by James Grey
I always wanted to join the mile-high club. But with a fucking prince? In an actual room, where there’s space to move? Boy, that’s way beyond the mile-high club. There can’t be many members of that society. And I want in right now.
“Thank you, Emma, you may go,” he says suddenly, without looking up.
My entire being sinks. Did he really just say that?
Fuck, did I wait too long? Should I have lifted the towel? Is he mad at me?
I wish I could ask. But you don’t question a prince.
“Send Samantha in next,” he says, lifting his head this time.
I back away from him quietly, trying to be respectful despite my disappointment and despite the burning questions in my brain. What does all this mean?
I tell Samantha it’s her turn to go into the room. She asks me about my time inside as Yelena repeats her drying trick on my compatriot. I presume I’m allowed to tell her, but I keep my voice down just in case. I notice Yelena smiling to herself as I recount it.
“Here, Emma, you can lie down on these if you’d like,” says Yelena once Samantha’s been delivered to the back room. She’s laid blankets out on the floor between the tub and Yousuf’s chair. They look thick and beautiful – almost creamy in their marshmallow consistency. More appealing right now than getting back in the water, especially as there are delightful pillows scattered on them.
“Don’t cover yourself, obviously,” says Yelena as I prepare to lie down, putting my head on the forgiving cushion. “You’re there because you make a good view. But you can sleep, if you want.”
Chapter XV
To cut a long story short, I feel quite unhappy as the plane starts to descend. I’ve been dozing with the girls on the blankets for most of the flight, but not before being made to feel distinctly third-best.
I’m feeling inadequate because, from what I can piece together from the girls, Samantha gave the prince a blow job. And then Annika actually fucked him! And me? Just a lousy massage. Some kind of escort.
I try very hard to hide my disappointment, but it’s tough. That felt like a big tease, just like those first couple of days at Cranleigh House. And dealing with a tease is one thing that just doesn’t get any easier. The fact that I’m one of a select trio of women sleeping at a prince’s feet, one of his little kittens, doesn’t seem to help right now.
In the absence of any other instructions, we stay where we are for touchdown in Dunei. In spite of myself, I’m dying to look out of the window and see what my new temporary home looks like. But now is clearly not the time.
When we’re on the ground and we’ve finished our taxi to the terminal, the (clearly ultra-patriotic) prince commands us to rise once again, and we go through another naked national anthem rigmarole. A bizarre end to a bizarre flight, really.
Mr Hakim oversees the opening of the doors, after which Prince Yousuf strides out of the plane without a word. I watch him go, seeing Yelena adopt that sweet, submissive pose once again as he passes her. I’m pretty sure that she, at least, got less action than I did on this flight. I suppose bar duty is a serious job in Prince Yousuf’s private plane.
“Ladies,” says the aide-de-camp after the prince’s departure, “you will need to get dressed for the trip to the palace.”
Oh, right, that makes sense. I’d almost forgotten about being naked again, but I suppose we are going out in public now. Unless they have a private tunnel all the way to the palace.
Yelena hands us our bags, and we all start to put on our clothes right there in the middle of the plane. The transformation is absolutely striking. Just a little material covering our bodies, and suddenly we could be regular holidaymakers rather than elite royal whores.
All the same, I can’t imagine what else people might think we are, if they knew anything about the third in line to the Dunei throne. Three striking European women stepping off his private jet? Pretty obvious, I’d have thought.
We’re told to wait, and stand in the plane for almost a full fifteen minutes. The security guy’s disappeared, but Mr Hakim is still with us, overseeing our movements whilst taking or making phone calls at least every couple of minutes. I’m guessing that Yousuf wants to be well ahead of us as he heads home.
At last, after he hangs up on yet another phone call, Mr Hakim clears us to go. This time we walk off the plane via a staircase onto the airport itself. And emerging from the doorway is like stepping into an oven. We’re talking almost roast potato temperature. Christ, it’s hot. The humidity has wrapped its sweaty paws around me by the time I’ve reached the fifth stair down.
Okay, I know I was looking forward to escaping the British winter. But still, I seriously hope they’ve got air-conditioning in these quarters of ours.
The four of us don’t speak much as we follow Mr Hakim across the concrete to the terminal building. I have a quick look around, and notice only three other commercial jets parked up. Clearly this small nation isn’t a hive of travel activity. Going by the fact that the prince has probably got far fewer women in his harem than he could afford, I’m thinking quality, not quantity, is their thing over here.
We approach a door flanked by two men in olive-green uniforms and hats, whom I assume are police or military of some kind. Luckily for them, they’re in the shade. Not that that helps much in this kind of furnace, but it’s a small blessing I suppose.
They salute Mr Hakim, and each opens one half of the door. We walk on in, meeting the delights of air-conditioning as we do so. Clearly – and unsurprisingly – this is not the regular tourist entrance to the airport. We’re in a long, nondescript corridor, and there’s no sign of passport control.
When we reach the end of it, another man in a suit meets us. Well, he ignores us, to be precise, but he greets Mr Hakim. He hands over our papers to the latest official, who gives them a cursory read, glancing at each one of us without any discernible expression. Somehow, I don’t want to meet his eye. Then he nods, and we proceed out into the arrivals hall.
It doesn’t take long to cross it. We’re in a public area now, with all the usual trappings: cash machines, information desks, cafés. It’s all on a small scale though, and very quiet indeed. It is very early in the morning, I suppose. I haven’t given the time difference much thought, but I’m startled to see an analogue clock reading six-thirty. It must be the dead of night back home.
A few guys in leather jackets – seriously, in this heat? – hang around, looking ready to seize upon any eye contact. Hopeful taxi drivers, I’m guessing. Those kinds of guys bug me so much, wherever I’ve been in the world. A few of them make their way over towards our group, until one of them spots Mr Hakim and stops. So do all the others.
I get the feeling Mr Hakim is a public figure in this part of the world, and that these guys know better than to approach us. They do, however, eye up the four of us girls with obvious interest. I doubt they’re under any illusion why these four foreign women are following the prince’s aide-de-camp out of the terminal building.
But the same policy I always follow with these guys still applies: don’t catch their eye. I’m here on royal business, thank you very much. And I’ve got a royal cock to feel inside me as soon as possible. Yes, I’m still bristling about what happened on the flight.
A white Toyota pulls up outside the building just as we step out onto the pavement. A very understated car in comparison to the jet! Maybe this is also all about not drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves. I’d imagine the prince is already some way up the road, and not in a white Corolla either. Maybe he took the hop home by helicopter, come to think of it.
Mr Hakim opens both car doors for us. The other three girls get into the back seat, because I’ve been trailing grumpily behind. So I’ll have to get in the front. Not great, on the one hand, since I’m weary and don’t want to have to talk to a strange driver. But on the other hand, it gives me the best vantage point. And I do like letting my eyes roam when I’ve arrived in a new place.
The driver, thankfu
lly, isn’t the chatty type. I presume that despite the car, he’s not just some ordinary taxi driver, and does actually work for the royal family. A stocky chap with a big, friendly-looking face, he gives me a courteous nod and then sets about driving.
“Welcome to Dunei, girls,” pipes up Yelena from the back seat. “Have a good look around – you guys won’t see anything more till Friday!”
“What day is it today?” I ask, feeling a little sheepish for not knowing. But time differences always throw me. And so, apparently, does a flight involving hot tubs and massage!
“Tuesday, silly!” laughs Annika. “We left on Monday, flew a long time, and they’re a long time ahead here. So it’s Tuesday.”
“And you’ve got nothing to complain about,” adds Yelena. “We’ve just done the trip both ways, and only had 48 hours in London. So our body clocks are pretty much out of order!”
“Not that it’s much of a problem,” adds Annika as we clear the boring car parks and cargo warehouses surrounding the airport. “We spend almost all our time lazing around, but might get called upon any time day or night. So there’s no right or wrong time to sleep, really.”
Called upon, day or night. Hot.
I hope she’s going to leave it at that. I’ll be squirming in the front seat, otherwise. And I don’t really want that right now.
Luckily she moves on from that subject, and instead she and Yelena point out a few things on our way to the palace. The roads here are wide and smooth, with none of the heavy traffic I’d expect in London. Scooters aplenty, some of them with two people on board, happily share the streets with the cars. Nobody seems desperate to drive too fast.
It’s a pretty if unspectacular city, as far as I can see. Frangipanis brighten up the central reservations of the bigger roads, while different varieties of palm tree sprout everywhere. Curiously, we’re driving on the left. Which almost never seems to happen when you travel. It gives me the suspicion that my country might have had its clutches on Dunei at some point in history.
We’re mostly cruising around the kinds of four-lane arterial roads that are great for cars, but not very interesting for pedestrians. There are no shops, just the odd giant billboard. Some of these are commercial, but some of them bear pictures of a man in a white uniform with blue and gold trimmings, along with even more badges than Prince Yousuf.
“That’s the king, if you’re wondering,” says Yelena, leaning forward. “Prince Yousuf’s father.”
I can see where Yousuf gets his looks from. I wonder who his mother is? Did the king have a harem of his own? Perhaps he still does. I want to ask the girls, but I’m not sure that kind of question is a good idea in front of our driver. I’m not sure how much English the guy understands, if any at all.
Beyond the broad pavements and the green grass that runs alongside them, I see little but endless walls. They’re occasionally punctuated by gates guarded by bored-looking men in uniform. Most of the entrances have gold plaques written in the local script, but I get the impression that these are important buildings we’re passing. This low-rise part of town doesn’t seem to be one of bazaars or shop-fronts. In fact, I can hardly see anything at all of what lies behind the walls, save for the occasional tall palm tree peeping above it.
After a ride of little more than ten minutes, we peel off one of Dunei’s remarkably large roundabouts and onto a perfectly straight, single-lane road. A hundred yards further is a gatehouse. On either side of it stretches a thick wall painted peach and white. Ornate metal spikes run along the top of the uncompromising barrier.
We slow to a stop, and the driver says something to a guard sporting a serious-looking rifle. The uniformed guy pokes his face into the window, and flicks his eyes across the girls. He gives Annika a wave and a grin that reveals some extraordinarily bad, yellowed teeth.
“Hello you!” she says enthusiastically, although something tells me this is about as far as the conversation between them has ever progressed.
Having greeted what must be his favourite Swede, the guard straightens up and murmurs something I can’t understand into a walkie-talkie. Then, apparently happy with the answers he gets, he waves us through. The white metal gate opens as if by magic, and we roll gently forward.
“This is the palace, right?” asks Samantha.
“That’s it! Home sweet home!” says Annika with a trace of nostalgia.
“Well, technically only round the back,” says Yelena. “None of us know much about the main building up there.”
A whitewashed, gargantuan structure is looming up ahead of us, still some distance yonder. The neatly-spaced palm trees that stand sentinel by this empty road obscure some of the view, but what I can make out is that it’s not a pretty nor symmetrical building. At first glance there aren’t a lot of windows, or even a grand entrance. It’s highly geometric, with jutting walls turning straight into a flat roof in many places, although there’s a large dome commanding pride of place in the centre.
One thing you can’t accuse it of is being small. It’s roughly the height of a three-storey building in most places, although I couldn’t say whether that means three levels inside or a lot of very high ceilings. The early morning sun bounces golden off the walls, and at once I’m intrigued about what it might be like inside.
“Is it just for Prince Yousuf?” I ask slowly, thinking back to the night I serviced that banker just outside Kate and William’s considerably smaller palace in London.
“Well, apart from the servants, yes,” replies Yelena. “All five sons have their own homes. If you think this is big, you should see the King’s palace! You can check it out from the outside one Friday.”
I notice that small Dunei flags flutter from metre-high flagsticks on either side of the road. It looks like the flags get bigger and taller as you get nearer to the palace, creating an effect like the swooping pipes of two organs rearing up in front of us.
Before we get too near the front of the palace, though, we reach a mini-roundabout with a fountain in it, and turn right. We emerge from the row of palms to cross an open lawn of lush, manicured grass. It still feels like the palace is about a mile away to our left, but I’m sure it can’t be that far.
Ahead of us is deep jungle. Before we trundle into it, a magnificent peacock trots across the road as he forages his way along the treeline. The amazing bird, with his royal blue chest, is a stark reminder of what a foreign, exotic place I’m going to call home for the next month.
We turn left once we’re inside the trees, following a dark new road that must skirt around the palace itself. We can only catch glimpses of its gleaming whiteness through the vegetation. I suppose that might be deliberate.
The ride, conducted at very low speed – do they have an actual limit in here or something? – takes us past the vast edifice at a respectful distance. Once we’re a fair way beyond it, the road emerges from the thick little jungle again and the car glides through a small orchard of fruit trees. I’m wide-awake now, sensing that we’re about to arrive.
We cross a little arch bridge the spans a stream, emerge from a row of tall pines and then pull up at an ornate building that’s as symmetrical as the palace isn’t. About the size of the average house in the English countryside, it looks like the perfect wedding cake: a square base topped with gradually smaller roof squares, culminating in a little dome of its own.
It’s a stunning combination of colours, with a blue somewhere between turquoise and navy the dominant theme. Generous tiles in diamond patterns dot the exterior, adding flashes of gold and white to the building. The dome itself is entirely gold – and I’m not convinced it’s not the real thing.
If this is the harem, well, then Prince Yousuf clearly takes its appearance more seriously than that of his own residence.
“Well, here we are,” says Yelena grandly. “Welcome to the royal harem!”
Her words send a tingle down my spine.
I nod at the driver, knowing that this is where I say goodbye to the outside world. M
y adventure really begins here.
The glare and heat batter me as I swing my feet out of the car and onto the asphalt. I really should have thought to bring sunglasses. They’ll be on my shopping list for Friday, that’s for sure.
I look around as the taxi moves away, leaving us standing behind what looks like nothing more glamorous than a tradesman’s entrance. A slight, middle-aged woman in Western clothing – dark, broad trousers and a white, open-neck shirt, emerges from the blue door. She has a short, serious haircut, no breasts to speak of, and wears flat slippers.
“Welcome back,” she says to Annika with a quick wave. “Hello, Samantha and Emma. I’m Monosira. I’m in charge of the running of His Majesty’s harem. It’s very good to meet you. Did you have a pleasant flight?”
“We did!” says Samantha, shaking Monosira’s outstretched hand. Diplomatically I agree, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible.
“Well, let’s take you inside out of this heat. I need to ask you ladies to undress first, of course.”
Annika laughs, obviously noting the surprised expression on our faces. I thought we’d at least get to put our bags down before stripping!
“We have to lose the clothes here, guys,” says Annika, who is already pulling off her top. “No harem girl is allowed to step across the threshold while dressed, right Monosira?”
“Correct, Annika. His Majesty has always enforced this rule. The purity and dedicated purpose of the building would be violated if any of his women were to be clothed inside it. Nobody has ever made a mistake with this yet. Now, step onto the mat before you remove your shoes, please, or you will burn your feet!”
Chapter XVI
Monosira wastes no time in showing us around the premises, making it clear that Prince Yousuf may decide to appear at any moment. Although she concedes it’s unlikely to happen this morning after a long-haul flight, we still need to be ready.
“You can eat and shower very soon,” she says to Samantha and I as she leads us along a covered passage around an interior courtyard full of lush trees – some even bearing fruit – and gorgeous fountains. “But there are some essentials I need to show you immediately. Here, put your bag on this mattress, Emma. This will be your corner.”
