Chapter 2: The Second Assignment

Monday morning, 9:45. No police had been waiting for me at the school. The vice-principal, who handled disciplinary issues, had not bellowed my name over the P.A. system. Everything seemed ... normal.

I took my seat in Creative Composition class just as the bell rang, and I watched her look around the room to ensure that everyone was there before closing the door. She had all of our stories in one hand as she wandered around the room, passing them back out, one by one.

"I must say, I had an entertaining weekend reading all of your stories. I admit that I was pleasantly surprised by the overall quality of them; the first effort is usually not very good. I was very surprised by one or two, and I think we may have a couple of budding novelists in the room. The imagery conveyed in those stories was vivid, in one case unique, and I look forward to the next efforts from all of you. On the downside, there are one or two of you who have obviously never heard of a spell checker, and a couple of you who wrote hillbilly dialogue even when you didn't mean to."

There were a few laughs going around the room as her final comments sunk in, and then she was standing in front of me. I looked up and locked eyes with her for a fleeting second, and I thought I could detect a little tremor in her hand as she put my paper on my desk, face-down. She quickly moved off, looking for someone else, and handing them the paper in her hand.

I watched her move around for a few seconds, then remembered the paper on my desk. I turned it over slowly, afraid of what I might find, and my eyes landed on a large 'A' in red ink, surrounded by a circle. Underneath, she had written, 'Excellent first effort. Striking imagery. A little off the beaten path for subject matter, but very well described.'

I could feel myself relax a little, and the thumping in my chest started to quiet down. I quickly looked through the rest of the story for other comments, but there weren't any. Her reaction had really surprised me, especially in that she hadn't slapped me, or sent me to the vice-principal's office. Her reaction, or rather, her lack of one, was confusing, but for the moment I had no choice but to accept it.

Her voice finally cut through my fog; she was taking apart someone's story as an example of what not to do when writing dialogue, and I decided that I should pay attention. Besides, it gave me an excuse to watch her as she moved around the room, to watch as her clothes shifted with the movements of her body, and to stare whenever her gaze was not on me.

I did notice that she seemed to look in my direction quite a bit. On several occasions our eyes locked, if only for a moment, and once I thought I saw some fleeting emotion cross her face, but I couldn't tell what it was. While her style of teaching normally had her walking all around the room, during this class she stayed away from the area of my desk. That was good for me as well, because it meant there was less chance of her seeing the obvious erection in my jeans.

Toward the end of the class, she said, "Now, it's time to discuss your next assignment. Once again, it will be due on Friday, and that's the pattern we'll mainly follow for the rest of the term. That gives you a week to write the story, and me the weekend to go over all of them. If you absolutely need more time than that, come and see me, but you'll have to justify the extra time by the length of what you're writing. Remember that we're dealing in short stories, not the next great epic novel. You do not need to write five hundred pages, only a few."

A ripple of laughter went around the room, and then it calmed as she continued. "For your next story, you are to write about an interaction between two people. It can take the form of a conversation, or a debate, or it can be about an issue that is important to the two of them. The interaction must have an introduction—something that indicates how they came to be together, and it must have a conclusion—some kind of arrangement, or agreement between them must exist by the end of the story."

She paused to look around the room, checking for questions. No hands went up, so she gave the last part of the instructions. "Now, obviously, this story will involve dialogue. I know that many of you wrote quite a bit of dialogue in your previous story, so don't take this as being repetitious. Your last story was kind of a freestyle effort, because I wanted to see what kind of skills we were dealing with. From here on, you will get a specific topic, or a specific style of writing, and you must adhere to that.

"And finally ... remember the spell checker, and read your dialogue to make sure that it makes sense, and sounds plausible. Let's avoid the hillbilly scenario, shall we?" This final comment was greeted by loud laughter, and a few catcalls, all of which was drowned out by the bell signalling the end of class.

As everyone got to their feet, and started filling backpacks and getting prepared to leave for their next class, I had the sensation of being watched; some undefinable tickling of the hairs on the back of my neck. I looked around the room and didn't see anyone paying attention to me, until my gaze went to the front of the room. Our eyes locked, and something went between us; I saw her have another one of those slight tremors before she broke eye contact and turned to look at a student who had just asked her a question. I walked out toward the hallway, moving quickly, but still feeling as if she were tracking my movements.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and I tried to think about my next story a few times, but no obvious plot was coming to mind. I kept seeing her image whenever I thought about the story, but even that didn't seem to inspire me.

After supper I settled myself in my room, and sat in front of my laptop, still trying to come up with something. I decided to re-read my last story, just in case something might inspire me, and as I read some of the dialogue between the two character, lightning struck and I started madly banging away on the keyboard.

Once again, the story seemed to be screaming to get out of my mind, and I couldn't keep up with the flow of my thoughts. I typed as fast as I could, and finally decided to ignore typing errors or misspellings and missing words, just in order to get my thoughts down. I would have ample time to edit it and fix any errors.

I typed the last few lines with an erection that felt ready to burst, and I had my cock out of my jeans and in my hand as soon as I had saved the story. I didn't even need to read over the story, as the image that I had constructed was still in the front of my mind, and it took only a few seconds before I was grunting out my climax and once again shooting cum into a dirty t-shirt.

I had been writing for a couple of hours, and had again pushed aside my other homework, but the compulsion to get the story written had overwhelmed me. I decided to go to bed, and get up early to finish the rest of my assignments.

The next morning, I specifically did not re-read the story, knowing that it would likely trap me into furious masturbation and make me ignore the rest of my homework. I left my laptop at home so I wouldn't even be tempted by it during the day, and headed to class.

The Princess of Fire

She had been captured with a group of infidel soldiers when the fortress they were occupying had been overrun by my men. At first, she had been mistaken for one of them, as she was dressed like a man, wearing pants and high boots. Her hair had been tucked up inside a hat, adding to the subterfuge. When one of my men had knocked the hat off, the cascade of crimson hair that spilled out had ended the camouflage.

They had all been brought before me to decide their fate. The soldiers were easy to deal with, as they would be interred until the conflict had ended, and then either returned to their home country, or executed.

The woman, on the other hand, presented a very different problem. Even in men's clothes she appeared to be very beautiful. Her hair, though it had given away her disguise, was captivating for its length and the way it flowed with her movements. Her eyes were iridescent emeralds in a sculpted face, dusted with a few freckles, with a straight nose and full lips.

She was somewhat dirty, and I assumed she had spent some time on the ground as part of her captivity. The expression on her face was not one of fear, though I imagined that she should be concerned for her life. She regarded me somewhat coolly, and I suspected a little angrily, since she had her hands bound behind her and was joined to one of the other captives by a rope around her neck.

I ordered my guards to remove the rope from her neck and to take the other captives away. She grew a little concerned by this, probably hoping that she would be kept with her own people, and not left with me and my guards. Her expression did now show a hint of fear, as she had probably heard all manner of wild stories about what could happen to her, should she be captured by a barbarian like me.

In truth, while I could be called a 'barbarian', because I lived along the Barbary Coast, the proper address would require the use of a capital letter. In her case, I no doubt qualified as a true barbarian since I lived in a tent, rode a horse, and carried a scimitar as my primary weapon. I was fairly certain that she considered me little more than an uncouth lout.

I walked around her, considering her from every angle, and wondering what she would look like after she had been bathed, and adorned in clean silks. I looked to the Captain of my guards. "What do you think, Mahmoud? Is she worth keeping? Or should we cage her with the goats?"

He raised an eyebrow at me, then reached out with the handle of his whip, and chucked her under the chin, trying to raise her head. She glared at him and pulled back, then muttered something that I knew would offend him mightily. She was lucky that he didn't speak English. "I think, Effendi, that she may need to be taught some manners. Somehow, I do not think that she just called me anything nice."

"You are quite correct, my friend. She did call you a bad name, in her own tongue. You may warm the seat of her trousers if you wish, but just one stroke, my friend, and please do not draw blood."

The Captain's whip moved so quickly that the eye could not have followed it, and a cloud of dust rose from her behind as the whip landed exactly in the middle of her rear. She gave a loud yell in response, but it was more from shock than pain, as the stroke had not even torn the material of her pants. At most, she would have felt a very unpleasant sting.

She once again glared at him, and this time began to issue a stream of epithets and foul language. I would not have believed that a lady of culture and breeding would even know those words. I stepped up closer to her, forcing her to look up to meet my eyes.

"In my culture, a woman who spoke in that fashion to a man, let alone a Captain of the Palace Guard, would be whipped until she bled, and then given to the soldiers for sport."

When she realized what I had said to her, and that I spoke English, her mouth dropped open in shock, and a look of real fear registered on her face. She recovered somewhat, enough to stammer, "You-you ... you speak English."

"I would think that to be fairly obvious, wouldn't you?"

"But ... but ... you're a..."

"What word would you prefer? Barbarian? Pirate? Something like what you called my friend?"

"He hit me!"

"Yes, but only after I gave him permission, and in a manner that ensured that you would not be harmed."

"So is that supposed to make it all right? He still hit me."

"I think you need to learn that, in my culture, women are considered property. Often they are beautiful property, but they are still property nonetheless. They are required to show proper respect to the men they serve, or else they may be beaten at will, and in the manner that their master sees fit."

"I am no one's property!"

"On the contrary, you now belong to me, so that makes you my property."

"And just who the hell do you think you are?"

I bowed to her, then straightened, and said, "I am Ahmed ben-Suli Muhamed the Magnificent, sherif of the Riffian Berbers, defender of the faithful, and one of the last of the Barbary Coast pirates."

"A pirate? You're a pirate? No wonder you have no idea how to treat a lady."

"On the contrary; I know exactly how to treat a lady. I simply don't know how to treat you."

For the moment, she almost seemed speechless. However, it was not to last.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

I sighed, perhaps somewhat theatrically, but that was what she brought out in me. "The women in my culture do not dress as men, nor do they swear like sailors. They are never uncovered in public, and only the men they serve may gaze at their bare faces. Only two lovers may look into each other's eyes, especially when the woman's face is uncovered."

She seemed deep in thought for a moment, then actually lowered her eyes, and quietly asked, "What are you going to do with me?"

I regarded her for a moment, then looked to my Captain, and switched to my own tongue. "What do you think, Mahmoud? Send her to the Keeper of the Hareem to at least have her cleaned up and dressed in something better? Or cage her with the goats?"

"I think, Effendi, that you see something in this Princess of Fire that I do not. I think she will prove to be nothing but trouble. However, that is my opinion, and I am but a lowly soldier."

I threw back my head and laughed at his comments, especially at the sarcastic attitude in which they were delivered. I clapped him on the shoulder and said, "'Princess of Fire?' An apt title, I think, in more ways than one. I may have to let you use her in payment for having named her, but not right away. She requires some training first."

I turned to the woman, who knew, I think, that we had been talking about her. "I am going to send you with a member of my guard to be bathed, and fed, and given proper clothes to wear. I will see you after that." My look was sufficient to keep her quiet, and she allowed herself to be led off.

About an hour later, I heard a disturbance outside my tent, and sent one of my servants to see what was going on. She returned looking very upset, and dropped to her knees before me. When I motioned for her to speak, she said, "Effendi, the eunuchs of the hareem have sent word that the flame-haired woman refuses to be properly prepared. She has been fighting them, and throwing things, and yelling."

I rolled my eyes, recalling Mahmoud's prediction that she would be nothing but trouble. "Have the guards bring her here. In chains if necessary, and naked if she won't dress appropriately." She bowed her way out of my tent to deliver my orders, and I turned to a tray of food, certain that I would not likely get to eat anything more for the next few hours.

About twenty minutes later I heard another disturbance, this time accompanied by swearing from a voice I recognized, and by the sounds of a struggle. It came to a halt outside my tent, but the raised voices continued. Mentally preparing myself to do battle with the Princess of Fire, I strode through the entrance of the tent, and under its entrance canopy.

She was being held by the upper arms between two of my Palace Guard; her feet didn't quite touch the ground, which seemed to be worsening her mood. There had been some attempt to clothe her, as she had sandals on her feet, and she was covered by a single layer of silk, although it was nearly transparent. I recognized it as the type of garment the concubines wore, but never outside the hareem, unless they were with a lover. On her, it emphasized the points of her breasts and the dark triangle where her thighs met, and did nothing to block the gaze of any man.

It was obvious from the colour of her face that she had been fighting or arguing with someone, and if the information that had preceded her was correct, then she had been physical in her obstruction of the keepers of the hareem. Indeed she was still fighting against the guards who held her, although she looked almost like a child given her size and theirs.

I decided not to get close enough to be in range of her feet. In a loud voice, I asked, "What are you so upset about? I gave orders that you were to be bathed, and dressed, and fed. Then I heard that you were attacking people and throwing things. Do you wish to offer an explanation for your behaviour?"

She glared at me and I wondered for a moment if she were about to spit on me. I would have no choice but to take a whip to her if she did, and I fervently hoped that she would think before she acted. "Those ... those men there ... they came at me with razors."

I reflected for a moment about what she could mean, and I turned to one of my servants. She whispered an explanation in my ear, and I knew what was causing the Princess such consternation.

"Those men are the keepers of the hareem. They are eunuchs, and are dedicated to serving the women under their charge. They mean no harm to you."

"But ... but ... they had razors."

"Yes, they did, for it is necessary to use a razor to shave someone. They were attempting to shave you; do not the women of your culture remove the hair from their legs and from under their arms, to make themselves more attractive and desirable?"

"But it wasn't my legs they wanted to shave!"

Her statement halted my thoughts for a moment, until a breeze flattened her garment against her, and I saw the dark triangle at her loins. "Ah, yes. I understand. They wished to shave your loins. In my culture, women remove this hair in order to make themselves more accessible to their husbands and lovers. It is so much easier to have someone else remove it, so the eunuchs are especially skilled in this service."

"Women in my world don't do that. It's disgusting."

"You do not have a husband, do you?" Her face froze at my question, especially since it had nothing to do with our previous discussion.

"I don't see what business that is of yours."

"In my culture a woman of your age would have been married for years. She would only be without a man if her husband had been killed, and then it would fall to me to find her a new husband."

"I still do not see what that has to do with me."

"Well, if you had a husband, I doubt you would be so much trouble, as your husband would have tamed you, and taught you to show respect for men. Do I need to find you a husband?"

"I don't need to be tamed. I am not an animal."

"I had originally thought that I might need to cage you with the goats. I am thinking now that I should have done that."

"Just because you cannot deal with a woman who is your intellectual equal..." She fell silent at my look, and the way my hand rested on the handle of my knife. I did not see fear in her expression, but I did see a certain wariness.

Once again, I thought back to Mahmoud's comment about how much trouble this woman might be. In truth, I was intrigued by her, and I found her beauty to be almost irresistible. I had not seen a woman of her colour since my time in England, and the fact that she was so different from the women of my native land was one of the reasons she held my interest so strongly. As I thought about what to do, I realized that I would have to break her to my will, but whips and punishments would not do it.

A solution came to me, and a smile crossed my face as I stood there staring at her. She suddenly stilled, and I think she realized that I was thinking about her, and that she might not like what I was planning. I turned to my servants and barked out a series of commands, then went back into my tent to change my clothes while my requirements were being met.

When I returned, there was a narrow table set out under the entrance canopy of my tent, out of the sun. Another small table stood at one side, and I saw one of my servants preparing the other things I had ordered. I turned to the guards, and told them to place her on the table.

She began to struggle but stilled at my severe look. She allowed herself to be led to the table, and said nothing when the guards lifted her and had her lay down. She did struggle slightly when they bound her hands over her head, to one end of the table, but it did her no good. Her buttocks rested on the opposite end of the table and as I watched, my servants spread her legs widely and tied them to the legs of the table.

In this position she was helpless and unable to close her legs. The thin silk she wore enhanced her beauty, molding to her form, and highlighting the shape of her body. I took a knife from my belt and used it to slit the silk from one end to the other, baring her completely to my gaze. She was truly magnificent, now revealed fully to my eyes. Her breasts sat proudly on her chest, even in her supine position. Her stomach had a slight rise, her hips were wide, and her legs were beautifully shaped.

As I looked at her, I was struck by the colour of the curls between her thighs; they exactly matched the crimson flood that covered her head. My original plan had been to shave her bare, in the style used by the women in my hareem, but I realized that this would be a travesty. She was, truly, a Princess of Fire and the centre of her womanhood needed to reflect that.

I moved beside her so that we could look into each other's eyes. At the same time, I combed my fingers through her nether curls, and tugged lightly on them so that she would know that I was touching her. She stared at me defiantly, but said nothing, although I saw what looked like fear on her face.

"I said that the women of my culture remove all of this hair to enhance their beauty and make themselves more accessible to their lovers and husbands. For you, that would be wrong, now that I can see you. Instead, I will remove only part of your hair—the part that covers the treasures below, but the rest will remain, to proclaim that you are a special woman."

"Please ... please don't do this. Please don't touch me like that."

Her look contained more than fear. There was something else there, and I did not understand it at first. I knew she was embarrassed, probably even humiliated, and then a thought struck me, and I leaned lower so that only she might hear me when I spoke.

"You have never been with a man, have you? No man has ever seen your body, has he?" My fingers were still toying with her curls, although I had not yet applied any pressure, nor actually touched her flesh.

She shook her head, almost violently, sending waves through her hair. "No, never. Please ... don't do this."

"You have left me no choice, as I must show my men that I am your master. I promise you, though, that you will not be harmed by me."

She paused and looked steadily into my eyes, judging my words. "You ... you aren't going to rape me? You're not going to force yourself on me?"

I smiled to comfort her. "Your body is magnificent, and I shall do nothing to harm it. Neither will I take my pleasure from it. I will never force myself upon you, but I will give you pleasure when you ask me for it."

Her gaze stayed locked with mine as I spoke, and I ended with another smile. She shook her head again, and said, "Never. I will never do that."

I moved the fingers at her loins so that my hand cupped her womanhood completely. I could feel the heat of her, and I heard her gasp at my touch. "We shall see, we shall see."

I moved back to the end of the table, and looked over the materials that had been brought. There was a bowl of steaming hot water and soap, as well as a straight razor, honed and stropped to sharp perfection. I dipped a small cloth in the water, and used that to wet the hair along the sides of her womanhood, and over the lips of her nether mouth.

Soap was next, with a lather created by my fingers, then carefully rubbed into the wet skin. Her head had been lifting off the table, trying to see what I was doing. I looked at her again as I picked up the razor and flicked it open. "You might want to try to remain still for the next few minutes. While there are parts of the world where they cut off these pieces of a woman's flesh, that is truly not my desire for you." I could hear her gasp in reaction, and I smiled as I bent to my task.

I began by shaving the sides of her mound of Venus, just where it met her thighs, and down to the opening of her womanhood. I had the idea of creating a neat triangle that would end just before her cleft, pointing the way to her gates. The gates themselves would be shaved cleanly, revealing her entrance to the gaze of a lover, and showing the beauty of her core.

As I worked, I was touching her in places where, apparently, no man had ever touched her before, and I thought of how the men of the world had thus been deprived. At the same time, I thought about how fortunate I therefore was, being the first man to see and touch this marvel of femininity.

When my task was complete, I used another wet towel to remove any traces of soap, and to see if I had missed any stray hairs. I plucked a couple with my fingers, then traced over the area and detected nothing. She squirmed at my touch, and I said, "You are truly beautiful like this, now that your treasures are on display. One of the reasons for shaving a woman in this manner is that it makes it much easier to locate the centre of pleasure."

I used a couple of fingers to spread her gates, and touched the revealed bit of flesh with a fingertip. She flinched when she felt it, but tied as she was, she could only submit to me. "In my culture, this is called the pearl. The centre of a woman's essence, the organ that serves to quicken her blood, and bring her the most pleasure. In your world, it is called the clitoris, a most clinical medical name for such a wonderful piece of flesh. I know that in all cultures, the women complain that men seem to have no knowledge of its existence, and are incapable of finding it in to order to bring pleasure to their women. I, on the other hand, do not suffer this affliction."

I proved my point by lightly stroking the piece of flesh in question, and heard her inhale sharply in response, then attempt to raise her hips to meet my hand. I smiled down at her, and said, "As you can see, my words were not a boast, but merely a statement of fact."

"What are you doing to me? Please, stop..."

Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed as I played with the little marble once more. My plan was to play like this for as long as it took, keeping her desire at its utmost, but never letting her indulge in what my French tutor called, 'la petite mort' ... the little death.

"While I was being educated in your part of the world, I had a most marvellous tutor who not only taught me different languages, but took it upon herself to ensure that I was also educated in the ways in which to please a woman. That is one of the reasons why I know so much about the body of a woman. Now that your flesh is visible, it is necessary to check for any remaining hairs. I have my own method for this. The men of my world do not do this for their women; it is something I learned from my tutor, and I found that I quite liked it."

Her eyes had been closed while I spoke, partly out of shame at the way I was playing with her pearl and making her feel, and partly to avoid having to look at me. When my last words registered, her eyes snapped open and she raised her head to look at me as I lowered my face to her loins.

"What are you doing? Get away from me..."

Her voice trailed away into a low scream as my mouth made contact with her gates, and my tongue licked her along her entire delicious length. She screamed again when I circled her pearl with the tip of my tongue, and her hips rose off the table as she tried to increase the pressure of my tongue on her centre.