Submitting to the Enemy: In the Prince's Harem (

I stepped out of the cab and pulled my shearling fur coat tight around my slender frame as I looked up at one of Manhattan's
most exclusive high-rise apartment buildings.  I've never liked New York City, especially in the winter.  I grew up in the Cuban part of Miami, where warm sunlight coaxed us out of all but the skimpiest clothing.  We spent our days at street festivals and in backyard parties and our nights dancing in sweaty nightclubs as a cool ocean breeze blew through open windows to dissipate the day's heat.

New York's bitter cold wind blasted through the tunnels between its buildings, pushing its pale, callous people indoors, where they minded their own business and rarely spoke to their neighbors. 
My career as a CIA intelligence officer ensured a lonely life to begin with, but among the throng of anonymous Manhattanites hurrying along the sidewalk, I'd never felt more isolated.

"I'm here, Cal," I said softly.  The microphone in my
earring carried my voice to a room twenty floors above, where my partner was likely watching me through binoculars.

"
I hear you loud and clear, Audrey.  The strike team is ready on the floor below Prince Nazari's apartment," Cal Turner told me through my earpiece.  "They're listening on this channel and can be upstairs in fifteen seconds."  His voice was cold and professional, nothing like the charming smartass I'd come to know.  My partner had been distant since our last mission in Bogotá, and I couldn't blame him.  We'd spent most of our years together trying to deny a strong attraction to each other.  The former Army Ranger didn't talk about it, but my actions during that mission had hurt him deeply.  I had tricked him into standing down while I fucked a ruthless drug lord to secure information vital to national security, and even though I succeeded, it had left a chasm between Cal and me.

But our
ultimate objective bound us together despite that gap; we were both determined to find the elusive terrorist known as the Mountain Wolf, a man who had organized dozens of lethal attacks on Americans in Afghanistan.  Cal knew I would do whatever it took to bring the Wolf to justice, and I knew he would help me see it done.

So here we were
, following the years-long trail with relentless determination, fixated on our manhunt.  Personal feelings would have to wait.

"Thanks, Cal," I said.  "I don't expect trouble, but it's good to know you're there."

Several uncomfortable seconds passed in silence.  I would have given anything to talk to Cal in person right then, to assure him that this was the only way.  But the strike team was listening on this frequency, seven former special operators like Cal who now worked for the CIA.  They were amped up and hoping to kick ass, but it wasn't likely to come to that.  Not tonight, at least.

Just weeks before, Cal and I had scored a major intelligence victory by
uncovering Prince Nazari's role in funding terrorist operations in Afghanistan.  But despite his vast wealth and power, Nazari was only an intermediary.  We knew he funneled money to the Mountain Wolf.  But to find the Wolf, we needed to get close enough to Nazari to make the connection.

Prince Nazari was extremely paranoid about his personal security, and the CIA's best technical analysts had failed to
track down his illicit money transfers.  But the Prince had a weakness; his sexual appetites were as large as his bank account.

The building's doorman
held the door for me, and I saw the disapproval in his eyes as I stepped in out of the wind.  It was his job to be polite to guests, but he knew who owned the building's penthouse suite: Wajid Sha'ban Nazari, Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia.  Prince Nazari was the perfect tenant most of the time, since he rarely visited the city in person.  But every few months, he used the suite to host a series of attractive young American women.  This doorman was sharp enough to know what those women were after, and he obviously didn't approve.

To feed his voracious libido, Nazari kept an extensive harem in his Saudi palace
, and most of the girls in his stable were Americans - Nazari's way of literally "fucking the USA."  The highly selective screening process ensured that only the most beautiful, most sophisticated, and most willing girls were considered.  Of those, only a handful would be whisked off the continent on his personal jet.  In Saudi Arabia, they would be paid exorbitant sums of money to be at the Prince's beck and call, indulging his every sexual whim until were sent back to America with big checks, hollow eyes, and dark bruises on their once-perfect buttocks.

I was here for my audition.

I nodded my thanks to the doorman, then headed for the elevator.  He didn't need to tell me which floor.  The Prince's staff had mailed a keycard along with specific instructions, which I now followed to the letter:
Arrive by 7PM.  Speak to no one.  Take the elevator to the top floor, then do as you're told.

As the elevator carried me upward, I wished again that there had been some other way.  Three other female agents had volunteered for this assignment, but only I had been chosen for an audition. 
It wasn't an assignment I relished.  The former harem girls we'd interviewed had told frightening stories of Prince Nazari's twisted sexual cravings; none had thought their experience worth the six-figure paychecks.

I considered stopping the elevator and stepping out at the next floor, but the ghosts of my old squadron floated through my memory.  I had
been their Army Intelligence liaison until the Mountain Wolf's ambush had wiped them out, and I still felt responsible for my failure to warn them. 

After my encounter with the Colombian drug kingpin, I had told myself I could leave those memories in the grave and focus on the living.  Focus on repairing my relationship with Cal Turner, and perhaps leave off this insane vendetta.  But my sense of duty, instilled in me by my Cuban mother and strengthened by the Army, gnawed at my conscience until I picked up the trail again.  I owed my friends justice, and that path
led through Prince Nazari.

So I held my ground and let the elevator carry me to the top floor. 
The presence of Cal's strike team reassured me, ready to charge upstairs in seconds if I uttered the code word.  The diamond stud on my left earlobe contained a tiny microphone that could pick up a whisper half from across the room.

The elevator doors slid open to reveal a small but luxurious foyer. 
I stepped out onto thick carpet and stood straight and dignified.  From this moment on, my every movement and word would be recorded.

I waited for several minutes, and my feet began to ache in my high heels.  Although I longed to shift
my weight to get more comfortable, I kept my poise.  Prince Nazari's staff would need to see that I was cool and confident even under pressure.  While I waited, I admired the intricate scrollwork carved into the dark wood door.  Not all the girls who came to this penthouse stepped over that threshold.

Finally, it swung open to reveal a tall, slim Saudi man with a neatly trimmed beard.  He wore an immaculately tailored suit in the Western style, but when he looked at me with hard eyes, I knew he saw me as chattel.  "Come," he said in heavily accented English.

I bowed my head slightly and followed him into a palatial apartment with lofty ceilings.  Gold leaf and silk covered every surface, and crystal chandeliers sparkled.  The room's decorator had striven for opulence, but I thought it overdone.  Sometimes the greatest display of power is the most subtle.

My host led me to a pair of stuffed leather couches and motioned toward one.  "Please, sit."

I obeyed with a graceful smile, but said nothing.  Our intelligence indicated that Prince Nazari liked his women meek and pliant.

The tall man looked down at me, his eyes full of something that wasn't quite avid enough to be contempt.  "My name is Omar," he said.  "Some women find this interview stressful.  Would you care for a cocktail before we begin?"

I demurred, and Omar nodded approvingly.  I'd avoided the first of many traps.  Prince Nazari wanted his women to blend in well with his native culture, and alcohol was forbidden.

What followed was a rapid-fire series of questions about my background and my motivations for seeking employment with the Prince.  The questions about me were easy; I'd spent the last two weeks studying every aspect of the fictitious legend that the CIA had
assembled for me - born in Miami to working-class parents, I had supposedly gone to NYU on a scholarship and followed that with an MBA from Colombia.  The schools even had records under my assumed name - Isabel McPherson, and two professors would be willing to talk at length about their memories of me.  The cover story was airtight.

Even my supposed motivations for pursuing a position under the Prince made sense.  It would provide international experience and pay three times what Colombia's top graduates could expect to make.

Other questions were far more uncomfortable, not because I minded answering, but because I knew Cal was listening.

"Have you ever had anal sex?"
Omar asked.

"No," I lied, pushing away the memory of Fierro Salas, the drug lord
who had fucked me in the ass.

"Would you have anal sex if the Prince asked you to?"

"Whatever the Prince desires," I said.

Omar sat across from me and typed on an iPad
, his face as expressionless as a master poker player.  I resisted the urge to squirm as the questions grew more and more explicit.

Finally, Omar stood.  "Come with me, Isabel."

I rose and followed him down a long hallway.  To our right, I could see the countless lights of Lower Manhattan's skyscrapers.  Even though I didn't like the city, I had to admit that the view was breathtaking.  I tried not to gawk.

Omar pushed open a door at the end of the hallway.  "Isabel, you have passed the preliminary interview.  Next, you must impress the Prince himself.  He is not here, but
cameras in the ceiling and walls will send high-resolution video to his palace by satellite.  You may use anything you find in the room to show the Prince that you are worthy of a place in his stable."

The corner of Omar's mouth turned up for an instant, as though he found this whole thing distasteful.  "When the Prince has made his decision, the lights will
grow bright.  Get dressed and leave the room at once."

I nodded my head and cast my eyes toward the floor
as I stepped past him.  Omar stared at me a moment longer, then closed the door behind me.

Despite the floor-to-ceiling windows throughout the suite, this room was windowless.  Low lighting cast deep shadows over a huge bed with black satin sheets.  A shelf built into one wall held a vast array of sex toys ranging from double-pronged dildos to braided whips.  A stripper pole gleamed in one corner near a high-end music system.

It was after three AM in Saudi Arabia.  If Prince Nazari was watching, he was either an early riser or on the tail end of a night full of debauchery.  I wondered how I could make an impression on a man accustomed to unrestrained hedonism, surrounded by women hand-picked to enable that lifestyle.  What would get his attention at this late hour?  What was the one thing he could never have?

Then it occurred to me. 
Innocence.

I went to the shelf and
examined the toys there, pausing at a vaguely cone-shaped object that flared at the base.  I picked up the butt plug and turned it over in my hands, frowning as though wondering what it was for.

Finally, I selected a modest vibrator and the
butt plug, along with a small bottle of lubricant.   I went to the bed and sat down on the end with my knees together and my back straight, the image of a proper young lady on a first date.

Several black orbs
protruded from the ceiling and the walls; each one concealed a camera that provided a different angle on whatever happened in the room.  I focused my attention on the one above the bed.  I glanced up at it, then shifted my eyes away and blushed.