Submitting to the Enemy: In the Prince's Harem ( (3 page)

"Audrey," Director Kinlaw said, leaning forward so his face filled the
screen, "I admire your determination, but you understand that anything Omar does from this day onward is our fault, right?  Do you want that blood on your hands?"

The room went quiet, and everyone looked to me. 
I already carried so much guilt, from my failure in Afghanistan to the hurt I'd caused Cal.  I glanced at Cal across the table, but he kept his face carefully neutral.  He'd left my apartment as horny as a teenager, still brimming with years of pent-up frustration.  A little more pain wouldn't dissuade me; I just hoped he could bear it.

"Sir, that's just one more reason to find the Wolf quickly
," I said.  "I'd rather have Omar under our watchful eye than let the Wolf run free a day longer than necessary.  Think of the damage he can do to our troops if we let this trail go cold."

That had finally convinced the Director, or at least given him what he needed to cover his own ass.  Anything Omar did would blow back on me now.

With that decision made, I spent the rest of the night engaged in a strenuous debrief of everything that was known about Omar Tarik.  Cal Turner led the debrief, and he pulled no punches as he painted an increasingly frightening picture of the cruel and sadistic terrorist with whom I would be trapped in a plane for several hours.  Cal wouldn't let me go into danger without ample warning, but he spoke with the resigned tone of a man who knew that nothing could keep me from boarding that plane tomorrow.

After just moments aboard the Prince's private jet, I stopped trying to gawk.  This wasn't just something that would impress a backwoods bumpkin.  It was an unreal monument to royal wealth.  Its heavily customized interior was unlike anything I'd ever seen, filled with opulence without restraint.  There was a throne room, for crying out loud.

A stewardess whose modest apparel couldn't hide the dynamite body of a swimsuit model led
me to a long, curved couch heavily padded with leather and silk.  Except for the cleverly concealed buckles and the curved fuselage overhead, I could have been in the lounge of a high-end hotel.

The stewardess offered tea, and I accepted gratefully, then settled in for the flight.  Three other young women were already aboard, and we exchanged stiff, formal pleasantries.  No one wanted to talk much beyond what was minimally polite.  Everyone knew why we were traveling to the Middle East.

I sighed and leaned back, exhausted from a long night of preparation and eagerly hoping to get some sleep during the flight.  The roar of the powerful Rolls Royce engines sounded like a lullaby as we launched out of La Guardia and into international airspace.  Before we hit our cruising altitude, I was out cold.

"Isabel!" a sharp voice said.  "Wake up!"

I opened my eyes and blinked away sleep.  Omar Tarik stood over me in the cabin.  The other girls studiously avoided looking at us.  I composed myself and smiled pleasantly at Omar.  "Yes?  What can I do for you, sir?"

"Come," he said, then pivoted on one heel and strode toward the closed cabin in the aft section of the aircraft.  I followed, my fear barely outweighed by curiosity.

The rear room contained the Prince's private quarters, significantly more luxurious than the rest of the plane.  A king-sized bed dominated the space, and I looked at it, uncertain.

"Get undressed," Omar commanded.

I blinked in surprise.  "Excuse me?"

Omar's jaw tightened, and anger sparked behind his cruel black eyes.  "You heard me."

"I thought I only did that for Prince Nazari," I said.

"As his lieutenant, I enjoy certain privileges.  Do not hesitate to obey me, girl.  I won't ask again."  His voice held a quiet menace, and I knew it would be unwise to disobey.

The briefing I'd been given last night showed that Omar Tarik liked to treat his women roughly, and I'd seen plenty of photographs that attested to the bruises and cuts he left on his victims.  This was not a tender man, but a predator intent on ravaging his prey.

I began to unbutton my blouse, my hands trembling.  
I belong to the Prince now,
I told myself.
 
I only hoped that that would give Omar some pause.

He watched hungrily as I slipped out of my slacks and kicked off my heels.  When I stood before him in only my underwear, he nodded his approval.  "Enough," he said.  "Turn around and bend over the bed.

My heart hammered in my chest.  I knew what this man was capable of, and he held me entirely in his power.  The girls at the front of the plane wouldn't help, and I was trapped in a plane seven miles over the Atlantic with no way to call for help.

So I obeyed, gripping the mattress as I arched my back, offering my bare buttocks to him.

I'd worn a plain black thong today, and Omar curled his fingers through it and gave it a little tug.  "A whore's garment," he said.  "But that's what you are, isn't it?"

"No," I said.  "I..."

His open palm smacked my bare ass with such force that I cried out.  "Don't deny it.  You Western girls are all the same.  Despite all your luxuries, you'll still crawl in the gutter if a man offers you enough money."

I didn't respond this time, still shocked by the pins and needles tingling on my ass.  I breathed hard and braced myself for his next strike.  There was no way to avoid this; I could only endure.

"Tell me, whore," Omar said, his voice dripping with scorn.  "How can you afford to be so picky?  You have no morals, no honor.  Why do you deserve such handsome pay?"  He tossed a crumpled dollar bill onto the mattress.  "Take it," he said.

I stared at the money and thought about what I'd become.  How bad would this have to get before I gave up?  Was
my violation and humiliation in Colombia not enough?  Would the men and women ambushed in Afghanistan demand this sacrifice of me?

No, they wouldn't.  But they weren't alive to voice an opinion.  This was my cross to bear.

Omar struck me again, harder this time.  I felt tears well up in my eyes as I snatched the dollar off the mattress.  He laughed behind me, a cruel sound.  "Good," he said.  "Now I know your price.  I will call you 'Dollar' from now on, I think."

I hunched over the bed, trembling, cowering beneath him, but now his hand cupped the swell of my ass, his fingers pressing against the red
blotch he'd left there, prickling my flesh.

"Dollar, it's time for you to earn your wages," Omar said.  "Turn around and kneel before me."

I did, and saw that despite his contempt, Omar's expensive wool pants bulged with a sizeable erection.

"Pleasure me with your mouth," he said.  "And I warn you; don't disappoint me."

I hurried to unzip his pants, ashamed of my sudden eagerness to please him, but willing all the same.  For any other agent, getting this close to Omar Tarik would have been a career-maker.  Even though he was just a stepping stone to my ultimate target, I knew that anything I could learn might save lives.

So I pulled his cock out and stroked him desperately
.  His shaft pulsed in my hand, dark and engorged with angry arousal.

Omar didn't wait.  He reached down and grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me forward,
shoving his cock into my mouth.  Then he held me in place and spoke a soft warning.  "If I feel your teeth, you will feel mine."

I
stretched my jaw as wide as I could, until the hinges ached as I cradled Omar's shaft against my tongue.  I tightened my lips around him and sucked gently, doing all I could to please him.

"You do that well, Dollar," Omar said, voice dripping with scorn.  "How many filthy American men have you practiced on?  Do you really think yourself worthy of His Majesty?"

I closed my eyes and tried to block out his taunts, focusing all my attention on sliding his shaft in and out as I hoped that pleasure would soothe this savage beast of a man.  My tongue massaged his pulsing cock, sliding back and forth in time with his rough thrusts.  Omar soon fell silent except for his labored breathing.

Then he pulled out and dragged me to my feet.  Before I could react, he pushed me toward the bed and threw me on my belly.  I braced myself to be taken from behind, but Omar remained standing.

"'Whatever the Prince desires,' you told me last night," Omar said.  "And what about me?  What if I wish to fuck your behind?"

My heart hammered in my chest and my mind raced.  Why had Omar fixated on me?  The thought immediately made me feel guilty; who better to endure his abuse?  The other girls on the plane surely lacked my resolve and my motivation. 
And on a deeper level, I wanted this.  My body felt flush with arousal and shame, and I knew I deserved Omar's rough attentions.  "If the Prince wishes me to please you, then I will do so," I said.

Omar paused as though considering the implications of taking what the Prince had not explicitly granted.  Then he moved up behind me so that his legs pressed against the inside of my calves.  I tensed again, but felt only faint movement.  I risked a peek behind me and saw Omar standing over me, stroking himself as he leered down at my naked body.  Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyes were crazed with lust.

A moment later, he lurched, and hot globs of semen spattered my body, thick droplets that landed on my buttocks and the inside of my thighs.  Then Oman grew still.

"Clean up this mess," he said.  "We land in a few hours.  If you tell anyone, I will kill you."

He left the compartment, and with trembling hands, I wiped myself off, taking great care to ensure that not a droplet of Omar's seed touched the sheets.

The jet taxied to a special hangar after we landed, and Omar herded the four women into a waiting limousine.  As I stepped past him, he blocked the door with an arm, forcing me to face him.

"I will see you again soon, Dollar," he promised, then grinned and let me pass. 
Once we arrived at the palace, the other girls and I were given time to settle into the opulent rooms reserved for the Prince's harem.  A severe Arab matron provided a curt orientation and familiarized us with the rules.  Despite the luxurious setting, my job was very clear.  A state-of-the-art fitness center was available around the clock, and I was encouraged to keep my body in perfect shape, which was easy enough since only healthy food was provided.

The first few days in Riyadh passed uneventfully, if you can call living in a palace built on billions in oil wealth uneventful. 
There was little privacy; the twenty or so women shared several common areas, and cameras in the ceiling watched our every move as we indulged in common baths where we were urged to wash one another's bodies and pose for the cameras.  Female companionship was also encouraged, particularly in common areas where the Prince might stumble upon us by happenstance.

The whole wing
was built like an adult Disneyland, with themed rooms and fantasy settings designed to indulge a vast array of sexual encounters between the Prince and any number of women.  Yet four days passed without a sight of the man.  I quickly grew tired of lounging about on silk cushions and eating fine food.  I couldn't accomplish my mission while stabled like a broodmare; I needed to find a way to infiltrate the Prince's hidden records.

On my fifth day in the palace,
Prince Nazari finally arrived.  I was standing on a balcony, staring out over the city, but also memorizing the layout of the streets below in case I needed to make a quick escape.

I'd been too exhausted to notice much as our limousine had ferried us from the airport, but now I was shocked by the abject poverty that spread out across the dusty landscape.
  Oil had made this country rich and powerful, but that wealth and power were clutched in a tight fist.  I wouldn't be sorry when Prince Nazari paid the price for his illicit terrorist activities.

The sun beat down from a pale blue sky, and the city seemed to shimmer in the heat. 
I wiped away a sheen of sweat on my brow and turned to go back inside.  When I opened the door, a low buzz of excited, eager voices interrupted my thoughts.  The other women of the harem had gathered in the main hall and stared toward the entrance.  Most struck enticing poses, and small groups of women fondled each other's scantily clad bodies as they stared at the man who stood in the double doors.

I had seen photos of Prince
Wajid Sha'ban Nazari, the young billionaire and heir to the kingdom.  He had a strong, handsome face framed by thick black hair and a lustrous beard that he kept neatly trimmed.  Despite his hedonistic lifestyle, his body was lean and muscular, and he glided into the room like a prowling lion, moving among the fawning women with supreme confidence.  It wasn't arrogance that radiated from the Prince, but a sure knowledge that he controlled everything around him.

I felt my breath catch in my throat as his eyes met mine, and his gaze seemed to awaken
a primal attraction deep inside me.  I remembered feeling the same way near Fierro Salas in Colombia, but that was like a candle next to the sun.  Salas had built himself a criminal empire.  Prince Nazari was destined to become a
king.