirah translated.  "You
will spend every moment together.  To make sure you do, you will be
shackled together day and night.  Every waking moment will be spent on
English.  Samirah will teach.  Kamilah will learn."

   They looked at each other and Kamilah giggled.  She said something in
Arabic.  Samirah responded.  A few babbles later, Samirah looked at me in
astonishment.  "She suggested you put us in chastity belts so we couldn't
pleasure each other."

   "I thought of that, but I want to see if you're strong enough to resist
masturbation and Kamilah," I said.

   "I am," she replied.

   "But do you want to?" I asked.

   With flashing eyes, she said, "No, but I will."

   A knock heralded the harem master's arrival.  I shackled Kamilah's left
wrist to Samirah's right one, connecting them with a chain two feet long.
Both are right-handed.  I selected the wrists to put the greater pressure
on Samirah since she would have to use her left hand for everything.  I
kissed them each and told the harem master to take them away.

   **

   The Prince, two other men, and I left that night.  Don't think we were
equal partners.  It was his trip and I was an "advisor." Traveling with
Mohammed wasn't all work.  At night, we each had an expensive call girl to
keep us company.  In Paris, mine was a redhead about five six with huge
tits.  But the red-hair, the tits, her orgasm, and everything else about
her were fake - not the real thing like Kamilah or Samirah.  In London, the
woman was a "model" who was beautiful, rail-thin, and bubbly.  The bubbles
came from champagne and cocaine.  The next night, I got a new woman, who
was forty-two, had an average figure, and was well-used, but she knew how
to please a man.  I kept her the rest of our stay there.

   The Prince and I agreed that the call girls were a diversion and hardly
an adequate one.  We both missed the women waiting for us at home.  I'd
lost track of how many women I dated, or how many I screwed, which was all
but a few, or how many I bound for our mutual enjoyment.  I did know how
many felt the sting of my hand or whip and how many proposed to me.

   Now, during two weeks in June of my twenty-fourth year, for the first
time I thought about keeping a woman with me forever.

   The Prince and I called our respective fathers from London, scheduled a
new round of meetings in Paris, and extended our trip by five days.  When
the meetings were concluded, Dad hopped on his Gulfstream and went home. 
The rest of us returned to the Sheikdom in the Sheik's Boeing 727.

   "I'm going to be with my family," the Prince said.

   That was fine by me.  I wanted to be with my family, too.  That's what
Kamilah and Samirah were becoming.  They didn't know I was returning
because I wanted to surprise them.  The harem master told me they were in
my quarters.  Silently, I slipped in to find them sitting cross-legged on
the floor, face-to-face with their knees touching.  They were working on
Kamilah's English.  They saw me, Kamilah squealed, and they ran to me,
hugging and kissing and completely forgetting the rule requiring them to
seek permission first.  I overlooked their slipup.

   The looks on their faces confirmed what I remembered.  Kamilah was
ecstatic to see me.  No reservations.  No games.  No guile.  No
equivocation.  Samirah was happy to see me, too, but with something held
back, and tonight a hint of the devil flickered in her eyes.

   "I want to enjoy each of you tonight, but one at a time and slowly," I
said.

   Kamilah's face screamed "pick me, pick me," like a child being chosen
for a neighborhood game.  A touch of a smirk curled the corner of Samirah's
lip and that devil in her eye twinkled.  I kissed Kamilah softly on the
lips and said, "To your mat."

   The light in her eyes dimmed with visible disappointment, but she said,
"Yes, Master."

   I undressed Samirah.  She was haughty, with an "I-knew-you-wanted-me"
expression.  I turned her around, slapped her on the ass, and said, "To
your mat, Samirah." She glared at me and stomped to her mat with her fists
clenched.  She grumbled, dropped to her knees on the mat, and crossed her
arms petulantly.

   Kamilah gleamed with happy anticipation.  "Undress me," I said.  She did
with caresses that made my skin tingle.  I climbed on my bed, lying in the
middle with pillows behind my head.  Kamilah went to her mat to await my
further command.  From the corner of my eye, I saw the kneeling Samirah
watching angrily.

   "Pleasure me, Kamilah," I ordered.

   She crawled on the bed, kissed my lips, and slowly worked her way down
my body to my toes before returning to my cock to lick and suck it.  I
enjoyed her talents until I was ready for more.  I touched her leg.  She
mounted me.  Her lifetime of training produced the desire to please a man
and the knowledge of how to do it.  That coupled with her natural desires,
beauty, and voluptuous body, made Kamilah an ideal lover.

   I sensed more in her.  I felt, had she been given the opportunity of
choosing a man rather than being given as a gift to him, she would have
chosen me.  The summer would tell.  The question wasn't whether I'd keep
her.  The question was would she be wife, concubine, or slave girl, with
those words in the middle-eastern sense.  The western words would be wife,
mistress, or party girl.

   As I rolled Kamilah over, my eyes met Samirah's.  I knew I had not yet
won her.  Her face told me the decision time was near.

   "Yes.  Master fucks good," Kamilah moaned.

   I lost myself in Kamilah's heat, letting her passion blow away thoughts
of anything else, letting her words of joy fill my ears, until we came as
one.  The movement of the bed seemed unreal as I floated in the afterglow.
Hands pulled me on my back.  I stared into hot, angry blue eyes.

   "Did you have a nice trip?" Samirah asked.  I couldn't respond.  "I
asked you a question, Mike.  How was your trip?" Kneeling on the bed
peering down at me, her voice was brittle with a phony lightness.

   "Fine.  How have you been?"

   "Better than Kamilah.  She was a good little girl while you were gone,
but I wasn't.  I masturbated every day."

   "Oh?  Show me."

   "All right.  I will," she hissed.  She spread her legs and parted her
pussy lips with her left hand.

   I stopped her.  "You didn't masturbate while I was gone.  You're telling
me you did to accelerate your discipline."

   "That's not true," she replied, but she lied.

   "I'm ready for Miss Amanda Abigail Beavers to disappear and only
Samirah, the well-trained concubine, to remain.  Are you?"

   "I have until the end of the summer," she said.

   "But you're ready now."

   She sagged and locked eyes with me as we held hands.  Hers were big and
blue and passive, tinged with doubt and moist from anxiety.

   "Do you masturbate, Kamilah?" I asked.

   "If Master says."

   "Have you ever masturbated?" I asked.

   Kamilah looked at Samirah and Samirah translated my question and
Kamilah's response, which was, "Yes.  At the farm where I was raised, we
masturbated at least three times each day.  Often I did it four or five
times.  We were taught to have many orgasms.  An eager girl pleases her
master."

   "Do you lie?" I asked.

   "To master?  No," Kamilah answered emphatically.

   "What is the punishment for lying?" I asked.

   "Very hard.  A girl give no answer if must lie."

   I stared at Samirah as I said to Kamilah, "What should a master do if
his girl keeps part of herself hidden away from him?"

   "I don't understand," Kamilah replied.

   "Translate," I said to Samirah.  She did.

   Kamilah answered in English.  "Whip her or get a new girl."

   "Did you masturbate while I was gone, Samirah?" I asked.  She didn't
answer, which was answer enough.  I said, "Go to your mat, Kamilah." Always
the good girl, she eased down to her mat.

   I pulled Samirah down beside me and we screwed the old fashioned way. 
Wainscot was wrong.  She didn't hump with the best of them.  And she did
hold something back.  When I was finished with her, I sent her to her mat.
I suspected something untoward would happen, so I had made plans.  I called
the harem master to tell him we were ready before I dressed in robes and
left the room.

   When I arrived at the Sheik's chambers, he and the Prince were talking.
I joined them and we visited for an hour or so before the Sheik led the way
toward the harem.

   We were going to witness the ritual punishment of a concubine named
Samirah.

   Technically, the harem isn't a woman or group of women.  It is a section
of the palace that contains the sleeping, eating, and entertainment
quarters for the women belonging to the master, in this case the Sheik.  I
had only seen the room used for punishment.  Even that was a rare honor
because men were not allowed in the harem except for the harem master and
his staff or with the express permission of the Sheik.

   Tonight, we were going to the water room, which, as I discovered,
contained a small indoor swimming pool, several hot-tubs, with broad areas
for relaxing around them.  There were only three chairs.  One was a throne
for the Sheik.  The smaller chairs were for Mohammed and me.

   All the women were present because they were required to watch this
punishment of one of their own.  All were completely covered, including the
burqat.  Three women were around one of the smaller chairs, with two on
mats and one on the tile of the floor.  I knew the mats were for the wives
and the purple figures perched there were Nudara and Sara.  The third one
was Hasna.

   Four mats lay around the Sheik's throne.  On them were his wives.  His
other women spread from his throne in a carefully planned order with
concubines nearest him with the nearest concubine being his favorite.  His
women, like Mohammed's, were in purple.

   By my chair was one lone figure in light blue.  It was Kamilah.

   Opposite us was a heavy Persian rug covering the woman to be punished -
my Samirah.  She had been taken from my quarters, bathed, oiled and
perfumed with jasmine, bound and gagged, and left under the rug to
contemplate her fate.  The harem master and his two assistants, their heads
covered in black hoods, stood behind her.

   The Sheik spoke and Kamilah whispered the translation in my ear.  He
said, "The woman to be punished has displeased her master.  All of you
watch and learn.  All women who displease their masters will be punished
this way.  Or worse!"

   He motioned to the harem master, who yanked the carpet from Samirah and
tossed it aside, freeing her from the stifling heat.  She was covered in
sweat and gasped to breathe.  The smell of jasmine wafted in the air.  She
was bound with ropes, arms folded behind her back, heels tight against the
back of her thighs, and body encircled to hold her motionless.  A rope
around her head ran between her lips to gag her.

   Even her hair was bound, braided around a rope that ran between her
legs, separating and chafing her lower lips, and holding her head back,
forcing her to look upward.

   The harem assistants quickly unbound her, leaving only the rope braided
in her hair.  Steel shackles, wide and with a rasp closure like handcuffs,
were fastened around her wrists and ankles.  Her legs were spread and
secured.  A hoist was attached to her wrist shackles to lift her to her
tiptoes.

   The harem master selected a sturdy whip and began on her back.  Samirah
watched me when her eyes weren't closed in pain as she writhed and suffered
under the flogging she sought.  She seemed proud she earned a whipping and
of her ability to withstand the pain.  Samirah was so different than
Kamilah, who was mortified she deserved her whipping, and the pain of her
humiliation hurt more than the whipping itself.

   The harem master didn't rush.  There was no hurry.  Again and again, the
whip fell on her tender flesh.  But even a woman who wants to be whipped
has her limits.  A low, animal groan escaped her and her eyes begged me to
make her punishment stop.  The harem master laid a vicious blow across her
breasts.  She screamed and cried out, "Please, Master.  No more."

   Quickly, he exchanged his whip for a smaller one with three strands of
tightly wound leather each no bigger than a pencil.  A woman in the crowd
gasped and the Sheik demanded silence.  The harem master's prior whipping
had not touched between her legs.  With a flick of his wrist, he whipped
her there and she screamed.  His blows were quick now, as fast as he could
wield his instrument, flagellating her sex and the tender areas around it.

   Her screams were constant.  She wet herself as she passed out and sagged
in her bondage.

   An assistant doused her in cold water.  Another held smelling salts to
her nose.  The Sheik motioned to me and I stepped forward to take a riding
crop from the selection of whips.  Samirah revived to see my eyes inches
from hers.

   "I'll never again command a ritual punishment of you, Samirah," I said
coldly.  "The next time you intentionally anger me, I'll sell you to a
whore monger in Zanzibar."

   "Yes, Master.  I'll be good.  I promise," she said, as she begged for
mercy.  I touched the riding crop to her lips and she ceased.

   "You will remember the pain long after the marks are gone except for the
mark I give you now."

   "Oh, no, please, no," she babbled as I stepped behind her.

   I swung the crop once, landing it squarely across both cheeks of her
ass. The welt burst out and blood oozed from her skin.  An assistant held
smelling salts under her nose to forestall another faint and let her body
suffer the full effect of the whip.  We stepped away from her, letting her
scream and twist in her agony.  The harem master took Samirah's head in his
giant hands to hold her still.

   Several women gasped and a murmur fluttered through their number when I
held up a piercing tool for them to see.  The Sheik smiled as he called for
silence.  There was a body piercing the women considered to be the ultimate
humiliation - a ring through the nose.  In a society that hides its women
except for their faces, a nose ring stands out like a sore thumb.  It
shouted the woman who wore it was a disobedient and worthless wench who
greatly displeased her man.  Such a woman was worthy only of scorn and
derision from men and other women.

   Samirah's eyes were completely submissive.  Hiding the hope they would
always be that way, I nestled the point of the tool inside her nose and
pressed.  Her eyes watered as pain shot through her and blood trickled down
her face as she screamed.  I slid the gold ring through the hole, closed it
with pliers, and washed the wound.  I attached a four-feet long gold chain
to her nose ring and dropped the end.

   "Release her," I said to the harem master.  He looked to the Sheik for
confirmation and the Sheik nodded.  The harem master undid her shackles and
she collapsed at my feet.

   I ordered her to beg our hosts for forgiveness.  She crawled toward the
Sheik on her knees and elbows, which made her nipples graze the floor.  Her
knees were parted, allowing all who saw her an unobstructed view of her
well-punished sex and ass.  She groveled at his feet and received
absolution before repeating the process with the Prince.

   She crawled back to me and knelt at my feet.  Without looking up at me,
she said, "Your girl begs for forgiveness, Master."

   "Look at me," I replied.

   I saw complete submission and deep humiliation, tinged with a pleading
prayer for forgiveness, in her expression.  She laid the golden chain
across one hand and lifted it to me with palm up.  "Please, Master.  Please
forgive me and let me stay with you," she said.  When I took the chain, she
crawled to my left side and knelt there, heeling like a well-trained bitch.


   I thanked the Sheik for allowing me to punish her in the confines of his
harem.  I called Kamilah to my side before slowly walking away to allow
Samirah to crawl without tightening the leash through her nose.  Once we
left the water room, I sent Kamilah for a blanket, covered Samirah with it,
and carried her to my quarters.

   In my quarters, I ordered Samirah to her mat and called Kamilah to my
bed.  Kamilah happily exhausted me before we fell asleep.

   I heard Samirah groaning during the night when her endorphins wore off.
By morning, she was in agony and had a slight fever.  When I called for the
Sheik's physician, she begged me not to let him see the ring in her nose,
but I ignored her pleas.  The physician gave her an injection of painkiller
and she slept the day away.

   That night, I ordered her to dress and assist in serving the meal.  She
begged pitifully to be veiled so her nose ring wouldn't show.  I attached a
three-inch chain to her ring and a small, shiny, metallic bauble to the
chain.  The bauble shimmied with her every movement.  She served our dinner
as we talked about her and how she enjoyed her humiliation and punishment.
That night Samirah slept on her mat with her arms bound behind her and her
right ankle shackled to my bed.

   Over the next week, Samirah rested and healed.  She taught Kamilah
English, served dinner with a dangling bauble attached to her nose ring,
and was bound and shackled at night.  We didn't have sex and she didn't
masturbate.  Her wounds healed and her pain diminished.  Only the stripe of
the riding crop on her ass and the ring in her nose remained sore and
visible to remind her of her punishment.

   Kamilah continued to be a joy, but I quickly saw the wisdom on having
more than one woman because her eager sexual participation diminished a
little each day.

   On the eighth day after Samirah's punishment, I said to Kamilah, "I'll
have Samirah tonight.  You will prepare her for me."

   Kamilah's training by those who bred and raised her included the ritual
preparation of the concubine.  In the old days, the great sultans and
pashas had many concubines, often collected as tribute or spoils of war. 
Oft times, he had so many that a woman might only sleep with him every two
or three years.  To her, that night was as important as her wedding day to
a Western woman.  The preparation ritual, where the other concubines
carefully prepared her to earn her master's pleasure, was a serious and
important part of her night with her lord.

   "We were taught that each master has his own thoughts about his women
coming to him.  You haven't told me how you want her, Master," Kamilah
replied.

   "What do you need to know?" I asked.

   "Naked or clothed?  Her hair loose or braided?  Bound or unbound?  With
bells or not?"

   Samirah watched me from under her lashes.  A tiny smile graced the
corner of her lips.  Each day, her sexual need had grown.  She needed a
man. She needed me.  Every look she gave me, every movement around me,
confirmed it.  She was eager to please.

   "I want my initials here," I said, stroking Samirah's right cheekbone.
She blanched in fear, fear that I would do it, and fear that I wouldn't. 
"Her hair loose.  Remove all the hair on her pubis." Samirah quickly
translated to make sure Kamilah understood.  "I'll leave the rest to you.
I'm sure you will please me."

   "I please you, Master," Kamilah replied.

   "I want to watch the preparation, but pretend I'm not there."

   "Your initials here?" Kamilah asked, touching Samirah's cheek.  I
nodded. "In henna?"

   "Yes," I replied.

   "Can we start?"

   I nodded.  Kamilah took Samirah's hand and led her into the large and
ornate bathroom.  I sat on a chair in the corner to watch.

   Kamilah faced Samirah, took both her hands, and said, "Listen to me.  I
ready your body for him.  You ready your mind.  He is Master and you must
please him.  Start now.  Think of him.  His body on yours.  Your pleasure
when he is in you."

   Samirah's eyes were soft and passive, with a tiny, sexy twinkle.

   Kamilah continued, "When you feel my hands, think of his.  When you feel
my touch, dream of his.  Spread your legs.  He soon will be there.  Close
your eyes.  Think of him."

   Kamilah gently kissed her on the lips.  Samirah jerked back and her eyes
flew open.  "Don't pull away, girl.  Think of master's kiss.  Close eyes,"
Kamilah said quietly.  Samirah's eyes cut to me for an instant before her
lids fluttered closed.

   Kamilah kissed her again and Samirah's mouth opened.  Kamilah's hand
caressed her breast, tugging on her nipple.  The kissing became more
intense as Kamilah's hand slipped down her stomach to nestle between her
legs.  Samirah twitched and opened wider.  Kamilah's finger slipped into
her pussy.

   "Good girl.  Wet for Master," Kamilah whispered.  Samirah groaned as
Kamilah pulled her hand away.  "Lay back.  I shave you, then we bathe. 
Think of him." Samirah nodded.  Her eyes were heavy with desire.

   Kamilah used lather and razor to quickly dispatch Samirah's pubic hair.
She turned on the water and they stepped into the tub.  Kamilah lathered a
sponge and began washing her.  Samirah stood like a statue with her legs
spread and her eyes closed as she enjoyed the hands on her, even when
Kamilah penetrated the entrance to her nether hole to cleanse it.  They sat
in the water to rinse, stood to dry, and stepped out of the tub.

   From her bag of supplies used in the ritual preparation, Kamilah
retrieved a dildo about four inches long and narrow in diameter.  She
slipped it up Samirah's slew, making her gasp.  "Sit here," Kamilah
ordered. Samirah sat in on the small, backless bench.  Kamilah spread her
legs more widely and tucked her feet behind the front legs of the bench. 
She guided Samirah's hands behind her back and fastened them with a short
piece of rope.

   Samirah looked lustfully at me.

   "Close your eyes," Kamilah said.  "Think of him.  Master pleased when he
sees beauty and heat." She drizzled perfume on Samirah's hair and began
brushing it with long, smooth strokes.

   Samirah was feeling the effect of her preparation.  Her hips moved,
feeling the dildo inside her, and she tightened against the ropes. 
"Stand," Kamilah demanded.  Samirah groaned and stood.  Kamilah removed the
dildo and ordered her to sit.

   "No pleasure you," Kamilah said softly.  "This is for him."

   "For Master," Samirah whispered.

   "Yes.  For Master.  What you like about Master?"

   Samirah's eyes were closed, as they been since she sat.  I wondered if
she remembered I was there.  Her face was relaxed with a soft happiness. 
"His face when he's in me," she said lovingly.

   "Me, too.  He good master give girls pleasure."

   "I know," Samirah replied.

   "Sometimes girl come back to farm.  She talk of pain and fear of her
master.  Not our master.  He is strong and loving." Kamilah placed the
brush on the counter.  She looked at me full face, with bright eyes and an
endearing smile.  She bowed to the waist before she said to Samirah, "Stay.
I get henna."

   Kamilah allowed the henna to sit and started applying Samirah's other
makeup.  With shadow and liner and lipstick, she quickly finished Samirah's
face except for the final touch.  "Be still," she said.  With the henna,
she put MAP, my initials, on Samirah's cheek.

   "Stand.  I oil you," Kamilah said.  Samirah stood with her legs spread
and eyes closed.  Kamilah unbound her arms, drizzled the scented oil on her
body, and began rubbing it over her.

   "Master be pleased with your body," Kamilah said as she massaged the oil
into Samirah's breasts.  "You please with mind?"

   Samirah's eyes slowly opened.  Her lids were heavy.  "Yes," she said so
softly I could barely hear and her eyes closed again.

   "When you go him," Kamilah said as she knelt to oil Samirah's lower
body. "Don't hide.  Be proud.  Oh, I don't know the word." She spoke in
Arabic.

   Samirah translated.  "Prance like a mare for a stallion."

   "Prance like mare for stallion.  Head high.  Breasts raised.  Toe walk.
Dance.  Dance until his heat calls you to his bed."

   Kamilah stood.  Her breasts rubbed against those of Samirah as she put a
finger into Samirah's pussy again.  Samirah whimpered.  "See.  You ready
for master," Kamilah said teasingly.  "Good.  Open eyes.  Turn."

   Kamilah oiled her back, even oiling the inside of her puckered anus. 
Kamilah retrieved a spectacular, diaphanous hijab and covered Samirah's
head, carefully hiding her throat but leaving her breasts fully exposed. 
She fastened a veil across her face so that only her eyes showed.

   "Wear this and dance," she said, holding up two large scarves.  Each
scarf had two elastic bands, one each for elbow and wrist, to hold the
scarf to an arm.  She slipped them on Samirah.  "Don't show all.  Tease. 
Play with him."

   "I'll make him as wild for me as I am for him," Samirah said.

   "Yes.  Now jewelry."

   She put a ring of bells on each of Kamilah's wrists.  "Look," she
demanded, facing Samirah toward the mirror.  "No man push you away."

   "I only want one man," Samirah replied.

   "Yes.  Our Master.  You please him, my sister." She kissed Samirah
gently on her veiled cheek.  "He calls to bed.  You, like bug."

   "Crawl," Samirah said.

   "Crawl to him.  Wait his touch.  Be woman please her master." She turned
and walked to kneel at my feet.

   "She ready, Master," she said.

   "Well done, my faithful and loving Kamilah," I said.  I kissed her on
the lips.  "Go to your mat and watch," I ordered.  She glowed as she
bounced up and ran to the bedroom.

   Samirah had not looked at me in some time.  She stood with her head
fully bowed and the dangling veils from her crossed arms hid her body to
below her knees.  "I will call for you when I am ready," I said.

   "Yes, Master," she murmured.

   Kamilah was on her mat with only her eyes showing over the edge of the
bed.  I undressed, crawled on the bed, piled all the pillows against the
headboard, and reclined against them.  My cock was so hard it hurt, and my
balls throbbed.  My heart was pounding.

   "Come, girl," I yelled.

   The bathroom door opened.  A shapely leg with toes pointed slowly came
into view.  Then a veil dangling from an arm.  She stepped out of the
bathroom to be behind the veil.  Did I catch a glimpse of breast or was it
my imagination?

   Her head was bowed.  Slowly she raised it until wanton, excited bright
blue eyes shone on me like beacons.

   Samirah danced.  God, what a dance.  Twisting and turning, swaying but
sheltering her charms with the veils.  Always eyes flashing.  She danced
until I saw sweat on her brow and felt my sweat bead on my own face.

   "Come."

   She dropped to the floor and crawled, wiggling on my bed to lay beside
me with her arms crossed and the veils across her body.  With fingers on
her wrist, I uncrossed her hands and moved the veils aside, exposing her
glistening nakedness to my gaze.  Her breasts heaved from her exertion.

   Quickly, I lay across her, my hands around her wrists to hold her down,
my mouth against the lips of her pussy.  Kamilah gasped.  Samirah groaned.
I licked Samirah's pussy from bottom to top, driving my tongue between her
lips to taste her nectar.  When I sucked her clit and flicked it with my
tongue, she screamed and drove her pubis against my face.

   I moved up her, lifting her legs up and out, and ripped off her veil.  I
drove into and felt her body shake in another orgasm.  I came, too,
breaking the unbearable tension.  I continued to piston and my cock stayed
firm, bringing her uncountable rewards before I came again and collapsed on
her.

   I loved watching her face as she watched mine.  I loved her squirming
and sweating body, her murmurs in my ear, her animal sounds when she came.
I loved everything about her.  But most of all, I loved when she said in
the heat of passion: "I love you." She said it twenty times or more and I
relished each one.

   I rolled off her and gasped for breath.  When I turned my head,
Kamilah's bright eyes were still watching.

   "Come," I said softly.  She squirmed up to kneel beside me.  I brought
her lips to mine before gently pushing her head toward my crotch.  She knew
what to do and did it well.  She cleaned and caressed my cock with her
mouth until it was ready again.  I touched her arm.  She swung her leg
across me and buried me in her.

   Kamilah was a master at manipulating a man's pleasure, but I was well
spent.  She reached her own orgasm first and rested before continuing until
we both came.  She lay down beside me with her hand on my chest.  Samirah
rolled against me on the other side.

   "Samirah?" Kamilah whispered.

   "Ummm?"

   "What love mean?"

   "That you want to spend every moment of every day for the rest of your
life with him.  Pleasing him and caring for him." She signed contentedly.
"And that you want to have his babies."

   "Babies?" Kamilah asked.  Samirah translated.  "Oh.  Babies," Kamilah
said reverently.  She squirmed harder against me.  "Master, I love you,"
she whispered.

   I slipped off to sleep.

   The bed moved and someone was pulling the covers back.  "What?" I
groaned.

   "We're cold."

   "I'm not," I said.

   "We're keeping you warm.  Let's get under the covers."

   I grumbled but helped them pull the covers from under me.  They nestled
against me and covered us over.  I was back asleep in seconds.

   **

   The rest of the summer zipped by in a flash.

   I removed Samirah's nose ring the day after her ritual presentation to
me, telling her it was no longer needed.

   "I'd like to wear your ring elsewhere, Master," she said shyly.

   "Where?" I asked.

   "Wherever you like," she replied.

   "Tell me," I demanded.

   "In my pussy," she whispered.

   The Prince and his women met the three of us in the punishment room.  As
they all watched, I tied Samirah to the table with her legs widely spread,
pierced her labia, and inserted a gold ring.  She cried, but didn't cry
out, and she thanked me repeatedly for marking her as mine.

   I had no doubt Samirah had surrendered completely, that whatever she had
been holding back was gone forever.  She had no doubt either.  Kamilah, as
always, was a sexual and emotional delight.  Besides pleasing me every
moment of the day with their happy and sexy natures, each of them told me
every day that she loved me.  One night in the privacy of my quarters I
told both of them I loved them, too.  We talked into the wee hours about
what our life would be like.  Samirah could easily envision that life.  It
was a fantasy world to Kamilah, but one she was eager to see.

   We met Julia Biggs, an Englishwoman of twenty-one, who converted to
Islam and became Prince Mohammed's third wife.  We three were discussing
Julia when Kamilah asked, "Will we be your wives or your concubines?"

   "Since I can only have one legal wife in America, I won't marry.  Both
of you will be my mistresses," I replied.

   Mistress was a new word to Kamilah, so Samirah explained it.  Neither of
them seemed to be bothered by being a mistress, but Samirah had explained
to Kamilah that a mistress was part wife, part concubine.

   "Who will be your other mistresses?" Kamilah asked.

   "Others?" I said.

   "For a man to have less than four is...." Kamilah struggled for the
word, chattering in Arabic with Samirah as they tried to put her thoughts
into English.  They finally decided.  "It is an embarrassment, for you as a
man and for us as your women.  Any important man must have at least four
women, whatever they are called," Kamilah said assuredly.

   I just smiled.

   "Do you have someone in mind?" Samirah asked.  She grinned.  "We really
want you to have more, Master," she said.

   "No more talk about this," I said, ending the discussion.

   Samirah had kept in touch with her parents throughout the summer, and
she had talked to Wainscot once.  Two days before we returned home, she
called him and resigned from the State Department.  She called her parents
and told them she was moving to Texas to be with the man she loved.

   The Sheik's 727 transported us all back to school-Prince Mohammed, his
wives and his concubine, and me with my two delightful women.  On board, I
told both of them I wanted them to dress in the middle-eastern style,
although they would wear western-style clothes on occasion.  Kamilah
practiced calling me Mike instead of Master, but she insisted I was her
master and that was the way she wanted it.

   This would be my last year of school.  Samirah had called the University
Language Department and was hired as a full-time instructor in Arabic. 
Kamilah had no formal schooling.  However, Mohammed arranged for documents
showing she graduated from a Sheikdom high school.  She enrolled in the
university, but I limited her to two English courses, American History, and
Texas History.  Everyone has to "Remember the Alamo."

   We cleared customs, said goodbye to Mohammed and his entourage, boarded
our limo, and went home.  The place was spotless since the maid service had
been in that morning.

   I fired up my Jag and took them shopping.  We spent a ton in Victoria's
Secret on everything from panties and bras to dresses before going to the
western wear store for jeans, boots, and the works.  Samirah loved her
clothes.  Kamilah was in shock.  She couldn't believe a man would allow his
women to dress in clothes as revealing as jeans and western shirts.

   We went to my father's ranch for a few days, where Dad, Mom, Maria, and
Charlene welcomed us warmly.  One day, we lay by the pool.  I ordered them
both to wear the French bikinis I bought them.  Those bodies left no doubt
as to why God made women and Victoria's Secret made bikinis.

   The day before our first classes, we went to a steak house for dinner.
Samirah and Kamilah were each dressed in a jilbaab, or pants suit, with a
hijab.  I was in slacks and a polo shirt.  As always, I had reserved a back
table in a corner.  The waiter seated us and took our drink orders.  I had
a Jack Daniels and water.  My women had tea.

   My usual crowd of friends was at the bar.  Three months earlier I would
have been with them.  One of them was a beautiful woman with long blonde
hair and blue eyes.  She was five four, with an excellent body as the jeans
and tee shirt she wore disclosed.  She smiled at me when we walked by.

   "Who was the blonde?" Samirah asked.

   "Cathy Wayne," I replied.

   "I thought I recognized her.  I interviewed her for the State
Department." She hesitated.  "I remember now.  She was your girlfriend who
said she surrendered but you rejected her."

   Suddenly, I knew why she was asking.  "I don't need help finding other
women," I said.

   Kamilah put her hand over mine.  "Master," she said sweetly.  "We love
you and we are proud that you own us.  We don't want people to doubt your
manhood because you have less than four women.  We're thinking of your
honor." She leaned over and whispered conspiratorially.  "Besides, the
longer the wait, the more eager the woman."

   "Why did you stop dating her?" Samirah asked.

   "Something about tumblers and doors," I replied.  "But things were
different then.  I was thinking of a wife."

   "What do you think if she were a concubine?" she asked.

   "She'd do nicely," I said.

   Cathy was standing at the dining room entrance to better see us.  Her
breasts were larger than I remembered.  Her hair was a lighter shade of
blonde.  When I motioned for her to join us, she wound her way between the
tables.  I stood, took her hand, and kissed her lightly on the lips.  She
wanted a stronger kiss, which I gave before holding her chair to seat her
opposite me.  When I introduced her to Samirah and Kamilah, Cathy was
nervous with a sweet shyness.

   "I missed you, Mike," she said softly.

   "I missed you, too," I replied.  "I like the change."

   "I'm glad you noticed.  I did it for you." There was no sound for "for
you." Her voice petered out and she blushed brightly, but she arched her
back to give me a better view and her eyes begged for my approval.

   "What did you do?" Kamilah asked innocently.

   "She had her breasts augmented," I said, causing Cathy additional
embarrassment.

   Kamilah looked confused and Samirah translated.  "Oh.  I didn't even
know my size until Master, I mean, Mike, took us to buy brassieres. 
Samirah is a C-cup and I'm a double-D.  What are you?" she asked.  Cathy's
mouth dropped open and her hands shook.  "Did I say something wrong?"

   "In the west, women don't discuss those things in public," Samirah said.

   "I meant no offense," Kamilah said contritely.

   "What did you call him?" Cathy gasped at Kamilah.

   "Mike," she replied, but we all knew she lied.  Lying was not a skill
taught by those who raised her.

   Samirah put her hand over Cathy's and said, "She called him 'Master.'"

   "I know you," Cathy said.

   "You knew me when I was Miss Amanda Abigail Beavers of the United States
Department of State.  Now I am Samirah Price, a concubine owned by Michael
Price.  He is my master.  I obey him completely and bring him pleasure with
my joyful heart and eager sexuality."

   "He told us you pleasured him, too," Kamilah added.  "Don't you love his
face when he cums in you?"

   Cathy almost fainted.  Samirah and Kamilah grabbed her arms to keep her
upright and clucked consolingly until she recovered.  I gave her my Jack
Daniels and she downed it in one gulp.  I asked a few questions to let her
gain her mental balance and have time to think about my women and me.

   We talked about unimportant things until Cathy asked, "What's going on,
Mike?"

   "May I answer her, Master?" Samirah asked.

   "After she answers Kamilah's question," I replied.

   "D-cup," Cathy whispered.

   "Kamilah and I are his concubines.  Do you know what that means?" Cathy
nodded.  "We do everything a concubine does for the man who owns her.  Most
of all, we eagerly have sex with him," Samirah said.

   Cathy seemed catatonic.  Finally, she looked at me.

   "Join us and we'll talk about it," I said.

   "I'm with a group," Cathy replied.

   "You're with us now.  Tell them goodbye."

   Cathy stared at me for the longest time.  Then she stared at my women
before looking back at me.  I saw the moment she understood my relationship
with Samirah and Kamilah, and how she would fit with us.  I saw the moment
she surrendered to me and her own desires.  She nodded once.  "Yes, Mike,"
she replied submissively.

   "What did you call him, girl?" Samirah asked sharply.

   "Yes, Master," Cathy said as a smile grew from ear-to-ear and her eyes
danced.  She almost bounced as she walked away to speak to her friends.

   "That's number three," Samirah said with smug self-satisfaction.  "Only
one concubine to go."

   "That's Master's decision, my sister," Kamilah said emphatically.  "A
man such as he may want six or seven or more."

   I laughed until I cried.

   The End