“Yes, of course, you will, Prin,” he answers, raising his coffee back up to his mouth. “You’ve already done so much to sabotage Holt’s wedding, why not also ensure the demise of his first family vacation by forcing him to return and clean up even more of the mess you’ve made? In any case, until I provide you with a phone to make that call, the fact remains that you will only eat when it is on my terms.”
My lips clamp and unclamp. I want to call his bluff, but I know he’s right…I already ruined Holt and Sylvie’s wedding night. And if I call Holt now…assuming I can even get my hands on a phone…I would be solely responsible for ruining their family vacation-slash-honeymoon, too.
Zahir must see his point made in my faltering expression, because he comes to a stand and raps the tabletop with his knuckles, like I’d seen him do in his office. And just like that, Raima and Nabida return and, eyes lowered, begin clearing the table.
“She may have her study aids and water, but nothing else,” Zahir tells them in English—no doubt to ensure I understand just how much power he has over me. Then he leaves without another glance in my direction.
He returns for lunch, and I refuse to sit in his lap.
He returns for dinner, and I make a big show of announcing I would rather go to bed hungry as I climb into a now sheet-less bed. Not surprisingly, between the stress and the lack of food, I end up falling asleep…
“Please do not throw us across the room,” Nabida says when she wakes me an hour later. Zahir is, thankfully, gone.
She places me in the bath and begins scrubbing off my make-up. We don’t talk like we did before. The friendly spa vacation feeling is definitely over. Nabida and Raima aren’t my new friends. They’re two women who work for Zahir. And this time, I don’t bother asking questions I know they won’t answer.
When Nabida leads me back into the bedroom, Raima is putting the finishing touches on making the bed with fresh sheets and a cover…which are then whisked away again the next morning soon after Nabida wakes me and leads me into the bathroom.
The women don’t bother with a robe this time. I’m patted dry and shown to the makeup chair. I consider batting them away, but yesterday’s feeling of hangry has given way to fatigue. I sit back and let them do what they want.
Zahir is at the table when I emerge from the bathroom. I say nothing, just watch Nabida and Raima bow before leaving the room.
“Would you like breakfast?” Zahir asks, his voice as cold and polite as always. So polite.
I don’t answer. Instead, I sit on the bed and watch him watch me over a tantalizing breakfast of pita, olives, and some dark and delicious smelling dip.
“I will see you again at the midday meal,” he says after fifteen minutes of this. Then he leaves, and the Wonder Attendants return.
I do my best to study, but the room is too warm and my mind refuses to work properly. I have barely managed to memorize a page worth of legal terms and when I look down at my notebook, there’s a line written there: stripped me of everything then asked if I wanted coffee with that.
Fuck. A lyric. Which is a drug I no longer do, since my fledgling dream of becoming a professional songwriter went down with my dad’s plane.
I tear the notebook page out and ball it up, just before Nabida and Raima show up to clear the table and me so Zahir can return for lunch.
“Would you like a sfeeha?” he asks during lunch, lifting a gorgeous dough pocket with minced meat inside. “It’s one of the things I missed most when I attended school in the States.”
Would I like a sfeeha? I stare at him angrily. Then I come around the table…
…and quietly take a seat in his lap.
In the end, it doesn’t feel like I have much of a choice. I’m hungry, and my ability to reason is rapidly draining away. I can’t concentrate enough to study…or not write song lyrics… or plot my way out of this. I’m becoming weak…
An image of my mother’s prone body on her bedroom floor comes back to me. She still has a Sharpie marker in her hand. I try to shake her awake only to realize that this time, she is way more than passed out. Her beautiful eyes are open, but her soul…it has flown off in the night and it’s far, far away—fuck, lyric. See, what I mean?
But I can’t succumb to weakness like my mother did. The twins still need me. I can’t be a songwriter. I have to pass the bar and make it through the next six months with my mind intact, so that I can get another law job as soon as I’m back in the States. That means I can’t starve to death. If I want to win this game, I’ve got to eat.
Much to my annoyance, Zahir doesn’t act even a little surprised at my sudden acquiescence. He simply begins feeding me, as if he knew I’d cave all along. First, he gives me some dates, which taste like fucking heaven—seriously, why aren’t dates more popular in the States? They’re the perfect food. Sticky and sweet with just the right amount of hunger-busting fiber.
Next, Zahir feeds me bits of hummus and pita, followed by a couple of sfeeha pockets, which turn out to be a lamb and pine nut mixture baked into a kind of semi-sweet phyllo dough. In other words, sfeeha equals straight up ambrosia and it only takes about six or seven of them until I feel truly full.
I don’t say a word during the entire exchange and neither does Zahir. But when I’ve finished my last sfeeha, he asks, “Would you like some coffee?”
I shake my head. “Water.”
“Water…” he repeats, voice leading.
“Please,” I say, cashing in another pride chip to push the world out.
The coffee pot is within easy reach, but he has to shift me in his lap to grab the glass jug. He does it easily, lifting up one leg and sliding me back as he reaches for the water.
And that’s when I feel it for the third time. Holt said Zahir wasn’t a monster, but I can feel one beneath his pants, hard and all but pulsing.
I squirm in Zahir’s lap, trying to find a place to put my bottom so I can drink my water and be done with this lunch. But then a new heat rises in me and I begin to squirm for a different reason.
He has finished pouring the water. It is there for me to take. But instead of reaching for the glass, I keep squirming, the heat suffusing me as I try to satisfy a sudden aching need.
I can feel his eyes on me, so I close mine to block him out. I don’t think about Zahir at all, just about the monster I can’t see, hard beneath my pussy. Giving me a steady purchase as I try to find a rhythm that will yield what I want—
Two hands clamp down on my hips making it so I can’t move. “You will beg,” a voice whispers in my ear, even as the monster pushes into the back of my naked pussy, so deep, I dumbly clench around it, trying to get at something I can’t have. So deep, my wet core will definitely leave a spot on his pants.
But not deep enough.
With an easy lift up and down of his thickly muscled arms, Zahir removes me from his lap. I stand on trembling legs, trying to figure out what just happened. What came over me…
And, oh God…I did leave a spot. Hot shame washes over me as I take in the dark wet patch on the crotch of his no doubt expensive pants.
But if Zahir is feeling similar embarrassment, it doesn’t show. Instead, he steps in close and asks, “Are you satisfied? Did you get enough?”
We both know he’s not talking about the food…and that my answer is no. But I nod anyway, stubbornly ignoring the heartbeat that has found its way to my core as I say, “Yeah…I’m done here.”
A beat of silence passes. Then, “How long has it been since you were with another man?”
I shake my head, not wanting to answer.
“Months?” he asks. “Years?”
The answer is none of his business and I remain silent. But Zahir must see the truth in my averted gaze.
“Years,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “And tell me, Prin, will I be your first—?”
“No,” I answer, immediately cutting him off. I have no problem answering this question.
I bite down, hating the amused emphasis he puts on the word “occupied,” and hating how much I want to answer just to win that prize. My pussy feels hollow now, aching with the memory of something almost within reach before he abruptly snatched it away.
My pride saves me in the end. It may be battered after the lap incident, but it’s still working. It clamps my lips together and tells me not to think about what I’d do with a vibrator if I had one to use after Zahir left.
Besides, the truth is too embarrassing to admit. Like, I’m going to tell this cruel and sadistic bastard that most of the men I’ve dated have been more interested in our Instagram posts than in making sure I came. Hell, a few of the moderately famous ones expected me to do all the work. To perform for them, like I was one of the strippers at the clubs they rapped about and was being paid to entertain them.
“I’m satisfied,” I insist, taking a step back. “Now go away, please.” I lean hard on the please so there is no possible way in hell he can mistake it for actual politeness.
For a moment, Zahir stares at me, his dark eyes taking me in as if I’m a puzzle he’s almost figured out…then he raps on the table.
Soon after, he’s gone in a flurry of Arabic and bows from Nabida and Raima. And he doesn’t return for dinner, which feels like a punishment for not giving him the humiliating truth he wanted.
If so, it works. Ravenous with a newly rekindled hunger, I make a notch inside my head: Day One
Because, make no mistake, this is the real day one for me. And my new normal for the next six months. What about that wonderful spa vacation, you ask?
I’m pretty sure that was only given to fatten me up.
Chapter 32
Day Two: Zahir is once again waiting for me when I come out of the bathroom after my morning hair and makeup session. His chair is pushed back just far enough to accommodate one thinnish black girl seated sideways on his lap. This time, I don’t hesitate.
As it turns out, a little food given and taken away is far worse than no food at all. My quaking stomach leads the way as I quietly take my seat on him.
He scoots in, shifting my body so my naked pussy is once more positioned on top of the hard monster. I can tell he’s doing this intentionally. Baiting me to see what I’ll do on his string.
I force my hips to remain still as he feeds me a breakfast of fresh berries, slices of cucumber and tomato, and crispy falafel ball dipped in a tangy yogurt he calls labneh.
“Are you satisfied?” he asks when I’m no longer taking careful bites of food from his hand. “Have you had enough?”
I nod miserably, not trusting myself to respond.
“Good…” he murmurs. Then he pours himself a coffee from the beaked pot and offers me a sip. I usually drink my coffee with sugar and milk but damn if this version doesn’t instantly switch my preference to black. It is delicious and cinnamon-y with a hint of smoke that must be the cardamom.
Without conscious thought, my hand lifts to the other side of the cup to hold it steady for a second sip. That turns out be a mistake.
Zahir removes the cup and puts me out of his lap. Then he raps on the table and a few seconds later, Nabida and Raima have removed the breakfast and the beautiful coffee.
I am allowed to study for about three hours, but today Raima interrupts me five minutes before lunch and she’s holding a skein of silken black rope.
“You will hold out your hands, please,” she says before expertly binding my wrists.
I say nothing and neither does she. We both know who gave her the order to tie me up and that there’s nothing I can do about it.
I somehow manage not to squirm during lunch. But there is something about having my wrists bound as he feeds me. I keep my mouth shut, but my other lips tattle all the tales. I am dripping, becoming more and more slick with every bite of food Zahir gives me. Eventually, I become so wet, my pussy lips slip and spread wide, sinking my core so far down on his hard mound that I can feel the cloth line and metal of his zipper as it clenches around him with a mind of its own.
Neither of us say a word after he puts me off his lap, but like yesterday, I can see I’ve left a mark. And I leave an even bigger one on his new suit at dinner.
Zahir is forcing me to walk around naked 24/7 and only allowing me to eat from his hand with my wrists bound. But my body doesn’t care. It responds to him with dumb primal need and this time, the feeling doesn’t recede after he leaves.
“Can I have a minute alone in the bath?” I ask after Nabida removes my makeup and Raima braids my hair.
They grant my request. And I vow not to make it about him as I descend into the warm water. I dip my fingers beneath the surface and doggedly focus on my standard Jason Momoa fantasy while I rub one out.
That’s Day Two. Days Three, Four, and Five unfold in more or less the same way.
On Day Six, Zahir asks at lunch if I would like to call Holt while he’s docked in Cairo. “No,” I answer quietly as my pussy clenches around his mound. “But I do need to talk to my sisters and tell them I’m alright…”
Nabida hands me a phone at the end of my afternoon study session. I quickly dial the familiar number and manage to wake up Kasha about fifteen minutes before she should technically be out door for school.
“Prin!” Kasha screams. I can hear her running into Sasha’s room where she puts me on speaker phone. I’ve been gone for over a week, but before we can talk about anything of substance, the girls immediately force me to moderate an ongoing argument about who gets to drive my car while I’m away. Once that’s settled (I tell them to take turns…duh), I listen patiently as they update me on their spring musical rehearsals, possible prom dates, and everything in-between. Holt and Sylvie invited them over to Connecticut for Spring Break the first week of April and they’re thinking of going for the summer, too, since I’m not due to return until September.
“Did you know they have TWO swimming pools? And we can swim in both of them!” Kasha exclaims. Unlike our pool, which I was forced to drain in order to cut costs shortly after paying my first quarterly property tax bill.
In any case, it sounds like Sasha is doing her best to keep the house and her sister in line. Sasha has put together a list of things for me to take care of when I return home, including a broken toilet on the second floor, and what Sasha fears may be bats in our attic. In the end, and despite my seriously messed up circumstances, I feel guilty. While the girls are balancing school with the drudgery of home maintenance, I’m living in a palace with a lagoon, a pool-sized bathtub, and a full staff who attend to the residents and keep the palace in better than good working order.
“Can you come back to see us in the musical in April?” Kasha asks, interrupting Sasha’s to-do list. “Just for a visit?”
“I wish I could, sweetie, but I’m not allowed to travel for another six months per my marriage visa.”
It is a lot easier to lie to them than it should be. But I don’t want the girls to worry about me or get wind of what’s really going on over here. That means I have to stick to the lie I had Sylvie relay to them. That Zahir invited me to stay at his palace under a temporary marriage contract because it’s the only way to “date” in Jahwar. But really this is simply a way for me to study for the bar in peace, while I see where this thing with Zahir leads. And no matter what, I’ll be returning to the States in six months to take the bar in September.
Romantic Kasha happily buys my story, but Sasha asks me a bunch of questions, including the new Disney princess standard, “Seriously, you went and married a guy you’ve only known for a day?”
I answer as vaguely as possible, but I don’t blame them for sounding confused when we finally say good-bye an hour la
ter. I’m confused, too.
I thank Zahir for the phone when I see him next at dinner. I do this even though I really don’t want to. Truth is, he’s manipulating me into behaving politely…. he’s playing me like I’m a record on his turntable. And I’m letting him win.
“You are doing very well, Prin,” he says after my head down thank you. “I will have the phone brought to you twice a week from now on.”
On Day Six, I start getting things. First my phone privileges, then—on Day Seven—my bedding. On Day Eight, Nabida leaves me a wash cloth for what has now become my after-dinner alone time. And on Day Nine, after my afternoon study break, Raima serves me a full tea, which I’m allowed to eat by myself: sparkling date juice, scones, crustless finger sandwiches, salmon pinwheels, and a black sage tea Nabida claims will help me digest the afternoon meal.
I’m allowed to call the twins twice a week and have afternoon tea on my own. But my closet remains empty, and Raima continues to bind my wrists before each shared meal with Zahir. Fourteen more days to go. Just two more weeks until Holt and Sylvie’s big family vacation is finished, and they return to Connecticut. Then I can call Holt and put a stop to all this without feeling like I’ve ruined his post-wedding vacation with his new wife and sons.
But then on Day 10, a blob of jam falls off the piece of brioche Zahir is placing into my mouth. It lands on one of my naked breasts.
We both look down at the orange spot, and then back up at each other.
“May I get that for you?” Zahir asks, his voice perfectly polite. As if there’s any possibility I can do it myself with my wrists bound as they are.
I nod and add, “Yes, please.” Because this is the game I am being forced to play with Zahir until I can call Holt without a fit of conscience.
But instead of reaching for a nearby white cloth napkin, Zahir lowers his dark head…
I gasp, both my stomach and my pussy tightening as his mouth captures my full breast and gently licks off the jam. I watch his tongue as it makes its way towards my nipple… mesmerized by the sight and the feeling it leaves on my skin. Long after the jam is gone, Zahir continues to suckle at me, drawing on my nipple as if there’s more jam to be found and he’s determined to remove it.
LUCA_Her Ruthless Don Page 24
