A Concubine's Tale free porn video

A Concubine's Tale By Aardvark If you aren't over eighteen then you shouldn't read this. If you are, then enjoy. I grant permission to post this on any non pay-to-see site. *** "Steve, it won't be so bad," Aisha said. "If you become our woman and live with us, we'd give you the time and help you'd need to adjust." "Indoctrinate me, you mean." Steve's hands shook, and his eyes darted about the cell, from the stainless steel toilet in the corner, to his bed, to the bars and back to the screen again. ~Stupid. Stupid. Stupid dhimmi! Why did I try to escape?~ She lowered her gaze to her hands, clenched tightly in her lap. "I know how it must seem to you. It would - change things, of course, but you'd have new ways to fulfillment. There are my children for instance ..." "Bloody Hell!" he snarled. "How is it that you're the one talking this up to me? You were my friend at University, but I haven't seen you for years." Aisha laughed, trying to make it all sound like a joke for the monitors. "Doesn't time fly? Yes, I was, and if you take me up on it, we'll be seeing a lot of each other again," she said, blinking three times fast, then slower, then fast again, all she was willing to risk. He opened his mouth to say something manly and defiant, but cut it off when he realized what she was doing. ~She's afraid - she's afraid for me.~ He froze, the meaning of her warning just now sinking in. He'd thought he might go to prison for ten years or so when they hauled him from the cargo bay of a plane bound for Mexico, one of the few neutral countries in the world - at least until the Caliphate decided otherwise. That was bad enough, but if Aisha was making him this offer, the Islamic Council must be planning to make him an example and behead him. Aisha's husband, Ahmed, would likely be watching this right now, evaluating him to see if he was worth the investment. Nanotechnology was almost never used to completely remold an individual, and the older you were the worse chance you had of waking up without some form of medical handicap - or not waking up at all. At thirty, his body was nearly too old to try. There were far safer ways to look younger or make cosmetic changes. If done early enough, a sex change was one of the few times it made sense. Steve nearly laughed. He could finally be happy that he was a relatively short, slim man with delicate features. The less the nanorobots had to do, the better. As the girls at University had remarked, he would have made a pretty woman. It made him ill to think about it; everything male inside him told him it was an abomination. His balls shriveled as he thought of becoming Ahmed's idea of a perfect woman, but what choice did he have? ~Well, I could die and leave this living Hell.~ With Israel a radioactive wasteland and Dar ul Islam extended over most of the world, only China, India, Russia, Australia, Japan, and, of course, the Great Satan, held out as Islam's implacable foes. The former United Kingdom had been the last European country to fall, and the Caliphate hadn't forgotten. Just before Parliament voted in a sharia state and the crescent moon replaced the Union Flag, twenty million Britons, seeing the way the wind blew, had lined up to accept Muhammad as their prophet. They were the last. After the Crescent Moon replaced the Union Flag, the Caliph of the newly formed United Kingdom of Islam declared that further conversions without specific approval from the Islamic Council were prohibited. The dhimmis, as from old, would pay the jizya, the harsh tax for non-believers, and would be subject to the old discrimination laws. Steve had been a dhimmi until he had been caught. Now even that modest legal protection was denied him, and his fate was subject to the whim of the Council. Aisha saw him hesitate, and then tighten his jaw. Fearing the worst, she closed her eyes. ~Oh, Allah, the most Wise and Merciful, grant him life!~ Steve looked hard at his former friend. Beneath her hijab, her brown eyes glistened with tears, and her hands clenched, as if in prayer. Feeling like a utter coward, he asked, "I - I would be your husband's concubine?" Aisha exhaled softly. "Yes, eventually - that is, if Ahmed accepts you." Unspoken was that if he wasn't acceptable after the transformation, Steve would suffer an even worse fate, likely being sold as a slave. He still needed to say the words, which stumbled from a tongue thick with disbelief. "I accept your offer, Aisha. I will become your woman." *** Two guards took him from the cell, each grasping an arm, and marched him to a waiting ambulance. It was overkill, Steve thought, as either one of them could have overpowered him easily, but a steady stream of humiliation was all a part of life. Already in shock at what he'd agreed to, he barely minded. They stayed with him during the ride to hospital, and repeated the process to the top floor. Medical security, despite their minor role, dressed like Mujahideen with camouflage and sidearm, took over from there. He was told to strip and, to further humiliate him, they handed him a honey-yellow hospital gown with pink stripes, the colors for a woman infidel. Once they strapped him into a gurney, Steve lay back, staring at the ceiling tiles and lights so as not to go mad. ~Is this really happening?~ He caught movement at the door: Aisha. Steve latched onto her like any man about to lose his manhood would. He hadn't seen her in nearly a decade, but they had kept in touch until she had become Ahmed's second wife and converted. She wore her black abaya, hijab, and veil, but he knew her eyes. To further ensure he knew who she was, she had allowed a few blonde hairs to peek out from under her headscarf. "Don't be afraid," she whispered. He shifted his focus to her face, what he could see of it. "How can I not be afraid?" he replied, his mouth dry. "Stand away from the man," a mullah said, the man in the turban and green and red government robes having just entered the room. "It is not permitted to speak with him." She bowed her head, giving him the proper respect. "Hardly a man now, I think, having accepted womanhood, and he is not dangerous. Observe how he is bound and frightened." Steve burned with embarrassment, but it was the truth. "A few words, only," the wizened mullah decided, stroking his beard. "Thank you." She returned to the bed and continued in a low voice: "You're young and strong. You should come through fine. Remember: as you were there for me, I will be there for you. When you awaken, you must behave yourself. Promise me this." "You're taking a risk for me, aren't you?" She said nothing, but touched his hand with the tip of her finger, an act forbidden between Muslim women and infidel men. Done as a part of a natural shift in position, it would have been impossible for an observer to say if it was deliberate - but it was enough for Steve. "I promise, Aisha." They wheeled him down the corridor, and into a small room with a nurse and doctor. The mullah followed. Looking down with disgust, he said, "No man would have accepted this. You must, therefore, not be a man." He nodded to the doctor, who pulled a syringe from a steel tray. The nurse wiped a space on his arm with antiseptic, and the doctor injected him. As his vision faded, he stared at the nurse, a young woman whose headscarf couldn't prevent her from being pretty. She noticed his attention, but ignored it. He was, after all, just an infidel and, in her mind, already a woman. *** Steve awoke to dizzying brightness. "Doctor, she's coming around," spoke a female voice. "Very well," the doctor said, also a woman. The light disappeared with a click, and Steve blinked to clear the spot away. ~She? Has it happened already? Did I turn out all right? Am I a mutant, a freak?~ Steve raised her head and looked down, and saw the blurry outline of what had to be breasts below her gown. ~So it has happened.~ She lay back, stunned and drained. A woman in a blue headscarf came into focus. "Doctor?" Steve croaked, startled at the change in her voice: she sounded like a seductress with laryngitis. She tried to lift her arm, but found all her limbs bound. The doctor smiled. "Ah, you're awake." She glanced at her watch. "Jala, record time as 08:49." "Yes, Doctor." The doctor returned to her patient, checking her chart. "Steven Gerard was your name. Your new name is Sabirah." She smiled. "You went through the process remarkably well. Do you understand what happened to you? Are you are fully cognizant and awake - no fuzziness?" ~Just scared shitless. My name is Sabirah?~ "Yes to all, Doctor," she replied. "May I get up?" "Not just yet. Your plumbing is still in place." She raised the gown, amused at Sabirah's expression. "I have one; you have one; it's all the same now." She did something further down than Sabirah was accustomed to, making her squirm, and then cry out. "There, the catheter is gone. You'll need to pee soon. Nurse Jala will assist you when you do. Here, let's have you walk around to make sure your motor responses are fine. Don't worry about the weakness; that will fade." After the bonds were gone, Sabirah pushed herself to a sitting position, feeling the balance to be wrong, and her arms to be appallingly weak. Knowing she was a woman didn't prevent her shock as breasts shifted on her chest. She touched them, getting an idea of their weight and size, and the oddest sensation of feeling in part of her body that didn't exist before. From her point of view, her bottom seemed unusually large, and her waist too narrow. She stretched her arms out and wiggled her fingers. Her hands were small, even for a woman, as were her feet. Her shoulders were small, too, and her arms were slim and smooth - not unnaturally so - but slimmer than most women. "Come on. Let's get to your feet," Jala said, extending a hand. Sabirah took it and pushed off with her other hand, nearly falling down. "Hold on," the doctor said. "Walk between us until you get your footing." "Yes, Doctor," Sabirah replied, shocked that her body was smaller than either woman. Steve hadn't been a large man, but ... "Doctor, how tall am I?" "Your chart says you should be 5'2" and about 105 lbs. I'd say that's accurate. Are you doing better? Walk naturally. Your hips are wider now, so you will sway a bit. Your back should be straight, and your walk confident, but not a stride. Now try it." Feeling peculiarly girlish with her breasts moving and hips shifting side to side, Sabirah made a few trips around the room before the doctor declared herself satisfied. "Good. Nurse Jala will take care of you now," she said, and walked out, shutting the door behind her. Nurse Jala appraised her. "Take off your gown." Sabirah stared. "What?" Jala narrowed her eyes. "Take off your gown - now," she ordered. As Steve, Sabirah had been used to humiliation and dominance, but rarely from women, and not like this. Nurse Jala gazed down at her, fully expecting to be obeyed. More surprised than frightened, Sabirah complied, pulling the gown over the top. Standing naked and vulnerable, she blushed uncontrollably, and was unable to resist the temptation to cover her genitals. Jala nodded, looking her up and down. "Better, but you're embarrassed." Jala's arrogance annoyed her; it was as if she were on an assembly line. "Well, of course I am, Jala!" she snapped. "My memory tells me that an hour ago I had different bits." Nurse Jala took a step forward and slapped her hard enough to see stars. Sabirah issued a high-pitched cry and staggered back, shaken by the force and pain of it. Jala grinned. "You resented that, didn't you: an average-sized woman slapping you silly." Her manner turned deadly serious. "You will not speak to me that way again. To you, I am not 'Jala'; I am 'Nurse Jala.' I will be clear: even as girls go, you're not very strong, and you don't have the dhimmi protections anymore. Your place is the same as any infidel girl captured in Jihad. You have no rights, and are, at best, a step above a slave." Sabirah burned, but there was no denying the truth. Jala was a Muslim woman. Even if she were a dhimmi again, as a woman now, Jala would have been her superior. Masking her useless anger, she bowed her head. "Yes, Nurse Jala." "Now you're upset, but at least you're not trying to hide your body from me." Jala opened the bathroom door, revealing a full-length mirror. "It's time you had a good look. Feel your body. Do not attempt to hide yourself from me again." Sabirah looked on in disbelief. She had dropped more than ten apparent years and looked about eighteen. Even without the order, the urge to explore her body was irresistible. She fingered her hair, which wasn't long yet, but would eventually grow into a lustrous black. Her hands held her breasts, cupping them from below to get a sense of their heft and weight. Shapely, soft, and slightly larger than average, they were firmer than she'd imagined them to be. Her fingers brushed her nipples and pinched one. Sabirah gasped at the feel of it, an unexpectedly powerful twinge that ran down her body, and both nipples swelled into hard points. She darted a glance to the side, embarrassed that Nurse Jala might have seen. Jala's amusement told her that she had, bringing a rush of hot blood to her cheeks. At a sharp gesture from Jala, she continued. Running her hands lower, she caressed her narrow waist and slid down the natural flare of womanly hips. She had nothing left of what used to define her as a man, no trace of a bulge, only a smooth front with just the smallest slit protruding forward. She had no pubic hair: as a concubine, of course, it was not the custom; likely the nanorobots had permanently denuded her. Burning now, knowing that Jala would insist, and still stinging from the slap, she placed her hand over what she used to have, and then lower, over the mound. She made a small cry at the oddest sensation of penetration when her finger slipped between her lips into wetness. Jala nodded and motioned with her hand. "Now move around, Sabirah. See yourself from different angles," she said, warning her with her eyes that she would tolerate no half-measures. At first it was like controlling the movements of another. She was a pretty girl with black almond eyes that she imagined could smolder with passion, but which now expressed fascination and nervousness. Sabirah moved, turning to the side and observing her profile. She swayed in ways that would have been impossible before, and even when she tried to make the girl in the mirror move "normally," her body made it feminine. Over the next few minutes, her mind wrestled with the sight, adjusting the image of herself until there was no way she could rationally deny that she was a girl. She stopped and stared into her own eyes, now wide and bright, over a small mouth, now open in amazement, and under eyebrows that nearly met in the Iranian way, above a smaller, distinctly female nose. The whole image screamed of sex. She wouldn't be much good in the fields or at any job that required heavy lifting, but she would be superb as a rich man's charming bedmate, and it was unlikely that he would take her seriously. Jala laughed. "You see who you are. The mind will adapt to the body in time. It always does." Sabirah glared at her. ~Bullshit. I may have been made into an Arab's wet dream, but my thoughts are damn sure my own.~ Jala smiled. "You disagree." Jala stepped forward and pressed Sabirah's bladder, pleased with the outraged look on her face. "You are now ready to use the bathroom. Go," she said, swatting her rear end. "I'll guide you through it, and then show you what all women need to know about taking care of their bodies." An hour later, Sabirah emerged, still naked, but now red faced and furious. Jala followed, amused. "You're angry because I beat you, but you've learned not to hesitate when I tell you what to do. Everything I taught you in there was necessary." Sabirah turned, her eyes blazing, but didn't dare look her directly in the eye. Jala was not only much stronger than she was, but apparently trained in physical combat. Every hesitation had been met with a sharp slap; her one refusal had been rewarded with a humiliating and horribly painful spanking that went on until she had wailed like a girl and promised to obey her. "Yes, Nurse Jala." "Come sit on the bed by my side. You think I hate you, but I don't." Sabirah responded instantly to her command, only realizing how obedient she had been when she was on the bed. It was humiliating to be controlled so easily by a woman, but she didn't want to be beaten again, either. "Sabirah, it is your fate to be who you are. Only Allah makes the rules. I like you. You are a bit stubborn, but that is to be expected. To be a man one day, a woman's natural superior, and then to become a weak woman is a tremendous shift, but one that must be borne if you are to succeed, and I want you to succeed. Speak freely; what do you expect your life will be like? Do you think I am doing the wrong thing by making you obedient?" Sabirah looked at her. Jala was an English girl, about twenty-five, just at the age to be raised a Muslim from birth. From her accent, she'd been raised in Liverpool. "Nurse Jala," Sabirah said. "Yes?" "This isn't fair. My 'crime' wouldn't have hurt anyone. I just wanted to leave." "Ah," she said, nodding. She put her arm around Sabirah's shoulders. "There is nothing fair or unfair about life. Allah is neither bound by physical laws, nor rules about what may seem to be fair to others. There is only Allah the Mighty, the Wise, and the Merciful, and we submit to Allah's will. All other ways are worse than illusion - and you still haven't answered my questions." "As hard as it is for me to believe, I expect that I will eventually be Ahmed's concubine. It was not what I grew up thinking I would be." Jala gazed at her with sympathy. "What Allah in His wisdom has written for you may not be easy, but neither you nor I can change what must be, Sabirah." Sabirah shot her a look filled with bitterness. "What you are doing is preparing me for that life." "Yes, and if I don't help you adapt, there is a worse fate waiting." Sabirah paused. "True," she sighed. "So, you see, we have a common goal that works to your benefit. We've made good progress, you know. You aren't as shy as you were, and you are afraid of me, which is good because you will be subservient to nearly all women. To stay out of trouble, your behavior will have to permanently change. You need to learn respect and humility." "I suppose so," she muttered. Jala turned Sabirah's face towards her with her hand, and stared straight into her eyes. "I have learned humility submitting to Allah's will. I am respectful and obedient to those I should be. You will find that, as a woman, you must be especially obedient. While it can be hard, you will learn." It was true. A woman had a lower place in Islam. Jala had rights, but different than a man, and not generally on the same level. "It isn't easy for me, Nurse Jala," Sabirah said, fighting to keep tears away. "I wasn't prepared for this." Jala brought her to her chest. "Don't fight your tears, Sabirah. As you slept, nerves were rearranged; organs and glands adjusted; hormones produced - your body is physically a woman's. You can even have children. Is it any wonder your emotions are closer? These are not manly tears, but you are a man no longer - it's all right to feel this way. Come, cry on my shoulder if you want." To Sabirah, Jala's shoulder was strong, and Jala's breasts against her own were a warm, soft reminder of their shared womanhood; unlike a man, Jala would understand her fears. Not wanting to think about it anymore, Sabirah yielded. Clutching Jala's shoulder, she wept. When Sabirah had cried herself out, Jala brushed her hair back gently with her fingers. "That was good, wasn't it? Don't you feel better?" Sabirah nodded, admitting that she did. "Excellent. Now, lie back. Relax." Jala left the bed for a moment. When she returned, she was naked. Jala had a superb body, athletic and toned, as well as feminine. It was a body that Steve would have enjoyed seeing, but one that Sabirah found she could only admire objectively. "But ... why aren't you wearing ..." Sabirah said, beginning to be alarmed. Jala gave her a stern look. "Unless you want another beating, you will stay down and do exactly what I tell you. I am naked for your comfort; I will not touch you. I am here, rather, to guide you. This, also, is necessary, Sabirah. To truly believe you are a different person, you must know your body intimately. Place your right hand upon your right breast." Thus began a new series of lessons, more pleasant than before. Any time Sabirah grew nervous of what she was doing, or fearful of what she felt, she looked up to see Jala, naked like her, smiling, encouraging, and comforting, even smoothing her hair back like a child. After a time, Sabirah forgot her nervousness and allowed herself to feel. Soon, she moaned, then panting, finally shuddering and crying out in delight as her fingers discovered some of what her body was capable of. It had been utterly different, of course, and she wasn't totally satisfied - her body let her know that she was missing something to make it complete - but it was remarkably good, and her expression showed it. Jala pressed her hand to Sabirah's face, nodding, even crying a little. "That is the other side of it, Sabirah, the side men will never know. Be very glad that Ahmed is not an Egyptian; you would not be as happy as you are right now. Go to the bathroom and clean yourself. I will check. Do a good job or I will beat you." Sabirah didn't need to look at Jala to know that she meant it. But there were no problems and no beatings. "You've pleased me. Now get dressed. In the box by the bed are some clothes. Put them on." With Jala watching, Sabirah didn't have time to wonder at the strangeness of women's clothing. She pulled on the panties and shrugged into the bra quickly. The tunic and pant set was next, followed by the special yellow abaya, the color for an infidel. After being naked for nearly the entire morning, it felt good to wear clothes again, and with Jala there, wearing much the same, it didn't matter so much that they were female garments. The headscarf was the strangest and the most troublesome, but Jala helped her with it, and made Sabirah put it on three times correctly before nodding her approval. Then they went to lunch. Sabirah watched her carefully the entire time, analyzing the demure and respectful way she reacted to men, and how she approached women. As an infidel, she had to be even more solicitous to Muslim men and women, but there were other examples to follow, and it was easier to be submissive behind the anonymity of a robe. Virtually everything was new, and some was frightening. The world was bigger. All the men and most of the women were larger and more powerful. It pleased her to be by Jala's side. For the moment it was comfortable to pretend she was her big sister, in charge, and looking out for her. It wasn't true, of course; Sabirah was aware of what Jala was doing to her with the clever mix of pain and pleasure, but she found that she didn't resent it - and that bothered her. "Nurse Jala, may I ask you something?" She smiled. "If it is proper and decent." "How is it that you control me so easily?" Jala frowned, but did not admonish her for the question. "It's because you are unprepared to resist. At present, there is too much for you to feel and experience, and it's all happening at once." She regarded her. "Sabirah, I'm easy to obey: you don't hate me, and you're smart enough to understand that what I do is for your own good, but your obedience is temporary. All I've done is to show you what you are, and something of how you must behave, but the real struggle lies ahead." "Oh," she said, looking down. When they returned, Jala said, "I will leave you now. May you find your life fulfilling and pleasant." She left Sabirah locked inside and moved to a room a few doors down. She entered and bowed to the two present: Aisha she had met. The other was her husband, a man of good appearance in his mid-forties, still upright and strong with a trimmed beard and mustache. "Jala, how is the girl?" Ahmed asked, beaming. "Administrator, I found Sabirah to be an intelligent, well-mannered girl, with a generally good temperament. Naturally, she is confused at her predicament and worried about her future." Ahmed laughed, a low rolling sound of amusement. "As well she might," he said, pressing his hands together. "So, then, is she a shy, meek girl, or does she have spirit?" Jala, despite her professional role, didn't like the sound of it. Ahmed sounded as if he preferred the spirited girl - if only to break her. "That remains to be seen," she replied. "Is she frightened?" Aisha asked her. "It's natural to be frightened, Aisha," she said. "I'd like to see her now," Ahmed said. Aisha placed her hand on her husband's arm. "Wouldn't it be better to see her after she is completely prepared? Seeing her now can only be a letdown, and your plane leaves soon." He sighed. "Very well. This is your project; do what you feel is best. The results are all that matters." He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "You're right. I should be going. Salaam." "Salaam, Ahmed. See you when you get back." As soon as Ahmed departed, Aisha offered her a seat and coffee from a machine. Jala sat, but declined the beverage. Aisha leaned forward in her chair and asked, "Jala, what's she like?" Jala shrugged. "There's not much I haven't told you. She's also introspective, emotional ..." At Aisha's anxious look, she added, "I could tell you that I like her, although I should be impartial." Jala considered her. "Perhaps you shouldn't care so much. Sabirah is to be a concubine for your husband, isn't she?" "Yes, but Sabirah will be living with the family; she must fit our needs and expectations as well." >From Aisha's nervousness, Jala guessed that it was more than that, and recalled that Aisha had known her before. "Let me advise you. You shouldn't be attached to a girl before she's disciplined. Sabirah will need to be harshly reminded of her place at first, and being friendly will make this impossible. It will do the girl no good to treat her better than she should, and if she fails to please your husband it could be very bad for her - if I read him correctly." "But, you said Sabirah is well-mannered ..." "She is - for now. I've had experience with many girls, enough to develop a feel for it. If properly treated, Sabirah could be a joy. Some girls are always surly and resentful no matter what you do, but not Sabirah. I feel that deep within her heart is a warm, caring person ..." Aisha nodded. The man she remembered was like that. "Excellent. Surrounding that core of warmth is confusion; misery at who she will be; shame at becoming a woman, slave, and a concubine; not knowing what she will face, or how to fight it." "I'd say that was understandable." "Of course. The issue is how to peel away the bonds of resistance without damaging the center. If this can be done, her warm nature would burst to the surface, clean and pure as a spring in the dessert. She herself told me the means inadvertently." "Praise Allah! I want her to happy. How?" "It's simple, really. Sabirah is honest, does not shy away from hard facts, and has a highly developed sense of fairness. Complement these characteristics, and she will be satisfied with her lot in life." Jala smiled. "Handled properly, Sabirah will exceed your wildest expectations." Aisha stared at her. "That's - difficult to believe." "It's the way she thinks. If she believes that her behavior and yours, including Ahmed and his other wife, is like a pact, where both sides are bound by rules, she will come to accept her place. In return for her absolute obedience, all she will expect is that you not treat her 'unjustly.'" "Absolute - obedience?" "It's essential. Punish her every time she requires it - but no more - and praise her only when she deserves it. She will quickly come to know that you are living up to your end of the 'bargain.' Once she knows that the boundaries of her behavior are secure and just, you will see a remarkable transformation. She will be free to show herself, and her affection and kindness will run as the spring I described." "Incredible," Aisha breathed. She shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't recognize the man I knew as this sweet docile girl you're talking about." "Allah, in His wisdom, made men and women differently. A woman is not a man, and neither is Sabirah. It's simply a fact that women respond differently to strength and make better slaves. You and your husband are fortunate to have her, Aisha." Jala was the expert, but it was still hard to believe. "How did you manage to control her?" Jala smiled. "Why don't I tell you everything that happened? It may give you some greater insight into the matter." Aisha listened to it all, and her eyes grew wide with the telling. *** Sabirah walked the floor nervously, knowing her fate was in the air. She thought that Jala would give Ahmed a good report, but anything could happen. Even if she succeeded in attracting Ahmed's approval, what then? She nearly panicked when she thought of one possibility: ~What if Ahmed meets me now? What will he expect me to do? Sabirah shuddered. He can't possibly expect me to go to bed with him!~ There was a knock on the door. "Sabirah, this is Aisha." She took a deep breath, relieved. "Just a minute!" She fixed her abaya and hijab in case a man was with her. "All right. All clear." Aisha unlocked the door and came inside, all smiles, shutting the door behind her. "Go on," she said, "take off your abaya and hijab. I want a good look at you." Sabirah stripped down to her tunic and pant set. Aisha walked around her, shaking her head in wonder. "It would be impossible to imagine that it's you inside if I hadn't seen the body Ahmed chose for you." She moved closer. At 5'7", Aisha looked down upon her. She looked so much younger, smaller, sweeter - and exuded randy like a scent, all the more because she had no idea she had it. For an instant, she was jealous, but it passed: Aisha knew what her life would be like. She gave Sabirah a hug. "Jala gave you an excellent reference: she said you were obedient and good-natured." "Guilty as charged," she said wryly. "You're not happy to be a woman right now," she said, smiling. Sabirah sighed. "Aisha, you were born a woman. You like being a woman." Aisha placed her hand on the smaller woman's shoulder, looking on affectionately. "You will too. Sabirah, you were my best friend in school, my confidant. You understood me and I loved you for it. I only stopped calling because Ahmed didn't want me speaking to men without his permission." "I understand that, and I'm very grateful that you saved my life. It's much better to be alive, even if it's in a sex-kitten body." "Then from our past friendship, believe me when I say that, in time, you will enjoy your body - and men." Sabirah laughed a little hysterically. "That's what Jala told me. I wouldn't have believed it at all if she hadn't ordered me to experiment on myself," she said, feeling the blood rush to her face. "Right now, though, I can't imagine myself with a man." Aisha smiled. "I chose your name, Sabirah. It means patience." "Patience," she said, raising her eyebrow. "I'm afraid, Aisha. I can rationalize becoming a woman: I agreed to it, after all, and having you here makes it much easier - but as a concubine I have no rights. Ahmed could sell me at any time. I could die a slave in Saudi Arabia or Pakistan." "Only Allah knows the future, but I don't think you have to worry if you behave yourself. It was very expensive to make you look like the woman of his dreams and, most importantly," she said, smiling, "Ahmed would like the joy of a concubine he can control completely while utterly debasing the infidel man inside." "Oh, doesn't that sound wonderful." Aisha brushed the matter aside with a wave of her hand. "It's not as bad as it sounds. By the time that happens, you'll be a woman in all aspects and capable of handling it. Let him have his fun: plead for him to stop despoiling you; cry that all Christians are being raped when he takes you; it doesn't matter." Sabirah opened her mouth to say something, but Aisha held up her hand for silence. Bending over slightly to look the girl straight in the eye, she said, "Sabirah, you must listen to me. Jala showed you that you must obey. It was a hard lesson for someone who used to be a man, but one that had to be learned. " She lowered her head. When she raised it again, there was pain in her eyes. "There is no easy way to say it. From now on, you must be polite, respectful, and obedient, or ... well, you know what will happen." "I understand, Aisha," she replied, placing her hand over the other woman's. "I don't want to be sold or get you into trouble." Aisha looked at the hand on her wrist and sighed, removing it. "Sabirah, this familiarity can't be tolerated - perhaps later in private when you and I are alone, but for now you need help, reinforcement. I'm sorry. This is a very hard thing for me to do, but I've decided to send you to the Samya Hammad Obedience School on Marylebone this afternoon. It will last a week." Sabirah's heart pounded; she was fully aware of what the school was like. "It's Ahmed. He wants me to return an obedient little girl, ready to please her master," she said, her voice quavering. Aisha pulled her into a hug. "Don't think of it that way. Ahmed isn't a bad man. This school will make it easier for you to be obedient and dutiful, just like hundreds of millions of other women. It could be much worse: a concubine's duties are not so onerous, and you'll only be there a week. I'm sorry for you, but learn well and your life shall be as light as dew in the morning." Sabirah looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Do you want me to be this obedient and dutiful little 'thing?' she said angrily. "Is this the wish of my friend?" Aisha closed her eyes, and looked at her as she were about to cry. ~Jala was right after all. Allah, give me the strength to do what I must!~ It was easier, she decided, to pretend that Steve had never existed, that this pretty girl with beguiling eyes was someone else. With a cry, she spun around and slapped Sabirah to the floor. "You have no choice!" she screamed. "We aren't equals, and the sooner you learn your place the better! You will address me as Mrs. Ahmed until I tell you otherwise. Apologize for your insolence immediately!" Sabirah held her cheek, her mouth wide open. Slowly, confused, and hurt to the core, she went to her knees. Bowing her head, she said, "I apologize, Mrs. Ahmed. I will be more respectful in the future." Aisha looked down, making herself believe that this was just an insolent girl who needed to be punished. "Get up, Sabirah!" When she rose to her feet, Aisha wore a harsh, cold visage Sabirah had never seen before. "Jala warned me that our old friendship would work against us, but I had ignored it - until now." She pointed to the bed. "Pull your pants down, panties, too, and bend over the bed!" Sabirah gasped, but still affected by Jaja's discipline, she didn't hesitate, pulling them down quickly and going to her knees over the bed. She only yelped as the first blow from the leather strap struck her bottom, but steadily, her resolve not to cry in front of her old friend fled as the blows whistled and smacked against her tender posterior. "Please, Aisha! Stop," she wept, but Aisha, wincing along with each stroke, would not. A moment later: "Please, stop! I'm begging you," she wailed, squirming helplessly, but Aisha continued, making the leather snap against her flaming buttocks. ~Poor Sabirah! Someday you will understand that there was no other way.~ A minute later Sabirah could bear it no longer and sobbed uncontrollably: "I'll do what you want! I'll be respectful and obey you!" Aisha put away the strap several hard strokes later. Sabirah continued to wail miserably. She was now far beyond the abstract concepts of humiliation and dignity: to her there was only fear and the lash. Aisha watched her cry. When Jala had told her how easy it was to beat her into obedience she had hardly believed it. Sabirah used to be a man, after all. But now that she had done it herself, just by ordering Sabirah to her knees and applying the strap to her bare bottom like a child ... it was true! This was just a girl crying her eyes out, a pitiful sight, to be sure, but not the man she knew - not anymore. Aisha heaved a deep sigh, relieved, even elated to see that matters had worked themselves out so well: Sabirah would learn her place, and, as important, she had proven to herself that she had the strength to make sure she did. She had mastered the girl at her feet, and knew that she could do it again. But now it was time for kindness. Aisha put a soft hand on the girl's shoulder as she continued to wrack in sobs. Her voice was gentle. "I will be strict with you, Sabirah. Whenever you are disobedient, I will whip you. When you learn your place, we will be friends, but we can never be friends in the same way again." She patted her back tenderly. "Now dry your eyes quickly, and make yourself presentable. You're going to obedience school." When Sabirah sniffled her last and struggled to her feet, Aisha added, looking her straight in the eye, "It won't be a week; I've decided it should be a full month. You will behave properly when you return." Sabirah swallowed and bowed her head. "Yes, Mrs. Ahmed," she replied, and fled into the bathroom, wincing at the pain in her behind. Aisha watched her disappear behind the door; then rubbed a few tears of her own away. ~Allah, have mercy on Sabirah! Guide her, make her obedient, and make her understand.~ *** ~This is a nightmare - it has to be.~ Sabirah dried her tears on her pretty face that couldn't possibly be hers, yet was. The world as she knew it was gone. The Aisha she'd known had turned into a cruel monster. She took a few deep breaths. It was finally crystal clear: she was a small weak woman with no rights, little more than a slave, a concubine to a man who enjoyed humiliating infidels. "Deal with it, Sabirah, unless you want to be a slave or dead," she said under her breath. She gave herself a hard look, memorizing the Middle Eastern Barbie face and body she would always have, and left. Samya Hammad Obedience School was part of the former Madame Tussauds. Sabirah knew of it: a place where attractive infidel women: criminals, captured Americans, Australians, Russians, and so forth were disciplined and broken for slavery or for harem service, which amounted to nearly the same thing. Aisha brought Sabirah through the main entrance, and announced her to one of the uniformed women at the desk. She made a call. Sabirah waited, mindful that whatever happened, it would be only a month, not the several months or more that others would endure. Two husky, grim-faced women in matching black abayas and hijabs appeared from a side door and marched towards them, their black boots sharp on the marble floor. With a last glance to Aisha, who remained impassive, they snatched her away, one to either side, thrusting her ahead of them with powerful arms. "Move, kafir," said one. Sabirah did not reply, not sure what to say to women that couldn't tell she was already moving. They brought her to a side room where they had her strip inside a circle. They noted her bruised bottom. "Batul, this one has been bad," one of the guards snickered. "Haven't they all been bad?" "It always seems to be so. Fortunately, we are here to make them good again." They pulled down chains from the ceiling. Sabirah didn't bother protesting when they attached cold steel manacles to her wrists and feet; it wouldn't have done any good. She tried to be strong, but it didn't last, and she screamed as loudly and hard as before. For the third time that day, Sabirah was beaten. They gave her new clothing to wear when they let her down. Still crying and naked, holding her clothes in her arms, they drove her down the corridor and shoved her into a cell, forcing her to her knees. She noted another girl on a single bed at the far wall, but she lay silent, possibly asleep. Wordlessly, Sabirah got to her feet and put on her clothes: panties, bra, and a loose pink jumpsuit. She stretched and massaged her abused legs and back as best she could, the places the guards had concentrated with their hoses, and then lay on the small bed, keeping very still so the twitching in her bruised muscles wouldn't escalate into cramps. The ceiling was a featureless white, with nothing to take her mind away - no escape from where she was or what was to follow. ~I suppose they beat me to soften me up.~ Her laugh soon turned into a sob. ~Well, it worked.~ She was afraid, afraid of being beaten, of her future, of everyone bigger than she was. She was very afraid of Aisha, who had beaten her until she could only wail for mercy, a thorough demonstration of her place. ~If I were only a man again ...~ she began, but from her new place at the bottom, she saw things differently: if she were a man, she would still be a dhimmi, and what were dhimmis except useful slaves, and what freedoms did they enjoy that were not dictated by their masters? No dhimmi liked to think of it that way: some tried to explain it away with "cultural differences," some found solace in what was taught in schools: that it was their fault. Regardless, deep down, a dhimmi man couldn't like what he saw in the mirror. A woman might accept him, understand him, but could never in her heart respect a man who thought of himself as less than a man. And that explained much, she realized. Aisha had been Gail Denver when Steve had known her at University. For a while he was sure he'd loved her and that Gail returned the emotion, but Gail had always placed a line between them. Afterwards, when they went their separate ways, she had become Ahmed's second wife and converted, practically the only way a dhimmi in the UKI could become a Muslim. It was the old story: Why would a woman want a man who meekly endured a hundred humiliations every day, when she could have a real man, sure of his strength and place? Still, she conceded, Aisha had remembered Steve in his time of need. To Aisha, who never thought of him as quite a man to begin with, perhaps it wasn't so high a price for Steve to pay to become Ahmed's plaything. It was a bitter thought, and one, she had to admit, was probably right: ~I had willingly become Sabirah to keep my head. I have no one else to blame - and to keep on living, I would do it again.~ But that was in the past; it was the future that concerned her now. She thought on what might make it bearable: Aisha had said, "When you learn your place, Sabirah, we will be friends, but we can never be friends in the same way again." ~You saved my life and I owe you. If I disappoint Ahmed it will hurt you as well as me, so I will do what must be done willingly. Perhaps we will be friends again as you say, but I'm not counting on it.~ "That was to soften you up," came a voice from the corner. Sabirah looked up. ~So, the girl has decided to come to life.~ She was a pretty blonde in a pink jumpsuit, the same type as her own. "Softened - I feel like a piece of meat ready for the grill." The other girl giggled - a bit strangely, Sabirah thought. "The name is Janice Eagen. What's yours?" "Sabirah Gerard. Are you a Yank?" she asked, surprised, recognizing the accent. She had never seen one before except on the news. ~The Great Satan. Americans are a depraved people, they routinely torture, rape, rob, and murder all who oppose them.~ At least dhimmis had some protection. The Caliphate was bad enough, but from what she'd heard, these bloodthirsty monsters had no morals at all. She grinned, and held out her hand. "Born and raised in Talahassee, but I guess I'm a slave now. You a slave, too, Sabirah?" Sabirah ignored her outstretched hand. "I don't mean to be rude, but just talking with you could get me into a lot of trouble." She shrugged. "S'alright, Sabirah. You're probably right. For all we know this place is bugged. If there was a fiber buried in the wall, we'd never know." She laughed, a little crazily. "Yeah, you Muzzie bitches!" she shouted. "We'd never know!" Sabirah winced. ~Wonderful. She's insane.~ Janice's eyes flashed. "I'll tell you what, Sabirah. You sit there and listen, or stick your fingers in your ears. Hell, maybe I'm making it all up. With all the drugs and zappin' between my ears, I could be completely nuts!" Sounds of boots running down the hall penetrated the cell. Janice sighed. "It looks like I don't have much time. I've heard what you've been told, but it's bullshit. The world is divided into two roughly equal parts. Mutual Assured Destruction is back. There are over thirty thousand nukes aimed at you from our side and who knows how many from yours. Complete annihilation is the only thing stopping the Caliphate from destroying us. You're on the other side because your ancestors gave up, stopped believing in themselves. The bastards handed your freedom away with a whimper and a stupid sneer of superiority, pretending that cowardice was virtue. The US, after a few hard lessons, is still free behind walls and a tight security system ..." She looked up at the sound of women buzzing like angry hornets outside the door. She twisted her face into a frown. "Look, I don't have anything against you. It's not your fault. You've been suckered into this. But someone should know the truth." The door clicked open. "Oh well, times up. Who knows, today maybe they'll make me a nice docile female for somebody's harem ..." She beamed. "Or maybe not!" Two women broke in and grabbed Janice, and a third injected her with a syringe. She went unconscious almost instantly, and they removed her, glaring at Sabirah on the way out. Sabirah said nothing and looked straight ahead, making believe that she hadn't heard a thing. She didn't want another beating. The next morning, the familiar tread of boots in the hall awoke her. They stopped outside and Sabirah lurched to her feet, sore and startled, instantly afraid. The door buzzed and a woman in her forties in a blue abaya entered the room. The woman said nothing at first, merely observing her. Sabirah eyed her warily. Her face was stern, but lines around her eyes told her that she could smile occasionally. It was small comfort; it had been amply demonstrated that any woman could beat her at any time. She bowed, making sure she couldn't be faulted for manners. "Sabirah, I'm Farah," she said in a pleasant, even voice. "You may call me 'Sister Farah.' Get out of those clothes and into these." "Yes, Sister Farah," she replied. She moved quickly, ignoring the pain in her legs and back, and exchanged her jumpsuit for a pantsuit, tunic, abaya, and hijab with a floral pattern. Sister Farah smiled, touching Sabirah's cheek. "What a pretty girl you are, Sabirah. You will make someone very happy. Come," she said gesturing her out the door and into the hall. "At the obedience school we separate by age and function," Farah said as they walked, gesturing with her index finger for each point. "You are a concubine and house domestic, so you'll attend a class with similar girls. Don't worry. We don't beat students without a reason. Any punishment is designed to speed the learning process." ~How reassuring.~ They pulled alongside a solid pink door. "Ah, here we are," Farah said. Sister Farah pressed the keys of a numeric combination lock beside a solid pink door. The door opened inwards with a click, and Farah ushered her through. Sabirah looked around. What was formerly a moderately spacious hall with red marble columns had been converted to an open barracks with four rows of ten beds each. At a quick count, thirty other girls, all attractive, from mid- teens to early twenties wearing the same clothes and floral design sat on their beds, lounged, or talked with each other. When they saw Sister Farah, they ceased whatever they were doing and bowed towards her. "This is Sabirah," Sister Farah said, holding her shoulders from behind. "I expect that you will help her stay out of trouble." She bent over and patted her on the bottom, sending her forward. "Go on, now, that's a good girl." When the door clicked shut behind her, Sabirah heard sighs of relief. A strawberry blonde in her early twenties slipped through the pack of girls and women. Flashing her green eyes in a smile, she stepped forward, offering her hand. "I'm Katherine, your partner. Come on, let's get you sorted out." Katherine collected her hand and pulled Sabirah past several girls, most greeting her or looking on curiously. She showed Sabirah her bed, which was beside hers, and a trunk of clothes in her size, cosmetics, and hygiene products, which had been moved in the night before. "This is your kit," Katherine explained. "Everything in it is laid out just so. If you deviate at all, you will be punished." Sabirah went to her knees to see, wincing as she bent her legs underneath. Katherine placed her hand on her shoulder carefully, looking into her face. "You arrived yesterday - the guards beat you?" she asked quietly. Sabirah nodded, trying to forget that it had happened. The pain in her legs and back wouldn't cooperate. "I don't want to cry about it anymore. I just want to do my month and leave." "I understand. All of us have been beaten, and all of us are slaves - some with fancy titles - but slaves, nonetheless. It's important to understand that you aren't alone." Sabirah choked back a sob. It was the first time she'd heard a truly sympathetic voice - except for Aisha, but she was ... She put her face in her hands and wept silently, unable to control herself. ~I should be stronger than this! But I'm not. I'm just a girl now, only a slave girl.~ Katherine took her in her arms. "Are you new to this?" She nodded, unable to speak. "I've been a slave for five years. It's never easy, but you will get used to it." Sabirah wiped her eyes dry. "How does anyone get used to this?" She shrugged. "You just do. Most of us do what we're told. Gradually, you learn that it's the easiest way. The girls who fight it are beaten constantly, and are either angry all the time, lose something inside, or go mad." "Do you do what you're told?" She smiled. "Yes - and no. No one, not even a slave, is completely powerless. There are different ways to obey. I obey my master, but a girl or woman is not a machine. I was sent here because I was disobedient, and will return less so, but it is more a matter of discovering where your limits are." She looked up with a twinkle in her eye. "Inevitably, I will try to influence my tiny world. It's just human nature. Here, look around you. Look at all the girls who are in your position. There are probably a hundred million slaves in the world, nearly all women. You aren't unique; this is your family. Remembering that makes it easier." "Are all of them as nice as you?" Katherine laughed. "I suspect that some of them, left to their own devices, are real bitches. But this is the great equalizer: trouble here is not permitted; everyone must do exactly what they're told or be beaten. That means you, too." Sabirah shuddered. "My - my mistress is very strict, and my master too, I think. I don't want to be beaten again, or be sold. I told myself that I would try to behave properly." "Uh huh. Well, you won't have a choice. After a month your attitude and behavior will change. But don't look at it as a defeat. Obedience is the only protection you have, and the wise master will always has a reward for his well-behaved slave." Sabirah rolled her eyes. "Ugh." Katherine pushed a finger into her shoulder. "After a time, you'll enjoy being rewarded and complimented. You won't be able to help yourself." Sabirah glanced at her sideways, not believing it, but Katherine only smiled and nodded. The lessons started later that morning. Most of it was strict discipline with tasks that had to be completed precisely, satisfying multiple "Sisters" and some "Brothers." There was little time to be flustered, and the girls who didn't try hard enough or presented a less than perfect attitude were punished with whatever method was deemed suitable: sometimes with the lash, made to go without a meal, stripped naked, or simply yelled at until the girl broke down into tears. All were punished eventually, and, despite her best efforts, Sabirah was beaten several times, although not nearly as badly as with the guards. Over time, fear of the lash, and becoming accustomed to instant, unquestioned obedience, brought fewer punishments. But it was hard. Not just Sabirah, but fully half the girls cried occasionally at night. Even Katherine, despite her experience, cried once. Lying awake, struggling with another new experience, her first period, Sabirah heard her sniffling. It was dangerous to leave the bed at night. At least one or two girls in each class were spies, slaves who secretly informed on the rest. The beating would be severe for this sort of infraction, and Sabirah nearly didn't go. But very slowly, slipping her nightgown over her hips so she could move more easily, she placed one foot to the cold floor, and then the other, then collapsed to her hands and knees. For once she was glad to be small, and slipped under Katherine's bed to emerge on the other side. "Katherine," she whispered. Katherine lifted her head from the pillow and stared at her. "Get back. You can't be here," she replied very low. Sabirah grinned, her teeth white in the near darkness. "Too late. If I return, I might be seen. I may as well stay here a while." She passed up her hand, and Katherine, after a slight hesitation, took it. "Well, at least I know you're not one of the spies." She looked at her for a moment. "Thanks for coming. It was a nice thing to do, especially when I only have two days left. You have another two weeks." Sabirah smiled. It amazed her how much her perceptions had changed lately. She felt closer to Katherine than anyone else she'd ever met. "What are friends for? Do you want to talk about it?" She sighed. "I just hate being beaten for something I didn't do. Sister Farah sent me on an errand and then said she didn't. It's all a part of toughening me up so that I don't ever complain, but I hate it." "Sister Farah is a bitch." Katherine snorted softly, nearly laughing. "Don't let anyone hear you say that. It'll get you in the rack for sure." Katherine squeezed her hand and smiled. "I'll miss you, Sabirah. Please go back to bed. I'll be fine now." "All right. I'll see you in the morning." Sabirah sneaked back slowly. When she was safely under the covers, she knew that she'd been lucky. She lay there, looking up at the ceiling for a time. She was still a slave, but there was more to life than beatings, obedience, and control. There was still kindness in her world, and when one has very little, very little can mean a lot. She glanced around the room, watching the other girls sleep. For the first time, she truly felt herself to be one of them, and life seemed better somehow. Two days later, it was Katherine's time to go. She wore her original clothes, the only things she had come with. She, too, had inevitably become more obedient, although it didn't show as much. "Where do you live, and who owns you, Sabirah?" "London. My family is Ahmed Hussein, and his wives, Aisha and Rihana." "I live in Bristol. My owner is Numair Abdul-Aziz. I wanted to think about you sometimes; the names and places make it easier," she said, rubbing a tear away. Sabirah swept into her arms. "I won't forget you, Katherine." "Neither will I," she replied, and all too soon, she was gone. >From then on it was easier. Being obedient and respectful didn't bother her so much, and gradually became a part of her natural behavior. The rewards began coming her way: a sweet for a good attitude, an extra dessert for prompt obedience, a kind word or pat on the head for attention to detail: all were received with an unconscious flush of pleasure. To a girl whose world is obeying her master, a reward or punishment is equally significant. With these changes, she understood that she was learning her place, as Aisha had described it. Put another way, it was simply learning to accept reality. As a domestic and concubine, she was unlikely to be permitted to behave any other way. About three weeks into her course she witnessed two beheadings, lessons for slaves to never forget their place. One of them was the girl at the cell. At the time, Sabirah was afraid like the rest of the girls. Shocked that it was someone she knew, but already used to being afraid, it didn't register at the time as anything more than yet another reason to be obedient. Sometime after her period, Sabirah noticed Brother Hakeem was interesting. His strength and masculinity fascinated her. While serving him tea, presenting it to him with head bowed, as was expected, his hand touched hers, sending a spark all the way to her new sex. That night, for the first time since Jala had forced her to explore herself, she lifted her nightdress above her waist, and thought about a man. It was forbidden and dangerous. The girls were closely watched, and a few who'd been caught had been severely punished, but Sabirah couldn't help herself. She spread her legs, and her small hand and fingers drifted between, separating the folds of her most intimate place. She found the nodule inside, and teased it slowly, building an unbearable, delicious wall of need. Thrusting two fingers inside, she released in magnificent, shuddering waves that immersed her body in feminine bliss. It was nearly too much, and she bit a corner of her blanket to stop herself from crying out. Now she understood the emptiness, and visualized a remedy. As she lay under the covers, wet, and limp from the afterglow, she took a long deep breath and considered what she'd done and felt. It had finally come: she was, in all ways, save one, a woman. Except for memories of her life before, her manhood was in the past. *** Aisha arrived early, entering the Obedience school a few minutes before the hour. She registered at the front desk and sat down to wait, unsure of what to expect. Sabirah had looked so sad and betrayed when she had dropped her off the month before. ~I have done nothing wrong; if I'd been soft, I would have ruined her.~ Aisha glanced at the time again, her heart picking up the pace as she realized that Sabirah would be here any minute. Composing herself, she stood straight and tall. She recognized Sabirah between the two guards. As she came closer, she seemed different somehow: more comfortable and feminine. Sabirah bowed easily, properly. "Good morning, Mrs. Ahmed," she said, smiling beautifully. She clapped her hands together; this was vindication. ~Praise Allah. She is a delight!~ "Good morning, Sabirah. It's time to go home." Aisha extended her arm and took her hand like the girl she appeared to be. Once back, Aisha called her children and nurse. "Children, this is Sabirah. She will be staying with us." Four year-old Rashid was old enough to tell by the color and cut of her clothing that she was an infidel of low status, although she was pretty. "Hello, Sabirah," he said, curious, but not particularly interested. Hana, a year younger, smiled brightly, and waved her arm. "Hi!" she said. Sabirah bent over, waving and smiling to both. "Hello, Rashid. Hello, Hana." Aisha nodded, encouraged by how Sabirah had responded. Afterwards, Aisha showed Sabirah to her room; then, wanting to make a point, sent her to help the maid. She went off without protest or hesitation. Two days passed. Aisha thought about returning to her first name - "Mrs." was a highly formal address - but decided to leave it until obedience was reinforced. Ahmed was still on business in the continent with Rihana, and would be for another week, so she had Sabirah clean the house, serve her, and go shopping. Once Sabirah appeared surly, and Aisha brought out the strap and whipped her bottom, although not as hard as before; it was a minor offense, more as if Sabirah had been testing her. Aisha felt badly about making her cry, but Jala had warned her that Sabirah would challenge her resolve occasionally. The second time Aisha thought Sabirah was taking too long with a task. When she whipped her this time, the strap was wielded with less hesitation: what had been painful to Aisha before had become a necessary chore to ensure Sabirah's obedience. Jala had told her that compliments and rewards were as necessary as punishments, so, after two consecutive days of flawless service, Aisha called her into her room, and placed her hand on her cheek. "You have learned well, little Sabirah, and I'm delighted with you." Sabirah blushed. "Thank you, Mrs. Ahmed." Pleased by her response, she said, "Sabirah, you may now address me by my name." Sabirah smiled. "Thank you, Aisha." Aisha took her hand and led her beside her on the couch. "It's been hard on you, but you've learned your place. I hope you understand why it must be this way." She nodded. "I do, Aisha." Aisha brushed her hair with her hand. It was longer now, but it was still too short, not quite to her shoulders. "Tell me how you feel." When Sabirah looked up the gratitude in her eyes brought Aisha close to weeping. "Aisha, I will never forget that I owe you my life. To live, I chose to become a concubine, a slave. It was hard at first, but I don't resent you for treating me as what I am." She brought a hand to her face to cover a gasp. Everything she had hoped for was coming to pass. "Do you fear me?" "Sometimes. I know now that you will whip me if I am not absolutely obedient. But you aren't cruel." ~Praise Allah that she understands.~ "Are - are you happy, little Sabirah?" She smiled. ~I've learned to be happier with less, but it's true enough.~ "Often, but right now, I'm worried about your husband and Rihana. Aisha, may I ask a question?" "You may." She bowed her head respectfully. "If you don't mind telling me, I don't know why I'm here - a concubine when your husband already has two wives." She nodded. "Yes, you'll need to know. Ahmed is very wealthy as well as being a strong, healthy man. He wanted a third wife. When I found out that the Council was going to have you killed, I suggested to Ahmed that a concubine would serve him better, a girl made to his specifications, and where he might exercise his contempt for the infidels." She smiled, patting Sabirah's hand. "As I told you already, that last part is really a game with him. As pretty as you are, I doubt that he'd hurt you, if you played along. In any case, I guaranteed him that he'd be pleased with you if he let me handle the details, and he agreed. "But I underestimated the expense. The gifts to the Council to make it look as if you'd been executed, the change in records to give you a past as Sabirah, the transformation costs, the obedience school that ran a month instead of the week I'd budgeted: they've added up to a fortune. "Ahmed expects a great deal of you. If he isn't satisfied, he'll be very upset with me, likely acquire a third wife, and sell you." Sabirah's eyes blurred with tears. ~After all this to be sold ...~ "I will do whatever you say." ~The poor girl is terrified.~ Instinctively, she reached out her hand. "You'll do fine. I saw it at the school - you're a complete woman now. It's best not to