“OK, very funny,” she said weakly as a combination of panic and the most shocking arousal whipped through her. “Haha. Now just—”
And she gagged and flicked her eyes open wide as the Sheikh pulled her head back by her hair and stuffed that woolen sock of hers into her mouth as she tried to scream. He leaned in and checked as if to make sure it wouldn’t choke her, and then he stepped back.
She pulled against her soft purple cuffs as she tried to turn her head and see him, but the bindings were tight, almost professional, and only now did it truly sink in that she couldn’t break free at all. She tried to turn to him but couldn’t do that either. She breathed in and out desperately until she managed to convince herself she wasn’t going to choke to death. Then she sat there helpless and bound for what seemed like a long time, until finally she felt his presence behind her.
The Sheikh slowly walked around and stood by the radiator, arms folded across his heavy, muscled chest. “In my classroom I do not tolerate so much back-talk,” he said in a low, deep voice that sent a shiver right down the middle of Gracie’s body, from her neck through her back, down past her quivering buttocks and her shaking thighs. “It is tiresome and quite unnecessary. If you have some doubts that you are pregnant, then I will clear up those doubts, my little science teacher. I will take you again and again, fill you again and again, when I want, as often as I want, as deep and hard and rough as I want. Then you can calculate the probabilities and analyze the chances. Eventually your calculations will tell you what I am already telling you, what your body is already telling you.”
She coughed as she tried to speak, blinking as she looked up at this madman who seemed to be saying he was going to keep her tied up and gagged until he had successfully impregnated her.
But he kept talking. “Of course, it will not be as simple as that, Gracie. Because of your back-talk and defiance, the mocking tone in which you questioned my conclusions, the disrespect you have shown not only to a King and Sheikh but to the father of your unborn child . . . yes, because of that you will need to be taught a thing or two about how my world works. You will need to learn the discipline that Sheikh Dhomaar demands. I will teach you the discipline that Sheikh Dhomaar demands. So, Ms. Grace Garner, although on the surface it appears we are in your classroom, the truth is that you are in my school. The School of Sheikh Dhomaar. The lesson will begin shortly. It may smart a little, but you will be better for it, I assure you. Now you think about that until I return.”
Now he turned his head and looked to the left, smirking and briskly walking out of her sight. She heard the sound of plaster tearing, like something was being ripped off the wall, and when the Sheikh came back into view, Gracie almost fainted at the sight.
Because here was the Sheikh, naked and hard, rippling muscle and throbbing veins, black Arabic letters tattooed down the side of his torso . . . yes, here he was with that long, thick, heavy wooden ruler in his hand, the one that had been nailed up on the wall, the one that was three feet long and several inches wide, with the words "Gracie the Ruler" carefully painted in black acrylic.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” she tried to say, but of course it sounded like, “Broiuokdhfsdfwee” and so she shut up and tried to signal with her eyes that enough was enough and there was no way in bloody hell he was going to—
SMACK, came the first strike, arriving swift and silent on her upturned ass, and her eyes almost popped out of their sockets at the stinging pain that spread through her buttocks so fast she almost fainted.
“WRUUFFFTHEEFRROOK!” she mumbled through that woolen sock.
SMACK! was the response on her stinging buttocks.
“DDDONTTTYOUUFUCCCKINGDAARREE!” she gargled.
SMACK, SMACK! was the reply.
“ILLLKILLLLYOUUU!” she choked.
SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!! was the retort.
And then she understood the lesson, and Gracie the Ruler shut the hell up and she arched her back down and stuck those bottoms up in the air, closing her eyes tight as the Sheikh brought that wooden paddle down hard, again and again, smacking clean and straight, right on the beautiful meat of her upturned bum.
And she kept that ass turned up and out, and she bowed her head, and she enjoyed it.
Oh mother of God, she enjoyed it.
19
He left that sock in her mouth even after he gave her the last smack she deserved. Then he tossed the quivering ruler aside, leaning in and kissing her upturned bottoms that were red and raw, the ruler marks clearly visible as long, straight red lines on those magnificent globes.
He massaged her buttocks as she whimpered and sobbed, kissing the back of her thighs as he reached between her legs and rubbed her pussy, smiling when he felt how wet she was, how warm she was, how his she was.
“All done,” he whispered as he slowly massaged his cock with one hand while rubbing her pussy and licking her along her rear crack. “How’s my baby girl? You were so good as you took your punishment. Daddy’s proud of you. Daddy’s proud of you for keeping your bottoms so straight and tight as you got what you deserved.”
She whimpered again as he pushed two fingers into her cunt from beneath, spreading those lips and leaning in from behind and gently blowing warm air against her pubic curls. Grace moaned through that sock, pulled on her binds, arched her back lower and spread those thick thighs as she turned her pussy back and out towards him.
Ya Allah, she is so ready, he thought as he massaged his balls and glanced at her red velvet slit, open and wet, long and magnificent, delicate brown hairs lining the outside, highlighting the entry-point for his throbbing cock. Oh, God, I will never tire of taking her. I know it. To say I feel bonded to this woman is to mock the depth of my physical need for her.
He leaned in and took a deep breath of her feminine aroma, shuddering as he filled his lungs with her scent. Now he licked her as those smooth round buttocks quivered against his face. He licked her again, now running his tongue up along her rear crack, slowly parting her buttcheeks as she moaned and tensed up. With a groan he spread her cheeks wide, glancing at her dark rear shadow, his breath catching when he took in the sight of her tight rear hole. He licked her pucker now, circling her asshole with his tongue as she clenched her buttocks and tightened up, trying to close him out. But he held her asscheeks wide apart, licking her circle again, now pushing the tip of his tongue in as she clenched again and tried to turn her head as she whimpered desperately into her gag.
He pushed her head back facing forward, licking her again, coating her asshole with saliva and then sliding his middle finger into her ass as he felt her clamp her buttocks together as she once again screamed something through her gag.
“Relax, baby girl,” he muttered as he curled that finger up inside her bum. “Daddy knows what he’s doing. I will not hurt my baby. I love my baby.”
She whimpered as he said it, and now the Sheikh felt her buttocks relax as she opened up for him. Soon he was sliding his finger in and out of her rear pucker, and she was beginning to move with him, moan with his grunts, whimper with his whispers. He smacked her buttocks lightly as he pumped his finger into her, smacked harder now, rubbed and kneaded, coaxed as she pleaded.
Soon his cock was so hard he was certain he would explode all over her back and buttocks if he did not give her pussy what it was so clearly demanding from between her legs. But still he held on, closing his eyes as he felt her arousal build along with his. This was more than just him taking what he wanted, he reminded himself. It was more than him just giving her what she wanted, he told himself. This was truly a lesson. There was indeed learning taking place. She was learning about herself even as she learned about him. She was getting a glimpse of how twisted he could be, and at the same time learning the shocking truth of how much she could enjoy being twisted along with him.
Of course, that sort of teaching and learning happened with all the girls,
all the women. But there was something more here, was there not? Something more at stake, it felt like. After all, he had asked her a question that was . . . ya Allah, it was almost a marriage proposal, was it not?!
“I can promise you everything a man can give,” he had said with all the seriousness he had. “But I cannot give you marriage. Everything but marriage.”
In a twisted way, he was giving her marriage, was he not? Promising to be with her and her alone. Father her children. Protect her. Care for her. Raise a family with her. Grow old with her. By God, that is what he had meant, was it not? And was that not marriage? Everything but the wedding!
Would she accept that? he wondered as he looked down at this magnificent woman tied and bound before him, spread wide and streaked red.
“Everything but the wedding,” he said out loud now. “I can promise you anything and everything, but I cannot give you that.”
Now she turned her head halfway and he could see her eyes. They were tear-filled and narrowed to slits, but there was a focus coming to them as he spoke. So he kissed the small of her back now, massaging her buttocks again, spreading her as he went down on his knees behind her. He guided his cock to her slit, sliding in and flexing, holding his length in there as he watched her eyes roll up in her head. Soon she turned and faced the wall again, head lowered as the arousal took her.
He started to thrust now, asking her the question again, whispering the words, pumping harder as he slowly reached for that purple scarf and undid her knots, now unplugging her gag as she gasped. He pulled out his cock and quickly turned her body, sitting himself cross-legged on the classroom floor and guiding her onto his upright cock, smiling as she squatted down over his erection, slowly lowering her heavy body onto his throne.
He groaned as he watched his thick, glistening shaft disappear into her, and he felt so deep inside her that he almost exploded right then and there. She rode him now as he grabbed her hips and buttocks, lifting her and pulling her back down, harder now, faster now, deeper now, until she was raising herself up and then crashing down on his cock, screaming as all her weight added to the force of his hard cock re-entering her.
Together they rode, up and down, in and out, the desks and chairs near them rattling as they moved across the floor, the Sheikh ripping off her t-shirt and tossing her bra away, devouring her hanging tits as she clawed at his hair, bounced on his cock.
Finally he felt her come, her bouncing body seizing up as she let out a long wail of ecstasy, tears flowing down her round cheeks as he pumped and clenched and sucked on her nipples. Soon he was there too, while she was still wailing and clenching, legs wrapped around his hard waist, arms hugging him so damned tight, her eyes closed all the way.
He came silently as he held her, gritting his teeth as he felt his semen blast up like a volcano inside her, filling her skies with his heat, flooding her plains with his seed.
“Oh, God, Gracie,” he muttered as he pumped and flexed even as she barely moved from her viselike embrace. "Gracie, are you all right?”
She was quiet as he shuddered through his climax, groaning and grunting as he throbbed and flexed, balls seizing, cock pumping, finally slowing down into short little gasps as he exhaled hard and listened for her heartbeat, wondering if she had died on him, she was so goddamn still!
“I think you’re right,” she finally whispered against his neck as his cock squeezed out the last of his load and she emerged from that post-coital embrace.
“About what?” he muttered.
“About last night,” she said, slowly pulling her head back so she could look at him. “About being pregnant. About how my body already knows even if my mind thinks it’s impossible to know yet.”
“Ah, you have chosen to agree with me,” he said, raising an eyebrow and glancing at that wooden ruler that sat patiently to their left. “What brought you to that conclusion?”
“Well,” she said, raising an eyebrow herself and cocking her head as she looked him in the eye. “It’s the only possible explanation for why I feel this overwhelming urge to be with a man who is sexist, violent, twisted, and generally quite scary and perhaps even dangerous.”
“That bad?” he said, grinning as he touched his nose to hers.
“Yes, you are that bad,” she whispered through a smile.
“I wasn’t asking if I was that bad,” he said. “I was just confirming that your need for me is that bad.”
“I hate you,” she said as he kissed her cheek.
“Hate is the first sign of love,” he said, kissing her again.
“I don’t think we’re there yet.”
“Where? Hate? Or love?”
“Oh, God, Dhomaar. This is . . . this feels . . . I mean, there’s no rush to decide anything, yes? I mean, we still barely know each—”
“We have our entire unmarried lives to get to know each other, whatever the bloody hell that means,” the Sheikh snapped. “Ya Allah, we have shared the most intimate parts of ourselves, and your sticking point is that we do not know each other’s favorite colors or list of allergies or pet peeves or whatever else you consider part of getting to know each other. Should we do some Facebook personality quizzes to speed up the process?”
“You know those quizzes are just a way for companies to develop psychological profiles of people so they can sell that information to advertisers.”
The Sheikh sighed as he pretended to push her away, and she giggled and snuggled closer. He turned his face towards the window as he listened to her ramble on, and his thoughts drifted to a nagging fear that favorite colors and pet peeves aside, there would be a part of him she could never get to know—at least not if he wanted to actually be with this woman. After all, if she ever found out she had been tracked and followed, profiled and picked, selected and seduced . . .
And now he thought of Zareena, and his breathing quickened as he wondered what the hell she was planning. After all, she would know he had gone into the school building. She would know he had gone back to Grace even after she warned him not to. And Zareena was not one to leave things to chance, so certainly she had accounted for this situation. So what would Zareena do, now that she knew Dhom had “given in to his need” and gone to Grace, taken her again, would keep taking her!
Ya Allah, Zareena will take her, came the thought from the darkest part of his mind, the part of his mind where paranoia sat quietly in the shadows, alert but silent, waiting to be summoned so it could leap into the light, bringing all the madness that came with it.
Bloody hell, of course Zareena will take her! Now that I have effectively destroyed Zareena’s negotiating position, the Sheikha will find a way to strengthen that position again. And what better way than to take this woman out of her comfort zone, out of her life, out of her goddamn mind perhaps!
For a moment the Sheikh almost panicked, but although a healthy paranoia did exist in this king, panic was not his domain. So he stayed with this woman and let the thoughts flow through him like the afternoon breeze . . . thoughts and options, tactics and strategies, means and ends. Of course he trusted Zareena as far as her motives went: She was in service of their kingdom, their land, their people, and she would follow that motivation through all its twists and turns, loops and winds.
But what are my motives, the Sheikh wondered as that afternoon breeze flowed through Grace’s open brown hair as she laughed with him, smiled with him, danced with him in the gentle aftermath of their coupling. Am I truly focused only on what’s best for Mizra and the future of my kingdom? Or am I reaching for something that I want for myself? Am I convincing myself that it is OK to be selfish and take this woman for my own instead of staying with the plan and letting her pass as a one-night stand?
Everything but marriage, came the thought again on the whispering wind, and the Sheikh frowned as a strange clarity came to him. By God, he thought, stop thinking like a fool in love and start thinkin
g like a king who always gets what he wants. You will have it all, Dhomaar. The woman, the heir, and the future security of the nation. She will agree to be your woman without the stamp of marriage. It may take time, but she will break, she will submit, she will say yes to this marriage proposal that involves everything but marriage.
And by God, if Zareena is mad enough, determined enough, dedicated enough to have a plan to seize this woman, then it is not just Zareena who will gain the advantage in negotiations. I will have an advantage too, will I not?
And I will need the advantage to make this proud American woman submit to my will. She is smart and modern and not some hopelessly idealistic romantic, but she is a woman. By God, she is a woman! And every woman wishes for a wedding, muses on her marriage, dreams of that first dance with her handsome groom. It will be hard to take that dream away from her. But what can I do?
You can step down from the throne, divorce Zareena, and take Grace to be your wife, came the thought. Of course, by law Zareena will also be stripped of the Sheikhood, and the Royal Council will be left scrambling to convince one of the fat and happy billionaires of our scattered family to come back and be a reluctant ruler. Even if that mad old Sheikh Kalyan makes no attempt to invade, the kingdom of Mizra would almost certainly fade away into history with no strong leader to hold the spirit of the land together. Newer generations would take their wealth and leave for the larger cities in mainland Arabia and the West. The population would dwindle. The optimism of the people would depart, leaving a barren race of old Mizrahi faithfuls. In fifty years Mizra would return to the desert. Turn to salt.
Yes, I could do that, the Sheikh thought with a scornful grimace, laughing at himself for even allowing such an option to exist in his proud mind. He had made his commitment to the kingdom of Mizra and to its people the day he chose to marry Zareena and take his place as Sheikh and King. That commitment would never waver. Not for a promise of eternal life. Not under threat of painful death. Not for a woman. Not even for this woman.
Surrogate for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 7) Page 13
