Tamed by the Sheikh

by Emily Tilton

  Steven looked over at Charlotte, who wore a thoughtful expression in the dual illumination of her laptop’s screen and the monitors.

  “You’re concerned about the domestic situation in the palace when he brings her home?”

  Charlotte gave a slow nod, then said, without turning to him, “Call me overcautious, but I’m not sure we’ve necessarily taken care of all the possible triggers here.”

  Steven looked back at the wide shot of the sheikh and his kneeling girl. His highness had, without saying anything, begun to stroke Beatrice’s cheek with his thumb, sending the trembling from her hands through the rest of her body. 9.

  He spoke again at last. “Look at me, darling.”

  Beatrice looked up with wide eyes.

  “I know enough about girls like you—the very best kind of girl, as far as I’m concerned—to know that your feelings about the cane are very complicated.”

  10.

  “That looks fine to me,” Steven said quietly. “And he’s very good.”

  “Shh,” Charlotte responded. “It’s not today I’m worried about.”

  Beatrice shook her head, the crease in her brow growing deeper. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but whether because she knew instinctively that she must not, unless asked her opinion, or because she couldn’t frame words to say, no sound emerged.

  “That’s alright,” Sheikh Diyab said. “I won’t make you admit it. I must make sure you understand, though, that when I discipline a girl, whether a wife, or an ordinary servant, or a very special servant like you, I truly punish her. To handle misbehavior any other way would only create further difficulties. When I cane you, you won’t want to misbehave again for a very long time.”

  The 10 flashed. The hygrometer reading between Beatrice’s legs spiked, and her face revealed in its blush and bitten lip the melting down below.

  “Yes,” Charlotte agreed, “very good indeed, but…”

  Now, though, Steven thought he might have heard in the sheikh’s characterization of domestic discipline in Rashan the cause for concern that had caught his colleague’s attention.

  “But if a disciplinary episode takes her out of arousal you’re worried that it could trigger a corresponding part of the memory.”

  Charlotte turned to him briefly, nodded, then turned back to the monitors.

  “Do you understand, darling?” the sheikh asked, in the same soft voice that now, visibly, seemed to work for Beatrice even better than Sam’s more traditional stern tone.

  Beatrice gave a little whimper. Her mouth formed a pout almost like a little girl’s, as if his highness had just told her he was about to take her over his knee for reaching into the cookie jar. She gave a quick little nod.

  “You may speak,” he said. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Then, with a little lift at the end of the sound, indicating in the most adorable way that she didn’t yet know how to address her owner, “Yes…”

  “You will call me sire from now on, darling.”

  Steven smiled. “We don’t have many sires, do we?” he said.

  “Nope,” Charlotte replied.

  Beatrice said in a quavery voice, “Yes, sire.”

  Steven considered the problem with which Charlotte had confronted him. Was there any danger from some memory fragment that somehow lay outside the erotic framework of the scene he had so deftly submerged in Beatrice’s memory? The security of that submersion, of her classing anything that broke free as a dream or a fantasy, relied on its adhesion to her repressed fantasies: as those fantasies received more and more acknowledgment in her conscious mind—as she started to admit that she did have them, and not just unwelcome images of shameful things—the lingering memory of the scene in the senator’s den and the consent to sale and training that followed would become one among many such imaginary scenes.

  But… if something in the scene, finally, didn’t adhere to those fantasies, Steven had to admit a very slight risk probably did remain. In a household where the real, traditional discipline of young women played an important role, the possibility existed that Beatrice could receive a punishment so harsh that it drove her arousal negative, into her fight-or-flight response.

  Many Institute concubines actually sought that experience, once they had grown comfortable with their service, and wore it as a badge of honor. Beatrice herself might someday find herself maneuvering her master into punishing her severely with a judicial cane or a single-tail whip.

  The danger in her current case, though, lay in the circumstances. If Beatrice went negative, screaming and struggling under the family cane in the punishment chamber of the royal palace of Rashan, Steven couldn’t disagree with Charlotte’s concern that it might stir some memory of the senator’s den as a memory. A chain of recollection focused around Arab culture and geopolitics could cascade from there, and Beatrice could conceivably recover everything.

  What would happen then? Frankly, Steven didn’t want to think about it. He played the only card he held.

  “Am I right that the alternative was to exile her, anyway?”

  Charlotte looked very sharply at him. She did not like this kind of dilemma: the arrival of geopolitics in her portfolio with the Institute’s increasing role in controlling the social order had not, Steven knew, pleased her in the slightest.

  “Yes,” she said. “But goddammit, I don’t want you or Joe or anyone else acting like we’ve solved the problem, alright? If something happens in Rashan, I want us to be ready to fix it, and to save Beatrice if we possibly can.”

  Steven raised his hands defensively. “Of course, Charlotte.”

  Still looking angry, she turned her attention back to the girl in the gauzy pink nightgown and lacy white panties, kneeling in the breaking room. Beatrice’s arousal had receded to 8 in the silence that followed her first calling him by the title he had chosen. Sheikh Diyab had cupped her chin to ensure that she kept looking into his eyes, but he had left her uncertain as to what would happen next.

  Steven knew what it was, if he understood the sheikh, which didn’t really present a great deal of difficulty, though the peculiarities of Arab culture did still surprise him from time to time. Oxbridge sheikhs tended to have erotic tastes in line with those of the peers of the empire that once held sway in their desert kingdoms.

  “You’re going to untie my robe, now, darling,” his highness said, “without using your hands.”

  A little whine of alarm and arousal came from Beatrice. 9.

  Sheikh Diyab released her chin, and let both his hands dangle at his sides. “Lower your eyes, now, girl. Don’t raise them again until I command it.” Very British, that particular command, but—Steven thought—delivered in a subtly oriental way: something about the way his highness said girl and command seemed to convey an authority that went beyond a gentleman’s prerogative and into the realm of a desert prince’s absolute power over his subjects.

  Beatrice shuddered. 10. A look of adorable, almost heartrending distress came onto her face.

  Charlotte seemed to have regained her good mood in light of the lovely, moving events unfolding on the monitors. She said quietly, “It’s a very good placement.”

  Steven thought of the footage he had reviewed, of Beatrice’s first encounter with the man who would become her owner, in the senator’s office. Is she for sale? Steven didn’t think Diyab al-Rashani was the kind of man who said that about every pretty Western girl he met. Nor did Beatrice Graham blush that way in response to every coarse man’s joke. Something special had taken shape there, instantly, a cultural connection of some kind that had probably constituted the true impulse behind Beatrice’s foolishly lingering in the den, then more foolishly hiding in the closet.

  Another whimper, as she regarded the front of the robe. The thought, clear on her face, that she would get saliva on the silk; that her efforts would be terribly clumsy and even unavailing. That he would cane her if she did it wrong. 9.

  “Shh, darling,” the sheikh sai
d, reading her mind as only the best dominants can do with the girls they master. “Don’t worry. You can’t do this wrong. I am here to end your innocence, but I know you haven’t yet been trained for my pleasure. I will teach you.”

  10, flashing. Beatrice’s mouth opened, and she leaned forward. His highness had of course tied the robe very loosely, with a simple knot that Beatrice really only needed to give a single tug. The process, Steven knew from having watched similar scenes so many times, presented a good deal less of a challenge than unzipping a fly with a girl’s teeth, which Beatrice would learn to do at the Institute.

  She had the belt delicately in her teeth now. The 10 remained: Steven knew she must feel how very close her face had now approached her master’s hard cock. She tugged, and the belt loosened, the robe stirring slightly but not yet falling fully open. Beatrice gave a little cry of alarm through her teeth, leaning back further, and now the other end of the sash fell, and the sheikh’s robe did part to reveal his manhood, rising from a neatly trimmed tangle of jet black curls to confront the girl who must now serve its pleasure.

  Next to him, Charlotte cleared her throat. Steven wondered mischievously what a sensor placed between the academic dean’s thighs would reveal right now. “That,” his boss said, making the sensor data mostly unnecessary, “is a big, beautiful, exotic cock.”

  The judgment seemed hard to deny, especially as Beatrice clearly shared it. Steven felt sure the eighteen-year-old concubine held the opinion with a rather different set of emotions than Charlotte’s, though.

  She had dropped the silken belt, and she bit her lip as she looked at her master’s stiff penis. Her breathing had gotten very quick and very heavy, and a deep blush had mounted to her cheeks.

  “You’re going to kiss my cock, now, darling,” the sheikh said. “And then you’re going to take it in your mouth, and suck it.”

  10, flashing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  How could she? How could she obey? She looked at it, and saw how hard, long, and simply present his penis was, in front of her, so close to her face. She could smell a soapy aroma; Sheikh Diyab had washed himself before coming to claim his concubine. Beatrice felt strangely grateful for that, because under that clean smell she also caught the scent of something darker and muskier, and she knew with a flush of heat to her face that it must in some way be the essence of him, and of… of it: of her owner’s—no, her sire’s—cock, and of the little wrinkled pouch below that Beatrice knew held his balls.

  The clean smell still dominated, but she had the overwhelming feeling that the wicked, musky one, which reminded her in a terribly shameful flash of recollection of what she had smelled once on her own fingers after touching herself, somehow meant more. That aroma suited the sight of a penis rising hard from a nest of wiry black hair, a cock an obedient girl must kiss and suck, putting away her innocence and submitting to her master’s commands.

  She looked at it, and she pursed her lips, because the thought of the cane came to her. Her heart had skipped a beat when the sheikh had said it, that he would cane her if he had to. Images of ancient justice, delivered to girls bound over wooden blocks, had risen in her mind, and rose again now.

  He had said he wouldn’t punish her for not doing it right, but hadn’t he made it so very clear that not doing it—refusing to do it—would earn Beatrice the cane?

  Master Samuel had whipped her this morning, and then he had spanked her so hard, over his knee, when she looked him in the eye. It had hurt so much, and her bottom still made her wince a little when she moved, a reminder of her punishment for disrespect. This man, who had so casually joked—or, it seemed, not joked—about purchasing Beatrice, believed in using the cane on girls’ bare rear ends, just as his ancestors must have done in the desert, after sacking a peaceful village and riding away with the young women they had found.

  His manhood seemed to give a little jump, as if at his sight of her getting ready to kiss him in that shameful way. She couldn’t suppress a little whimper at the evidence that it apparently had a life of its own—a mind that didn’t care at all that Beatrice was a modern young woman who shouldn’t kneel in front of a naked man who had paid good money for her and expected his pleasure.

  “Shh, darling,” he said, his voice still quiet but perhaps a little less patient. “Go ahead. Kiss the tip, then open your mouth and stick out your tongue. It’s time for your first lesson.”

  She whimpered again, but somehow she did bend forward, because she couldn’t bear to be caned. The images of girls on their knees before their sires, bending to do as they were told, bending to give the shameful pleasure demanded of them, didn’t matter. The warmth between her legs that made her want to touch herself under the gauzy nightgown, pulling aside the narrow gusset of the skimpy white panties, didn’t matter.

  If I don’t kiss this cock, and suck it, and give my master pleasure, he will flog me with a cane until I am ready to serve him.

  Beatrice had to move her head slightly to the right, because his highness’ cock seemed a little wayward, and when it touched her for the first time it pressed gently against the corner of his mouth. She started back.

  But Sheikh Diyab murmured, “Good girl,” and he reached to hold his penis in his right hand, and steadied it. Something about the sight of the man she must call sire brandishing his manhood so casually, and the way it seemed to Beatrice to threaten the ruination of her innocence of which Master Samuel had told, made her gasp.

  As she watched, to her blushing surprise, he stroked it, moving his hand up and down. She bit her lip. “Kiss it properly, now, girl,” he said. “I will hold myself still for you.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw his left hand reach forward, and then, with a terrible rush of arousal that nearly made her swoon, she felt his fingers on the back of her head, down low, just where her neck began, pulling her face gently but firmly forward to do as he wished.

  She had no choice, because of the hands and because of the cane. She pursed her lips, and instead of her bending forward, the sheikh held her head still and pressed the tip of his cock against them. It felt much softer than she had supposed it would, but also more shameful, maybe because the smell of his desire had grown greatly in intensity. Or maybe the way the softness of his penis’ tip had a texture and a curvature unlike anything she had ever kissed before.

  I kissed my master’s cock before I kissed his lips, she suddenly thought, and again the image of the girl on her knees rose to engulf her: that girl would always suck the penis first. Her master might never even kiss her on the lips at all, but she would have to suck his penis every day, or go over the whipping block.

  “Open your mouth, darling,” he urged, and Beatrice did, because that girl had to. She stuck out her tongue, because he had said to do that, and that girl in the image had to please the man she called sire.

  Still the sheikh held her head in his left hand and his cock in his right, and now he laid the tip of the penis on Beatrice’s tongue. She couldn’t help making another little kitten sound at the sensation: his manhood was so warm—she hadn’t expected that, though of course she should have, shouldn’t she, considering how warm the girl in the image got down there, when she thought of her shameful duties.

  “There,” Sheikh Diyab said in a voice whose huskiness seemed to mean that he found Beatrice pleasing. “Oh, that’s so pretty, darling. Such a good girl to take a sheikh’s cock in her American mouth. You may look at me.”

  Oh, no. I can’t: I can’t see what a man looks like when that girl sucks his cock.

  But she did, because that girl would be caned, otherwise. He loomed over her, as she struggled to keep her mouth as open as she knew it must be, and her tongue extended and curled to provide the shameful place for him to put his manhood before enjoying her mouth more fully.

  The sight of his handsome, bearded face, and of his dark eyes turned downward on her wicked service, made the warm place between her thighs clench, and clench again. She had to reach out,
as she whimpered around his penis, and take hold of his knees inside the silk robe, or she would have fallen despite the hand that held the back of her neck.

  “That’s alright, darling,” he said. “You may hold onto me. They will teach you at the Institute to use your hands to please my cock, but tonight I want only your mouth and your cunt upon me. If you keep your hands on my legs, you won’t be tempted to touch my penis without permission. Eyes down now. I’m going to come in your mouth so I last longer in your cunt.”

  Then, though Beatrice felt she needed more time to understand the terrible things Sheikh Diyab had just said, and to think through the casual way he had just said the word she had grown up thinking the very worst word of all, he tightened his grip, and moved his right hand to join his left, upon the back of her head. She wanted to say that she didn’t think she was ready, but his penis had claimed her mouth, and she couldn’t say anything at all as he held her mouth still and drove deep inside it.

  He gave a little grunt as he filled her so full of him that her heart raced like a turbine. The cock claimed more and more of her, pressed against her tongue, her palate.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Just breathe. You’ll learn to give pleasure, but right now I’m going to use your mouth until I come.”

  He started to thrust, then, as Beatrice struggled to hold her mouth open the way she instinctively knew he wanted. She breathed desperately through her nose, in little puffs. She saw his lap moving toward her and then away, as the cock filled her and receded. The wiry hair brushed against her nose, when he started to drive himself in deeper—so deep that with every thrust Beatrice thought she must gag, though something about the quickness of his rhythm seemed to prevent it.

  The taste was salty, and a little bitter, but as she felt his fingers twining in the long golden hair that Erin had so carefully piled on her head and would now be ruined, just as her mascara must be running terribly from the watering of her eyes, she saw that girl from the images again, having her face fucked, and she realized that she needed to have her master hold her head still for his manly thrusting. The girl from the images knew she had to be a good girl, and that good girls had to have their sires’ hands in their hair when the time came for cock-sucking.