Chapter 23: Despair

The next morning Fatima woke to find herself in her own bed in the harem. She had been washed and cared for after the mini-orgy of the wedding night and put to bed by unknown hands. Thinking of what had transpired she felt revolted with herself for going along with it, for letting herself get excited by three pricks in her at once. That ghastly ceremony where she had been used as a servant to hold the virgin he was deflowering. Then the Emir had simply given her to the bridegroom and the bride's father as though she were a book he could lend. The Emir himself had used her mouth definitely, but he had not come; she was almost certain that he had not used her cunt. The two men she had never seen before had taken her any which way they wanted and had come whenever and wherever they felt like it. It was horrible.

Her cunt was sore and her arse still felt well-used. A terrible hangover made her think that there was more than scent in the smoke that had been in the bedroom last night. Seeking out the Princess Zubeydeh who was the Emir's mother she told her everything that had happened and then pleaded again to be allowed to go back to America.

"It is very unlikely that the Emir, may he live for ever, will allow that," replied the Princess, "because it would look bad for the country and for his grandfather. If you got back to America you could easily prove tests exactly who you are by DNA, even if the authorities would not believe your family. Then somebody would start asking how the US Consul in Tunis came to allow your death to be faked and could send ashes that were not yours to the USA, and then there would be an international incident."

"What shall I do?" wailed the distraught American, "There were three of them had me last night after he fucked that virgin. I can't handle things like that. I hate myself this morning because I let them, but I got carried away."

"The best you can hope for is that he will ignore you in future," advised the older woman, perturbed that her son had participated in a gang-bang, "The Emir is not used to harem arrangements. He had not been inside one since he was four years old when, at twenty-four, he suddenly inherited this harem, the Ruby Palace one, where Esh-Shems and Ludmilla came from, and a whole country as well. I am not surprised he has revived the Emir's privilege of deflowering virgin brides; what young man could resist it?"

"Can't you persuade him to let me go?" begged the American.

"I don't think he listens to me any more," said the Emir's mother sadly, "He is more and more the Emir, and less and less my David every day."

Fatima was far too wrapped up in her own problems to notice how the older woman's voice suddenly filled with pride and admiration when talking of the new young, powerful Emir.