Forced Submission (16 page)

“I am Kamau and you are most welcome to my home,” the prince
said as he ushered them into the cool of a huge marbled entry hall with vaulted
ceilings and brilliantly woven throw rugs scattered over shiny blond hardwood
floors. He extended his hand toward Sir, who shook it, and nodded graciously
toward M, his smile so warm and sincere she found herself smiling back, and
realized with a small shock that it had been a very long time since she’d
smiled.

“This is Jira, my consort, my submissive, and the love of my
life. And may I call you Ellis?” he said, smiling now at Sir.

“Oh.” Sir cleared his throat. “Well, yes. Yes, of course.”

Ellis. His name is Ellis. Ellis Hughes. What is my name?

“We don’t go on ceremony here,” the prince said, reaching
out to pat Sir’s shoulder. “Master E is fine for the internet, but I prefer
real names when meeting in person.” He turned now to M, adding, “We know you
only as M. With your Master’s permission, please tell us your given name,
lovely one.”

“Her name is M,” Sir interrupted sharply, making both Jira
and M jump. “Please don’t confuse her.”

The prince frowned, his brow furrowing a little as he gazed
inquisitively at M’s face. She felt herself coloring and looked down at the
ground, praying she hadn’t somehow upset Sir. After a beat, the prince said,
“All right. We’ll leave it at that for now.” He touched M’s arm, his fingers
cool and smooth against her skin. “Jira will take you to the harem to get
refreshed. With your permission, Ellis, we can give M something cooler to wear
while here on the island.”

“Yes. That would be all right. Uh,” Sir hesitated and then
said, “M’s head is kept shaven. We both find it heightens the erotic
experience.” He reached for the turban, plucking it from M’s head. M kept her
eyes downcast, not sure what was expected of her.

“You have lovely bones,” Jira said in a pleasing accent, her
voice rich as smooth honey. “Not everyone could carry off that look and still
retain their beauty as you do.” The woman reached for M’s face, her fingers
moving lightly over M’s cheek. M realized she had tensed in anticipation of a
blow, and she felt almost silly. She was so used to being only with Sir. All
this attention was stressful. She wanted to be left alone. She longed for the
safety and quiet of her sleep cage.

Instead, Jira held out her hand toward M. “Come, dear one,”
she said gently. “You must be weary after your long journey. A refreshing bath
and a change of clothes will do you wonders.”  M did not take the woman’s
hand. Instead she glanced inquiringly up at Sir, not sure what he wanted, not
sure what was expected.

“M likes to stay close to me,” Sir said, placing his arm
firmly over her shoulders. “Perhaps you can show us both to our room?”

“Your attachment is admirable, I’m sure,” the prince said,
still smiling, though M thought she detected a coolness entering his tone. “But
surely you can be parted for just a little while? You are both guests in my
home. Jira will take the utmost care of your sub girl, I can assure you.
Meanwhile, I’d like to introduce you to Zahara. She is waiting oh so patiently
for her potential American Master. Surely you want to see the girl you have
traveled so far to meet?”

“Oh, well. Yes, I, uh, that is…” Sir trailed off. M was
disquieted by his hesitation. She had never known him to hesitate about
anything. He was always so sure of everything, so certain of what needed to be done.
He dropped his arm and gave her a little push in Jira’s direction. “Of course.
Go with Jira, M. And remember what we talked about.” M heard the warning in
Sir’s tone, and she nodded, looking down, but not before she saw the frown on
the prince’s face.

Jira took M’s hand and led her down a long, wide hallway
toward a huge, airy room filled with plump pillows scattered over a marble
floor. Huge windows lined the walls of the room, hung with gold silk that
filtered the sunlight. There were easily a dozen women in the room, some
talking quietly, some resting, some sitting at a low table eating from a huge
bowl of exotic-looking fruit, each woman more beautiful than the last.

When Jira and M entered, all eyes turned toward them, their
expressions both welcoming and expectant. “Everyone,” Jira said, giving M’s
hand an encouraging squeeze. “Welcome our guest, come all the way from
America.” She dropped M’s hand and stepped back, looking into M’s face with a
kind smile.

“We’re alone here, just us girls. Tell us, what is your
given name, dear one?”

“M,” she said automatically. “I am M.”

Jira shook her head. “Yes, yes, we understand that. Your
Master calls you M. But what is the name your mother gave you when you were a
babe? What did your brothers and sisters call you?”

M understood she must have at one time had such a name, but
for the life of her, she couldn’t recall it. She stood there helplessly,
wishing desperately Sir had been there to tell her what to do. All the women
were staring at her, waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know,” she admitted finally, shame and exhaustion
making her knees suddenly give out, so that she sank to the ground beside Jira.
“I don’t remember.”

Chapter 11

Zahara heard the men enter. As they walked through the
receiving room toward her, the image in her mind of the vast blue-green ocean
dappled with coins of golden sunlight slid away. Zahara folded her mental wings
and returned from her inward journey. Keeping her eyes downcast, she saw the
familiar sandals and flowing white pants of the prince, and beside them a pair
of gray trousers over black leather loafers.

It was really happening! The months of training and full
submersion in the submissive lifestyle had come down to this moment. The
American had seen her pictures and read about her on the website. He had chosen
her, and flown around the world to make his final decision. It was all up to
her now. Her stomach clenched in nervous anticipation, while her nipples perked
with excitement to meet the man who might claim her before the night was over.

“May I present Zahara,” Prince Kamau said. “She has been
waiting in this position for over an hour. She could stay this way for another
ten, if that pleased you. As I’m sure you read about on the website, Zahara is
extremely skilled in all the classic slave positions. She can endure intense
bondage with grace and utter self-control.”

The prince placed his hand under Zahara’s chin, indicating
with his touch that she should lift her head, which she did. The American was regarding
her with an intense gaze from fine brown eyes fringed with thick gold lashes.
He was very handsome, recalling to her mind the American actor Brad Pitt,
except that the American’s eyes were brown instead of blue.

“Her photos don’t do her justice,” the American said. His
eyes flickered over her face and breasts, and she could see the hunger there,
and something else. There was a hardness in his gaze that sent a shiver down
Zahara’s spine. A blade of doubt slipped like a knife into her happy expectations.

“Indeed,” the prince, who hadn’t seen the man’s cold
expression, agreed warmly. “Zahara is as lovely as any princess, but her real
beauty lies in her heart. As you know from reading about her, Zahara’s
submissive passion lies in service. She lives to serve and longs to please. She
will happily meet your every sensual need. She is learned in the art of
pleasing a man in any way you desire, and in ways you may not even have thought
of yet.” The prince chuckled. The American did not.

“May I touch her?” he inquired in a polite voice.

“Of course. Zahara, stand down and assume inspection
position.”

Zahara slid from the dais with as much grace as she could
muster, pushing past the stiffness in her limbs from remaining on her knees for
so long. Surely she had made too much of the man’s cold gaze. Perhaps he was
just tired from his long journey, or perhaps, in her nervousness, she had read
something in his face that wasn’t there.
Too many confine their exercise to
jumping to conclusions
, she could almost hear her father whispering in her
head.

Reclaiming her calm, Zahara assumed a wide stance, lifted
her arms behind her head, laced her fingers together at her neck and arched her
back, thrusting her breasts forward. She had to admit the American was a very
fine specimen of a man. He was tall, nearly as tall as the prince. His
shoulders were broader and even hidden by the Western clothing he wore, Zahara
could see he had a powerful build. She found herself speculating about the size
of his cock, and a small shudder of excitement moved through her at the thought
of pleasuring him.

Finally addressing her directly, the American said, “Turn
around and bend over. Keep your legs wide and grab your ankles.”

Zahara pivoted gracefully, aware the man would want to
examine her thoroughly, and quite used to such attention from her months of
erotic training. She reached easily for her ankles, keeping her legs perfectly
straight as she thrust her ass out for inspection.

She felt the man’s hands moving over her ass and along her thighs.
Despite her training, she stiffened a little when his fingers moved between her
legs, stroking her sex. But his touch was both gentle and skillful, moving like
sensual butterfly wings. Despite her earlier misgivings, Zahara felt herself
swell and moisten, but then the man’s hand was abruptly withdrawn.

“There wasn’t much on the site about this girl’s tolerance
for erotic pain,” the American said from behind Zahara. “I’d like to see how
she handles a caning. Will you give me a demonstration? Or better yet, I’d like
to do it myself.” The pleasure Zahara had experienced at the man’s touch
evaporated and she very nearly rose from her position in protest, but found the
will to remain still. Though her English was very good, perhaps she had
misheard?

“I think there has been a misunderstanding, Ellis,” the
prince said, to Zahara ‘s relief. “Zahara is not a masochist. Surely you
understood that when you read about her on the website. She does not take
pleasure from erotic pain, as some in my harem do. Her strength, as I’ve
mentioned, lies in service and submission.”

“Of course,” the American said smoothly. “Not a problem. I’m
sure we can find plenty of common ground.” She felt a tap on her back. “You may
stand up, Zahara. My apologies for the confusion.”

Zahara released her ankles and stood upright, turning
gracefully to face the two men. The American regarded her gravely. “Your
devotion to service and passion for erotic submission mean more to me than an
ability to handle erotic pain, I assure you. M and I will welcome you into our
home and our hearts. I look forward to the beginning of something beautiful
between us.”

Suddenly he smiled, his eyes sparkling, a deep dimple
appearing in his left cheek. He held out his hand, and despite her reluctance,
Zahara placed her own in his. As he gazed into her eyes, one of her father’s
many proverbs slipped into her mind:
Be careful when a naked person offers
you a shirt.

~*~

Ellis lifted the glass of crisp white wine and held it to
M’s lips. Not all the slave girls were kneeling on cushions on the ground, he’d
noted, though some were. But others, including Zahara, were seated at the
table, using their own utensils, and chatting away merrily with no sense of
their proper place.

Ellis had given a mental shrug at this. This prince, if he
really was a prince, did things his own way. Once Ellis got his hands on Z, she
wouldn’t dare sit on a chair. She wouldn’t even get a cushion. No, she would
kneel on uncooked rice on the stone of his kitchen floor as punishment for her
arrogance. They would see how long she could maintain
that
position.

He had to admit, the prince knew how to entertain. Dinner
was a sumptuous affair, with crab curry, huge platters of shrimp, fragrant rice
and steamed vegetables. The food was served by lovely young women, whose silky
garments heightened rather than concealed the nudity beneath. Ellis also had to
admit he was very impressed with the prince’s setup. The house, really more of
a palace, was lavishly but tastefully decorated, and the suite of rooms he and
M had been given were as fine as accommodations in a five-star hotel.

Zahara was the most beautiful of the girls at the table,
though there was another who also attracted Ellis’ attention. She was tiny,
barely over five feet, and she looked young, too young to be legal, though
probably that wasn’t a concern to the prince. She had almond-shaped eyes of a
curious golden color, and perfect round breasts tipped with dark nipples that
would be gorgeous with gold hoops hanging from them. Perhaps he could buy two
girls at once. He could keep his own harem in the States, why not? He could
certainly afford it, and who was to stop him?

Excited by the idea, he leaned toward Prince Kamau, who was
seated on his left. “Excuse me, but who is that lovely girl there? Is she for
s—uh, is she available for consideration? She is exquisitely lovely.”

The prince followed Ellis’ pointing finger and he shook his
head. “I’m sorry. Jaleela is not ready. She only just joined us a few weeks
ago, and she is barely eighteen. I don’t usually take such young girls, but she
is the younger sister of one of my household, and is deeply attracted to the
lifestyle.”

Ellis cleared his throat, trying to keep the annoyance out
of his voice. “Eighteen is legal, at least it is in the States. I would be
willing to pay handsomely. I would train her myself with love and care, I
assure you.”

Again the arrogant son of a bitch shook his head. “I’m
sorry. Money is not the issue. Jaleela is not ready. She is with us for
training, but has expressed no interest in being placed outside the harem. She
is not available for consideration.” Ellis heard the steel in the prince’s
tone, though he kept that fucking smile on his dark face.