Diyab could scarcely believe how pleasurable his first climax inside Beatrice had been. He had had at least a dozen Western girls before, and dominated most of them, so he hadn’t anticipated his experience with the blond girl from the senator’s office to feel so… well, he had to admit, transformative. But to own her… and, perhaps, to know that he must own her, if the safety of the world were to continue… He did feel transformed—and apparently so did his cock, which had already begun to rise again, even while still inside his young concubine’s pretty mouth, still making her show her obedience in swallowing her first semen.
Now he concentrated on being the benevolent master he had always known he could be, to a girl who truly belonged to him. Diyab did indeed believe very strongly in firm discipline, and he took seriously what he had heard from Charlotte about the probability that Beatrice would need severe punishment from time to time, of a kind Diyab had generally spared Aliya and Yasmin. When a young concubine did her duty, though, and had accepted the thrusting penis and the seed it spurted, she deserved praise and reward. That didn’t represent anything new in Diyab’s erotic life, to be sure—but it felt different to look down upon the pretty blond girl with the cock in her mouth when he had paid a great deal of money for her, and would take her, once fully trained to please him, back to the desert to serve in his bed.
“That felt wonderful, darling,” he said. “You may look me in the eye.”
Beatrice obeyed, the softening penis—though already not as soft as Diyab would ordinarily have expected of himself—held gently in her mouth. Her mascara had run, and he had spoiled the majority of her beautifully arranged hair, but he didn’t think he had ever seen anything as beautiful as this new treasure with her first virginity already plucked. Her eyes showed an entirely understandable uncertainty: it was for Diyab to tell her what would happen next, but those fantasies she had always refused to acknowledge must be offering troubling suggestions of what her new master would do now.
Even a benevolent master—or at least one of the kind Diyab felt called to be, as the scion of the desert’s royal people—enjoys the sight of his manhood in the mouth of a girl he owns, and its shameful implication: that her mouth has no nobler employment than as a second cunt. He made Beatrice continue to suck as he delivered his next command, stroking her cheek to encourage her as the sweet sensation of her still nearly innocent tongue under the shaft of his cock distracted him more than he would have thought possible just after a climax.
“I’m going to reward you now, darling,” he said, “although you’ll probably find it rather embarrassing. When I pull my cock out of your mouth, you will rise, go to the bed, and take the covers off it entirely. Then you’ll lie on your back and raise your knees, and hold them wide open for me.”
He watched her brow furrow in alarm at this news. He wondered if the examination by Dr. Franklin, which the doctor had suppressed with the post-hypnotic suggestion, might be breaking through as a mental picture. To be opened as he had just told Beatrice she must now be opened for him represented a powerful fantasy for many submissives—as the converse fantasy, of opening a girl that way, did for dominants. But Charlotte had said that Beatrice would only now start to acknowledge such things as part of her psyche; now in her face Diyab could see how hard it would be.
He resolved to help with the process as much as he could, and gave an inward chuckle to realize that of course he would resolve that, because it represented the royal road to his pleasure as well—literally. The brilliance of the Institute’s therapeutic mission struck him very forcefully. If they didn’t charge so very much for their concubines, he thought, they might claim to be a philanthropic organization.
With great regret, he pulled his penis from her mouth, already half-erect. “Go now,” he said softly.
For a moment he thought he saw rebellion in her eyes, and for the first time he thought that perhaps the soft voice might provoke that in her. He would have to consult with Charlotte on the matter, but he wondered whether after enough firm discipline Beatrice might be more grateful for the tender mastery Diyab preferred. He certainly didn’t intend to employ a stern authority, which he knew would quickly grow tedious, though he had no intention of sparing her that severity when she needed it. He merely hoped she wouldn’t need as much of it as her service continued.
“Go, girl,” he said more sternly. “Do as you’re told.” He thought he could see, on her face, the memory of what he had said about the cane, and her mouth turned down in a woeful curve. She started to turn and to rise.
“Acknowledge my command, Beatrice,” he said, then, feeling the need to make it even clearer that defiance wouldn’t be tolerated. “And thank me for coming in your mouth and letting you taste royal seed.”
She turned back, alarm in her eyes now. “Yes, sire.” She licked her lips, perhaps unconsciously, and Diyab couldn’t help finding the gesture charming. “Th-thank you, sire.”
“For what, darling?”
Diyab could see how much difficulty this presented, but he could also see how much she needed it: he felt very sure he would find her freshly wet in the white lace panties, from having to obey him like this.
He bent down and, taking her entirely by surprise, bent her face to the carpet with his left hand upon her neck, stepping to the side, while with his right hand he swept up the pink nightgown and took hold of the waistband of Beatrice’s panties, to raise her bottom high.
“Oh, no… please, no… Th-thank…”
Diyab spanked his new concubine for the first time, then, atop the now quite faint welts of Sam’s strap. He brought his hand down very hard once in the middle, once on her pert right cheek, once on her pert left one, leaving red handprints where he had struck.
Beatrice cried out as she was punished, breathless and unable to finish the expression of her gratitude until he had stopped. He continued to hold her in the disciplinary, submissive position, as she sobbed, “Thank you for coming in my mouth, sire. Please don’t spank me anymore! It hurts so much!”
Still he held her in the position of chastisement—the position of the salaam. Diyab had had little use for salaams to this point in his life, but he thought perhaps Beatrice should learn the practice. Certainly holding her here and punishing her here had aroused him greatly despite his intention to be kindly with her after she had pleased him so much with her mouth.
“I must make it hurt, darling,” he said, trying again with the soft voice. “I must teach you. You need firm discipline.”
Beatrice gave a little whimper at that, and then, to Diyab’s astonishment, she said, “Yes, sire. Thank you, sire.”
Was it the word discipline? Had he seen that in one of the summaries Charlotte had sent him? The soft voice seemed to have worked this time, for when he released her, she knelt up and, with her eyes fixed on his penis, now nearly erect, she asked, “May I go to the bed, sire?”
“Yes, darling, you may,” he replied, and watched her rise—very gracefully, he thought, above all after what she had just endured—and walk a little stiffly the few steps to the bed.
She held her head low, and he had the feeling once again that he could read her mind: Beatrice, he felt sure, held gratitude in her heart for the rule against meeting her master’s eye without permission. Forbidden to see what expression Diyab wore on his face, she could dwell inside herself as she came to terms with needs she had always thought so wicked and primitive that she could never admit them. To hold her head low must mean, he realized, that she had told herself she obeyed him to escape further bare-bottom correction.
Beatrice climbed onto the bed, turned onto her back. Diyab stood still, not wanting to advance toward her yet but rather simply to watch, and see how thoroughly he possessed her, how when he commanded she must lift her knees that way, must part them that way, must show him the sweet, narrow lace that covered her virginal pussy and her virginal anus so scantily.
She had closed her eyes very tightly, and he saw in those scrunched-up lids the confirmation of his ideas about her inner turmoil. He did advance then, and she must have heard his footfalls, for she gave a little whimper as he came to stand, looking down at his eighteen-year-old Western bed girl, in the sheer pink nightgown that showed her perfect breasts, whose hem had fallen upon her tummy to reveal the pretty white wrapping on the part of her that he would now enjoy, and the part he would enjoy in a few weeks, if he could restrain himself tonight.
Diyab reached his right hand down, and very gently, as if stroking a real pussycat, he caressed his sweet blond virgin. Beatrice made a mewing sound, too, like a kitten needing milk, and she bit her lip. Her face had become a mask of erotic need: shame and desire and fear of the unknown so strong in her that the sight of her pouting mouth made his cock leap. He couldn’t help putting his left hand down to pump his hardness at the loveliness of the prospect before him, as he continued to wank her gently through her pretty panties. The lingering slickness from her mouth and his climax made him smile.
“Sire,” she whispered. “Sire.” She spoke so softly that Diyab felt sure she meant the word for herself, to confirm that she belonged to man whom she had to call sire, or he would cane her. “Please, sire.”
“Please what, darling?” Diyab asked. He hooked his forefinger inside the narrow strip of lace, which had now become completely soaked with Beatrice’s private wetness. The tiny pink bow just above her cunt attracted his eye and put a smile on his lips.
“Please…” She seemed to search for her next words, then, even more softly, she said, “Please be gentle, sire,” she murmured, her eyes still closed but the lids perhaps a little more relaxed.
“Are you ready for fucking, then?” Diyab asked more sternly, pulling the gusset of the panties aside. Beatrice gasped at the word, and perhaps as she understood how much he could see: her adorable pink inner lips, nestled sweetly in the paler outer ones; her tiny clitoris in its wrinkly hood; her coral button of an anus, so demure and small.
He didn’t wait for her to answer, because he wanted her much readier than she was right now, as ready as she might suppose herself. Diyab wanted blond, eighteen-year-old Beatrice Graham to beg for his royal Arab cock in her maiden cunt, and he knew how to accomplish it. He bent his head, and Beatrice gave a cry of alarm, and then another, helpless, writhing one of need and passion as her master tasted her for the first time.
She tasted marvelous, the heady, mineral tang of young cunt filling his senses as she bucked her hips in, it seemed, an attempt both to flee his lips and tongue and softly biting teeth and to bring more of her naughtiest part up for him to savor. He used his fingers, now, teaching her what it would feel like to have a man enter her, though with something bigger and harder.
“Hold still, girl,” he said, more because he knew it would increase her arousal than because he really minded her lascivious struggles.
“Please…” she cried. “Oh, please, sire.”
He lifted his head and said again, “Please what, darling?”
He lowered his head, used the tip of his tongue where he knew it would provide the very best preparation.
Beatrice shouted, then. “Please fuck me! Oh, God. Oh, please.”
She couldn’t believe she had said it, let alone shouted it. For a few moments, as his highness had kissed her down there where she had always resolved she wouldn’t allow herself to be kissed by a boy, it had felt like Beatrice who had to lie still and hold her thighs wide open for the man who owned her. Not a boy at all. Sire.
But when he had gently moved his fingers there, and she had felt even as their tips pushed gently against the place where the way was still closed, where a man who owned a girl would make her yield to his hardness, she had seen that girl again. The girl in the images was the kind of girl who said fuck, who even begged for it, as Beatrice had just begged Sheikh Diyab.
When she felt his weight come fully upon the bed, she opened her eyes, careful to keep them directed downward, so she couldn’t see his face as he loomed above her, holding his cock in his left hand and gently pumping it. He had shed his robe, now, and her master knelt over her, fully revealed. Something about the nightgown, about the way he had refused to pull down her panties as he began to enjoy her, made Beatrice feel more naked than her master—as if you could come out the other side of naked into a state even more exposed and more submissive, when a powerful man dressed you for your defloration.
She knew his eyes must be fixed on her face, as she looked at his hard penis, brandished and ready to ruin her innocence just as he and Master Samuel had promised. Sheikh Diyab al-Rashani had bought a pretty blond girl’s virginity, and now he would make use of it as best pleased him. She felt the heat come into her face even as it came down below, too, more and more. From above he looked down on all her charms: the face he had fucked so resolutely until he spurted his semen down her throat; the little breasts with their nipples peeking through the thin pink fabric that meant Beatrice had needed discipline; the bare pussy from which had pulled aside the lacy panties, and…
The other place. The place I don’t think about. The most private place. When Master Samuel mentioned it, my mind just skipped over it. It’s too small, and too narrow. The girl in the images doesn’t want to be fucked there, does she? She pleads with her master not to use her there.
“It’s time for your panties to come down,” his highness said then. “You may lower your knees.”
Beatrice had to close her eyes again as she obeyed, her face blazing. The old maternal admonitions about who should touch a girl’s panties—including a prohibition against even touching them herself when it wasn’t absolutely necessary for hygiene’s sake—seemed to make the feeling of Sheikh Diyab’s hands on her waist, inside the elastic band, tugging the now-soaking lace down over her thighs, past her knees, feel almost as shameful and arousing as his mouth and fingers and felt, in the place the lingerie had veiled. Good girls don’t let men take down their underwear, do they, Beatrice? Good girls keep their panties on.
“Someday soon,” the sheikh said as he dropped the panties onto the bed, “I shall fuck you with your panties still on. But a girl should be naked between her thighs when she is deflowered.”
Beatrice bit her lip and opened her eyes again. He knelt beside her now closed legs, looking down upon the demure cleft that represented all that remained visible of her pussy. Beatrice could barely see it herself, from her angle with her head on the pillow, but her master could see that bare hint of the place he had acquired for his cock’s enjoyment.
Her whole body trembled at the idea that she might be entered with panties on, though she hardly knew why. It had some basic transgressiveness that the girl in the images would have to endure from the man who possessed her—as if the knowledge that her owner could command the pleasure of her vagina simply by pulling aside its cover and entering meant that he could do so when and wherever he wanted: in the street, in a shop, in a car.
“Raise your knees again, and hold them open for me, darling. It’s time.”
Time. Time for the end of that girl’s innocence. He pumped his penis in his left hand. His right came casually down to rub at the top of the little furrow, where the gentle pressure communicated itself to the aching place just below, the bud she had found on her own, twice, but had never thought could deliver such wild, urgent sensations. She whimpered and raised her knees, spread them, took them into her hands.
Now, with no panties on, she knew it must truly be time. The sheikh, her sire, had bought her, and he had spanked her so hard when she tried to avoid thanking him for coming in her mouth. It hurt so much—she still felt a tingle in her bottom cheeks as they, too were spread in her posture of submission and offering.
He had moved to kneel between her little hovering feet, and now he put his right hand down to fondle, and Beatrice could tell from the way he used his fingers, to prepare. He laid a finger on the other place, and pressed a little. She cried out in alarm.
“Not tonight, darling,” he said softly, “but soon.” The finger pushed in, entered the narrow passage. Beatrice gave another cry.
“I know you’re the kind of girl who’s very nervous about having a cock here,” he said. “After I’ve fucked your bottom for a few weeks, you will begin to enjoy it.”
Her mind grasped desperately at a fact she had picked up she didn’t know where, for only the girl in the images would seek out or remember such things. “I thought…” she said.
“You mustn’t speak, darling,” the sheikh said, and though she hadn’t been caught when her eyes had flicked to his face, involuntarily, and then away again, she could tell his gaze had settled on her face with a stern expression. “If you speak again I shall gag you with your panties.”
In the severity of these words Beatrice recognized again the paradox she thought she had begun to notice in his character: he clearly desired to be an enlightened, gentle man, but inside the gentleman lurked a prince of the desert, urgent in his desires and peremptory in securing their satisfaction. At the thought of his putting her panties in her mouth, a terrible shame and a heat arose in her: it was just the kind of thing a man often had to do to that girl.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Yes, sire.”
It seemed, though, that the sheikh’s gentlemanly side wanted to explain to her the matter that had become so urgent as he continued to move his finger in and out of her bottom-hole.
“I believe that at the Institute they will train your anus so that no harm will come to you when I deflower you here,” he said, as the finger went deeper and Beatrice’s face grew even hotter. “Certainly I will train it after I take you home. I think you were probably about to allude to the taboo in my culture against bottom sex.”
Beatrice, feeling the furrow in her brow grow very deep, nodded.
“I may not enjoy my wives’ bottoms, of course,” he said with a decisive air. “But a Western girl like you must expect that a sheikh will fuck her in every place her body may give him pleasure. A girl like you—a concubine brought to a prince’s palace—will experience the full measure of my mastery, the more so as I am forbidden to use my wives that way.”
A little sob came from her throat, as she understood exactly how perfect the fulfillment of the girl in the images’ needs would be. That girl, in the palace, the blond girl, whom everyone knew had to receive the sheikh in ways to which no Arab wife would ever submit. That girl, summoned to the royal bedchamber to undergo further training in the most shameful rites, in her master’s most wicked desires. Beatrice’s whole body seemed to burn at the sight of the terrible mental pictures that strung themselves together into a scene… into a fantasy… no matter how hard she tried to prevent it.
Then the sheikh’s voice came again in the darkness of her closed lids, much more gently. “Beatrice, open your eyes and look at me.”
She did, the string of images broken by the reality of him, not with the severe look of the desert marauder but with the patient look of the gentleman. “I promise to give you what you need,” he said softly and very seriously.
Tears came to her eyes, not of fear or of sadness or of joy, but of all of them—of the sheer excess of emotion. “Thank you, sire,” she whispered, suddenly wondering if one of those emotions that had brought the mist across her sight might be love, or at least its beginnings.
“Call me Diyab, darling. Now. Not always, but now.”
“Diyab.” She felt her upper lip, her nose, wrinkle as she fought back more tears: his first name seemed to come from deep in her chest as she uttered it for the first time, in a sob of gratitude that she didn’t have to express the real, shameful gratitude she had begun to feel for his giving her no choice. Diyab had made her become the girl in the images, and Beatrice could even imagine, someday, telling him how very badly she had needed spanking when she had wanted, as shameful as it would have been, to thank him for the gift of his royal seed in her belly.
The finger left her anus, and the tiny aperture felt strange and itchy. Part of her wanted to dwell on the things Diyab had just said about what he would do back there, down there, but the resistance in her mind still felt too strong. Even though as he again began to stroke his penis, began to move to put it where it must go, she could not dispel her anxious curiosity about what it would feel like in the other place, the sensation of the strangely soft head of his hard manhood, pushing in, finally focused her attention there, where a virgin must submit to her defloration.
He had turned his eyes downward, where she knew he could see much better than she could the place for his cock to enter, and on his face now appeared the marauder again. She blushed to see the wolfish expression, but it made her give down more of the arousal she knew would make his path easier. That too, made her face hot, because with it came another contraction of her pussy that he must also be able to see; a little smile played across his bearded lips.
She felt him push in, up, and come against the barrier that took her breath away at the pressure. She couldn’t suppress a little cry, though she resolved not to scream, because wouldn’t he put her panties in her mouth if she screamed? Or even punish her?
More heat, more wetness.
More pushing; she whimpered, but she didn’t scream.
At last, then, he turned his eyes to hers again, and though she worried for a moment that he would be angry—even though he hadn’t revoked the permission to look at him—his smile told her she had nothing to fear.
Suddenly Beatrice wanted to cry for mercy, for delay—not because she truly desired it, but because that girl had to cry for mercy, didn’t she? She opened her mouth, but then she felt it open wider of its own accord, as her eyes went wide and wild too, because Diyab had taken hold of her upper thighs and driven his cock deep inside her.
Beatrice didn’t scream, but she gave a little whine, and closed her mouth and made her lips a tight line, as her master, her owner, her sire began to thrust back and forth inside her, looking from her face down to where his cock—bloodstained? It must be, because it hurts, but it should hurt that girl—now moved at will, then back up into her eyes. She had a terrible realization that somehow seemed to increase her desire and decrease the pain: the marauder liked to fuck his Western girl roughly. That girl—Beatrice, the girl in the images—knew that it gave him pleasure, and she writhed under him, struggled against him, so that he would feel like the marauder and she would feel like the marauder’s captive Western concubine.
“Oh, darling,” he said in a voice thick with his exertions. “So beautiful. So tight.” His eyes roved ceaselessly now among her face, her breasts as they bounced with his hard thrusting, her bare pussy filled over and over with his hardness. He bent forward, extended his arms to either side of her head and lay atop her, and to her utter astonishment she came as she felt his weight pin her down and his lap press against her most sensitive place. She cried out, and her hips bucked under him despite his weight.
“Diyab!” she called out, feeling it disrespectful and disobedient to call him that despite his permission, feeling she must be whipped for it and letting the idea of the whipping somehow extend her climax under his still pounding hips. The smile on his face now as he fucked her seemed one of triumph, and Beatrice had a sense of having been utterly vanquished, in that moment of pleasure, and then she writhed again under his cock, taken completely by surprise in a second climax.
Perhaps it took him by surprise as well, for despite his declared intent to allow his first orgasm in Beatrice’s mouth to stave off his second one inside her pussy, he gave a shout of triumphant pleasure, and held himself inside her so deep that it took her breath away. She felt his penis jerk, the same way it had jerked in her mouth, and his hips shuddered and pushed even harder, pinning her to the bed more and more firmly until at last the dark victory seemed to fade from his eyes, and he smiled gently at her again.
“Thank you, darling,” he said softly.
She knew what she had so say, and she knew she didn’t have to reveal how deeply she meant it. “Thank you, sire.”
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