Surrogate for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 7)

by Annabelle Winters

  Zareena pushed away the thought that she was a filthy, twisted woman as she brought out those ripped black panties which Gracie had worn beneath her red dress that night. She held them up to the light, her left hand dropping down to her crotch as she breathed deep of that woman’s feminine smell.

  “Oh, God,” she muttered, touching her clit and backing away to the bed. She heard a sound outside her curtain now, turning to look but then thinking it was just a breeze.

  “Alma?” she called out in a panic. But there was no answer, and so the Queen pulled the curtain aside and checked. No one. No one but the queen and her fantasies.

  26

  FOURTH MONTH

  If this had started as a dream and turned into a nightmare, it was now a fantasy, Gracie thought as she pushed herself up off the Sheikh, who had sat her down on his cock three times today alone, making her ride him to orgasm carefully and slowly, now that she was showing a little of that baby bump.

  Dhomaar had returned almost two months ago, and now she could say for sure that they knew each other’s favorite colors.

  “OK, it is purple,” she told him when he pointed out that she did not seem to like green as much as she had led him to believe. “I just didn’t want you to think you could figure me out so quick.”

  “Trust me,” Dhom said. “It will take a while to figure you out. And by God, I am looking forward to it.”

  “Well, you’ve got five months before you’re gonna be on diaper-duty, so if you got some questions, then now’s the time, buddy.”

  “The heir to the kingdom of Mizra will not need diapers. He will just come and go as he pleases. Wherever he pleases.”

  “Eww,” she said, twisting her face and pushing him away.

  He shrugged. “You will have to learn a few of the customs of this savage land, my lady. Now that I think about it,” he added, looking at his cock, which seemed ready to get hard again—for the fourth time that day. “It is time for today’s lesson.”

  “Oh, trust me, I don’t need a lesson in diapers or lack thereof.”

  “That is not the savage custom I speak of,” he said quietly, walking to the hand-carved cabinet of dark wood that sat against the pink sandstone walls. He opened it and pulled out something that looked . . . looked . . .

  “What. The. Fu—”

  “Camel leather,” said the Sheikh, holding up the ominous looking whip, long brown strands of sun-cured rawhide hanging down, hundreds of little tassels with rounded studs at each end. “Come. We will start easy. We have the entire month to break this in. To break you in.”

  “Um, what happens next month,” she said, covering her naked buttocks with her hands as she walked over to him, squinting in terrified curiosity at that camel-leather thing in the Sheikh’s hands.

  Now the Sheikh pulled open both doors of the long dark cabinet, and Gracie’s buttocks seized up as she stared at the rows upon rows of . . .

  “That’s a lot to learn in five months,” she whispered as she felt her pussy start to ooze in urgent anticipation. “We’d better get started, don’t you think?”

  27

  FIFTH MONTH

  “We have already started. Grace is a quick learner. Smart as a whip.”

  Zareena frowned at Dhomaar before winking and nodding. “We are still talking about Arabic lessons, yes?”

  The Sheikh grinned and shrugged as he put on his sunglasses and walked back to the silver Range Rover. He took a long drink of the lime juice waiting on a golden tray, slamming the glass down on the hood of the car as an attendant swooped in to grab it.

  Dhomaar walked past the queen again, all the way to the edge of the small oasis that had been on its way to a salty death just a year ago. He reached down and scooped up some of the clear blue water in his palm, tasting it and then turning to the queen.

  “I suppose this is an omen that things are back to following the path of destiny,” Dhomaar said, trying to roll his eyes but finding it hard to do so after tasting the fresh and sweet water of the desert he loved. “Whereas our surveyors assure me there is a scientific explanation. Something to do with rainfall patterns and date palm roots.”

  “Scientific explanation,” Zareena said with a smirk. “OK, so what is the scientific explanation for the blind old Sheikh of Kalyan seemingly backing down from his dreams of conquest and invasion?”

  Dhom snorted. “The scientific explanation is that the whole invasion thing was unscientific to begin with! A blind madman is overhead talking to himself, and we are to take his rants seriously!”

  “Blind madmen are notoriously and scientifically unpredictable,” Zareena said. “In such a case, paranoia is the sensible option for the circumspect ruler. At any rate, if the Sheikh of Kalyan was never serious, perhaps that is even more of an indication that the universe has its ways of influence and coercion. Without the warnings that came through Alma, we may never have started down this path. You and Grace may never have met.”

  “We would have met some other way,” Dhom started to say, and then he caught himself when he realized Zareena had trapped him into saying something suspiciously close to the unscientific statement that he and Grace were inevitable, meant to be, that it was fate, destiny, goddamn magic!

  He grinned and looked away when he saw Zareena’s expression of triumph, and he tried very hard not to reward her with some sign that by God, sometimes he thought it did feel like magic!

  Zareena finally looked at her phone and spoke. “Well, speaking of science, the Lamaze instructor will be waiting for you and Grace. The woman charges nine hundred an hour.”

  “I would pay her nine thousand an hour not to come,” Dhomaar muttered as he got into the Range Rover and snapped his fingers for a cup of sweet tea.

  “Ah, you love it,” Zareena whispered. “I have seen you with her in those sessions. It is beautiful to watch, my husband. It warms my heart.”

  Dhomaar looked over and frowned. “You have watched us in those sessions? When?”

  Zareena quickly blinked and looked away. “Oh, I just happened to be walking by and I stopped to see my fake husband getting ready to be a real husband.”

  “Ah, because she is a real woman, my Grace,” Dhom muttered, smiling as he thought of how insanely hot her curves were with the added heft of the pregnancy. He could barely keep his hands off her, and in fact part of his discomfort with the Lamaze sessions was that he was painfully erect about halfway into them! All he wanted was that damned instructor to get the hell out so he could strip those clothes off his curvy baby-mama and take her right there on the damned yoga mats, in front of the mirror of that exercise room!

  Well, not if Zareena was going to be watching from the shadows, Dhom thought as he glanced over at his wife now, looking down at her slender frame, petite breasts, boyish bob-cut beneath the hood of her black gown. Alma was a slender woman too, it occurred to Dhom as the car raced silently through the desert, the curves of those rolling dunes gliding by as Dhom tried to push away the thoughts that seemed to be popping into his mind suddenly.

  “Why don’t you join us for the Lamaze one day,” he said quietly now, glancing at Zareena and noticing how she flinched.

  She snorted, glancing into his eyes with a questioning look. “Ah, no. I do not think—”

  “Why not? We will all three of us have a hand in raising the child.” He grinned now, shrugging and then reaching over and squeezing his wife’s hand. “Just like all three of us had a hand in conceiving this child.”

  Her eyes teared up as she held his hand, and they rode in silence for the rest of the trip back.

  “We shall see,” Zareena said as they pulled into the palace driveway. “We shall see.”

  28

  SIXTH MONTH

  “I can’t even see my toes, my belly’s so big! I can’t even see my belly, my boobs are so big!”

  “Can
you see this, my woman?”

  “Oh, God, Dhom! What is that? And what are you going to do with—oh God, Dhom!”

  29

  SEVENTH MONTH

  “No Lamaze instructor today,” Dhom said to her. “She fell off a camel.”

  “Oh, that’s awful. Why was she riding a camel?” said Gracie as she took his arm to steady herself so she could waddle to the side of the exercise studio where they had their Lamaze sessions. One wall was all mirror, and Gracie looked at her enormous belly and bulging boobs in that loose white t-shirt that was the size of a sail. She wore black tights that could fit an elephant, she thought—though for some reason Dhom seemed to get only more insatiable as she got closer to full-on cow status. Perhaps he’d even be able to milk her soon! She’d actually felt some pressure building up behind her nipples—the areolas of which had grown as big as saucers, it seemed. She really did feel like a cow ready to be milked!

  But she also felt beautiful, and she felt loved. By Dhom, of course. But also by everyone else, it seemed! She had grown to love her attendants, and now that she spoke a smattering of Arabic, people were literally falling at her feet from pride that this American woman was taking the trouble to learn their language. And there was Zareena, of course, with whom Grace felt a real bond, something more than friendship and not quite sisterhood. It was familial, yeah. But there was still some weird tension.

  Well, of course there’s weird tension. The situation is weird! Our family is going to be weird! What kind of a triangle are we? Hah!

  “She was riding a camel because we are in the goddamn desert and it is a perfectly acceptable thing to ride a camel here,” Dhom said.

  “Huh? What? Oh, the Lamaze woman. OK, well, should we just head back to the Southern Wing? I’ve only lived here seven months, and there’s at least five different indoor fountains I haven’t seen yet.”

  “No,” said Dhom. “Let us do it anyway. We do not need the instructor.”

  “Really? You want to do it anyway? That’s so sweet.”

  “This is what is sweet,” he growled as he reached around from behind her and pressed her right boob, squeezing and kneading as she backed up into him and rubbed her body against him.

  “Oh, shit,” she groaned as she felt her nipple stiffen up as he pinched it through the white cotton t-shirt. “Oh, shit!” she cried now when she felt the liquid ooze from her nipple as the Sheikh pinched that stiff nub and reached for the other boob.

  “What is it?” he said, rubbing his cock against her ass in those black yoga pants.

  “You don’t feel it through the cloth?” she said when she realized what it was.

  “Do you feel this through the cloth?” he growled as he pushed the peak of his erection between her buttcheeks and pulled her back against him as he ground and swirled, kneading her breasts harder, pinching both nipples so hard she could feel the lactate start to flow.

  “I’m leaking,” she giggled as she rubbed her ass against him.

  “Of course you are,” he muttered as he reached one hand down and cupped her beautiful pot-belly, now gently rubbing her crotch. “Of course you are leaking for Daddy. Just like Daddy is hard for—”

  “No, not that,” she said, frowning as she realized it felt damn good as the pressure behind her nipples got relieved as some of that milk got squeezed out. “My boobs. Do that again. With my nipples. Yes, that. Oh, God, that feels good.”

  “Ya Allah, your nipples are wet through the cloth, Grace,” said the Sheikh, frowning for a moment and then cocking his head. “Is it . . . is it your . . .”

  “Hm hmmm,” she muttered as he pressed her nipples, both at once, sending a wonderful tingle through her as she suddenly yearned to have those swollen peaks sucked and nibbled, pulled and plucked, squeezed and . . . milked.

  “So soon?” he said as he started to bunch up the cloth of her shirt even as he kept squeezing those nipples.

  “Seven months gone,” she groaned as she arched her back and pulled her own t-shirt up over her head, feeling her arousal soar as she felt the sticky flow soaking her bra cup. “Oh, God, get this bra off me, Dhom.”

  “As you wish,” he grunted as he slipped off the double-clasps and lifted the large reinforced cups off her swollen nipples, revealing her large, glistening areolas. “Oh, bloody hell, you are beautiful. Oh, my God, come here. Bring those here. Bring those to Daddy.”

  “Milk me first,” she gasped as he tried to turn her and suck her nipples. “I want to see myself in milk for the first time. Then you can taste me. But I want you to milk me first.”

  “My God, yes, I will milk you,” he muttered, helping her to the floor, leaning her up against his hard body so they both faced that mirrored wall. “Ya Allah, you look so beautiful and full, flowing like the goddamn mother of the universe.”

  She giggled as he squeezed, and now she gasped as she looked at her reflection, how large she was, how perfect she was, how her breasts were flowing as her man milked her, squeezed her, poured her.

  She closed her eyes and moaned as he squeezed her again, and now he was rubbing her crotch with one hand, licking her neck, still squeezing her nipple with increasing force.

  “Does this feel good?” he muttered as he plucked her nipple and pushed it back in, pumping her boob as her lactate flowed.

  “Uh-huh,” she muttered. “It feels good. I like being milked by Daddy.”

  “And Daddy likes milking his little girl when she’s all pregnant and swollen, overflowing like the rivers after a rainstorm, the milk of life flowing down her breasts. She is mother to everyone now. Mother to the universe.”

  “The milk is for you right now, Daddy. Milk me for yourself now, Daddy,” she groaned as she dropped her own hand down to her crotch, sliding her fingers into the waistband of her yoga pants as she leaned back into him, her eyes clamped shut, the strangest fantasy flowing into her mind, rivers of milk flowing from her breast, feeding the world, hungry mouths, grateful lips, plants and animals reaching for her, gods and goddesses suckling at her, husbands and wives, old and young, men and women, boys and girls. She was mother to all. Mother to the mother even. “Milk me for yourself now, Daddy. Milk me for Daddy.”

  “What about Mommy?” he murmured as he grasped both her breasts now as she slid two fingers into her own cunt and drove, her thumb furiously rubbing her clit as the Sheikh kept going with the fantasy. “Isn’t there some milk for Mommy? Doesn’t my good baby girl want to be milked for Mommy as well as Daddy?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she moaned. “My milk belongs to Daddy, so he can milk me for Mommy. He can milk me for anyone.”

  “Then Daddy will milk his little girl for Mommy,” he whispered. “Because she deserves to taste you. She had a hand in creating you too. So come now. Here we go. Relax and flow. Flow for Mommy. Flow for Mommy.”

  Now she felt lips closing around her right nipple, gently at first, tongue teasing the stiff point, now slowly circling her nub, lapping now, harder, lips closing in, clamping down, tight, tighter, teeth tenderly pulling at the nipples, sucking now, sucking more, sucking hard, sucking long, sucking deep, drinking from her, drinking in her, swallowing, slurping, sucking again, other nipple now, someone still pinching the other breast, her own fingers driving hard into her pussy.

  Grace’s eyelids fluttered open and closed, and she caught glimpses of herself in the mirror, glimpses of the Sheikh holding her in his arms, glimpses of Zareena . . .

  “Oh, God!” she gasped when she realized what was happening, and just as she said it she came, suddenly and hard, and Grace swore she squirted into her panties as she came, and ohgod she was still rubbing her clit, still driving into her cunt, still gasping and heaving as she watched the dark face of the Queen bobbing back and forth on her breast, sucking and swallowing, licking and slurping, and Grace didn’t stop with the fingers, and she was still coming, still flowing, still being milked by Dadd
y, sucked by Mommy, more fingers in her panties now, three fingers in her cunt now, the Queen’s fingers, long and slender, curling and intertwining with Grace’s own fingers, and that climax whipped itself up into white foam, a creamy froth, and she came and she came and she came, in Daddy’s arms, in Mommy’s mouth, her milk for all, Grace the universal mother, Grace the mother goddess, Grace, Grace, Grace.

  30

  EIGHTH MONTH

  Grace. Grace. Grace!

  Alma stood by the entrance to the dark, musty chambers of Sheikh Kalyan’s run-down old palace. She could have had this meeting a long time ago, but had never taken her old contact up on the offer to visit Kalyan until just now. Until she saw something she could never unsee. That sight of the king and queen and Grace, beautiful and pregnant, flowing like the goddess of life, driving Zareena into rapture even as Grace herself climaxed with a childlike innocence, the Sheikh holding her in his strong arms, the Sheikha helping her to orgasm as she drank her milk.

  That was several weeks ago, and nothing of the sort had happened again. Indeed, it appeared as if the three of them had chosen to never speak of it, to let that moment live as a moment to itself, a moment independent of any reality, a moment that could only occur once. But that one moment carried a unique emotional power that almost broke Alma as she watched from the curtains.

  Yes, it almost broke Alma to see her queen, her consort, her lover in that heavenly, surreal embrace that seemed so much more than just sexual gratification. And that was what tore Alma to shreds inside: the knowledge that the potential would always be there, even if nothing ever happened again; that there was some sort of love between Zareena and Grace, even if it was not sexual or romantic love.

  Of course, Alma would take her own life before harming the queen or the Sheikh. And for a while taking her own life seemed like the preferred option. But then, in a moment of indignant madness, a solution came to her wounded soul.