Wild times in Oman
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The Woman From Oman free porn video
Editor's note: I wish to pay tribute to the wonderful Throne and the
terrific C.C. (or is it the other way around?) for their fine
stories.Throne wrote Lost in a Harem. C.C. wrote The Slave Market. I
have read both several times, along with Sheena Sands' Dave the Harem
Slave, It's fair to say these stories of lost freedom make me swoon. So
I took a shot at a harem story myself. I hope you will enjoy. Oman is
real. The khanith are real. Muscat and old Muscat are real. Indulge me
the rest, please.
C
The Woman from Oman
By Cassandra Morgan
Hot. My God, it was bloody hot.
It was clay oven hot. It was a birds sweating hot. It was gagging, car-
exhaust hot. It was Lucifer-by-the-pool hot.
We de-boarded the airplane at Muscat International, and I wanted to turn
around and fly right back to England. It was oppressive. It was hot
enough so the camels would bitch about the heat. It was hot.
I left the plane, and already, I felt awkward. I was wearing a long
black robe, a bukka, with dashes of red in it. There was a jewel on the
chest. Amir, the head of our delegation, had told me that this was
proper attire fo a young man in Oman. But around me, others seemed to be
dressed more conservatively. Most of the men seemed to be wearing white
robes. Some of them were in business suits.
I walked, and people stood and stared. They spoke Arabic, or a language
known as belochi. Clearly, I was as much of an oddity to them as they
were to me. I suppose they had not seen a pale man before.
We were here on a press junket from Today in London, a weekly news-
magazine. As I understood it, Oman was trying to expand its tourist
base, and so, for once, they were reaching out to the Western Press. We
had come to do a photo essay on the country, a small country at the
mouth of the Arabian Sea that was surrounded by Saudi Arabia, Yemen and
the United Arab Emirates. Across the sea is Iran.
"Welcome to my country," Amir said. "We are not Lawrence of Arabia. We
are not Aladdin. We are a modern nation."
He smiled and bowed. He was a medium sized man with a toothy grin. "We
are the 70th most aggressive nation in the world," he said. "We are
peaceful. No terrorism here. We are here to display our beaches and our
mountains. We are a lovely country. You will see."
This, of course, was the beginning of the hard sell. Any journalist will
tell you about it. These people weren't oppressed; they were hard-
working. Those women weren't without rights; they were faithful. It
wasn't really hot outside; it was temperate. Camels didn't smell; they
were wonderful creatures. And so forth.
The thing is, Oman is one of the more welcoming of the Gulf states. It's
a smallish country (4.6 million) under the rule of Sultan Qaboos Bin
Said. It's a former Portuguese Colony that is a big fishing community.
We moved through the airport, and the shops were lively. Coffee. Wares.
Dates. Yeah, this could be a fun excursion.
I glanced at Valerie, the lead writer of our group. She grinned at me
with a mysterious smile. A group of children approached me and tugged on
my bukka.
"I think they like me," I said.
"Well, they certainly think your attractive," Val said.
I looked at her. I kept walking. Nearby, a woman pointed at me and
whispered to her son.
"Amir...Amir," I said, getting his attention. "Why are these people
staring at me?"
He grinned. "They're just most friendly," he said. "Write that down."
"I'm the photographer," I said. "Val's the writer."
He grinned. "Pictures would be nice," he said. "You could be a
centerfold."
I stopped. "Could you please tell me what's going on?" I said.
"Oh, Sammy," he said. "I'm afraid a joke has been played upon you.
That's, well, that's a woman's bukka that you're wearing."
Val burst out laughing. "But you're very pretty," she said.
"Oh, my God," I sputtered. "You didn't."
Across the way, two soldiers looked at me. They laughed.
"You see," Amir said. "Life is better here in Oman. We have laws against
a man imitating a woman, against a man lying with another man. But no
one has bothered you, have they? As long as you don't cause a commotion,
I think even khanniths will be okay. You might even get a date. Now come
along, my lady."
I rushed toward the men's room to change.
"Stop," Amir said. "You do not want to wear women's clothing into the
men's room. The men there may not understand."
I nodded. "Where can I go?" I said. "I have to get out of these
clothes."
"They look nice on you," Amir said. "Do not bring attention to yourself,
Sammy. Just get into a car in our caravan. What is it you English say?
Do not get your panties into a wad."
Val laughed loudest of anyone.
"You look hot," she said. "And not just because it's 102 degrees."
* *
Later, at the hotel's reception welcoming us, the ribbing continued. We
moved around the grand ballroom, snacking on local seafood. There was
even alcohol, even though I read there wouldn't be.
A big man with a shaved head saw me and smiled.
"Hello, mademoiselle," he said. "I am Jabar. You're looking lovely."
"Ha ha," I said. "I was tricked."
"Were you?" he said. "And perhaps the wind of destiny blew across you."
"What do you mean," I said.
"I mean that perhaps you are supposed to be in women's clothes," he
said. "Perhaps you are khanith."
"I'm sorry. I don't know that term."
"It is a man who functions as a woman," he said. "Some call them Khawal.
Or bacha bazi. You know. Alternate lifestyles."
"I ... I thought being gay or trans was forbidden here," I said. "My
travel guide said it was illegal."
"It is. And yet, it exists. There are thousands of transgender women
here. It is a part of nature. They just learn to keep a low profile in
our culture. You will find your own kind."
"But I'm not.."
"As you say. But the Sultan has given you permission to dress as a woman
for as long as you are part of your entourage. If he says you are to be
accepted, it is done."
He bled into the crowd. As he left, he winked at me. He smiled.
As he left, Val came up. "You still mad at me, Samantha?"
"I'm not Samantha, damn it," I said.
"Ooooh," she said. "Time of the month?"
"Please stop," I said. "We're in a third-world country where being
transgendered is a crime, and you think it's acceptable to put me into
women's clothing? It's not funny."
"Oh, it's a little funny," she said. "Just think how cute you'd look
with a little eyeliner underneath your shayla."
She was still laughing when Amir approached us. He looked serious.
"Sammy...can we talk for a minute?"
He pulled me into the hallway. "Sammy, we have a problem," he said.
"A problem?"
"I'm afraid so. The authorities have just informed us. Sammy, they think
you're a real khanith. A cross-dresser. They have designated you that
way. It means you should dress as a female, but you cannot leave your
hotel. It's kind of like diplomatic immunity. The anti-transgender laws
do not apply to you."
"I don't need immunity, Amir. I don't dress as a woman."
"Well, you'll have to. For a few days, anyway. Local dress or western,
it's your choice. But for a few days, you have to be female, or there
will be hell to pay. It would cause the Sultan to lose face if he bent a
law and you refused to take advantage. They'll decide you're CIA. They
always decide unwanted visitors are CIA. You'll be locked away for a
very, very long time."
"Can't you explain that this was just a gag?"
"Oh, certainly. The Omani police are known for their grand senses of
humor," he said. "Listen, this is something you are being allowed to do
by the Sultan and his people. He is the law. And if he grants you
permission to be khanith, then that's what you will be.
I slumped. "But who will shoot photos for our magazine?"
"Freelancers," Amir said. "There are always freelancers."
"Christ!" I said.
"Not around here," Amir said.
* * *
The next morning, I was lying around my hotel room in khakis and a t-
shirt when Amir came by.
"No, no, Sarafina," he said. "You must dress properly. As a woman. The
Omani police will be checking."
"Checking what? Being trans is illegal, so I'm doing something legal.
They're going to roust me for that?"
"It is a distinctive monarchy, Sarafina," he said.
"Who is Sarafina?"
He smiled. "You are, my lady. Do you not like your new name?"
"I'm Sammy."
"Sarafina is an Islamic name," he said. "It means burning fire. Like the
desert. Like your eyes. It suits you."
"Call me what you want," I said, annoyed. "I just want out of this
sandbox and away from Ahab the fucking Arab."
He smiled. "The sheik of the burning sand."
"You know that song?"
"It was very popular when we were children," he said. "He had a camel
named Clyde."
'For crying out loud," I said. "This dump has never heard of ice cubes,
but it's heard of Ahab the Arab."
"We have culture," he said, proudly. He handed me a skirt and a blouse,
Western style. I grabbed them from his hand. "Your shoes are in the
closet," he said.
The blouse was white silk. The skirt was blue. The heels were blue. I
rolled my eyes. Amir handed me mascara.
This was absurd. I was being forced to perform an illegal activity under
threat of the law. Did this strike anyone else as odd? It was like
traveling the American West and being told that stage-robbing was a
crime, and therefore, you are required to rob stagecoaches.
That night, we had a government reception in honor of our story
production. I wore a long black dress and a blonde wig. Black heels and
makeup. I felt like a clown.
One by one, I was introduced to the male dignitaries in the crowd. Some
of them wore the white Bukkas. Some wore military-style jackets, all
adorned with ribbons. Amir escorted me around the room, my hands folded
around his bicep. I was Sarafina, but I felt like Scarlett O'Hara.
At one point, I looked across the room. There was Jabar. He tipped his
hat toward me. I nodded and continued to move around the room.
"Well, aren't you a vision?" a voice said.
I looked up. It was Val. "Are you going to ride my ass a little more?" I
said.
"Well, do you have a strap-on?" she said, giggling.
"Stop it."
"Oh, I'm just teasing my sister," she said. "You seem to be very popular
with the men. Make sure you bring condoms."
I sighed. "Val," I said. "This isn't my doing."
She leaned in. "Ever been fucked on a beach of the Arabian Sea?" said
whispered. "You'll like it."
Then she smiled and walked away.
* * *
The next day, the clothing felt better. And the day after. And the day
after that.
It was logical. The finest clothes, from the finest fabrics, were
women's clothes. They fit better than men's clothing. They looked
better. And so it was natural that my comfort level grew. I had never
dressed in girls' clothes growing up, but I began to remember the look
of my sister's prom dress, of my mother's dancing dress. Yes, I had been
tempted.
And heels? I loved heels from the start. I loved the extra height they
gave me. I loved the shape they gave my legs. I liked underwear. I liked
dresses more than skirts. I liked hose.
"Perhaps," Amir said to me one day, "you should apply for work at the
hotel."
"As what?"
"They have cleaning ladies. They import them from Nigeria and the
Philippines. You could break up your boredom by getting work. They have
the prettiest uniforms."
"Fuck that," I said. "I'm a lousy cleaner."
"You can improve," he said. "Our maids find extra motivation."
"No thank you," I said. But that afternoon, I passed a maid's cart in
the hallway. I looked at saw a dark-skinned maid at work. I smiled.
Something for a rainy day, I thought.
One day, when I was trying to watch "Cheers" in Arabic, the telephone
rang. I answered, wondering if the line might be bugged. I had read that
they often are.
"Hello," I said.
"Sarafina?" the voice said. "Sarafina, this is Jabar. The bald man you
have seen at parties."
"Oh, yes. Jabar. Can I help you?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "Sarafina, there is a party on Saturday night. Many
Khanith. Much alcohol. I thought of you. Would you like to be among your
own kind? Come with me. Allow me to be your escort."
"I'm not..." I started, and then I stopped. Maybe I was.
"Sorry?"
"I mean, I'm not allowed to leave the hotel. The police seemed very
strict on that."
"Ah, guidelines, not laws," he said. "There will be others at this
party. Please come."
"I shouldn't."
"Yes, Sarafina. You should. It will not be complete without you."
"Are you sure I'll be okay?"
"What could happen?" Jabar said.
And so I agreed to go to a party at an apartment near the airport. Jabar
was going to send a car. Finally, I was getting out of this hotel jail.
But I would wish I had not.
* *
On Saturday, I was wearing a red a-line dress and matching heels. My
hair was covered by a short, sassy wig. I had on full makeup.
And I left as the stars twinkled above.
It really is a pretty country, Oman. There are buildings with the
swirling domes of the Middle East beside a smaller adobe house near the
ocean across from a mountain. The full moon shone down. We were not far
from the Wada Ghul, Oman's Grand Canyon. The Nakal isn't far away. There
is old town, with its twin spires.
I wondered about the music I would hear. Was it the wailing of the
Marketplace, where customers waited to have a section of eel lopped off
by the butcher? Was it British rock? Was it rap, which was conquering
the world?
The car rode for miles. Finally, it pulled up next to a modern apartment
building. The driver pointed to door 3A. I knocked.
Instead, the Beatles were playing. Figures. A lot of women were dancing,
some of whom didn't look quite like women. There were hard looking men
chatting them up.
Jabar came over and kissed my hand. "Lovely Sarafina," he said. "Dance
with me."
We started to sway to the Western music. I felt extremely feminine as a
trans woman at a trans party. I felt pretty.
And then all hell broke loose.
Suddenly, the door gave way, and there were men shouting, and women
screaming and running. I grabbed Jabar's hand, but my grip was pulled
away. Two Omani policemen had me then, and they were physically carrying
me toward a police van. They threw me in the back of it with two other
women. It was odd that only the women were being arrested.
The policemen kept. yelling at us, but I couldn't make out a phrase. I
tugged at my dress, trying to find some modesty in the situation. One
policeman turned to the other. "Homosexual," he said. "Khanith."
If this was England, we would wait to be charged and assigned a
solicitor. We would get quick justice.
Instead, we were thrown into a cell that smelled like a dungeon from the
Crusades. I think I stepped into Robin Hood's pee.
There was no lawyer, no charges. There was just us, behind iron bars. It
was lonely and empty and cruel.
I'm not sure how long we were there. Days, certainly. My dress was
filthy by the end, and I smelled. I kept trying to talk to the guards,
but no one spoke my language. I was one miserable Khanith, that's for
sure.
Finally, after about a week, I had a captor who spoke broken English.
"Help me," I pled.
"You are khanith," he said. "You may die."
Die? Me? For wearing a dress I didn't even want to wear?
"You are CIA," he said. "CIA spies must die."
"I'm not CIA," I said. "I'm a photographer."
"You are spy," he said. "James Bond. You shoot pictures that the Sultan
would not want published."
"No," I said. "I shoot vacation shots that he wants published."
"You are homosexual," he said. "You and that one suck each others
cocks,"
I looked at Ghalara, my cell mate, "We do not," I said. "We are Khanith.
Not homosexual."
"You will not suck my cock?"
"I will," Ghalara said. "I want to."
"Ha," the guard said. "You are cheth."
"Please, sir. Can. you call Amir Rhaghani at the Hotel Muscat? Can you
tell him I am in jail awaiting trial?"
"There will be no trial for you," the guard said.
"No trial?"
He smiled. "No," he said. "You will go to the slave market in old
Muscat, the ancient city. You will fetch a nice price. Homosexuals are
very popular as slaves."
I collapsed, the tears filling my eyes.
* *
It was a perverse way of doing business, but once we had been identified
as slaves, our treatment became much better. We were fed regularly. We
had dental checkups. We had salon workers come in to see if we were
worth bidding on. The better shape we were in, the higher price we would
draw. We wore skimpy outfits, not quite Harem outfits, but close.
Anything to remind us we were chattel. There was a price tag on us.
They shot my lips with collagen. They had my makeup tattooed on. They
pierced both ears and my navel. They taught me to belly dance. They
bought me a chastity belt; the winning bidder would get the key.
One day, the head jailer put a needle into my neck. My world went dark.
When I awoke, I had a lovely set of breasts. Overnight, I had been given
implants. I was warned the winning bidder might want them to be bigger.
In the middle of each day, businessmen would come by our cell. They
would reach out and squeeze my breasts. They would check my teeth as if
I was a racehorse. They would fondle my cage. It was demeaning, as if I
were a prize cow to be sold. Young men would stop by. Old men. One old
woman.
"Can she cook?" one man asked.
"Yes. Yes. She fine cook. Will feed you."
"Does she clean?"
"Yes, yes. She will keep your home spotless."
"Is she sexy Khanith?"'
"Yes. Yes. She is vixen in the bed. You will see. Blowjobs every
morning."
"Can I try sample?"
"No, no. You must purchase first. No one rides someone else's horse
until it wears their saddle."
The feeling was hopeless. Perhaps most people believe they can imagine
slavery, but they cannot. Can you imagine the indignity of being someone
else's property? Of having them attach a leash to your collar and lead
you around. Can you imagine their probing hands over your body? Can you
imagine eating off the floor because your slave master wants a bidder to
see you grovel?
Damn it, I was not a slave. I was a free Englishman, born of a nation
that had conquered the world.
But every day, I became more and more of a slave. The guards abused us.
Of course they did. They told the bidders that we were to be left alone,
that we were virgins for sale. But our lovemaking skills needed work,
too. They seemed to like buttsex even more than blowjobs, even thought
we got a mouthful daily. Hell, we were slaves. What we were going to do?
Complain to the union?
Frankly, I began to enjoy it. I don't know Maybe I was bisexual all
along. Maybe my mind was warped from captivity. But I surrendered to
these bronzed men. I kneeled for them, opened my mouth for them, lifted
my ass for them. I went from allowing it to wanting it, from wanting it
to begging for it. I loved the shape of a cock, the bulbous head and the
veined shaft and the way it became hard in your hands. I was sure that
if some day I was freed, I would still pursue men. I would be a street
whore. Yes, I learned. They had those in Oman, too. They had all vices;
it was all just cloaked.
Most days, I stared at the floor for hours. (There was no window). But
after several months of this, I glanced up, and there was Amir. My old
friend.
I rushed to the bars. "Thank heaven," I said. "I'm glad to see you."
"Hello, Sarafina," he said.
"It's...it's Sammy," I said.
He smiled. "You're looking well, Sarafina," he said. "You're very
lovely. I'm sure no one could tell that you're Khanith."
"Amir...I thought slaving was over."
He smiled. "There are always slaves," he said. "All over the gulf. All
over the world. There are always Harems. Look at Utah in your United
States. They have polygamy. Is there a difference between a man with
three wives and a Harem owner? Again, it's something we don't talk
about. It just is."
"But I'm not Omani."
"It doesn't matter when it comes to slavery, Sarafina. You're young.
You're strong. You'll do well."
"Amir...what about Val. Does she know?"
He smiled. "Val has gone back to England, Sarafina. Photographers come,
photographers go. You are just a page in her calendar. On the other
hand, you will be a woman from Oman. A queen of the desert. You will
join a rich man's harem, and the oil profits will keep you in grapes for
years. You will be a slave, but you will be well off."
"No, Amir. Please."
"Ah, lovely Sarafina. I wish I could bid on you myself. You would please
me with your ass."
"Be joking. Please be joking."
He laughed. "You were a fine woman to mold, Sarafina," he said. "So you
know, it was me who set up your airport stroll in a woman's bukka. It
was me who convinced the Sultan's people to give you permission to wear
dresses. It was me who had the cops raid your party. You were a slave
girl from the time you boarded the plane at Heathrow. Oh, I wish I could
be there when your new owner fucks your ass, Sarafina. You will squeal
in a most delightful way.
"It isn't money, Sarafina. It is the power of the will. It is being a
true Master. It is taking this young knanith and giving him breasts to
swing in the heat."
I looked over. The guard was laughing. Everyone admires power. Most of
us admire manipulation. We love nature films where a lion eats a
gazelle; who ever cheers for the gazelle?
* *
It was a long time later, I don't know how long, that they came for us.
They put a leash on Ghalara, and then on me, and then on Sapphire. They
led us through old town to a makeshift stage. A crowd gathered, some to
watch, some to bid.
Gjallara fetched 3400 rial. She seemed pleased. A gray-haired man with a
long bid won her. The crowd applauded him.
And then I was up.
The slave master had me turn. He had me lift my arms. He opened my
shirt.
And then the crowd was chanting and bidding.
I heard vague terms I had come to know. Khanith. CIA. English. London.
Blowjob. Pussy.
The crowd was in a frenzy now, bidding and shouting and laughing. I
think the fact that I was white helped me. I was young. I was healthy.
My breasts looked good. My ass.
A dark-haired man was the most spirited bidder. I tried to imagine
belonging to him. A gray haired man bid twice, then bowed out. A balding
man took the lead. I felt fear, and desperation, and remorse with every
person who would bid. I didn't want any of them.
Finally, a voice rang out. I turned my head, and I saw the skin from his
head shine in the lights. Jabar! What the hell was he doing here.
He bid $3400 rial. I was his. He owned me. I was a house or a car or a
boat. I was property. He could tell me when to wake, when to sleep, when
to go to the bathroom. He could order me to have sex with him. Or with
his friends. Or with anyone he owed five rial to.
A half-hour later, Jabar came and collected me. He led me on a leash
through the Casbah, and the women and children hooting and laughed. He
took me to the blacksmith's, and a heavy ankle chain was attached to my
leg.
He put me in the back of his Volvo, and he began to drive us away. He
stopped at a large house on the outskirts of town.
Two other women ran out. They embraced him. They jabbered at me, smiling
and motioning me toward the house. One of the women was Aza. The other
was Dalia. They were Jabar's wives, his harem. They were also khanith,
like me. The language was a hard barrier, but Dalia had been khanith all
of her lives. Aza had come out in college. Both of them had played a
dangerous game, being trans in a middle eastern nation, an Islamic
nation. I made it because I had permission from the government. But
neither of my new sister wives had that.
Jabar, it turns out, had an affinity for girls like us. All three
members of his harem were trans. I knew enough that I knew he needed to
keep a low profile in his life.
That might, he asked me to his chambers. He had me feed him, and then
dance for him. He smiled. He stood and removed his clothing. He motioned
to me.
Look, it wasn't because I was his slave. It wasn't because I was wearing
a dress. It wasn't because I had been through hell for the last year.
But I submissively sank to my knees, and I took him into my mouth. He
was a strong Omani man with a good teeth and a flat stomach and bulging
shoulders. A girl could do worse. I loved it when his cock spewed forth.
I liked buzzing him. I liked it when Aza and Dalia came in and began to
stroke us both.
It was nice. Dalia kissed Aza, and Jabar kissed me, and w were a tangle
of arms and legs. Three khanith and a strong, sweet man who took care of
us all....and who let us take care of each other. Technically, it was
slavery. But we were fed and cared for. Where else were we going to go?
Across the sands?
Ana was the younger of the two, perhaps 19. She had dressed as a
daughter for most of her life. She was pretty and funny and had splendid
lips. Dalia was darker. She was a slave from Gabon. She was trans, but
she had married a lawyer until she was abducted.
Then there was me. Together we sang. We kissed. We loved.
No, for the first time since I left London, I belonged.
I felt at home.
* * *
I probably never would have had the chance to be released if Amir had
not been caught trying to sell a man into slavery back in London. The
man's wife wanted him dead, but Amir liked being a slave trader.
As it turned out, the wife was an undercover cop. Amir faced a very very
long sentence.
So he squealed, and one of the things he gave up was his activity on the
Omani market. He had sold eight of us, it turned out, young men who had
vanished, who would not be missed after a week.
The men in suits came to Jabar's home on a Thursday, acting like
liberators. They told me to pack a bag, that I was going home to
England. But was England still my home? I was of Oman now. I wore the
traditional clothing, Hijabs and bucks and abayas. I cleaned and I
cooked and I tended to a small garden behind our home.
Jabar was with the men. "It is time for you to go, Sarafina," he said.
"I do not wish to go, my husband," I said.
"We are not married, girl," he said. "You know that."
"In my heart, I am married," I said.
"All of England waits. The queen is getting old," he said.
I smiled. "Aza and Darla would miss me, and I them," I said.
"Sarafina, these men will arrest me for owning slaves," he said. "You
must go."
"Who is a slave? I am merely a wife tending to her family. I live here."
"Lady," one of the men said. "It's okay. No one will hurt you. You don't
have to be a slave anymore."
"Is that camel a slave? Does he think of himself that way? Is that goat
a slave. No. They merely live here, because people are kind to them.
Jabar is my husband. Allah has decreed it. Now go. You do not take a
woman from her home. Now, that would be slavery."
Eventually, the two men gave up trying. I wanted them to. I turned my
head, not even wanting to watch as they drove away.
What is freedom? It is the ability to choose. Well, I had chosen. There
was no place in England I wanted to be. No place away from Jabar that I
wanted to live. A slave? That is just a label. I was a woman who had a
family who loved her.
To me, that was why the moon hung in the sky.
(c) copyright 2019 Cassandra Morgan
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