Sold to the Sheikh
Page 15
She was spread.
She felt someone move between her legs as she opened them wide, only to find Sheikh Bashir strapping in one ankle and then the other. She was helpless now, entirely at his mercy. As if to make sure that she knew it, Sheikh Bashir thrust a finger into her.
She moaned.
“Look at me, Stella,” he said. She looked down, between the shaking mounds of her breasts, to see his calm, steady face. “Trust me.”
He moved his finger in a quick, wide circle, and she tried to clamp down on it in pleasure before he removed it. All she really wanted was him, she realized. She wanted him, and anything he wanted from her. She leaned her head back and felt herself relax.
“The blindfold,” she heard him say from between her legs, and when she lifted her head to look at him, a thick, black blindfold was wrapped around her eyes.
Who did that? She felt the panic begin to rise a little, a reminder that there were other people here besides Sheikh Bashir, that she was doing this very much in public.
That she would undoubtedly do more, in public, before this was over.
“The arms,” Sheikh Bashir said this time, and now there were sets of hands on either side of her, grabbing her arms and strapping them down on the table. Instinctively she struggled against them, inspiring some laughter from the crowd, though it didn’t sound unsympathetic. She remembered the arrangement, remembered that she had a special safeword, remembered that, above all, he was Sheikh Bashir, and she forced herself to surrender.
She was now truly, completely helpless, with no choice but to trust in the Sheikh, and whatever he was about to do to her.
“This little submissive,” Sheikh Bashir said, his voice booming, “does not believe she can come in public.”
Stella heard a few boos and some disapproving tittering from the crowd. But what if I really can’t?
“She has trouble, like many people, being vulnerable,” Sheikh Bashir continued. “She has trouble because she believes she will be hurt, because she thinks she will be rejected. She thinks that anyone who sees her naked will not want to see her again.”
She hadn’t told him that. She hadn’t even told herself that. And yet, lying there, naked, spread, and exposed, but blindfolded, knowing she was in public and yet protected from having to see other people watching, she felt the full wave of emotion break over her: he was right. He was absolutely, one hundred percent right.
And wasn’t that the saddest thing?
Stella didn’t want to be that person. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and she willed herself not to cry. She would not pity herself. She was here to become different.
The Sheikh seemed to sense her struggle. She felt his warm hand slide between her legs again, just resting there, teasing her, and it drew all the distracting pain and pity out of her, leaving behind only the feeling of his hand, and the desire for more of it.
“We will prove her wrong,” the Sheikh said to the crowd. There was an answering cheer.
A chill ran the length of Stella’s entire body.
Suddenly she felt her legs begin to move. The stirrups were being moved up and out, opening her wider, bringing her thighs up toward her chest. She had thought she was exposed before, but now the view would be obscene. Sheikh Bashir could get at all of her this way, and Stella felt a quick spasm of fear. She’d only done anal stuff a few times with Robert, and it was never what anyone would have called ‘successful’.
The Sheikh began to run his fingers up and down the length of her wet slit, probing the folds, dipping into her for more of her own lubricant. Stella’s hips tried to move with him, but she was hampered by the restraints. She hungered for him; her body hungered for him. She moaned with frustration, fighting against the straps, and only remembered they were not alone when she heard more laughter.
Was it really so easy to forget? With the way his hands worked her, it might be. Already she was panting; already her skin felt too hot.
“Very wet,” he announced.
Polite applause.
“The oil,” he said next.
Warm oil dripped onto her nipples. It smelled of mint, and stung slightly wherever it spread. Just enough bite to feel very, very good.
But who—
Before she’d even finished the thought, there were hands on her breasts, rubbing the oil in, playing with her nipples, and it was very, very clear to her that they were not the hands of the Sheikh. They were acting on his direction, but they were not his. They were large, and rough, and male, and they seemed to like playing with her breasts very, very much.
Like Henry, she thought. Only it felt like there was more than one set of hands. How many men, at the Sheikh’s command? Who was touching her?
Whose hands were on her pussy?
“The lube,” she heard the Sheikh say, and the hand on her pussy pulled away.
Oh God, what…
Cold, thick lube dribbled onto her exposed anus. Stella let out a surprised yelp, and was rewarded with audience applause.
“Don’t stay silent, Stella,” the Sheikh said, his voice still coming, thankfully, from the region between her legs. “In fact, I won’t let you stay silent. You will answer my questions—understood?”
Someone pinched her nipple, and Stella gasped. She hadn’t answered quickly enough.
“Yes, Sheikh!”
Now a finger was spreading the lube around her asshole, working it into the tender flesh. She fervently hoped that was the Sheikh.
“This is very small, Stella, but it will feel very big,” he said. “Much like the first time I made you strip naked before me; do you remember?”
Stella pressed her lips together, moaning as something probed against the delicate skin. She managed to nod. She was willing, she wanted so badly to show him that she was willing, but her body resisted the intrusion. She thought back to that first day, the first time she felt like the Sheikh had read her mind, and how he’d seen her fear, and after that it had been so much simpler to just…let…go…
She sighed, and something slipped into her ass, pushing past the tight ring with a pop. He was right: it felt huge. Filling. It felt simultaneously wrong and so right, like the physical embodiment of the forbidden. It pushed her arousal that much higher, keeping her now upon an almost impossible plateau, making her need for him, for an orgasm, that much more desperate.
“I remember,” she said, and her voice already seemed strained.
She heard more laughter, and felt the Sheikh’s hand on the underside of her left thigh.
“Very good, Stella,” he said.
The hands on her breasts became more playful, rolling her nipples, massaging the flesh, pushing her ever higher. She already felt like she might pop. And yet the idea of coming in front of all those people…
She honestly didn’t know if she could do it. Some part of her clung to the idea that she would be safe, if only she refused to fully let go. It might feel terrible not to come, but at least it wouldn’t be frightening.
Did she really believe that if they saw…?
She felt more of the cold lube fall onto the entrance of her vagina, and immediately her mind was right back in the present. Both at once? Could she?
“Stella,” the Sheikh said, “relax.”
And the bulbous tip of something large pressed against the entrance of her vagina. Reflexively, her muscles clenched, bearing down on the thing that was already inside her asshole, and she moaned. The hands and the oil on her chest never let up, straining the nerves of her nipples until they felt frayed and overheated, until she felt like they might actually be glowing. And each time she squirmed, the thing inside her moved against virgin nerves, filling her further. She was starting to feel sort of funny all over, as though the tingling mint oil was spreading, slowly, up the skin of her neck, towards her face and lips.
And she was so, so hot.
Two fingers pinched her clit, suddenly, briefly, and she yelped. And then Sheikh Bashir pushed something into her vagina with
one long, hard stroke.
“Sheikh!”
Her lower body convulsed, shuddering and banging against the metal table. She felt a hand—his hand, she was sure, large and familiar—on the flat of her lower belly, exerting a gentle but firm pressure, as though reining in her pleasure.
“Stay focused, Stella.”
She did. She tried. She imagined it as a growing ball of light, all of the warring sensations around her body, all the different stimulus, gathering there, just behind her pulsing, aching clit. The feeling of fullness left little room for the rest of her, for any remaining anxieties or thoughts. It felt like if she stayed perfectly still, that growing ball of light would expand to envelope her entire body, and she might just float away into that nothingness of orgasm.
And then the thing in her ass began to vibrate.
Stella arched her back suddenly and violently; the hand on her stomach pushed her back down. There were calming voices coming from somewhere, but she barely heard them above the buzz of her own body.
The thing in her vagina began to vibrate, too, in an opposing rhythm, and though her body jerked back and forth, she was kept in place by the restraints and the hand on her stomach. She couldn’t hold back any longer, hadn’t realized until then that she was holding back. A frightening, animal moan started somewhere deep in her belly and tore out of her throat, until she was wailing unknown words.
The vibrator in her vagina began to fuck her. Someone moved it—in, out, in, out—in ever deepening strokes, angling it up until it hit her g-spot and sent her soaring. The glowing ball contracted rapidly, as though all of her being had gathered into a single point of infinite depth and density, and then, slowly, but with increasing speed, and with the inexorable, thundering pace of a not-to-be-messed-with force of nature, it blew her apart.
She screamed. Maybe she screamed. She wouldn’t really know. She was pulled apart and outside of herself somehow, every particle of her spinning about in furious circles, dancing, fizzing, sparkling, until they came together again, somehow…rearranged. Different.
She reassembled, slowly, on that table, into a new, better version of Stella Spencer. She had come—come mightily—in public. Her body still shook, and her heart thudding in her chest was the loudest thing she could hear, and when she tried to speak, she found that her lips and tongue were somehow numb.
There was the sound of applause somewhere off in the distance. It didn’t matter. Nothing in the world felt important anymore—not her worries, not her insecurities, not her fears—except for one thing: the Sheikh.
She tried to say his name, but couldn’t. She felt hands releasing the restraints around her ankles and wrists and running up and down her limbs, warming them, working the soreness out of her joints. As soon as she could, she tried to sit up, only to find him already there, scooping her up in his arms from where he’d stood between her spread legs.
“I cannot wait any longer,” he said into her ear, his voice choked and hoarse. “You are mine.”
And he slipped his hands beneath her naked thighs, wrapping her legs around his waist, and lifted her effortlessly. She clung to his neck with all that remained of her strength, still blind, not caring to remove the blindfold, not caring to see. She only wanted to feel him against her, to smell his spicy sent, to hear those words, again and again and again: ‘You are mine.’
Her arms shook as he walked, still weak from that orgasm.
“Not long now, Stella,” he said. He sounded so different. His voice was usually so smooth, so controlled—a precise instrument. Now it sound ragged and rough, unthinking and raw. She burrowed her face into his neck and felt him growl.
She heard the keycode, heard him kick open the door. So close.
He bent, lowered her onto the bed. She tried to rise, to help him, but his hand on her chest kept her down. She heard the rapid sound of a zipper, the rustle of clothing. Was he naked? She would need to see this, even if it meant delaying what she wanted most. Her hands moved to her blindfold, but his hands came down upon hers.
“Let me, Stella,” he said, still with that catching voice.
She let her hands drop, sitting over the edge of the bed, blind and naked. He was still the Sheikh. She wouldn’t want him any other way.
The blindfold fell away, and she blinked.
Oh God, there he is.
He stood before her, as naked as she was, dark skin shining in the soft light, muscles hard and yet fluid, rippling under that gorgeous, smooth skin. His cock was just as massive as she’d thought, the silken skin pulled taut over his swollen erection. It was nearly purple with pressure, with desire.
For her.
She looked up and saw those dark eyes burning bright in his face. Suddenly, ridiculously, she was nervous all over again.
“Lie back, Stella,” he said softly. “And spread your legs for me.”
Her limbs still trembling—from aftershocks or nervousness, she couldn’t tell—she did as she was told, and looked up to find him studying her again. Somehow she felt more exposed than she had been in the Black Room, where an entire room of people that she knew had watched her come to the manipulations of double vibrators and unknown hands. And it was because he saw her. Saw how afraid she could get, saw the secret things she wanted, saw how hard she worked to protect herself. He had cared to look, and he truly saw her.
You cannot love until you can truly see…
She’d read that somewhere, years ago, and it had stuck with her, but she hadn’t fully understood it until this moment.
He came forward and positioned himself between her legs, his hair falling forward over his forehead. She wanted him so badly, and yet, there was one thing…
“Wait,” she said, hating herself. Hating this.
His head jerked up with a start. “Something is wrong?”
She closed her eyes, then forced herself to open them. She would be open as she did this, even if it frightened him away. Honest. Unafraid. She looked into his black eyes, and took one last leap.
“I don’t want your money,” she said. “I never…I don’t…It was fun, it was a game, that’s why I agreed. But now I could never take your money. I never want your money. I want—”
His eyes went soft, and he silenced her with his lips over hers, a claiming kiss that he sealed with one, solid, full stroke, plunging the entire length of himself into her.
She cried out as he filled her completely. Her back arched into him, her legs wrapped around him, and together they rocked until he’d built her back up to that impossible peak, flying high above everything she’d ever known. He planted his hand by her head, lifting himself for leverage, and pulled out.
“Look at me,” he said.
And he drove into her, hard and long and fast, again and again, stoking the burning heat that swirled around her center until it engulfed them both. She spasmed in shuddering contractions around his cock, drawing his own orgasm out, and he came, screaming her name.
Stella fell asleep with Sheikh Bashir still inside her. She felt loved, and cared for, and good enough that a man might choose to never leave her.
In the morning she woke up to an empty bed, and a check on the nightstand for fifty thousand dollars.
CHAPTER 25
Sheikh Bashir al Aziz bin Said awoke on the third morning of his incarceration, and grief filled his heart. He preferred anger. On the first morning, when he’d been tricked into leaving Stella asleep in the bed they had shared, he’d been arrested and brought to a supposedly fearsome jail called the Tombs, and there he had succumbed to anger. As his disbelief at his circumstances gave way, bit by bit, to towering rage, the police officers who had arrested and taunted him about the Tombs—saying that he might be big but he was pretty, and they’d just love him in the Tombs—had slowly fallen silent. By the time he was booked and processed, no one was making jokes.
That first day, he didn’t speak after he’d been led out of the hotel in handcuffs, except to demand to see his lawyer and the Ambassador, afra
id of what might happen if he let the anger surface. The response to his controlled inquiries was always the same. ‘We called.’ ‘There’s some kind of mix up.’ ‘Delays.’
Bashir knew what this was all about. It was Creighton, furious about his humiliation at the Alexandria Club, calling in favors with an unsuspecting police captain. Creighton knew as well as Bashir did that nothing would stick, that nothing could stick: Bashir had diplomatic immunity. Even if he had done anything wrong, which of course he had not, it would be of no consequence. It was a privilege Bashir would never think to abuse, but after the first day had passed and it had become clear that Creighton was pulling in more than one favor, he had felt morally obligated to warn every officer that he came into contact with. You will come to regret this. It will not go well for you. I tell you now, call the embassy, and do what you can to save your career.
His pleas went unheeded. He did not envy any of these men when the Ambassador was informed. Worse, Creighton knew this. He knew he was sacrificing these men, and for what purpose? To annoy Bashir for a few days?
The bastard had guessed that the only way to lure him downstairs was to tell the police to say that the warrant was for Stella. That galled him more than the incarceration itself.
But what filled Bashir’s heart with the deepest grief was the knowledge that he had left Stella to wake, alone, and find the check he had made out the night before.
Why had he silenced her at that crucial moment? Did he think it had been romantic? No, he had thought he had all the time in the world to tell her he loved her. That, as improbable as it was, he believed he had loved her at first sight, but only now did he have the wisdom to stop fighting it.
Instead, he’d probably broken her heart. He’d implied she was a common whore. He hadn’t even let her make her own confession.
He had been so certain of what she would say. Now…now he wasn’t certain of anything. Had he ever known a man to make mistake like this, even if it wasn’t his fault, and recover? Had there ever been such a hurtful, spiteful, pointless gesture? Had anyone ever wounded him as deeply as he had wounded Stella?