by Paul Blades
Jamilah stood before the newly decorated girl and admired their handiwork. “Oh, you’re beautiful Fatima. I could eat you up.”
Gelela turned and hissed, “Ngomo!”
They had finished just in time. Woe betides them if they hadn’t done a good job.
Ngomo strode into the bathroom. Then three slaves fell to their knees and bowed to their taskmaster. Fatima was at a loss of what to do. Ngomo stepped up to her and examined her with a well trained eye. He held her cheeks with one hand and turned her head right and left to judge the quality of the slaves’ handiwork. He seemed satisfied.
Fatima was still wearing the leather cuffs and steel collar that had adorned her when she had been shipped from Klitzman’s island. The Emir’s slaves did not wear cuffs or ankle restraints. When necessary to immobilize them a length of leather thong was used or a set of steel bracelets that seemed to be always at hand. But they did wear collars, narrow, gleaming, golden collars with rings affixed fore and aft. A small disk hung from the ring in the front containing the Emir’s crest on one side and the name of the slave engraved on the other.
“Follow me,” Ngomo ordered. Fatima’s English was rudimentary, but this order she understood. Her hands still bound behind her, she scurried after Ngomo as he strode from the bathroom. Once in the common area, he had her stand still while he removed the restraints from her wrists and ankles. It felt strange to Fatima to have her hands free after so long a confinement. He then turned her around and removed the steel collar. A delicate golden one took its place.
The three women who had been grooming Fatima ran out of the bedroom with a selection of dainty garments. From them, Ngomo selected a dark maroon, silk chemise with a deep ‘v’ neck and thin black borders.
Once Fatima had donned it, its appropriateness became immediately apparent. The French girl’s bright red lips stood out like wounds, their brightness a marked contrast to the deep toned garment. The blackness of her hair was mirrored by the thin black edging. The garment hung loosely on the girl’s curvaceous frame, leaving her breasts free to sway and tremble as she walked, but was tight enough to cling to her well rounded hips. It came down to a few inches below the slave girl’s sex. It was pulled tightly across her belly, accenting the beginnings of her thighs.
Ngomo paused only a moment to admire the alluring creature before him. His interest in such things was purely utilitarian. The appearance of the slave would reflect on him.
He spun the girl around and quickly tied her wrists back behind her with a leather thong.
It was the practice to transport the slaves within the palace with their heads covered with a black silk pouch. Ngomo placed one over Fatima’s head and drew a string at its opening closed. The slaves had no need to see where they were going and, if they ever were able to slip past the iron gate that barred entrance and exit from the harem, they would have difficulty in deciding which way to go towards freedom. Ngomo attached a short chain with a leather handle, like a dog’s lead, to the collar and pulled the French girl forwards.
There were several circuitous routes to the family quarters, which was Fatima’s destination. The girl padded along as she struggled to keep up with Ngomo’s long strides. It was disconcerting to be dragged along blindly. The French girl’s mind raced with trepidation as to what new indignities and pain awaited her. She knew that she had been decorated for the purpose of presentation, but to whom? Who ruled in this strange place that she had only had a glimpse of? Would the women she had seen before be there? Were they her new owners?
Suddenly, Ngomo brought the girl to a halt. She heard a door being opened and then felt a tug on the leash that led to the collar around her neck. The hallways were made of cool, hard marble, but the room she now entered was soft on her bare feet. She had a sense that other people were in the room. She could hear noises of their activity.
The girl felt herself pulled further into the room and then halted abruptly. She felt Ngomo’s hand on her leg, lifting it up and over some barrier. Her other leg was next. Ngomo pressed on her shoulders and she accepted that as a signal to kneel. As she lowered her body, she realized that she was in a wooden trunk or chest. Obediently, she sank down under the pressure of Ngomo’s hands until she was bent over, her head touching her knees. Ngomo’s hands left her and she heard a lid being lowered above her and then the unmistakable snap of a lock.
There was no way for Fatima to measure the time that she spent locked inside the wooden trunk. She had expected the trunk to be moved, rolled away. It was moved, but only a short distance, dragged along the floor, and then it stopped.
Nervously, the girl awaited future developments. It was as if she was just a thing, to be packaged and stored as her masters desired. Although her small prison was ample enough for her to raise her head to ease the strain on her curved back, the girl was terrified to move. Who knew what penalty she would suffer if she was not found in the position in which she had been left? A slave took no risks; she would endure the painful strain on her muscles.
She could hear voices now, muffled by the walls of her confinement. Was that a woman’s voice? Was that singing?
The Queen was delighted when she saw the little, finely carved, wooden chest displayed in the center of the Palace’s expansive family room. She was dressed in her splendid finery; the room was bedecked with flowers. There was a large table covered with candies and cakes. When the Emir entered, a portly, grey bearded man, short, but still a powerful presence, all the servants dutifully bowed. The Queen gave a slight nod to her head. The Princess followed him, adorned in her finest new dress, the tops of her beasts modestly displayed. She kissed the Queen and expressed her excitement. Silently, the three awaited the arrival of the guest of honor. After a few moments, the door to the room opened and a young man entered, black haired, trim, a certain dissoluteness in his eyes.
Three voices cried out in unison, “Surprise!”
The young man was Prince Rashan, and it was his twenty-first birthday. He was momentarily startled by the exclamations of his parents and sister, but recovered quickly. He knew that something was up. They would not forget his birthday, the day he became officially a man, the heir to the throne.
His mother smothered him with a huge kiss and an almost crushing hug. Alliyah gave him a peck on the cheek. His father, the Emir, proud of the product of his loins grabbed his shoulders and kissed his mouth. A servant wheeled out a tray of liquid refreshments. The Emir was devoutly religious and so the tray contained, not wine or spirits, but tea and lemonade. The Prince selected lemonade.
After the de rigueur singing of ‘Happy Birthday’, the Emir was the first to present his gift. He handed his son, a small, decorated box, covered with golden paper and a simple white bow. The Prince bowed to his father. The Queen and the Princess looked on expectantly. Rashan tore off the paper and quickly opened the small cedar box. It was a ring, a fine golden ring with a ruby encrusted signet. It was the seal of the heir to the throne, the symbol of Rashan’s manhood and his inheritance. The young man knelt on one knee before his father and kissed his ring. “Father,” he said, “I thank you with all of my heart.”
A tear in his eye, the Emir leaned over and kissed his son on the head. “Now you are a man, my son. Wear this ring and do me honor.”
“Always, Father,” the Prince replied.
The tear in the Emir’s eye now turned to a gleam. He pulled another box from his robe. It too was wrapped simply, silver paper this time.
“For now,” the Emir said, “this may be of more use to you.”
Rashan quickly unwrapped the present. Inside the small box were the keys to a new Mercedes Sport Convertible. The Emir pointed to the window, and the Prince ran to it and looked down into the courtyard. There was a bright red Mercedes wrapped in broad swaths of yellow ribbon. The Prince thanked his father profusely.
The Princess had a gift too. She handed him a small package, tied neatly with a golden bow. He kissed her on her cheek and opened it quickly. It was a set
of sparkling onyx cufflinks, each with a large, shiny ruby in its center. The Prince was a fashion plate and remarked on the Princess’s good taste.
And then the Queen grabbed him by his arm. “Oh, Rashan,” she said, “I have bought you something very special. Come, come and look at it.”
The Prince stepped over to the ornate chest. A large white ribbon had been wrapped around and over it. He stripped away the ribbon and easily released the latch. All four of them were crowded around the box. The Queen placed her hand on Rashan’s shoulder, “My son, today you a truly a man. In this chest is truly a man’s gift. Use it well.”
The Prince nodded to his mother impatiently and then flipped open the lid. There, still kneeling with her forehead to her knees, her brightly decorated hands affixed behind her back, was Fatima. She was startled by the opening of the chest and was startled more by the upraised voices that she heard. The Prince exclaimed loudly, “Oh, mother, what a wonderful gift. Quickly, quickly, let’s get her out. I want to see her.” He looked up at the Emir. “Is she truly mine?”
The Emir nodded in a fatherly way. “Your mother talked me into it. Enjoy her with my blessing.”
Fatima felt her body being pulled up out of the chest. She was brought to her feet and swayed as her stiff legs were extended. Two sets of strong hands, the hands of servants acting at the Prince’s behest, lifted her from the box and placed her before her new owner. “Remove the hood!” the Prince exclaimed excitedly.
When the hood was pulled from her head, the frightened slave girl’s eyes met the greedy, lustful eyes of her new owner. Her look was no more than a glance, as slave girls had no right to stare their masters in the face. She had seen his excited, gleeful face, the face of a boy, telegraphing the emotions within. But had she seen just a trace of cruelty in those eyes? She sensed that she now belonged to this mere boy, body and soul. He could do with her as he wished, abuse her cruelly to his heart’s content. She prayed that there was kindness in him.
The Prince ran his hands down the sides of his new property, hesitating as he felt the gentle curve of her hips. He studied her face intently.
“She’s gorgeous, Mother. I am so pleased!”
As the Prince reached to stroke Fatima’s trembling breasts, the Emir cleared his throat loudly. “There, there, Rashan, you must respect your mother and sister. There will be plenty of time to inspect you new toy later.” The Emir clapped his hands as a signal to the servants. The private birthday ceremony over, the public one was about to begin.
Just before the other guests were admitted, Fatima was discreetly whisked away. Her hood was restored and she was led through another series of corridors. Finally, she was admitted through a doorway and her travels were at an end. One of the Emir’s guards, a member of the elite corps of bodyguards sworn to his personal protection, one was never more than an arm’s length away, had led Fatima to the Prince’s bed chamber. Although Fatima could not see it, it was ornately decorated with long cascading drapery around two floor length windows, a brilliant blue and gold rug, heavy, solid oak furniture stained dark, but with bright golden handles. The bed was a four-posted frame, an oversized mattress and a canopy of white silk that fluttered as the gentle breeze of the air-conditioning swept through the room.
Her chain was affixed to a ring in the corner of the bed, about three feet high. The guard pushed her to her knees, but before doing so, availed himself of a sampling of the Prince’s new beauty. He pulled up the maroon chemise and inspected the delicate lips between Fatima’s thighs, the soft, firm globes that were her breasts. He did no more than caress them, feeling their fullness. One day he would have a woman like this he thought.
Fatima was left kneeling on the floor, her hands tied behind her back, her sight still restricted by the black hood. She guessed that she was in the boy’s bedroom and that she was affixed to his bed. She had no thought as to the guard’s unlicensed appreciation of her body. She was only a slave, she knew that, and slaves had no rights. Anyone could do anything to her that they wanted. But what would the boy do? Would he whip her? The French girl resolved to show this boy all of her formidable sexual skills. She would show that she was a treasure, a thing of pleasure. She would give no reason for complaint, no reason for cruelty.
About two hours later, Fatima heard the door to the room opening. She knelt with her back strait, her head held high. Her thighs were spread widely and the lower edge of the chemise rose just above her sex. She jutted out her breasts that they may entice her new owner to his pleasure.
The Prince was a little drunk. True, the Emir had no truck with alcohol, but one of his friends had smuggled a flask of scotch into the party and he had imbibed readily. All of the time he was greeting his father’s guests, thanking them for their gifts, charming their wives and daughters, he was thinking of his new slave. He yearned to feel her breasts, her thighs. He wanted to use her, explore the flesh that now was his.
After shutting the door, the Prince took his time in approaching the female on her knees at his bedside. He watched her chest rise and fall, causing her breasts to tremor slightly. He circled the girl, admiring her firm, white thighs, the tightness of her belly. He had his own stock of Scotch secreted in his room and he brought out the bottle and a glass. He gulped back a shot and poured another, all the time his eyes glued on his mother’s present. He had used his father’s slaves since he was sixteen. They were all beautiful, sexually experienced women. But this one was his. His father disapproved of his excessive use of the female slaves and often rationed him. And he also felt a little disdain from them, despite their lowly status. He would invent reasons to have them beaten, just to spite them. They would return, chastised, but still sullen, resentful at his use of them.
But now, this girl was his. He wanted to see her face again, and he approached the girl and removed her hood. Fatima blinked at the brightness of the room. The Prince grabbed her face and stared at her intently. He entered her mouth with his fingers and withdrew the ball that had kept Fatima silent through most of the day. He pulled her to her feet and then pressed his lips to hers.
Fatima exhilarated at the caress of her master’s lips. She welcomed his tongue in her mouth and opened her lips to the Prince’s explorations. She felt his manhood stiffen against her as he pressed his body into hers.
Suddenly, the Prince stepped back and, reaching out with both hands, tore the chemise down the middle, exposing Fatima’s breasts and belly. He was moved by their beauty. He cupped the breasts in his hands and squeezed them gently. “These are mine,” he thought.
Leaning against the bed, the Prince withdrew his manhood from his immaculately pressed white cotton pants. Fatima knew what to do and lowered herself to her knees. Since her hands were still confined behind her back, the French girl had only her mouth to please her master. She edged towards him and leaned forwards, taking the head of his now hard cock in her mouth. She wanted desperately to impress her master with her skills, wanted to entrance him. She nibbled gently at the cock’s end and swirled her tongue over its tip. She could sense the Prince stiffen and she heard a soft sigh of pleasure emanate from his lips. She pursed her lips forming a seal around the hardened shaft and slowly pressed forwards, sucking the cock gently deeper into her mouth.
The girl was experiencing a passion of her own. She knew what pleasures this steel hard tool could bring her. Her knees were spread for balance, and she could feel her pussy warming as it engorged with blood, could sense her lower lips separating, her gash lubricating. The Prince’s cock was at the back of her mouth now, her lips down to its base. She pushed it into her throat.
Moaning loudly, the Prince locked his hands on his new slave’s head. He entwined his fingers in her long, ink black hair and pressed her face into his loins. His cock was throbbing with excitement. He was half sitting on the bed now, his knees too weak to hold his weight. He pulled the girl’s head away from him, yearning for the feel of her pliant lips on his rod. As her head was moved backwards, the slave girl dr
agged the tip of her tongue along the cock’s length, ending with a swirl around the cock’s head. The Prince began to pull her head back and forth as he thrust his hips into her. He was moaning continuously now as he felt his moment of crisis approach. Faster and faster he moved the head between his thighs. Fatima accommodated her use by tightening her lip’s grip around his manhood and opening her throat as the cock jammed up against it.
The Prince called out, “Oh! Oh! Oh!” as a prelude to his tool’s eruption. The cock pulsed in Fatima’s mouth, a copious discharge of the Prince’s fluids flooding it. She pressed her head as far forwards as she could, sheathing the cock in her throat, receiving its discharge directly into her esophagus.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LUNCH
Rukimo and I had lunch on a little veranda overlooking the bay. It was a part of his private quarters and I was, I supposed, honored to be his guest. His quarters sat away from the main resort area and we had to pass through two security checkpoints to get there.
The décor was, as one might expect, sumptuous. The living area was surrounded by a huge wall of glass. The building stood on a promontory and you could see two sides of the island in its view. Two jet-black serving girls greeted us as we entered. They were young, with smooth features, small breasts and long legs. Their sexes were clean shaven and their curly black hair was cropped close to their heads. They both had full, succulent lips. They were kneeling by the door when we entered, eyes downcast, hands upturned on their thighs.
Rukimo nonchalantly rubbed the head of the nearest girl as we passed them by. They stood and followed.
“Harry,” Rukimo said as we strolled through the massive room, “what did you think about our little Lois?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “It seems unlikely that she was lying.”
“Yes,” Rukimo countered, “but there was something about her. Of course, we haven’t interrogated the other one yet. I’ve got to find out where they got their information about Morianos’ station. If there’s a leak in his organization, we need to fix it.”
