I met Prince Mohammed, first son and heir of a sheik, my junior year when he transferred to The Petroleum Engineering School at The University of Texas. We discovered we both liked hunting, golf, fast cars, a good laugh and women, as well as the oil business. We became best friends.
Attracting women wasn't a problem for me. My family wasn't in the Sheik's class but my grandfather was a hell-for-leather wildcatter and left us rich. Dad added to the pile and I was hoping to expand it yet again when it was my turn. The truth is when you're big rich and good-looking, the women swarm like bees on honey.
Attracting women wasn't a problem for Prince Mohammed either. He had two wives, Nudara and Sara, and a concubine named Hasna. Nudara, first daughter of another sheik, married Mohammed when they were both fourteen in an arrangement to bind the two sheikdoms together. She was smart, sincere, and tough enough to be the primary wife of a future ruler. Sara, the shy and sweet daughter of a wealthy, westernized Arab businessman, became his second wife when he was eighteen and she sixteen. They were polite, intelligent, and demure women, devoted to their shared husband without a hint of jealousy or discord.
Hasna, a gift to Mohammed from his father, was a beautiful woman with an open and ripe sensuality that she mastered in all its nuances. Seeing her made a man want sex in the same way that smelling fresh-baked bread made a man want to eat.
The Prince told me Hasna descended from a line of beautiful women bred and raised to please men. Ten generations ago, a fierce warlord began the process in a mountain enclave. Careful selection of men and women over the years enhanced the breeding process. Hasna was proof of their success.
The Prince and I opted to enroll in the MBA program after we received our Petroleum Engineering degrees. The week before school was out for the summer, an amateurish assassination attempt was made on his life. I responded to the situation and, fortunately, no harm came to the Prince or me. I didn't think I was doing something heroic. In fact, I didn't think at all. I reacted. But the Sheik saw it as heroic and credited me with saving his son's life.
At the Sheik's request, I accompanied Mohammed to the Sheikdom. I met the Sheik in a large, open room he used for meetings. He sat on a large, ornate chair some might call a throne. Prince Mohammed was seated to his left. The Sheik motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite him.
A woman in a white burqat knelt on a small Persian rug beside the Sheik's chair with her head bowed. The burqat is both a head covering with an eye screen that allows its wearer to see but be unseen, and a full costume consisting of the head covering and, in essence, an outer dress. The tail of the head covering falls to cover the breast.
"Michael," the Sheik began. "I can not thank you enough for saving my son's life. I want you to accept a small token of my gratitude." His white teeth shone brightly against his dark face when he motioned to the woman next to him. "Your first concubine. Her name is Kamilah."
I was too shocked to respond. Mohammed said, "I knew he would be speechless. Mike, my friend, she is Hasna's full sister, every bit as beautiful and well-trained."
For me, a westerner and commoner, to be given such a woman was a unique honor. To be given a woman like Hasna was blessing upon blessing. "I am truly thankful, Your Highness. You've honored me beyond imagination." The Sheik heard my hesitation.
"Mohammed said you'd fear accepting because of your government's official policy toward slavery and the ridiculous mores of your culture," the Sheik said. I nodded dumbly as I stared at the tiny white form beside him. "I have a plan to discuss with you when the time is ripe, but now you should enjoy her. Go to his quarters, Kamilah, and prepare for your new master."
Silently, she rose and glided from the room like a ghost, accompanied by the faint tinkling of bells.
We three men sipped tea and talked for another hour or so before the Sheik adjourned us. I went to my quarters, a luxurious room containing a large bed, a desk and chair, sitting area, and an adjoining modern bathroom. On each side of the bed was a Persian rug, a coverlet, and several small pillows for women to sleep on as they waited for their master to call them to his bed.
When I entered my quarters, Kamilah scurried to her knees. The all-encompassing costume trembled as I stood beside her. When I touched her head covering, she gasped and her hands clenched into tiny, glove-covered fists. I removed it to find she wore a hijab, or head scarf, and a veil. I pulled them away, revealing lustrous raven hair.
"Look at your new master, Kamilah," I said quietly.
Her head jerked upward and I stared into the magnificent face of a sensual woman. Wide, bright green eyes shone at me from round eyeholes beneath heavy, black, slightly-arched eyebrows. Nose straight from the bridge. High cheekbones. Straight jawline. Full lips. Her skin tone wasn't the olive of an Italian or the dark-brown of an Arab. It was a lighter brown, with no hint of black or green hues. More a light pecan color.
She studied me as I studied her. Her eyes softened. She smiled, showing straight, bright-white teeth, and a dimple on the left side of her mouth.
"Stand," I commanded, and she sprang to her feet. "Remove your gloves." She didn't understand so I assisted her. Her small hands trembled in mine. I removed the outer dress. She wore an abaya, or dress, under it. She trembled with anticipation as I removed the abaya and her underclothes.
About five feet tall with hair reaching her knees, she was a living doll, an hourglass with large, ripe breasts and a prominent rump that demanded a man's attention. Her full, dull black bush lay below the Venus mound pooch of her belly. Her only adornment was a silver chain with eight small, silver bells around her left ankle, like the one Hasna wore.
"Turn," I said, and she didn't respond. I made a circle motion with my hand. She turned on tiptoes. "You are beautiful, Kamilah," I said honestly.
I didn't expect a reply because I thought she didn't speak English, but she said, "I no understand."
"You please me."
"I happy please master," she said with a soft sultriness.
"Undress me," I said.
As I watched her face so alive with sexual promise and felt her trembling fingers as they grazed my skin, I wondered how she was trained. What did they do with her to make her so eager to please a man? How did they teach her to make each nuance so erotic? Most women learn modesty and propriety. Maybe Kamilah was untrained woman, raw and visceral, alive and sensual, as God made Eve before she met the snake.
She removed my boots. I stood to let her remove my trousers. When she tugged down my jockeys, my erect cock popped in her face. Eyes wide, she stared at it before turning red and slowly pulling my briefs down my legs without taking her eyes off it. She knelt with her knees together and her hands folded primly in her lap.
"Why do you keep staring at my penis?"
"I no understand."
"Looking at this," I said, making my cock bounce up and down.
"Cock. Master say 'looking at cock.' I not see live. Only dead."
"Not man. Toy. Not big like you."
"Are you a virgin?"
"I no understand 'virgin.'"
"Has a man put his cock in you between your legs?"
"In my pussy?" she asked horrified. "No. I no have man." She was indignant that I should think such a thing, but her sexuality flared like oxygenated coals and the heat covered me in waves.
"Do you want a man?" I asked.
She blushed in mahogany hues and smiled shyly with her head down-turned. Those brilliant green eyes never left mine and her slightly arched back offered her breasts to me.
"I want please my master."
I extended my arms. She smiled widely as she rose. When I cupped her breasts and felt her hard nipples, she moaned. I slipped my hand between her legs. Her plumped, oozing pussy and her whimper when my finger grazed her slit testified to her readiness.
I pointed to the bed. She crawled on it and pulled her hair forward to rest over her left shoulder like a bride adjusting the train on her wedding dress. With elbows on the bed and hands against the wall, she spread her knees wide to offer herself dog-style. No doubt we would fuck that way one day, and the tiny winking bud of her anus between the rounds of her asscheeks would receive my attention, but not tonight. I rolled her on her back. She brought her legs up and held them open with her hands behind her knees.
I watched her face as I rubbed my cockhead up and down her slit, lathering it with her copious juice. She looked frightened for an instant before unrestrained sensuality burst forth like sunshine. I nudged my cock against her opening, pushed her legs up, and pulled her hands down by her head with my fingers around her wrists.
I was in no hurry to fully penetrate this rare prize as she became accustomed to the first man in her. Her face told me she couldn't believe what was happening to her or the sensations she felt. She twitched and moved as her muscles accommodated me. I fought my desire to hurry, slowly building the tempo toward an excruciating crescendo. She began to sweat. Her face signaled her surrender to her passions and muted groans heralded her approaching climax.
Her first orgasm exploded like a geyser and she bucked and screamed. Her pussy spasmed on my cock, but I fought my own reward and increased the force and tempo. She came again, astonished by her own pleasure, then again as an unending stream of orgasms overtook her. Her pussy pulled my cock deep into her and held it there, massaging it, and drawing my seed to her awaiting womb, before I collapsed on her.
After recovering from her own pleasure, she started to inch away from me. Concubines are taught to slip out of their master's bed without disturbing him when their master's pleasure is complete, return to their mat, and await his command. I grabbed her and said, "Stay."
"Yes, Master," she whispered.
She lay beside me as I floated in that semi-comatose post-orgasmic state. She didn't touch me, but her eyes caressed my face. "I touch, Master?" she asked. I nodded. She silently slipped under the heavy comforter and disappeared from view.
Her hands were on me, her breasts brushed against me. Fingers slid down my leg. Lips brushed the top of my foot and a leg lay across me. The softness of a breast grazed my thigh. The tip of a tongue touched my cockhead. She stopped and I could feel her heart pounding against me. Her tongue traced the underside of my cock, stopping to lick the base with her little hand around the shaft, before gently licking my balls.
I tugged her hair. She flowed up my body until her head emerged from under the covers, revealing a broad smile and dancing eyes. I guided her over my cock. She knew what I wanted and quickly impaled herself. The fruit of her breasts swayed over my lips. I nibbled as she rode me.
She tried to control her rhythm, but her instincts quickly consumed her. Her face contorted in the sweet agony of orgasm and she threw back her head. Droplets of sweat fell on me. I had not moved, letting her do all the work.
"Pleasure me," I demanded.
She humped faster. I massaged her breasts, stroked her thighs, and tickled her clit, which was a hard and prominent knob of pleasure. Orgasm after orgasm wracked her, leaving us soaked in her sweat and love juices, until she sagged on me too exhausted to move. I rolled her on her back, pinned her knees by her head, and released all my energy I had so carefully contained, driving into her with hard, deep strokes. Her heat rose. Her pussy throbbed around my cock until we came together and I fell limp on her. I commanded, "Stay," before I rested with my head in the swell of her breasts.
It was the best fuck of my life.
The brilliant sun streamed through the glass door and awakened me. Kamilah's body was pressed against me with her hair tangled around us. She mumbled in Arabic when I awakened her and tottered into the bathroom with me to bathe and dress.
Breakfast was with Mohammed as Hasna and Kamilah, each dressed in an abaya and hijab, served us. That day, we met with several of the Sheik's advisors to discuss the potential of a water-flood injection in an older field.
That night at dinner, I ate with the Sheik and Mohammed. Wives were absent and concubines again served. Kamilah never spoke and her eyes were always downturned, never meeting mine.
After dinner, the Sheik said, "Since you have but one woman, I've arranged for another to join you tonight, Michael. No woman should be taken every night. They need their rest. Your little Kamilah still feels the effects of her first surrender as you can see by her movements." If she knew what was said, she didn't show it.
When I returned to my quarters that night, Kamilah was on her mat by my bed. Muna, who had served us at dinnertime, was on the other mat. Kamilah's eyes flashed at me, piqued with a haughty, uncontrolled jealousy she made no attempt to hide. Quickly, she looked away, but her tiny hands were clenched in her lap. I lifted her head to look at me. Jealousy gave way to fear and passive acceptance.
I didn't speak to her. I undressed and made my toilet before climbing into bed. "Muna, come," I said. She crawled into bed and pleasured me. I commanded her to stay to tweak Kamilah's jealousy. I wasn't angry with Kamilah, but she would learn to accept what I did without resentment.
I ignored Kamilah in the morning and that night when I returned to my quarters. She seethed on her mat as Nada, a buxom Slav, warmed and pleasured me. The next morning, Kamilah's anger was cool, but I ignored her again. She needed to learn.
I dined with Mohammed, Nudara, and Sara that night. Hasna, Kamilah, and Muna served us. When dinner was over, the Prince dismissed Muna to my room.
Sara glanced at her husband and he nodded. "Michael," she said to me, "May I command your concubine?"
"Certainly," I replied.
"Girl! Come," Sara said with a snap of her fingers. Obviously frightened, Kamilah hurried to kneel by her. Mohammed pointed to the floor by his chair. Hasna dropped to her knees.
"Sara will translate all that is said for Kamilah," Mohammed said. Sara whispered in Kamilah's ear. "I have learned your concubine was jealous and petulant. Is this true?"
"Yes, it is, Mohammed," I replied.
"Hasna filled her ears with stories that American men have only one wife and no concubines. Kamilah wishes to be that one woman to you, and they have conspired to manipulate the situation." As Sara translated, Kamilah's skin turned cherrywood red and her hands trembled.
Mohammed continued, "Both need punishment. There are hierarchies of punishment as these bad girls are aware. Punishment in private by their master is the least form and punishment in public by the harem master is the worst, with gradients in between." Tears slipped down Hasna's cheek as the Prince calmly sipped his tea.
"May I make a suggestion?" Nudara asked.
The Prince nodded.
"They have embarrassed us. Private punishment is not in order," Nudara said.
"Continue," the Prince said.
"I should punish Hasna in front of Michael, and he should punish Kamilah in our presence," she said. Her jaw was set and her eyes angry.
Nudara's suggestion was a special humiliation for Hasna. I would see her naked and punished. In the hierarchy of women, wives, like Nudara and Sara, are always concealed from the eyes of men except their husbands and certain family members. Concubines, like Hasna and Kamilah, are shown or not shown at the pleasure of their master, but never shared with another man. For example, I had only seen Mohammed's wives fully clothed. I had seen Hasna in a bikini, but not naked. Slave girls, like Muna and Nada, were seen and shared.
Mohammed and I agreed with her suggestion. He led the way, with his wives escorting the wayward concubines, to a part of the Sheik's castle I had never seen-the harem, the guarded and secluded area where the women live. He led us into a small room used for punishment. Shackles and chains on a pulley system hung from the ceiling. Holding rings were embedded in the walls and floor. Against one wall was a flat table with a cage underneath it.
Nudara didn't wait for further permission. She spoke to Sara. Together, they stripped Hasna as she cried. The shackles were wide steel cuffs. Sara secured her ankles and Nudara her wrists. The ankle shackles, attached to rings in the floor, held her legs open so widely Hasna might have lost her balance, but her wrist shackles, attached to chains dangling from the ceiling, pulled her arms above her and held her upright.
Nudara selected a whip with three strands of braided leather, barked fiercely at Hasna in Arabic, and began. The blows were well-spaced for psychological and physical effect. Nudara admonished her between each blow. Hasna received ten blows before Nudara released her, and held her in her arms to whisper in her ear until the harem master arrived to lead Hasna away.
"What did you say to her?" I asked.
Nudara exhaled loudly and relaxed, her fury spent. "I told her she was an embarrassment to her master the Prince, her ruler the Sheik, our family, and all womanhood, and I would not tolerate her embarrassing my husband. I said this was for her own good, to remind her to behave. And that I loved her."
"Have you ever been whipped, Nudara?" I asked.
She glanced at her husband and her eyes flashed sensually. "Am I not a woman?" she said. Sara blushed and giggled.
Mohammed asked, "Have you disciplined a woman, Mike?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Then you know the whip is key. This one will burn, but not tear," he said, handing me the whip his first wife used on Hasna.
"Please translate, Sara," I said. She agreed. "Kamilah," I said as I took her face in my hands, "Your spirit and body please me, but I am your master and I will have your mind and your obedience. I promise you nothing in return except that your improper behavior will be severely punished. Bind your hair on your head."
Kamilah sobbed, "Yes, Master," as she began to coil her hair on her head. I bound her as Hasna had been bound, in an exaggerated Y. Seeing such a magnificent female helpless before me was a turn-on, but there was no turn-on like seeing her face flare with passion when she was under me. I wanted to secure her loyalty and her obedience.
I whipped all of her, front and back, except that fragile flower between her legs. She wailed and screamed. Between each blow, I took her chin in my hand and brought her eyes to mine. When I was through, I asked Mohammed to call for the harem master to treat her wounds before delivering her to my room.
Mohammed, his wives, and I retired to his sitting room where we discussed women and men and culture. Sara said, "Mike, Kamilah never asked you to stop or lessen the blows when you punished her. She only begged for forgiveness."
"A good sign," Mohammed commented, and I agreed.
Two hours later, I returned to my room. Muna lay sleeping on the mat on one side of my bed. Kamilah was on the other mat with her hands bound behind her and her right ankle shackled to the bed. I released her bonds before climbing into bed.
"Come, Kamilah," I commanded.
Kamilah slipped into my bed and squirmed against me. She tried to ignore the pain remaining from her whipping, but she moved gingerly and winced when a particularly tender spot was touched. "Forgive me," she pleaded.
"I forgive you." I kissed her softly for the first time.
She was stunned and thrilled, returning my kiss with abandon as tears of joy streamed down her face. As she well knew, a master kisses a concubine like that that way to tell her she is cherished and special to him. We fucked until we both were satiated and exhausted. She was the best.
The next day, the Sheik returned from his trip. He explained the plan he had to scam the government of the United States into supporting my owning a concubine. Of course, I readily agreed for the memory of Kamilah under me kept my blood simmering. I boarded his plane that night to take me home. I left a teary-eyed Kamilah with the promise I would return for her.
When I got home, there were phone calls from my parents, several friends, and six women. I called Nancy first, but she was out of town. I then called Estella who came over and spent the night.
I received daily reports from Mohammed or Nudara about the progress of negotiations between the Sheikdom and the United States concerning my insulting the Sheik. I hadn't, of course, but that was his scam. On the fourth day back, Mohammed told me the State Department wanted to interview Kamilah. We granted the interview, but Nudara, concealed by a burqat, would pretend to be Kamilah.
On the sixth day, Nudara called from the Sheikdom. She said, "The interview went very well, Mike, and there was a plus. A woman named Abigail Beavers represented your State Department. You need to meet her."
"She's beautiful and intelligent. Most importantly, she has the heart and soul of a concubine."
We talked a bit more before we disconnected. I thought about this woman I'd never met, and women in general and relationships, personal, family, and otherwise.
Mine was not a normal family, if normal means having a husband and wife who live together and raise their children. My grandfather, "Big Mike" Price, was married and divorced seven times. To Granddad, marriage was an estate and tax planning tool rather than a commitment. Each wife received part of his millions upon divorce, with her wealth ultimately going to the children she bore by him. Divorce didn't mean abandonment. Every wife had a house in Granddad's compound. Each night, all the wives and children ate dinner and spent the evening together at his mansion before returning to their own houses.
My father's home wasn't "normal" either. There was my father Patrick, my mother Elizabeth, and me, Aunt Maria, her two children by my father, Patricio and Eva, and Aunt Charlene. We children had the second floor. The four adults shared the master bedroom downstairs.
I never intended to have one wife forever and ever. Two women I dated suggested marriage and plainly stated I was welcome to play around. Another said she liked women as much as I did and offered a multitude of options. Something was missing with all of them. Now, things were starting to come into focus.
The State Department called the next morning. They wanted me in Washington and the FBI would provide an escort. As I hung up, there was a knock at my door. Two men in dark-blue suits flashed their badges, waited as I changed and packed, and took me to a private, unmarked plane. Once onboard, they gave me a cold sandwich, a bottle of soda, and an old magazine before ignoring me all the way to Washington. A limousine whisked us to the State Department Building.
My silent guards ushered me into a large office with a huge desk. A man and a woman sat opposite the desk silently waiting. A little man about forty with a combed-over pate marched from behind the desk and extended his hand. "I'm Cecil Potter Wainscot the fourth, Deputy Assistant Under Secretary for Middle Eastern Affairs," he said smoothly. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Price."
"I didn't have a choice, did I?" I replied neutrally.
He grinned. "You didn't. The President personally asked me to handle this situation to his satisfaction. This is Phillip Carnegie McReynolds the third, and Amanda Abigail Beavers," Wainscot said. McReynolds, a slightly taller, younger, paler version of Wainscot rose and pumped my hand twice as he gave me a tepid plastic smile.
Nudara was right. Miss Beavers was a beauty. I extended my hand to shake hers. When our fingers touched, electricity crackled. She jerked and her eyes widened.
"Miss Beavers," I said as I smiled at her.
"Mr. Price," she said with a soft sensuality.
"Please, have a seat," Wainscot said. I took the empty chair on the end, turned it slightly so I could keep Miss Beavers in sight, and sat. "Let me get right down to the problem, Mr. Price," Wainscot continued. "The Sheik offered you a gift and you refused, which is a great insult to any Arab. The Sheik and his country are vitally important to the economic and strategic interests of the United States. The President wants you to make the Sheik happy and he wants it now."
"I've talked with Prince Mohammed," I said.
"What did the Prince say?" Wainscot demanded.
"Exactly," he commanded.
"He said, 'Mike, you're being an ass. Take the girl and enjoy her.'" Amanda Abigail Beavers reddened and her hands trembled as she looked down and away.
"Those were the President's words, too," Wainscot said. He sat back in the large, overstuffed chair. "And I agree. You're being an ass, Mr. Price. You saved the Prince's life and his father wants to reward you. He wants to give you a woman and an allowance that will maintain you and her. Only an idiot would turn that down."
"Did it occur to you that slavery is illegal in the United States?" I asked.
"I know that," Wainscot replied testily. His fingers drummed his desk and he scowled into space.
Miss Beavers and I studied each other. Big, submissive, blue eyes behind oversized, round, black-framed glasses pleaded with me. Her hands twisted in her lap. Unknowingly, she was confirming what I had been told about her. In that instant, the game plan changed. I knew the Sheik wouldn't mind.
Wainscot's drumming stopped and he stared at me. "No one needs to know she's a slave," he said.
"True," I answered. "But, the gift of the woman is conditional. If I don't want to keep her, or if she causes problems, the Sheik will take her back, by force if need be. The women's groups would scream if they found out. Or, some overzealous do-gooder in the Attorney General's Department could raise an issue."
"The woman won't complain because she wants this. Doesn't she, Abigail?"
"Yes, Mr. Wainscot," she replied. "She understands the situation and its ramifications."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Abigail is fluent in Arabic. She had eight uninterrupted hours with the woman and returned only yesterday. What's her name?" Wainscot said.
"Kamilah," Miss Beavers said. "She speaks highly of you, Mr. Price. She wants to be your concubine."
"She may say she wants to be my concubine, but how do you know what's in her woman's heart?" I asked of Miss Amanda Abigail Beavers.
"I know, Mr. Price," she replied softly.
McReynolds missed her real meaning, but Wainscot didn't and neither did I. Miss Beavers flushed and her lower lip trembled. Her eyes, wide and soft and almost transparent, never left mine. From the corner of my eye, I could see Wainscot watching intently, his eyes flicking back and forth between us.
Wainscot was a pro and hid his feelings well. "What can we do to get this off dead center?" he asked.
"You tell me," I replied.
"We'll provide official protection for the Sheik and for you relative to your acquisition of the woman, and his reacquisition, if need be," Wainscot said. I didn't reply. "And appropriate documents to bring the woman here and keep her with you in whatever relationship you want. I'll even throw in a State Department plane to take you there to pick her up."
"May I make a suggestion?" Miss Beavers asked.
"Go ahead," Wainscot answered.
"I think if I'm assigned to Mr. Price, I can ease the transition and grease some wheels along the way."
"Carn, would you excuse us," Wainscot said. McReynolds left the room.
Wainscot dropped his professional veneer. A smooth, tough, and savvy man was underneath. "You want to be assigned to Mr. Price and receive your orders from him, don't you?" he asked.
Amanda Abigail Beavers straightened her back and folded her shaking hands in her lap. She was perched on the edge of the chair with her feet and knees primly together. She looked directly at me. "Yes, Mr. Wainscot," she said with unwavering assurance.
"Please excuse us," Wainscot said. After the door closed behind her, he said, "I wondered what turned her on. There were some signs it was submission, but when I tried taking her down that path, she rebelled and pulled up short."
"What can you tell me about her?"
"Professional and competent. Smart. Well educated. A fabulous body under those conservative clothes." Wainscot grinned lewdly. "And a good, but not great, fuck."
"Does she do that a lot?" I asked.
"Not as much as I want, but what woman does? She's picky, not what I'd call promiscuous, but she's no reluctant virgin either. I can name half-a-dozen guys she's done." His fingers did a rapid tattoo on the desk. "No anal sex. Her cocksucking is half-hearted. But she humps with the best of them." His fingers drummed again before he said, "I've always felt she was holding back, that there was a depth she didn't let any man touch."
"Maybe I can find it," I said.
"Too true." His fingers danced a quick staccato. "Well, good luck, not that you'll need it."
"Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome," he replied. He stood, came around the desk, and shook my hand. "State will deliver on my promises. It's up to you, Mr. Price, to make the Sheik happy. That will make the President happy and that makes me happy. Your gift and Miss Beavers should make you delirious with happiness."
I called the Sheik to inform him the arrangements were complete and Amanda Abigail Beavers would be coming with me. Miss Beavers was waiting for me in the outer office. I told her to pack and rejoin me here because we were leaving tonight. After she departed, I read her dossier Wainscot gave me.
Amanda Abigail Beavers was born and raised in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, the younger of two daughters of a prominent Philadelphia attorney and his wife, who had been a professional model. Her older sister, formerly a model specializing in lingerie, was the wife of a New York industrialist.
The dossier said Abigail was five nine, one hundred thirty-four pounds, and in excellent health with no identifying scars or tattoos. She did all the standard things in high school like cheerleading, tried modeling but didn't like it, and enjoyed skiing and dancing. She was twenty-four, which was my age. She graduated from The University of Pennsylvania with highest honors in Asian and Middle Eastern Studies with a double concentration in Modern Islamic Nations and Arabic.
Because she excelled at languages, The State Department schooled her in Arabic, Farsi, and Urdu before assigning her to the Middle Eastern Department as a translator. She had been there almost two years and worked directly for Wainscot. There was nothing negative in her files. Each evaluation and report glowed with comments on her intelligence, poise, competence, and dedication to duty.
I observed she was beautiful, with a heart shaped face, big blue eyes, and a slightly scooped nose of a perfect size for her face. Her skin was pale. Her shoulder length hair was light brown with a glimmering mixture of red-blonde highlights. Her lips were feminine and of medium thickness. She had narrow wrists and ankles, patrician hands and feet, and a stately elegance of class and breeding.
When she returned to the State Department office with suitcase in hand, she wore a knee-length, loose-fitting black skirt and a pink blouse with long, puffed sleeves. The blouse buttoned to her neck and had a pink bow under her chin, creating a package waiting to be unwrapped. The State Department limo whisked us to the State Department plane, which took us away.
Once airborne, we sat next to each other in the rear seats and talked at length. I learned about her family and her life, but not her sex life. Except for a tingling undercurrent of sexual tension, she was at ease with me, as if I was an old friend, but she called me "Mr. Price" even though I called her "Abby."
"You haven't asked any questions about me," I said.
"I know about you," she said.
"When this problem arose, Cecil ordered me to investigate. I started with the FBI files on you. You've been under surveillance because of your friendship with Prince Mohammed. I re-interviewed some of your old girl friends. They were quite open with me. A government badge and sympathetic ear can have that effect. I learned a lot about you."
"All the standards things - intelligence, sense of humor, what you like to eat or to do. We talked a lot about your sexual qualities and preferences."
"Such as?" I asked again.
"They all said you're a demanding lover, not cruel but strong and commanding like a sheik or medieval knight, and that you treat a woman well. All of them commented on your endowment," she said with a knowing grin. "One of the married ones said she was having an affair with you."
"Patricia or Nancy?" I asked.
She was surprised. "I didn't know about Patricia," she replied. "I guess our investigation wasn't as thorough as it should've been. Tell me about her."
"She likes a hard hand occasionally," I said.
She had been relaxed, her face soft, eyes twinkling, and hands animated. She visibly tightened and her eyes asked a thousand questions before she continued. "Ah, yes. A hard hand. Most of them said you could be a gentle lover, but somehow you knew when they wanted a hard hand, as you call it. Then you became a master in the dominance and submission sense. A master who demanded of them and gave them great pleasure." The smile disappeared. "Only one said she didn't miss you in her life. She said what you wanted from her scared her."
"That would be Carla Chambers," I interjected.
"Yes, it was. Why did you want to have her pierced and tattooed?"
"She was playing a game, a surrender game, but I wasn't playing a game. I wanted her actual surrender."
"Why?" she asked.
"It makes no difference. It's the way I am. Let me reverse the question. Why are you submissive?"
Her expression said she was deciding whether to tell the truth or turn the conversation in another direction. "It makes no difference," she whispered hoarsely.
"That's what this is about, isn't it?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"If I take you, Abby, I will have your surrender."
Abby took a long time before saying. "And if I don't surrender?"
"Our relationship will be over before it's begun. But you will." I cupped her left breast through her blouse. She froze, neither blinking nor breathing, as beads of sweat oozed out on her forehead. "Have you played dominance and submission games?" I asked.
"Yes," she gasped before sucking in a bushel of air.
"With how many men?"
"But they didn't give you what you needed." A tiny shake of her head. "When you learned about me, you sought me out, hoping I was the one." One tiny nod of her head. I opened the button on her blouse nearest her waist. "In the games, submission is usually mild at first. Gradually, it grows."
With the second button undone, I slipped my hand in her blouse, pushed her bra above her breasts, and rolled her hard nipple between thumb and forefinger. She quivered and licked her lips. "There's a safeword to say if you want the games to stop. Did you have a safeword?"
She nodded. "Marigold," she whispered.
I slowly increased the pressure on her nipple until pain showed in her eyes. She made no move to grab my arm. "We won't be playing games. Your submission will be real." I released her and sat back. She didn't move.
"No safeword. No stopping or going back. Complete submission and unconditional surrender. Tomorrow this plane will return to Washington without Kamilah or me. You can return to Washington tomorrow, or you can stay with me and I will train you to be my concubine."
"What if I want to end it? I mean, end the submission but not the relationship?" she asked.
"They are one and the same."
"All right. What if I want to end the relationship?"
"You can end it now. Get back on this plane tomorrow and go home." She shook her head and blushed. "No, you don't want that. You want me to bring out the true submissive in you, don't you?"
She nodded and I commanded, "Speak!"
"Yes, Mr. Price. That's what I want."
"If you stay, I'll give you one more chance to end it. At the end of the summer. Not before. And if you stay then, it will be at my pleasure and only I can end it."
"I demand the right to terminate a relationship at any time." She was testing me.
"Not with me."
"Then I don't want it," she said defiantly.
"Liar. What you want is to be taken. Now. Grabbed by the hair and made to submit."
I grabbed her hair, yanked her to me, and kissed her hard. When my fingers touched her thigh, her legs opened instantly. She wore panties and thigh-high stockings. I slipped two fingers under the elastic and thrust them deep into her throbbing pussy as my thumb raked her clitoris.
"Come for me, girl," I demanded. Miss Beavers orgasmed on my hand. "Do it again and don't fight it this time. Let it go," I commanded. Mouth agape, lips wet, eyes diffused, her face contorted as she dug her nails into my arm. She screamed against my hand covering her mouth and went limp.
I stuck the fingers that had been in her pussy in her mouth. "Suck them clean," I said, and she sucked like a baby at its mother's breast. "You didn't let go, but I think I can teach you if you stay." I kissed her and stood up.
"Wait," she said, grabbing my arm.
"Think, Abby." I unwrapped her fingers from around my wrist. "I want your answer when we land," I said. I sat down two rows further up and on the other side, covered myself with a blanket, and went to sleep.
She awakened me about a half-hour before landing. She'd been crying and looked distraught. "I'm frightened, very frightened," she said.
"Of what?" I asked.
"Of submitting to you." She sat down by me and I held her hand. Her grip was fierce. "One of your girlfriends said she fully submitted but you rejected her."
I knew who she meant, but I didn't say. "Do you know why?" I asked.
"I can guess."