by James Grey
The needs of your fellow harem members come second only to those of the prince. While in the house, you must submit to sexual advances of any other woman in the house. You are actively encouraged to make your own. However, sexual activity of any description is only allowed in the atrium area.
Never address Prince Yousuf unless you are asked a direct question. In this case, always refer to him as Your Majesty.
You will receive a tour and further instructions on your initial briefing.
We hope you will enjoy your stay at the Royal Palace.
Sarah and I both start to giggle. Can this be for real? It’s like Cranleigh House all over again. Unbelievable!
“I’m pretty turned on just from reading that,” declares Sarah. “Fuck, what is it about rules that’s so hot? I could get off if I read that part about pubic hair enough times. Jeez, Emma, you’re totally owned while you’re there…”
“I know,” I smile. “Lucky I didn’t have my patch shaved off recently, isn’t it? I’ve hardly got much warning here!”
“Good point. Oh, make sure you take those diamond studs of yours. They’re stunning on you! Wait, I’ll get them – let’s start making a pile!”
Sarah runs off to the bedroom, fetches a few earrings she likes, and lays them out on the kitchen counter. She also brings back the book I’m halfway through, which is a very sensible Agatha Christie novel.
“That’s a pretty small pile,” I muse, looking at the sorry little collection. “I think it’s going to be hand luggage only.”
“Well, you’re going to be naked, chick! All day long! But we’ve had plenty of practice at that – and you won’t be alone by the sounds of it.”
“True – I’d better just remember some modest clothes. I’ll have to go digging for something that fits the bill – but isn’t too hot. If it’s anything like Thailand was weather-wise, I’m going to be melting any time I wear clothes. We might need to do some shopping tomorrow.”
“Sounds great! Thanks for keeping a day aside for us to spend together. I’ve got no jobs on, so we’ll just be able to do whatever we want. We’ve already done most of your packing, after all!”
We both burst out laughing as we look at the jewels and book on the counter top once more. Do you really need much more in life than lots of time, good food and plentiful sex? I don’t think so, really. This minimalism is making more and more sense to me.
“Oh, look, there’s another paper here. Aha – a contract!”
Well, it’s more of a one-paragraph agreement than a contract, but apparently I do need to sign it. It reads as follows.
I, (please insert full name and date of birth) agree to spend thirty days, commencing on the date specified below, in the exclusive service of Prince Yousuf of Dunei. I have read and understood the House Rules of the Royal Harem, and agree to be bound by them throughout my stay.
I agree to a fee of ten million United States Dollars ($10m).
Sarah almost falls off her chair when she reads the last part. I think I must have forgotten to mention it.
“Ten…ten…million? Is this guy for real?”
I feel thoroughly embarrassed.
“Uh…apparently they’ve got a lot of oil…”
She grabs the paper and carefully re-reads it. Clearly there’s no mistake. The amount is written in digits and words. It also matches what Lucy said to me.
“Emma, you realise you’ll be set up for life! You’ll never have to work another day!”
I hadn’t really thought of that. I suppose she’s right. But I can’t really imagine stopping being a prostitute. Or at least, I can’t imagine stopping without somehow giving something back.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I don’t think it’s right for me to just take all the dosh for myself. I’d feel bad. Maybe I should give a bunch to charity?”
The problem is, I don’t know which charity really does any good these days. From what I’ve read, some of them completely waste their donations, or make life worse for people.
“You could do that. Hey, you could give drama bursaries! Haha…just kidding.”
I think for a moment.
“Hang on…you might be onto something there,” I think out loud. “Maybe not drama school, but wouldn’t it be cool to help other girls become as lucky as me? Like, how about helping them into proper escort training, so that they become serious escorts rather than getting exploited on the streets?”
“Emma…that is a fucking wonderful idea.”
I can feel the excitement building up inside me. With the possible exception of Petra, I don’t even like to think about drug-addled girls working for next to nothing the dangerous back alleys of England. Prostitution is a terrific and beautiful life, but only when it’s done properly. If I could use my good fortune to help a few beautiful, talented young girls into the kind of life I’m enjoying, well…
“I quite like it, yeah! Find girls who really deserve a chance, but would never get into somewhere like Cranleigh House. Not only girls from poor families, but girls who are too shy for their own good. The ones working as receptionists, on minimum wage, because they think it’s unacceptable to sell their bodies. I’d love to start a programme to teach them it’s actually okay to do this.”
Sarah claps her hands. “Emma…yes!! I want to help too!”
I smile at her. “I think I’m counting on that. But let me do this month, and wait to see the money land! Then we’ll talk plans!”
Chapter XIII
It’s Monday lunchtime, and, after long breakfast with Sarah, I’m in the car on the way to London City Airport and the adventure of a lifetime. More than that, an adventure that’s going to change my life.
We did go shopping yesterday, but I still haven’t got enough to fill anything more than a beach bag. I picked up four light but conservative cotton dresses, and a couple of sarongs to throw around my neck. And since we’re not allowed tablets at the harem, I picked up a couple of chunky novels at the bookshop. I’m not certain I’ll like anything in their library, after all.
I try to recall if there’s anybody else I should be telling about my imminent digital disappearance. I’ve told my folks that I’m going on a long holiday – I’m sure they don’t need to know it’s a working one. I’ve fired a quick message to Jack, telling him the Dunei thing is happening and that I won’t be able to answer messages. Latifa and Alyssia were among the first to find out, of course. I promise to email them juicy tales from the harem, assuming this ‘internet access’ allows me to do that. Latifa, meanwhile, keeps threatening to turn up as one of my colleagues there.
I wonder about messaging Charles. Should I just let that sleeping dog lie? I haven’t heard from him since we were at the coffee shop, which surprises me a little. I thought he was on some kind of mission to win me over again.
But what if he texts while I’m away, and I never see the message? I’m pretty sure it won’t come through when I turn my phone on for the first time in a month, especially if I’ve been out of the country.
I decide to be pro-active about it. After all, I do feel more in control about the whole Charles situation now, and quite certain I’m over my mental hump. So I send him a quick message before we get to the airport.
Hi. I’m heading off to Dunei, to join the prince’s harem for a month. I won’t be allowed my phone.
I wonder if that sounds a bit desperate. It probably does. Oh well, too late now. At least I won’t die wondering if I missed a message from him.
The reply comes just as I’m stepping out of the car and tipping the driver.
Congratulations, that’s quite an achievement. I was going to try and speak to you again, now you’ve had time to digest things. Would you talk to me?
I’ll talk to you, but it would have to wait for a month. It’s possible I might have email.
I much prefer email to texts. What address shall I use? Give me any you’ve got, in case there’s restricted access to certain sites out there.
I send
him both of my email addresses, and he promises he’ll write me something substantial.
I seriously hope I’m not opening up a can of worms by planning communications with Charles when I most need to forget him. On the other hand, it sounds like we’re going to have an awful lot of leisure time while we’re in the harem, and a bit of old-fashioned emailing might be welcome.
I switch off my phone as I follow the signs to the VIP lounge. It’s time to focus on the job at hand now. I need to get into harem mode. As I stand on the escalator heading up to the second storey, I watch the frazzled-looking business travellers rushing for their flights. I smile to myself as I think about the secrets of this world. Nobody would guess the bizarre purpose of my travel today. But then, few would guess just how many of these serious-looking businessmen are going to visit hookers on their trips. I’m certain a healthy number of them are.
Bang on time, I arrive at the entrance to the VIP lounge. A smartly-dressed man, who looks a lot like a Mr Hakim, is waiting for me. He greets me courteously, introducing himself as the prince’s aide-de-camp. All business, he shakes my hand before taking my papers and ushering me into the lounge. He motions me to have a seat there and wait, then disappears.
I feel a little overawed already. Even dealing with a royal aide-de-camp is a first for me!
The atmosphere is rarefied; one of newspaper-reading and browsing on tablets. I sit down cautiously and look around, somehow feeling like I’m being watched. There’s an exceedingly handsome Asian man with light coffee skin and immaculately-groomed stubble away to my left, reading today’s edition of The Telegraph and taking no apparent interest in me.
I look around, wondering if there’ll be any other girls joining this flight. But there are very few females in here at all. Certainly none whom I’d say have the appropriate age and look to be coming along on this particular ride.
It’s an exceedingly male place, and I’m reminded that the world of business is still very askew in that way. It doesn’t make me angry or bring out the feminist in me, though. I believe in equal opportunity, yes, but I’ve been in the business world and hated it. Why don’t the horrified number-crunchers ever consider the possibility that there are less female CEOs because less women want to be CEOs?
Frankly I’d much rather be the girl fucking the CEO for a few grand – or hell, even just for fun! Who wants to deal with all those e-mails and meetings? Not for me, thanks!
I do quite like the idea of a female CEO who regularly calls in male prostitutes, though. Pure fantasy, surely? Maybe that’s the book I’ll write, some day. I muse about how difficult it would be for it to happen in real life – even though you rarely see a headline about a lack of equal opportunity for male whores. I’m starting to see through some of the world’s bullshit – and I can see that I’m lucky to be a woman and be able to do this.
It’s quite nice to just sit and think. I guess I’ll be getting a lot of practice at that over the coming month.
Finally Mr Hakim returns and beckons me to the front desk. There, he opens a small side door and motions me through it. It feels like I’m about to go into a back office, but instead it gives onto what seems like one of those corridors that leads to an aircraft.
“Please follow me to the jet, Miss Emma,” he says.
Wow, so it seems like we’ve got our own private entrance going on here.
“Is this a private plane?” I ask cautiously.
“That is correct,” he says. He speaks in a highly-educated and neutral accent, a nasal edge to his speech.
I’m not sure what to say to that, but my heart beats a little faster as we approach the doors.
And there I get my first shock. One that tells me exactly why it was a good idea for us to have an exclusive entrance.
The hostess at the door is naked.
My heart leaps and my stomach twists. Oh, my. Where is this going? What haven’t I been told this time?
She greets me warmly, which settles my insides down considerably. Introducing herself as Yelena, she shakes my hand and kisses me softly on each cheek. Though she’s naked, she sports one trademark of the air-hostess business: bright lipstick, heavy makeup and ridiculously gleaming teeth.
Not that I think she really needs the make-up. And her body, it goes without saying, is remarkable in its perfection.
“Welcome, Emma,” she says as Mr Hakim stands there watching on. “We’re going to be in the harem together! It’s nice to meet you ahead of time - the prince brought a couple of us along on this trip, you see”
On this trip? Wait a minute, so…he’s actually travelling with us? Oh my God, I am so not prepared for this.
“Oh! I didn’t know…”
“Take it easy, Emma. I’ve been told to look after you and help you settle in, but our instructions will come from above. So just go with it, okay?”
I nod and smile, wondering what I should do next. But before I can make any decision, my jaw drops as I look to my right and take in the plane’s interior. Holy shit!
This is like no aircraft I have ever seen in my life. In the very centre of the cabin, which has been almost entirely stripped of its seats and carpeted in deep purple, is nothing less than a hot tub.
I’m reeling. How does that even work in a plane? They don’t even let you recline a chair when you’re on a commercial flight, and here I am about to take off in a jet with a bloody bath in the middle of it. It’s not huge, but it could take five at a squeeze. It already contains two other young women, both of whom turn around and smile at me. I assume they’re also going to be colleagues of mine.
A couple of metres from the hot tub is the widest, most comfortable armchair anybody could ever wish for. It’s littered with cushions and already in a semi-reclined position. Dead-centre in the plane with no other seat around it, it bears no resemblance to an aircraft seat at all. And it commands a perfect view over the hot tub, I should imagine.
There are only two other seats in the cabin, which is about as long as a double business-class section in a normal plane. Perhaps about twenty yards. One on each side, facing diagonally in towards the tub, they’re smaller and less ostentatious. More plane-like, in fact, though still decidedly first-class.
Right in front of me is what appears to be a fully-stocked bar. It’s got a shiny, polished faux wood counter with built-in fridges, three kinds of beer on tap (do they seriously have kegs on this thing?) and plenty of bottles. These, along with every kind of glass a prince might need, are strapped in place, presumably for turbulent times in the sky. The bar faces out towards the hot tub and the ‘throne’ in the middle of the plane.
I glance quickly to my left to make sure this really is a plane, because I’m starting to have my doubts. But there I see the only reassuring reminder that this thing is actually built to fly. Through a cockpit door, two pilots are settling into their seats. One’s beginning to flick switches, while another is making notes.
“Miss Emma, let me show you where you can undress.”
I nod subserviently to Mr Hakim, trying to keep myself together. All of this is fine – I just wasn’t mentally ready for it until we landed. I’m quite thrown, to say the least. But I’m going to handle it.
Mr Hakim takes me past the three empty seats to the back of the plane. There’s an ornate doorway on the left, just where you’d find a regular aircraft lavatory. Only this looks like it leads somewhere much bigger and more interesting. A room built into the dividing wall somewhere behind the back of the ‘throne’.
We slip behind a curtain to a considerable less smart area. There’s a kitchen section about thrice as big as you’d find on a normal plane. Two chefs stand there, texting. They look up at me, give me a wave, then go back to their phone. Surely they can’t actually cook in here, can they? How does that work in a pressurized cabin?
There’s a lavatory door just to the right. Mr Hakim gestures towards it. This is more like what I’m used to on a flight! Okay, it’s a fair bit more spacious than your typical plane c
ubicle, but it’s recognizable as an aircraft toilet. Maybe this bathroom is just for the chefs and the whores?
“Kindly take off all of your clothes, Miss Emma. Will you have space for them in your bag?”
I nod, while my heart thuds.
“Then I will wait here for you.”
I lock myself into the bathroom. I take a moment to gather myself, and then realise there’s really nothing to wait for. I need to get on with it and get naked. No way do I want anybody in the prince’s entourage to think they’ve made a mistake and hired a too-shy English girl.
I put down the bag, slip off my shoes and then begin to remove each item of clothing. Assuming I should also be modest for my landing in Dunei, I’ve come to the flight wearing one of the long dresses I bought yesterday. I pull it off. Then my bra. Then my panties.
I decide it would be a good idea to empty my bladder, so I quickly use the toilet. Then I stand up and prepare to leave the cubicle, banishing crazy thoughts that I’ve dreamed everything and I’m about to walk out into a completely normal (and packed) flight without a shred of clothing on my body.
But when I tentatively step out, there’s Mr Hakim, and everything is as I recall from when I went in. He takes my bag and places it in a cupboard just outside the toilet door. Then he brings me back into the main cabin, and motions me to get into the hot tub.
The cabin lights have dimmed while I’ve been getting undressed, and now the water is illuminated a royal blue. Yelena is still standing by the door, looking demure with her hands behind her back and one foot tucked behind the other. Like she’s waiting to please her master. It’s a sexy and submissive pose. I wonder if we’re all supposed to stand like that?
Mr Hakim doesn’t hang around to watch me get into the water, disappearing out of the door and back towards the terminal instead. There’s no elegant way to get into the tub. No steps, no rail. You have to crouch down – and I’m rather aware that means I’m flashing the other girls everything I’ve got – and then lower yourself in feet-first.
