Her hair was the color of golden wheat, like her mother’s. She was beautiful but not in a coveted manner, her eyes were not the color of the sea. Nor was she a graceful swan with porcelain skin. She was beautiful in the way the wind dances through hair, of black coffee in the morning, in the way the ocean kisses the shore. She was beautiful because she refused to taste the sadness of her fate.

The little girl grew up playing with the other children in the hilly areas with fields of tall weeds in the sleepy village of Amman. Here in the small village, buildings looked different and people spoke a different language. People dressed differently. Women could choose to wear a head scarf or not; young fashionable women walked around in designer wear. Amman, as one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, strived for peace. People here showed kindness to one another and cherished the little nuggets of happiness.

Summer was the girl’s favorite time of year where the sky could go from blue cloudless skies to covered in a blanket of fog at night. Many sleepless summer nights, she would sneak out of her house to watch the neighborhood boys hanging out drinking vodka, laughing loudly and telling stories. She thought one of those boys to be handsome. He smelled of the desert sand, his skin caressed by the sun, his lips full, his eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea during a storm. He had kissed her and the girl had felt a stirring in her sex.

She wanted to feel more of those feelings but Mr. Military, as the girl referred to the guard, was always on the look-out for action. He seemed bored and restless standing guard in his stuffy black suit and red tie. And the governess, the woman who had been hired to home school her, scarcely let her go anywhere alone. But every once in a while she would be invited to Gaza to enjoy the amusement rides. The girl enjoyed surfing, watching the waves of the Mediterranean Sea for hours to catch a wave. There on the swell she felt free. These were her little nuggets of happiness.

At the beginning of the girl’s life, it was the end. For how does it feel to be born for the pleasure of a man? She imagined herself floating on a lifeboat, waves thrashing alongside it, adrift at sea. The speck of hope she was clinging to, that this might be a horrible nightmare, was threatening to rescind back into the limitless universe, leaving behind a streak of moon dust in its wake, leaving her without a story of her own. The girl once again passed out. 

The choppy movement of the train woke the girl up. She had no idea where she was or how long she had been traveling. Tears rolled down her eyes. She wondered if her mama was still alive. She thought about her father, how scared he must have been when the guards showed up to fulfill the contract. She looked down at her dress, a champagne silk gown with a band of tiny beads that went around her waist. The thought of being someone’s possession at the age of eighteen made her warm brown eyes turn the color of burnt coffee with all its bitterness. She was too strong-minded for that. She would find a way out.

The train traveled a short distance to Damascus, a medieval city bustling with people and cars and as it sped along past a sea of crumbling buildings. She imagined that this would be one of those days that changes one’s life forever. The guard escorted her to the car that was waiting for them at the train station to take the girl to the palace. It stopped in front of a magnificent mansion with nineteen foot high dome ceiling.

She had never laid eyes upon such luxury, the massive chandeliers and the cherub angels with the beautiful gods and goddesses that graced the ceilings. The inlayed mosaic of a sunburst design on the floor was breath-taking. The floor to ceiling royal blue velvet drapes held back by thick golden ropes, revealed an incredible castle-like monument made from a smooth white stone in the center of the garden. People were dressed in beautiful clothes and the staff walked around with platters stacked high with gold bars. Girls younger than her age of nineteen were being greeted with silver platters of jewels. How odd, she thought for a fleeting moment, as her attention was drawn to the far left corner of the room.

There among dozens of jewel toned pillows that created a sanctuary under a canopy of silk, was an exquisite man. His dark tailored hair was smoothed back, and a curl had escaped to frame his piercing onyx eyes. The perfect angle of his face, the way his smile lit up the room...The girl hated herself for thinking him handsome. The party was for his twenty-seventh birthday she overheard someone say. 

“Don’t worry,” an elegantly dressed older woman said and then laughed. “Go and take your place in line to meet your Master.” 

The room swirled as she stood still, unaware that the line of girls had disappeared and that he was standing nearby watching her in secret. She didn’t know that his world had stopped existing the moment he laid eyes on her. He would never be the same man. The rose pink blush on her cheeks, the ruby of her lips. He was trembling with desire, a desire bordering on obsession. He was silently begging her to be consumed.

One by one the waiters passed in front of her with platters of food, salmon mousse cucumbe and papaya infused with port wine. Silver and gold platters with fresh Lobster tail poached in buerre monte and beef Wellington. Even raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake did nothing to entice her. 

“Are you not hungry?” a voice asked.

But she had no appetite. She didn’t feel hungry. Numb, maybe. Dead inside, maybe. But not hungry.

“No,” she whispered.

He snapped his fingers gesturing for the man in a waiter’s suit to bring him the platter with the most beautiful yellow diamond necklace. He took it from the tray and clasped it around her neck. He caught his breath to be standing so close to her. His eyes closed as he inhaled the light scent of flowers from her hair. And in that moment she knew that he would have her and the only power she held over him was his obvious hunger to have her. She would use that. It would be her escape to freedom.

One evening as the girl sat on the edge of the water fountain, her eyes closed, wishing to the stars above that she was back home running through the fields of weeds. That she was standing on the hill with the boy from the desert, who had touched her. The girl would take the weeds over the enchantment of this garden with its fragrant peony and cymbidium flowers any day of the week, even though she enjoyed their scent and even though she had become familiar with it. But the night breeze brought a different scent, one that whirled with labdanum and spicy notes of cinnamon. Her body felt aroused by this new scent. She knew it was him. 

He drew close, battling an unfamiliar hesitation to touch her; afraid that she would tolerate his gestures because of the contract when he wanted, needed her to want him. A single touch of her skin stirred feelings deep within his body. Her eyes remained closed as he caressed her bare shoulders, moving his hands along her neck. His hands gentle and strong she thought, a betrayal of light shivers rippling through her body, wanting more. He was started in the way she stood up abruptly and left him standing there alone. He was angered at first for he could force her to stay, to lay with him that very night if he chose but there was something about her that set him on fire and stripped his soul bare all at once. He thought himself a willing fool. He would wait. For her, he would wait until she was ready.

“Insolent girl!” The matronly woman held her wrist violently before she could reach the guest house. “You will give yourself to the Master. Is that clear? You owe your very life to him.” 

The girl heard the words but her spirit defied them. The months passed and she succeeded in avoiding him. The girl imagined he was busy with the other girls who only seemed too pleased to be counted among his possession. He seemed to enjoy the company of the dark-skinned beauty with chocolate brown hair and dark inquisitive brown eyes. Or maybe his favorite was the girl with auburn-colored ringlets cascading around her sparkling green eyes. But the girl knew that she would not escape her turn. Not with the matronly woman keeping a close watch on her. The contempt she felt for girl was clear. But she had a plan.

One day during dinner she swallowed down two glasses of champagne and worked up the courage to ask him if they could dine alone. He immediately requested a private setting in another room to be set up. The look of shock and hate from the other harem girls went unnoticed to him but not to her. From that day forward, she asked to be given all his attention and he was happy to give into her demands. She was playful and quiet. She was provocative and innocent.

He poured her a glass of wine. She took a sip seductively allowing a drop to escape her mouth drenching her lips. He trembled as his lips drank the wine from her lips. His tongue searched for an opening, he kissed her, and she tasted like sweet fruity wine. She felt his hard desire against her thighs. There was no talking, only his touch. He took her dress off and removed her little cotton underwear, soiled with her wetness. She felt a pulsing need between her legs, his skin against hers. Oh his skin, deeply tan and silky.

It was early in the afternoon, the heat could be held accountable for the blush on her skin; it was a deeper rose. Perhaps the heady scent of jasmine could be blamed for what he was feeling…afraid that he could love her. How easy it would be to love her. 

“You belong to me.” His breathing was a rhythm deep and fast.

His cock hard, aching and throbbing for the girl, he pushed into her. She felt a gush of warm liquid, her eyes closed tight. It hurt. He was whispering soothing noises, moving in and out of her slowing, gently at first. Until there was thrusting. Her fingers dug into him; the pleasure, the pain. He pounded. There was an explosion inside of her, a mixture of hard and wetness as he released into her. They lay entangled in his bed, never saying a word. The girl is a woman now, created by lust without a trace of love and this made her a little sad but she was created for him. And he was a good lover. They were lovers now. 

He wanted her to stay the night with him but there were rules and that one was strictly forbidden. He lay in bed unable to stop thinking of her; these thoughts that continued well into the night. He replayed everywhere his fingers had traveled, his mouth had tasted. Haunted by the small curve of her back, her long graceful legs, the fullness of her lips, and the smell of her hair, he ached for the girl. For the first time in a long time he was excited about the impending sunrise because he would call for her. But he had to be careful because the matronly woman was watching and reporting back to his mother. She would ban the girl from the harem if she knew his weakness for her.

His mother, a woman with iron fists would never allow him to marry her. She came from poverty. His culture, his position demanded for an arranged marriage. One of political and financial strength and soon he would be announcing his engagement. But he was weak, weak when it came to the girl. Everyday he called for the girl, only her. Complaints among the harem reached the matronly woman. His mother grew concerned. There was something about the girl that made her different, her son noticed it too.

The elegant lady sent for her younger son who was in England building a reputation for himself as a party boy. He was twenty-one, good-looking and disinterested in politics. For her eldest son, politics was a way of life. He was born with an imperial air about him and she wasn’t going to allow the girl to change the path he was destined for. She would ask her younger son to distract him from the girl.

But while she weaved her plan together, they were inseparable, falling deeper into love.

The lovers lay in his “Master” bed, naked. He took her nipple between his lips, feeling them stiffen against the tip of his tongue.

She stood very still, barely breathing, “Tell me about Paris.”

He told her about the first time he was in Paris undertaking some business classes.

“The first impression of living in the city of lights was that people enjoyed the everyday pleasures of life, like sitting outside of a café with a latte and a macron.” he shared.

“What’s a macron?” she questioned.

He immediately called for a servant to bring her an assortment of French macrons and a stacked gateau of shaved mushrooms, verjus-marinated foie gras with hazelnut oil and lemon comfit. 

“A macron is a light as a feather cookie filled with a delicious ganache. You will enjoy them very much.” He kissed the tip of her nose lovingly.

The girl was eager to know more about his adventures in Paris. He told her how crowded it was with taxis, bistros and tourists. He spoke of the seventeenth century buildings, elegant monuments and gardens. 

He seemed embarrassed at first to admit that he indulged in the panoply of sexual deviation Paris offered. He found himself in places of iniquity where true beauties positioned themselves for spankings, performed a strip tease at a drop of a hat, and had sex in darkened corners.

“Spanking?” the girl was curious.

She didn’t understand why this was making her feel so aroused, she took his hand and guided him to her wetness. “Please,” was all she said. 

He spread her legs apart, running his fingers up and down her wet pussy. The girl moaned begging for more. 

“Bad girl,” he teased, lifting her off the bed to put her over his knee.

Her pussy was so wet, anticipating the spanking. He raised his hand and spanked her bottom at an angle. She screamed, unsure of how this made her feel; humiliated and naughty like the women in Paris he spoke of. Another spank ensued. One after another, her bottom stung. It was pleasure. It was pain. She placed her hands over her bottom trying to stop him from spanking her again. He reached for his belt and tied her hands together. The more she begged him to stop, the more he spanked her. The girl squirmed all over his lap. His dick was hard, throbbing. He bent the girl over and pushed hard and deep inside of her. She was screaming from the pain, from the waves of aphrodisiac exploding in succession and taking him with her.

He smiled at the girl, musing over how all he wanted was to hold her every waking minute. How would he ever stop loving her? Afterward, he swept the girl into an embrace, kissing her sweetly, soothing her humiliation. She devoured the hazelnut, amaretto and cinnamon macrons and he delighted in her appetite.

The weeks passed and the lovers remained unaware of the drama building within the harem. But it was on the warmest afternoon in August that a whirlwind entered the palace. The younger brother made his entrance, boisterous, laughing, swinging his mother in an embrace. He was bewilderingly sexy with chiseled features like that of a Greek god, and eyes the color of sapphire. He was dressed in the style of a Londoner with a solid athletic body and full of charm. His dark locks flowing freely like he’s been in bed having sex. His mother briefed him about the girl.

“Let us have a look at this girl who has my mother worried.”

The younger brother quietly stood at his brother’s door, watching the lovers.

“Brother!” he spoke loudly as he interrupted. “Will you deny your baby brother a party for his visit?” 

The younger brother made no attempts to hide his appreciation for the girl’s beauty with a small wicked grin. She was sensual. The Master stepped in front of the girl marking his territory.

“Brother, my harem is yours to enjoy. We shall have a grand party for your visit.”

The brother wasted no time in feasting on the harem of girls. But the Master felt a strange mix of adoration and possessiveness for the girl, for he knew of his mother’s game. He was searching for the instructions written in her eyes, asking for permission to claim her. She kissed him roughly in response as he grasped a handful of her golden wheat long hair in one hand, nipping the lobe of her ear, he trusted into her, fucking her from behind, she screamed, shocked, never having had anal sex.. He continued to fuck, pounding his cock in and out of her, his climax building deep inside him. He made her kneel. 

“Open your mouth!” he commanded, shooting his hot semen down her throat.

The master sent her back to the harem smelling of him. She wondered if this was what true love was about, to be aroused so completely by love. 

“It seems that my older brother is finished with his whore.”

The younger brother seems to have formed the same contempt his mother had for the girl. But the truth was that he wanted her. He wanted her because she was his brother’s favored. He wanted her because she surrendered to pleasure in a way no girl he had been with had. And as the girl slipped into the washroom, she was told to dress for the party being held that evening in his honor.

“My mates from England may want to have a go at you,” the younger brother smiled coyly at her.

The girl was grateful for the younger brother’s remark. It had served to remind her that she was born for the Master’s pleasure and to fulfill the contract that could keep her mother alive but it was she who had discovered the arousing of her body. And the girl wanted more.

His party was very elegant and was attended by highly cultured people who had arrived in a fleet of Porsches and Aston Martins. The males wore black capes and a silver Venetian mask with black accents. The younger brother hid his dark side behind a face you can barely make out, dissolved in all the whiteness of the mask. The Master was in a Naso Peste mask (the long nose) donning a red cloak. The harem girls were to wear a Gatto Macrame mask with black robes. But the girl was made to wear a sophisticated mask covered with a crown of long brown feathers. It didn’t take long for the call to fulfill dark and secret needs to awaken, like the Babylonians in ritual acts of sex. 

The younger brother took the girl. He was kissing her, making love to her as a crowd of masked people silently stood by watching the ritual. The Master watched his favored in pleasure as the silkiness of another woman’s skin rubbed against her, soft glossy lips caressing her lips…A moan escaped her ruby mouth from the tender and probing touch of fingers between her thighs. Breathy moans. The girl satiated on the smell of spice, the hard desire of another male penetrating her wetness. There was fucking, everyone fucking, bodies twisting. The eager hands over her breasts, woman within woman, it was a back-and-forth between lust and pain, male and female, light and darkness culminating into one big orgasmic moment of sexual awakening.

The girl fell from Master’s grace. She was tainted. He was angry with her, with himself. The younger brother had succeeded. His mother had won. The girl beheld the secret knowledge, the magic of sex, the instinct of Eros behind this primal urge … to the point of sexual pleasure for its own sake. But she was aware that the pursuit of sexual pleasure bares duplicity, lost is the beauty of love to gratification. She was angry with Master. The girl didn’t need very much, wanted very little. A garden, kisses, to love and be loved. He did not protect her from experiencing too much so young. He did not honor their love. She was no longer the same girl, that girl was dead.

Days passed and she avoided him. He was weak for her. The Master called for her but she sent one of the other girls in her place. She dressed them in sexy lingerie he had purchased for her. She dropped hints to the girls that it was that time of the month for her when they question her intention. But that was not the truth. After ten days, she sent yet another girl, knowing that this time he would not be placated. She waited just outside of his bedroom as she heard him protesting loudly for the girl dressed in beautiful dominatrix lingerie to leave his room. He was like a caged lion pacing the room, angry and hurt.

The girl made her entrance. She was dressed in a long white summer dress, no make-up and was barefoot. But he was angry at her games. And at the moment he was going to give way to the alpha middle-eastern male his parents raised him to be and force her, she took off his belt. He was intrigued, soothed momentarily. She used the silk scarf from her hair and tied it around her eyes. The girl knelt down before him holding her wrists together so he could tie them with the belt.

“I’m yours to do as you wish,” was all she said with her head shifted downward.

She was submitting her body to him; she was a girl who did not want to see what was being done to her body. He feasted between her legs, growls of pleasure escaping his lips. Master was never hungrier for her taste, for the satisfaction of watching her give into pleasure. But she suppressed her breathing not giving him what he craved for the most.

He turned her around, cupping her breast while he pushed into her full force, pounding her, possessing her for denying him.

“I own you. I will have you.” He was proving ownership.

To the girl all this meant was that he was having her body but her spirit defied his words, fueling her resolve to escape. And when he had emptied himself into her he dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist. He looked up at the fresh faced girl; he melted and succumbed to her by making sweet love. There was desperation in his body, his soul, as he clung to her. But the girl knew what her heart beckoned for, to fall in love with a man so much so that the very sight of him weakened her. That her spirit would defy her body in submission to him, where true love entwines with pleasure.

His advisor discreetly walked into the room to remind him that his presence was required at a political meeting being held away from the palace. But he remained in bed entangled with her, unwilling to let her go. Master was fraught with internal battles of being raised to be Dominant but wanting to be loved by free will. He wanted her love.

His mother showed up to force her had. She frowned with concern to hear her son, the future ruler, begging the girl to stay and wait for his return.

“Please,” he knelt beside the girl, pleading.

But his mother had a plan of her own. She was going to get the girl out of the Middle East before his meeting was over.

“What of the contract?” The girl, knowing the power she possessed over his obvious obsession with her, negotiated a sum of money to leave.

The girl tore the contract up into little pieces, tears rolling down her face thinking of her parents signing it, her father being executed because of it. It was over, she was free to go. Gathering only the clothes she had arrived in and the yellow necklace he had given her that first day, the car was waiting to take her by private plane wherever she wanted to go. The girl requested a large gift box to fill with all the jewels and pretty clothes Master had purchased for her over the years. She wanted him to know that it wasn’t about the riches for her, so she also included the pieces of the contract. She was sending him a message.

The truth was that he had meant something to her. But she wanted to love him freely, on her own terms. Their love, mired by wealth and power, held no room for its beauty. Maybe he would remember the conversation of Paris they once had then he would know where she was. The girl thought about love, how odd it was that it could hurt so much, it could be so lonely and yet behold the power to cover up all the pain and pursue it for its own sake. She was on the plane, and as it sped past the clouds towards Paris. There were no regrets. The girl had experienced a sexual awakening, an evolution of her former self.