by Emily Tilton
Now, with no panties on, she knew it must truly be time. The sheikh, her sire, had bought her, and he had spanked her so hard when she tried to avoid thanking him for coming in her mouth. It hurt so much—she still felt a tingle in her bottom cheeks as they, too were spread in her posture of submission and offering.
He had moved to kneel between her little hovering feet, and now he put his right hand down to fondle, and Beatrice could tell from the way he used his fingers, to prepare. He laid a finger on the other place, and pressed a little. She cried out in alarm.
“Not tonight, darling,” he said softly, “but soon.” The finger pushed in, entered the narrow passage. Beatrice gave another cry.
“I know you’re the kind of girl who’s very nervous about having a cock here,” he said. “After I’ve fucked your bottom for a few weeks, you will begin to enjoy it.”
Her mind grasped desperately at a fact she had picked up she didn’t know where, for only the girl in the images would seek out or remember such things. “I thought…” she said.
“You mustn’t speak, darling,” the sheikh said, and though she hadn’t been caught when her eyes had flicked to his face, involuntarily, and then away again, she could tell his gaze had settled on her face with a stern expression. “If you speak again I shall gag you with your panties.”
In the severity of these words Beatrice recognized again the paradox she thought she had begun to notice in his character: he clearly desired to be an enlightened, gentle man, but inside the gentleman lurked a prince of the desert, urgent in his desires and peremptory in securing their satisfaction. At the thought of his putting her panties in her mouth, a terrible shame and a heat arose in her: it was just the kind of thing a man often had to do to that girl.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Yes, sire.”
It seemed, though, that the sheikh’s gentlemanly side wanted to explain to her the matter that had become so urgent as he continued to move his finger in and out of her bottom-hole.
“I believe that at the Institute they will train your anus so that no harm will come to you when I deflower you here,” he said, as the finger went deeper and Beatrice’s face grew even hotter. “Certainly I will train it after I take you home. I think you were probably about to allude to the taboo in my culture against bottom sex.”
Beatrice, feeling the furrow in her brow grow very deep, nodded.
“I may not enjoy my wives’ bottoms, of course,” he said with a decisive air. “But a Western girl like you must expect that a sheikh will fuck her in every place her body may give him pleasure. A girl like you—a concubine brought to a prince’s palace—will experience the full measure of my mastery, the more so as I am forbidden to use my wives that way.”
A little sob came from her throat, as she understood exactly how perfect the fulfillment of the girl in the images’ needs would be. That girl, in the palace, the blond girl, whom everyone knew had to receive the sheikh in ways to which no Arab wife would ever submit. That girl, summoned to the royal bedchamber to undergo further training in the most shameful rites, in her master’s most wicked desires. Beatrice’s whole body seemed to burn at the sight of the terrible mental pictures that strung themselves together into a scene… into a fantasy… no matter how hard she tried to prevent it.
Then the sheikh’s voice came again in the darkness of her closed lids, much more gently. “Beatrice, open your eyes and look at me.”
She did, the string of images broken by the reality of him, not with the severe look of the desert marauder but with the patient look of the gentleman. “I promise to give you what you need,” he said softly and very seriously.
Tears came to her eyes, not of fear or of sadness or of joy, but of all of them—of the sheer excess of emotion. “Thank you, sire,” she whispered, suddenly wondering if one of those emotions that had brought the mist across her sight might be love, or at least its beginnings.
“Call me Diyab, darling. Now. Not always, but now.”
“Diyab.” She felt her upper lip, her nose, wrinkle as she fought back more tears: his first name seemed to come from deep in her chest as she uttered it for the first time, in a sob of gratitude that she didn’t have to express the real, shameful gratitude she had begun to feel for his giving her no choice. Diyab had made her become the girl in the images, and Beatrice could even imagine, someday, telling him how very badly she had needed spanking when she had wanted, as shameful as it would have been, to thank him for the gift of his royal seed in her belly.
The finger left her anus, and the tiny aperture felt strange and itchy. Part of her wanted to dwell on the things Diyab had just said about what he would do back there, down there, but the resistance in her mind still felt too strong. Even though as he again began to stroke his penis, began to move to put it where it must go, she could not dispel her anxious curiosity about what it would feel like in the other place, the sensation of the strangely soft head of his hard manhood, pushing in, finally focused her attention there, where a virgin must submit to her defloration.
He had turned his eyes downward, where she knew he could see much better than she could the place for his cock to enter, and on his face now appeared the marauder again. She blushed to see the wolfish expression, but it made her give down more of the arousal she knew would make his path easier. That too, made her face hot, because with it came another contraction of her pussy that he must also be able to see; a little smile played across his bearded lips.
She felt him push in, up, and come against the barrier that took her breath away at the pressure. She couldn’t suppress a little cry, though she resolved not to scream, because wouldn’t he put her panties in her mouth if she screamed? Or even punish her?
More heat, more wetness.
More pushing; she whimpered, but she didn’t scream.
At last, then, he turned his eyes to hers again, and though she worried for a moment that he would be angry—even though he hadn’t revoked the permission to look at him—his smile told her she had nothing to fear.
Suddenly Beatrice wanted to cry for mercy, for delay—not because she truly desired it, but because that girl had to cry for mercy, didn’t she? She opened her mouth, but then she felt it open wider of its own accord, as her eyes went wide and wild too, because Diyab had taken hold of her upper thighs and driven his cock deep inside her.
Beatrice didn’t scream, but she gave a little whine, and closed her mouth and made her lips a tight line, as her master, her owner, her sire began to thrust back and forth inside her, looking from her face down to where his cock—bloodstained? It must be, because it hurts, but it should hurt that girl—now moved at will, then back up into her eyes. She had a terrible realization that somehow seemed to increase her desire and decrease the pain: the marauder liked to fuck his Western girl roughly. That girl—Beatrice, the girl in the images—knew that it gave him pleasure, and she writhed under him, struggled against him, so that he would feel like the marauder and she would feel like the marauder’s captive Western concubine.
“Oh, darling,” he said in a voice thick with his exertions. “So beautiful. So tight.” His eyes roved ceaselessly now among her face, her breasts as they bounced with his hard thrusting, her bare pussy filled over and over with his hardness. He bent forward, extended his arms to either side of her head and lay atop her, and to her utter astonishment she came as she felt his weight pin her down and his lap press against her most sensitive place. She cried out, and her hips bucked under him despite his weight.
“Diyab!” she called out, feeling it disrespectful and disobedient to call him that despite his permission, feeling she must be whipped for it and letting the idea of the whipping somehow extend her climax under his still pounding hips. The smile on his face now as he fucked her seemed one of triumph, and Beatrice had a sense of having been utterly vanquished, in that moment of pleasure, and then she writhed again under his cock, taken completely by surprise in a second climax.
Perhaps it took him by surprise as
“Thank you, darling,” he said softly.
She knew what she had so say, and she knew she didn’t have to reveal how deeply she meant it. “Thank you, sire.”
Chapter Eighteen
Steven inserted several protocols in Beatrice’s training, with Charlotte’s approval, to try to assess the risk of Beatrice recovering her memory of the senator’s den. At her reception into the Institute in the traditional ceremony in the foyer, Charlotte made it plain to Beatrice and her fellow concubines that the new girl had a special destiny, even as her training master fucked her alongside the other recruit.
“This bodily position, girls,” Charlotte announced as Beatrice and her fellow recruit Victoria cried out, faces down and bottoms up for Master D and Master J’s hard riding, “has a special meaning for Beatrice. She will go home with a sheikh, after her training. I’m sure he will discipline her and enjoy her in this posture very often.”
Steven’s idea was that by establishing a separation in Beatrice’s mind between her training and that of her new friends, they would ensure that, even if her memory of the sensitive information emerged, she would classify it as fantasy. Assured that her fate in Arabia and that she must undergo special trials and lessons for that reason, her mind would, Steven hoped, naturally consider even the political part of the recollection simply as part of the fantasy.
In her first full training session with Master D, Steven had the skillful dominant make subtle references to how individually tailored Charlotte had decided Beatrice’s program must be.
“I’m afraid I have to be very harsh with you, sweetie,” he said as he paddled her for the first time over his knee, in what he had termed, to her, an attitude adjustment. “We have to make sure your behavior is as perfect as it can be, so that your owner’s wives won’t demand public punishment for you.”
Steven had spoken at great length with Sheikh Diyab’s seneschal, who handled Rashani palace protocol. The seneschal had proven more than happy to tell the American psychiatrist in rather lurid detail about certain practices from the past that had fallen into disuse but might nevertheless profitably be restored upon the arrival of a Western concubine.
Public punishment fell into that category, and the seneschal, thinking creatively and perhaps influenced by an incipient resentment on the part of Aliya al-Rashani, the sheikh’s first wife, suggested that in this modern context—and for a Western girl—some of the strictures placed upon the original practice might be relaxed, should Beatrice require correction. Indeed, the possibility of explicitly sexual punishment before a private audience was mooted not by Steven but by the seneschal.
“I think,” the seneschal had said thoughtfully, “we would have to restrict the public punishment to the cane, as a salutary example to the wives and the servants. But her highness has made it clear that she intends to ensure the girl’s proper behavior and her subordinate status with erotic humiliation if it should prove necessary.”
Accordingly, Steven made the frequent intimation that a girl in a desert kingdom must expect to be treated with particular severity an essential part of Beatrice’s training. As the time approached for Sheikh Diyab’s visit to the Institute he intensified this dimension of her curriculum, hoping that his highness could be persuaded to reinforce it as only he could. He would sample Beatrice’s developing skills and request any final refinements before he deflowered her bottom on her ass night and took her home; the occasion represented the perfect opportunity to ensure that any recovery of her memory would finally prove harmless.
The other girls, as Charlotte had told him to expect, strengthened the effect: the conversation topics at most meals, as monitored by the assessment teams and reported in the daily briefing, revolved around poor Beatrice—both at Beatrice’s table and at the others, where the latest news traveled from girl to girl concerning what the training masters had said in class about Beatrice’s owner.
Steven considered that situation nearly ideal, since it made Beatrice herself feel supported, if also embarrassed by the attention and the pity. The support and the embarrassment both contributed, potentially, to the ultimate goal of making Arabia itself much more a place of shameful submissive fantasy than a real geographical location. Anything Beatrice might remember about the geopolitics of the place would, it seemed increasingly likely, face automatic subsumption under the fantasy of being a rapacious sheikh’s Western girl.
His highness arrived on the Monday before the Saturday for which Beatrice’s ass night had been scheduled. Steven and Charlotte came to his luxurious suite in the guest wing soon after he had unpacked, to have dinner with him and discuss Beatrice.
“You’re impatient to see her and use her, I know,” Charlotte said as they finished dessert. The discussion until then had dwelt entirely on matters of high culture: Sheikh Diyab shared with Steven a fondness for Henry Fielding and with Charlotte a passion for Italian opera.
The sheikh crooked a half-smile. “How could you tell?” he asked. “I thought I was keeping my arousal rather well hidden.”
Charlotte answered with a laugh. “I know these things. You’ve enjoyed watching her training?”
“Very much indeed,” his highness said, taking a sip of port. “Though I do think you may be—what’s the expression… laying it on a little thick?—with all the threats about life in my palace.”
Charlotte glanced at Steven, then turned her eyes back to the sheikh. “We did try—” she began, but his highness cut her off, not rudely but reassuringly.
“Oh, yes. I understand the reasons for it, and I accept the necessity. I’m just not certain I’m up to the task of carrying through. I worry that Beatrice will find life in the palace disappointingly pleasant.”
Charlotte and Steven both laughed at that. Steven said, “If you’re actually anxious on that score, let me allay the concern. My intention was only to lay the groundwork in case something less pleasant arises.”
It was his turn to glance at Charlotte, who nodded decisively.
“So, though it’s a bit awkward especially after you’ve just expressed the concern you did, I’m here mostly to ask you to finish up that groundwork for us.”
The sheikh frowned. “What does that entail?”
“You don’t have to lay it on especially thick,” Charlotte said, meeting Steven’s eyes again for a moment, so that he knew to pick up the tag-team cue.
“No, definitely not,” Steven said, though he would have preferred the sheikh did lay it on quite thick.
“So…” his highness said in a rising, leading tone of voice, glancing from one of his interlocutors to the other.
“So,” Charlotte said decisively, “our thought is that you gently warn her about behaving herself, in the specific terms of what might happen to a Western girl in Arabia.”
Sheikh Diyab’s brow furled for a moment. Then he nodded. “I think I can manage that.”
“Also…” Steven said, a little apologetically, “if possible…”
He looked at Charlotte, thinking the request might have more impact coming from the academic dean.
She took his cue. “We’d like you to emphasize how degrading it is, culturally, to receive anal sex.”
His highness’ eyes narrowed, and he shifted a little in his seat. Steven felt sure his cock had responded to the idea, though almost certainly in a way opposite to that of his head and his heart.
“We know it’s out of character for you,” Steven said. “But we think it will be a very important moment for her. We plan to bring her to you in her butt-plug harness, and we���re just hoping you’ll bend her over and talk about how important it is to you to degrade a Western girl that way, and how aroused it gets you.”
The sheikh’s face remained skeptical, but he nodded slowly. “May I tell her that I regard it as play, to degrade her that way? That in reality I treasure her too much to wish her to feel truly degraded?”
Another look passed between Steven and Charlotte.
The dean shook her head. “No. That might have the opposite effect to the one we want. It would be better not to try this tactic at all if we were going to undermine it.”
His highness held his face immobile, as he considered it. He clearly had developed a deep affection—perhaps even a love—for his new girl, and he had no desire to humiliate her no matter how urgent the necessity.
Steven said, “I can assure you, your highness, that it will help Beatrice find her erotic self to feel degraded that way. You know this, of course, but let me just repeat that she already has this fantasy. Like most submissive girls, anal is something terribly arousing for her because of her own cultural idea about its degrading quality.”
Again Sheikh Diyab nodded. Charlotte pressed the discussion. “You may and should emphasize very strongly how much pleasure it gives you to degrade her, and how much affection it stirs in you. And of course at the end of her service you will be able to say anything you like about the playful nature of your mastering her bottom.”
His highness’ nod grew more confident as he listened. By the end of Charlotte’s little speech, his lips had curled into a smile.
“That makes sense,” he said simply. He took another sip, then said, clearly trying not to sound eager but realizing he would fail, “You’ll bring her now?”
* * *
Half an hour later Steven watched from the control room as Charlotte did deliver Beatrice, clad only in her white nightgown and the stout leather belt whose chain attachments kept her hard rubber widener firmly in place against any attempt she might make to expel it. The widener, only an inch in diameter and two inches in length, wasn’t meant actually to widen a girl’s anus as much as to teach her to subordinate the state and comfort of her bottom-hole to the pleasure of her masters. Beatrice had worn it for an hour a day for the past week, beginning just after she had received word that her ass night had been scheduled. By that time she had been present at the ass nights of two other girls, so the notice left on her door’s whiteboard—Beatrice: ass night 2/17—had made her blush and tremble as it should.
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