Chapter 20: The Party

It would be difficult to judge whether Sharifa and her entourage or the residents of Llanrumney, the rough Cardiff municipal housing estate six miles east of the city centre, were the more surprised when these two cultures clashed. It was not that there was any animosity between the two groups, more a total lack of comprehension.

Llanrumney was not used to young women arriving at parties in a chauffeur driven Rolls-Royce, accompanied by a second car full of armed bodyguards, and the Kobekistanis were totally unprepared for a sink municipal housing estate where most homes were supported by state handouts and few people had jobs.

Cardiff had had a foretaste earlier when Sharifa’s contribution to the party had arrived. Champagne was a drink they only had in smallish quantities, mostly at weddings, and then of very low quality. Six dozen bottles of Dom Perignon caused quite a stir when they were delivered by a van from Fortnum and Mason’s, a very posh shop a hundred and ninety miles away in London, especially as only twenty or so people were expected to be at the party.

Sharifa was amazed to see it being drunk warm from the neck of the bottle by one of Nicola’s uncles as she entered the run-down house, which she thought of as tiny. It was the doubt on her friend’s face as she entered the house that reminded Sharifa of her obligations as a Royal Princess. She determined to be polite and not to behave outrageously, nor to show her friend up.

The only false note all evening was when a neighbour’s son objected to a bodyguard staying with Sharifa while they were indulging first in a heavy petting session and then as she sucked his prick. The lad could not bring himself to ignore the presence of a tall, well-built, minder watching over the girl as he prepared to seduce her. It never occurred to him that she was the one doing the seducing, nor could he work out why the bodyguard made no move to stop him as he finally got his prick firmly in to her cunt on the floor behind a sofa.

Afterwards he asked Nicola what it all meant.

“Her father is His Magnificence Mahmoud Abdullah, Emir of Kobekistan, so the bodyguard is there to protect her,” she replied.

“But ... but he let me ... He watched while I...” he blushed deep red.

“Silly boy,” replied the girl, “She seduced you. If she had made the slightest sign that she was unwilling, he would have torn one of your arms off and used it to beat you to death with. You realised that they were all four armed didn’t you?”

“Armed?”

Nicola had no compunction about scaring the neighbour, whom she considered stupid, and who had bullied her when they were little children. “Her bodyguards all carry weapons. Usually there is a British policeman with them to try to stop them shooting unnecessarily. Of course, there is nothing he can do if they panic.” She had him hooked.

“Panic? Does that happen often?”

She launched into pure fiction. “Oh, I remember in Oxford once she had a row about parking that Rolls and the Traffic Warden called the local cops and they tried to arrest her. The bodyguard shot first, and never bothered to ask questions.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. She is a Princess and the Royal Protection Squad hushed it all up. It was reported as a traffic accident in which a cop got badly injured.”

As the young man left, pale faced with apprehension about the risk he thought he had taken, Nicola smiled to herself. The bullies, especially the stupid ones, were so easy to frighten.