Daima - Part 2: Sheikha free porn video

Daima - PART 2: Sheikha Introduction to Part 2 "Mashallah. That is, indeed, excellent progress," said the Emir. "Alhamdulillah." "Alhamdulillah," the Finance Minister agreed, feeling a satisfied glow. His gamble had paid off. The data science algorithms installed by his finance team had increased profits for the Emir by over 8 billion Dirhams, over 2 billion US dollars, per year. All by changing the timing and collection of payments and the prioritization of monetary assets across investments. Paul, now Daima, was the goose which laid golden eggs. And now he was a she: a devout Muslim woman and a citizen of the UAE. Safely secured and forever under the Emir's control. "I am surprised," said the Emir, "that a white devil, a man, would debase himself in this way. This is the influence of the west, is it not? A culture which feminizes men and masculinizes women, and this is the result. Men easily coerced to become women and enslave themselves to our superior culture." "Yes, your highness," agreed the Finance Minister. "It is most remarkable. We were fortunate that it worked out so well." "Alhamdulillah," said the Emir. "Alhamdulillah," agreed the Finance Minister. "An admirable return on investment. How much more profit margin can we expect?" "We are getting close to our theoretical limits. As you know, our goal is 10 billion Dirhams, and I am confident that we can get there. Beyond that," the Finance Minister shrugged. "Already the models are decaying and require attention." "Decaying?" "Yes, your highness. The models need to be continuously tuned or retrained to maintain our advantage. The model predictions guide our actions which themselves act as market moving forces." "But I thought you said that there was no large action that could be tracked?" "Indeed, that is true, your highness. All of the adjustments are transactions so minor, one is astonished that they add up to such an improvement in profits, but they do. The problem is that the actions when taken collectively act as an invisible hand." "The invisible hand of Allah," the Emir said, with a feeling of awe. "Perhaps this is how Allah works upon us," the Finance Minister agreed. "With billions or trillions of small moments, always hidden, which in aggregate move his people and show them the way. In our case, the market reacts, slowly, and over time, responds, if you will, to our actions in such a way that the models decay and no longer provide accurate predictions. By acting on the predictions, we create a feedback loop that causes the system change." "Can't the models simply be retrained?" "Yes, Your Highness. Although, sometimes remodeling is also required." "And for that we need the asset." "Yes, your highness." The Emir stood up and stared out the window at the sun and sand and glass which was Dubai, deep in thought, stroking his beard. He had expected this. He had hoped it wouldn't be necessary, for it involved additional risk. It would have been so much cleaner to simply extract the knowledge from the asset and then terminate the program... and the asset. But now, that was no longer possible. It was planning for this eventuality that the asset had been converted to a Muslim woman. It is all part of Allah's plan, the Emir thought to himself, wondering how this would all play out. He felt like that Daima had an important role to play, beyond merely data science, but could not imagine what it was. "Then let's proceed with the next phase of the plan," the Emir said, finally. "Yes, Your Highness." Chapter 9: Two Muslim Girls Over the next few months, Aliya seemed determined to do as many touristic activities as possible. Every weekend, she dragged Daima and one of her brothers or uncles around the UAE visiting sights, praying in beautiful mosques, shopping in the most expensive and luxurious establishments and as well as all manner of outdoor activities. They spent an overnight in the desert on a women-only safari where they did "dune bashing", rode camels, stayed in tents, and had the BBQ dinner buffet and even tried some belly dancing, and where all of the servers and attendants were female. They swam in pools and went to the water parks during women-only times, clad in burkinis. Daima was careful to wear skirted burkini, because she was still concerned that her small bulge would show. Aliya and Daima rode inner-tubes together down lazy rivers, hand in hand, their burkini covering them from head to foot like wet suits (with skirts) and a hoodie so their hair was covered. Even in the pool I feel protected, Daima thought to herself. Even in the pool, I still feel Allah's presence guiding me. For the first time since arriving in Dubai, Daima felt like a part of her country, a true citizen. Like a true Arab Muslim in an Arab country. She and Aliya would walk, arm in arm, dressed in their flirty skirts and blouses, covered by Abaya, wearing hijab, through the streets of Abu Dhabi or old Dubai, having coffee at small pastry shops, trying on new clothes at the boutiques, going to the movies, and doing all of the other touristic sites like the Dubai frame (a big 35 story free-standing golden frame with a clear floor), and indoor skiing at the Mall of Emirates (where they dressed in bulky snow pants and down jackets, their breath coming out as steam in the freezing temperature as they awkwardly worked their way down the slopes a few times before stopping in the middle for hot chocolate at the indoor chalet). And oh, the mosques! They made a special effort to find and pray at as many different mosques as they could. They were so beautiful, with their gorgeous domes, graceful minarets, geometric stained glass windows and serene reflecting pools. Daima was impressed, over and over, at these beautiful monuments to prayer and to Allah. And Aliya seemed determined to pray in mosques as much as possible. Always, of course, they were separated from the men and had to use the women's entrance. They would often arrive early to get a good spot and would be just two of hundreds, sometimes thousands, of worshippers, all praying together, all breathing together. "There have been studies," said Aliya, "that people who pray together... their heartbeats become synchronized." "Really?" asked Daima. "wAllah" [I swear to god], replied Aliya. "Think of it. Hundreds, thousands, of souls, dedicated to Allah, all hearts beating as one." "How beautiful," said Daima, with awe in her voice. "This is your community now," said Aliya, squeezing her hand. * * * They also spent a lot of time with Aliya's family, which was now Daima's family as well. But the first time they were invited to a private dinner (hosted by Aliya's parents), just a week after her Shahada, Daima got a shock. They were standing in the entryway, and Aliya had removed her hijab and Daima was about to do the same when she was stopped. "You need to stay in hijab," Aliya said, blushing slightly. "But..." Daima sputtered. "My brothers and sisters are still ghayr mahram, non-mahram, for you." Daima just stood there, her mouth open. "But..." she said, feeling her eyes well up. "But why did I get adopted then? Is my father, not really my father? Do you mean... that there is no man... who is mahram for me? That I can not be in any man's presence? That I have no proper escort? Aliya!" Tears were streaming down Daima's cheeks and it broke Aliya's heart. She grasped Daima's hands, and held on tightly. Aliya realized again about how they - everyone involved from the Emir on down - were playing games with this poor girl's heart and soul. This poor devout worshipper of Allah who was so trusting but was forever being led into deeper and deeper caves from which she would never be allowed to escape. "Daima," Aliya said, trying to calm her sister. "I will put my hijab back on so you will not feel out of place." "Aliya," Daima sobbed. "Please answer my questions! Is Baba... not my father?" "Of course I am your father," said Hajji Al Muhairi, stepping in at that moment. But then, just as Daima reached out for a hug from her Baba, he stepped back, out of reach. "I'm sorry, my daughter," he said. "Baba? Please! I need you." "We are not mahram," he said. "We can not have physical intimacy." "But... you are my father." "Your adopted father, yes," he said. "It is unfortunate, that Islam considers you to be ghayr mahram to your adopted family, but that is the Islamic view. 'Call them, adopted sons, by the names of their fathers.' Allah is quoted in the Hadiths. It is intended to preserve the original family line of adopted children should disaster strike their family, but it has the unfortunate consequence of creating this barrier between adopted daughters and their new family." "So... I have no mahram family in all of the UAE?" "We may not be mahram family, but we are still your family!" Aliya said fiercely. "We will protect you! Father promised to protect you and to make sure that all of the men in our family protect you as if you were his natural born daughter." "Promised? Who did he promise?" Daima asked. She could feel that something was not right. Aliya looked quickly at her father. Of course, her father had made these promises to the Minister of Finance, when the adoption arrangements were made. "To Aliya, of course," said Hajji Al Muhairi. "But I wouldn't have it any other way, Daima. You are my daughter. "You will obey me, and in return, I will open my house to you. I will find for you a suitable husband. Only once you are married will you finally have a mahram man on whom you can depend." "Is this haraam?" asked Daima, that I am here unescorted. Her voice was so defeated that it broke Aliya's heart. "Should I just leave?" "No, this is not haraam. You are not alone. You are a guest in a household of men. As your guardian, your father, I have given you permission to be here. By the strict rule of Islam, you must be accompanied by a mahram only when you travel over night. As long as you are home before curfew, midnight, then this will not be haraam. Do you understand, my daughter?" "Yes... Baba. I understand," Daima said meekly, not sure what to think. Then why did I get adopted? she wondered to herself. If all of my adopted male relatives are ghayr mahram? What was the point? "Come," said Aliya, leading Daima deeper into the house. Instead of turning left into the main dining room, she turned right, into a smaller dining room to the side. "Kyla," she said, to a Filipino servant setting up something in the room. "Daima and I will have dinner here so that Daima can enjoy our company without hijab. Can you inform Mama?" The servant nodded and rushed out. Aliya encouraged Daima to remove her hijab and abaya, which she did, reluctantly, and hung them from hooks on the wall. Just as she did, Aliya's Mama burst in the door. "What a good idea, Aliya!" she said. The then turned to Daima. "Welcome to our house!" She pulled Daima into a warm hug and kissed her warmly on both cheeks. "Baba told me all about it. I'm so sorry you were not informed ahead of time. Can you ever forgive us?" Tears sprung to Daima's eyes. "Oh, yes, Mama! Of course!" Soon the room was full of women, including Aliya's sister, some cousins (grateful to remove their hijab), aunties and sisters in law, dressed in all manner of clothing from tunics with jeans to gorgeous patterned kaftans, all looking beautiful and animated and all chattering away and snagging food from plates brought in by a virtual army of (all female) Filipino servants. Daima looked around, amazed, as women and girls hugged her and kissed her and asked her questions and suggested she try delicious new tidbits. Daima turned to Aliya and gave her a fierce hug. "Thank you, my sister," she said. "I love you." "I love you too, Daima. And I will always be here for you. Remember that." * * * All this time, Daima still had her penis, although thanks to her intense hormone therapy (she was still receiving injections once a week from Majed, with Aliya in attendance and careful to only uncover her arm for as brief a time as possible), it was soft and small and unusable for penetrative sex. But it was still a source of pleasure. At first, Daima would lay in bed in her nightgown and think about the day and would try to rub herself, usually late at night, after evening prayers. Unfortunately, this was often not satisfying because her member was so soft. Then one night, she discovered the pleasures of her bolster pillow. This was a long, fat, cylindrical pillow which was placed against the headboard after she made the bed. It was just under two meters long and a half meter in diameter. One night, dressed in her long, nylon nightgown with panties and no bra, Daima discovered she could hug the bolster, straddling it with her legs, and then rub herself, humping against it, to a very satisfying conclusion. She realized, of course, that this was exactly what a woman would do, spreading her legs for a man as they made love. I'm a horny Muslimah, Daima thought to herself as she got into bed and arranged the bolster to be her lover. The rough, ridged and expensive fabric of the bolster rubbed deliciously against her nipples and against her small and flaccid member inside her panties (now with panty liner stolen from Aliya to prevent staining). * * * "Daima, can I talk to you? Girl to girl, as Muslims?" Aliya asked, one morning. "Of course." "I've noticed that you've been showering before fajr prayers all this week. Is that because you needed to perform ghusl?" Daima blushed. "Yes, my sister," she said. Daima had taken to calling Aliya 'my sister' when they were alone. "And is that because you've been masturbating at night?" Aliya asked, placing a hand gently on Daima's arm. "I... yes," Daima admitted, staring at her hands, clutched together in her lap. "And are you proud, or ashamed of your masturbating?" Aliya asked. The word was said in such a clinical way that it doubled Daima's embarrassment. Daima felt her face flush bright red and burn hot. "Ashamed," she admitted. "That is good," said Aliya, taking on the tone of a parent or supervisor for a wayward child. "Your shame is Allah telling you that your masturbation is not right. My sister, now that you're Muslimah, you should know that masturbation is haraam." "It is?" Daima asked, looking up at Aliya, her eyes wide with shock. "Truly?" "Yes. Mama explained it to me a long time ago when I reached puberty. It is prohibited all the time according to the Maliki madhhab, which we ascribe to because we are Emiratis." "I see." "But none of that really matters, does it? Your shame is your answer. Your embarrassment is your answer. That is the sign from Allah that masturbation is forbidden. Allahu a'alam." [Allah knows best] Daima said nothing, but just stared down at the floor, wringing her hands. "Don't you agree?" Aliya asked, gently. "Yes, my sister," Daima said, humbly. "Allahu a'alam." She had never, to her knowledge done anything which was haraam before. Of course, she had only recently converted. This was a new experience for Daima, having unintentionally sinned. "So... I am only allowed to have sexual pleasure...?" "With your husband," Aliya confirmed. Daima felt her world collapse around her. As a devout Muslimah, I'm only allowed to have sexual pleasure with my husband? she thought to herself, feeling trapped and constrained. Is that how much freedom I've given up? Until that moment, Daima never seriously thought she would have a husband. She thought she would just live as she was, as Aliya's sister. But now it seemed that Islam and Arabic culture had other plans for her. It looked more and more likely that she would someday be married, despite her best wishes, and the thought scared her. Living with... a man? Being... a wife? To an Arab husband? But if that was the only way to sexual pleasure... Ever since arriving in Dubai, gradually more and more constraints had been placed on her. Paul had been able to browse porn sites, at least when he first arrived. Many were blocked by the Emirates government, but he could still browse sites like Tumblr and get to other sites through VPN. Of course, all of these accesses had been carefully observed by his handlers, unbeknownst to Paul, because he was using a specially hacked browser that recorded all of his encryption keys. But then, once his computer was locked down by the Royal Arabian Corporation, even these sites were blocked. That was when Paul had started dreaming about his conversion, wearing hijab, and becoming a Muslim woman. And now that he was a true Muslim woman, Daima felt the walls move even closer, the trap closed even tighter, restricting her movements and her daily activities even more. Whenever she left the house, she had a male escort and had to wear hijab. She could no longer travel to the US without a visa, not to mention a passport from the UAE government which would require her male guardian's permission. And now she could no longer masturbate? She would feel no sexual pleasure at all... she had to save it all... for her husband? Aliya quoted from the Qur'an: "Did you think that you would enter Heaven without Allah testing those of you who fought hard In His Cause and remained steadfast?" "Allahu Akbar," [God is greater] said Daima. "Allah has saved me. Allah has shown me the way. Without Allah, I wouldn't have you as a sister, or Baba as a father. Allah is responsible for everything that I am and all that I have in this world." Daima paused, strong feelings flowing through her, wanting desperately to be the most devout Muslimah possible, a deep devotion and desire to do everything 'by the Qur'an and the Hadiths' as is only found in the recently converted who are desperate to fit in to their new-found religious community. "I submit myself to the power of Allah and to his infinite wisdom. I place my faith in Allah and His plan for my salvation. You are right, Aliya, I know it is wrong. I know that..." Daima struggled to say the word, "masturbation... is haraam. I can feel that it is wrong. I understand now that this is Allah in my life, trying to show me the way. I so desperately want to be a devout and obedient servant to Allah, and now I realize that I have committed haraam. Oh, Aliya, what should I do?" "The help of Allah is always near," Aliya quoted. "And, Daima, you must return to God through tawba [repentance]. You must be sincere and full of faith in Allah." "But what should I do?" "There are six steps. One, sincerely regret what you have done. Two, carry out any divine duties you missed. Three, return anything you gained improperly. Four, ask for forgiveness from anyone you have harmed. Five, do whatever you can to avoid sin in the future. And six, to give your obedience to Allah, in same measure as you previously disobeyed him. " "Do I... do I need to find a Mufti or something?" "No. Your repentance is between you and Allah alone," Aliya said. "Although, of course I am always here to help." "Thank you." They sat in silence. "Maybe we should pray for guidance?" Aliya suggested. And so they went to the musalla and prayed the prayer of guidance, Salat-l-Istikhar. When they were done, Aliya gave Daima a hug and then asked her if she truly regretted what she had done. "Yes, my sister," said Daima. "I regret it very much. I very much want to be a good and devout Muslimah." "Very good. That is step one. Now I have a suggestion for some of the other steps." "Oh, thank you! Please help me," Daima begged. "Allah is merciful, and he teaches us that we can repent with good works. Since there are no divine duties that you have missed, and no property you have to return, perhaps you could give a donation?" "A donation? Of course! I have plenty of money. I'd be happy to donate it in the name of Allah. But to whom?" "Maybe the Dubai Foundation for Women and Children?" Aliya chose that charity because they do work to prevent human trafficking, which she felt was an uncomfortably accurate description for what they had done with Daima. Perhaps a donation to help others from a similar fate would help ease her conscience. "What a wonderful idea!" Daima said. She did a quick calculation in her head. "How about 200,000 Dirhams?" "Oh, Daima!" Aliya said, shocked. "That is so much money!" "I have plenty," Daima said, shyly. "Well, that should be more than enough. Now there are two steps left, and I think I know how to fix one of them, because I feel that I have sinned as well. I have enjoyed our time together these last few months so much! I never want it to end. But also," Alia looked to the side, ashamed of herself, "like a bad daughter, I told our Baba that I wasn't ready for him to fix me up with find me a husband. But now I realize that this was wrong. And so, I'm going to ask his forgiveness and tell him that I am ready.... that *we* are ready, to accept husbands. To get married. Do you agree?" Daima gulped. Get married? Agree to let Baba fix her up with find her a husband? Did Daima really want that? She had certainly thought about the idea. But doing it was another thing entirely. She loved Aliya and desperately wanted to spend the rest of her life with her sister. But she knew that was impossible. She and Aliya were both too devout and too obedient to Islam. So... she would need to take a husband. "I... I agree," said Daima, at long last. She felt something shift inside of her. She was agreeing to become someone's wife. She was agreeing to become a Muslim wife to a Muslim man. "I know this is hard," said Aliya, giving Daima a hug, her lithe arms comforting around Daima's waist. "But it is necessary. Now for the final step. Making sure that you don't sin in the future. Do you have any ideas about that, Daima?" "I do," Daima said, her hands shaking. "I... I think that I should have bottom surgery.... gender confirmation surgery. So I can become fully a woman. And then... I feel that will... I don't think that... I mean.... I think it would be best. I think that..." Daima took some deep breaths. "I think it's time. I think that this is how I can fully repent for the sin... of masturbating." "Oh, Daima, what a brave and wonderful idea! And I completely agree! It seems very appropriate. Shall I arrange it?" "Yes, please." * * * Like As before, the Emir paid for specialists to be brought in, this time from America, to do the best possible bottom surgery available in the world for Daima. As before, Daima went with Aliya to the private clinic to receive her pre-surgery checkup and blood-work. Only later would Daima discover that this was the Emir's private clinic, as in, he actually owned the entire building and the clinic itself. Further, in a collision of her two worlds, the financial transactions (purchases, invoicing, collections, payments) of the clinic were under the control of Daima's own data science algorithms. The surgery itself went smoothly and the recovery was not as difficult as Daima feared. After two days of complete stillness she was allowed to move. There was some pain (especially when the catheter was removed) but it was not unbearable. Much worse were the occasional waves of panic when she realized what had happened to her genitalia. It took all of her willpower to settle her mind in those moments and return to breathing normally. Prayer helped. "I am a Muslimah," she would say, to herself, before and after her prayers. "Allah yahdina [Allah, guide me]." And, oddly, her dilations also helped. They were performed with a series of plastic dildos, each one a bit larger, which she lubricated and used to gently stretch her new female parts. She was required to do this, initially, five times a day, and so, naturally, she decided to do them before prayers. And so, in this way, penetration by the plastic dilators, the most intimate expression of her new femaleness, became inextricably tied to her devotions to Allah and her commitment to Islam. And as her connection to her female self grew and deepened, so did her commitment and devotion to Islam and Allah also grow and deepen, until the two became one and the same. "I am female, thanks to Allah," she thought to herself. "I have submitted myself to Allah, and Allah has brought forth my womanhood." "I am a woman. I am a Muslimah. I am... forever... Allah's humble servant." Finally, after three months, Daima woke and felt, for the first time, fully settled in her new consciousness. A woman. A Muslim. A citizen of the UAE. "I am complete as a woman," she thought to herself, gently exploring her new female parts. She was amazed at how different they felt. After a period of numbness, they now seemed much more sensitive. And oh, how horny she felt! She so desperately wanted to play wither herself to completion, to masturbate, but new knew it was haraam. In desperation, she would force herself to perform extra prayers whenever she realized she was playing with herself with an intent to self pleasure. As far as her recovery was concerned, the surgeons had examined her and had given her the thumbs-up. After all of the surgery, the hormone therapy, the hair removal, everything.... she was complete. But more importantly, she was ready in her soul. She was truly a woman. And horny woman. * * * "Haha!" Khaled laughed, sneering. "The kus has a kus now." "Indeed, she is fully a woman now." "I'm surprised the Finance Minister let it go this long." "If patience is bitter, the result is sweet," quoted Majed. "I think you love the kus," Khaled taunted. "Bluster is but a front for shame," Majed retorted "I should kill you right now!" The two men jumped up, staring each other down. While Khaled's face was red with anger, Majed maintained an icy calm. "I see how you look at her," Majed said. "I know what you're thinking. Remember that you are her brother. Remember your duty to Allah and the Emir. And remember this, if you so much as touch a hair on her body, I will personally remove your testicles from your body." "You're bluffing." "I know my duty. I follow the orders of the Emir." Khaled pulled back. "What do I care," he said, trying to save face. "She is of no consequence to me." * * * Chapter 10: Dating, Sort of "What's it like to date an Arab man?" Daima asked, as the car pulled up to the restaurant. Daima was wearing a cute, knee-length A-line dress with pantyhose and high-heels under her abaya and hijab. Her face was carefully made up with Aliya's help to give her eyes and especially alluring, Arabic look. She could feel her lipstick when she talked and could smell the delicate perfume on her body. "Dating?" Aliya snorted and giggled as they got out of the limousine. "There is no such thing as dating. That's a western concept." "Then... what do we... I mean..." As they entered the restaurant, Daima could see this was a much bigger gathering than she had expected. The whole family was there! Along with two strange men, both looking very proud of themselves, one younger and one older. "Ya rab! [Oh god!]" Aliya said, grasping Daima's hand and quickly turning away. "What? What's the matter?" "It's... it's..." quickly she pulled Daima to the ladies room. "It's my old boyfriend," she explained. "Your old boyfriend?" Daima asked, eyes wide. "What do you mean?" "We became friends in high school, and messaged each other all the time. This was before Baba learned how to lock me out of the internet. And then after high school, he asked Baba for my hand, and Baba refused! Sent him away! And then I was sent to America to an all women's college for school. Oh, Daima, what is he doing here?" "Are you..." Daima felt a lump in her throat. Why are my eyes watery? she wondered. "Do you still have feelings for him?" she got out, feeling her heart hammering. Aliya reached out and grasped Daima's hands. Aliya's hands were warm and soft. Daima could feel them shaking. "Yes," she said, breathing hard. "Yes, I do. But what does this mean? Do you think that... that Baba...?" The question was left hanging in the air. "There's only one way to find out," Daima said, the ache in her voice was completely missed by Aliya. The two ladies quickly touched up her their makeup (Daima using some lipstick to touch up her lips), before arm in arm, they exited the bathroom and joined the rest of the party. The entire family was looking at them with barely concealed excitement as they approached the table. The two new men were both wearing traditional thawb [white robes], white ghutrah [head scarf] and black agal [black rope head-band which keeps the scarf in place]. "Ah, here come my beautiful daughters," said Hajji Al Muhairi, Daima's adopted father. "After having first gone on a lovely tour of the the ladies' facilities," he teased. "Baba!" Aliya hissed, turning bright red. Hajji Al Muhairi laughed heartily. "Now, I would like to introduce you to our honored guests. Aliya, I think you may already know Mohammad Qassimi?" Daima looked over and could tell that Aliya's heart was beating a mile a minute, as Aliya bowed her head and said, humbly, "it is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Qassimi." "Oh, Aliya," Mohammed said, bowing his head. "How I have ached to see you again." Mohammed smiled a puppy dog grin at Aliya. Daima could see instantly why Aliya would be so smitten with him. "And Daima, let me introduce you to Ahmed Al Nahyan of Abu Dhabi." "A pleasure," said Al Nahyan, bowing. "The pleasure is all mine," Daima murmured, bowing back. Ahmed was an intelligent looking man, fit, in his mid thirties, with a carefully cropped beard and piercing black eyes. His face was jagged and handsome, with a strange angular scar which went from his left eye down and then back to his temple. His lips smiled, showing bright white teeth. "Everyone, sit! Let's eat!" commanded Hajji Al Muhairi. * * * Aliya, Daima and the two men were sat boy-girl, side-by-side, across the table from each other. Daima watched and copied Aliya as she sat humbly, looking forward, never looking Mohammed directly in the face as she talked to him in low, humble, and submissive tones. Although outwardly calm, Daima could tell that Aliya was nervous and bursting inside, just from her eyes, and the way she barely ate anything. "I hear you work as a data scientist," said Ahmed to Daima. "Yes, for the Royal Arabian Corporation." "You must be very smart." "All of my humble talent I owe to Allah," she said, lowering her eyes, but enjoying his praise none the less. "And very modest too, I see," said Ahmed. "That is very important in a wife." Daima felt unwanted butterflies in her stomach. "Tell me about yourself," she said, desperate to change the subject. "I am a wealth manager for Abu Dhabi Wealth Investments," he said. "That is very impressive." Daima looked over and noticed a gold Rolex peaking out from the long white sleeves of his thawb. "It is the family business," he replied. Daima briefly got caught up in his radiant smile and elegantly trimmed mustache and beard. He felt like such a *man* to her. Of course, Daima used to be a man herself, but never had she felt this radiation of manhood as she did with Ahmed. Always she had felt different inside, not a man. And now, thanks to Allah, she understood that this was because she was, in fact, not a man, but a woman. And now she was fully a woman, and it was made official by the fatwa, although, of course, a woman with limitations. But looking at Ahmed as they talked about his job, how he helped to manage the investments of various members of the royal families of Dubai and Abu Dhabi, and how he himself was a third cousin to the Emir, she felt to herself, this is a man. This is a real man. This is a man who has never had a moment's doubt about his manhood... about his abilities to be a man. Ahmed reached over and briefly held her hand, giving it a warm squeeze. His hand was warm and soft. She looked into his eyes and felt her heart give a little thump. "Ahem." Daima looked up, at Aliya who was staring at her with a mirthful delight. Ahmed withdrew his hand, hurriedly. "Sorry!" Daima said, quickly, blushing furiously. The whole table laughed. "Mohammed was saying that he would like to see Nassif Zeytoun at the Dubai opera. Of course his father and mother would chaperone. Would you be interested in going, too? Perhaps with Ahmed?" Daima's flushed with the heat of the attention of everyone at the table. Her robes suddenly felt hot and sticky. She glanced quickly at Ahmed before casting her eyes down. She had no idea who Nassif Zeytoun was, probably some Arab singer. She ached to say 'no'. She ached to just stand up and beg Aliya to just go home with her and the two of them could just watch TV or work on data science or just hang out or pray together like old times. But she could feel that those days had already passed. Aliya, the love of her life, was already gone, her heart had already been recaptured by Mohammed, it was obvious, and now here Daima was, facing a life of loneliness, a life of a single, unattached Muslim woman data scientist in Dubai with an adopted family, and a sister who she could now see was eager to start a family of her own. Of course they would always love each other. But now as sisters... living apart. Daima felt an ache in her core. She breathed a couple of deep breaths and looked up at Ahmed, this time not afraid to look at him, judging him, trying to decide. Ahmed looked back at her, a friendly but amused smile on his worldly and manly face. The whole table held their breath. "Yes, that would be wonderful," Daima said, finally, knowing it was the only answer she could possibly give. "If Ahmed would agree to accompany me." "Oh, I would," he said eagerly, to general laughter. "It would be my pleasure." * * * "Of course he knows," Daima's adopted father said, when she called her Baba afterwards. "Do you think I would leave something like that to chance?" "Of course not, Baba," Daima said, feeling weird alternating waves of shame and relief flooding over her. "He's divorced and older and has two grown children which live with his ex-wife, but then, a girl in your condition can't be choosy, can you?" "No, Baba," Daima said, feeling her face flush. "But, on the other hand, he comes from an excellent family, and he has a good income, a beautiful house and a steady job. It is a propitious match. You are a very fortunate girl." "Yes, Baba." "Now Daima, I expect you to be a good and obedient daughter. You must promise me that you will give this man every opportunity to win your heart." Daima gulped, looking down at Aliya who's head was asleep in her lap in the living room. "Yes, Baba." "Do you give me your solemn promise, Baba, that you will open your heart and your mind to this man?" Daima sighed. She knew her duty. "Yes, Baba," she said. * * * "Come! This way!" motioned Aliya. They were in the ladies' bathroom at the Dubai Opera. Mohammed's father and Aliya's uncle, their chaperones, were waiting for them outside. Aliya pulled Daima into a closet full of cleaning supplies, then pulled out a key. "I got this from Ahmed," she explained, as she unlocked the door at the far side of the closet. "Who bribed the janitor." She opened the door into a hidden back hallway with floors of bare cement and cinderblock walls. "Mohammed?" she called out. "Aliya!" And there they they were! Coming out from behind a corner. "We weren't exactly sure which door--" Mohammed never finished his sentence as Aliya attacked him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a deep kiss like a woman drowning. Daima felt a hand in hers, gently pulling her to the side. "Let's give the love birds some privacy," Ahmed said, pulling her around the corner. Daima tore her eyes away from Aliya, ashamed that she was staring. "Oh!" she said, feeling his arm around her waist. Ahmed pulled their two bodies close. "You are so beautiful," he said, stroking her cheek. Ahmed smelled strongly of cologne and cigarette smoke. To Daima, it was intoxicating and manly. He smiled, his face a rocky surface. "Daima?" he asked, lifting up her chin to look him directly in the eyes. "Could you ever imagine yourself as my wife?" Daima heard soft moans and murmurs of love from Aliya and Mohammed from around the corner. She looked into Ahmed eyes and felt herself get lost in them for just a moment, imagining herself with this strong, successful, confident man, held in his arms, her naked feminine body wrapped up in his as he made love to her, and forced her into pleasure, and protected her and kept her safe as his Islamic wife, part of a larger extended family. With a husband, finally, she could participate in true unfiltered love, the love between a husband and his wife, the love a man for a woman, as written in the Qur'an "Yes," she whispered, a moment of weakness and fantasy sealing her fate. "You have made me so happy," he said, the arm around her waist pulling her in, pressing her body against his, and when she looked up, there he was. With a gasp of shock at his forwardness, Daima felt his hand slip underneath her hijab. His fingers stroked intimately against the bare skin of her neck, making her shiver. And then they were kissing, his mouth tasting of mint, his lips and tongue soft, wet and tender. And, remembering her promise to her baba, Daima opened her mouth and leaned into Ahmed, giving him the signal to continue, and they kissed for real, Daima's first real kiss with either man or woman, her eyes closed, her nipples tingling and her sex aching for his touch, a fog of pleasure and submission taking over as she tentatively, placed her hands around his body and neck and melted, ever so slightly. "Daima," Aliya giggled, tugging on the sleeve of Daima's Abaya. "We need to go! Our escorts are waiting!" Flustered, Daima extracted herself from Ahmed, who couldn't resist giving her one last kiss, his hand running down her body and boldly over her bottom, before the two women ran, giggling like schoolgirls, back into the closet and then into the lady's room. "What took you so long?" Mohammed's father harrumphed, rolling his eyes as the woman finally exited the WC. "Oh, you know," Aliya said, glancing at Daima, her eyes twinkling with delight. "Woman's business." * * * After that evening, all thoughts moved quickly to the wedding. It was decided to have a double wedding, so both couples could get married on the same day and share the same reception. "I can't wait," enthused Aliya. "It will be so beautiful! And it will be a hundred times more special because we will be betrothed together." Although not responsible for the plans, Daima still got caught up in a whirlwind of wedding activity. She helped as best she could, always by Aliya's side, sampling sweets and providing her opinions on every aspect of the ceremony and reception. "We are such lucky girls," said Aliya, squeezing Daima's hand. Aliya was clearly in love, glancing over at Mohammed with starry eyes whenever they were together, and mysteriously disappearing now and then. Daima was caught up in the excitement as well, following Aliya through unmarked doors or turning corners to evade their chaperone, only to find Mohammed and Ahmed there waiting to hold and kiss them. Daima came to enjoy Ahmed's attentions, feeling secure and cared for. His close cropped beard was scratchy when they kissed, but that only emphasized his manliness for her and made her feel even more feminine. 'I have a boyfriend,' she told herself over and over, not sure what to think, but often feeling a giddy sense of butterflies. 'I have a boyfriend and he loves me.' Although, come to think of it, Ahmed had never actually said he loved her. But his attentions were always so affectionate and caring that of course he must. * * * "Daima, I need to talk to you," Ahmed said, arriving at Aliya's family house as the ladies were busy finalizing the guest list and addressing wedding invitations (with such gorgeous Arabic calligraphy, does everyone in Dubai have such beautiful writing? wondered Daima). "Of course, Ahmed," Daima said, lowering her head submissively like she imagined a good girlfriend (soon to be a good wife!) would do. The two moved to the far side of the room where they could talk privately while still being observed for propriety, Daima took a moment to adjust her hijab so it would drape beautifully around her neck. "Yes, Ahmed?" she asked. "I understand that you are inviting your mother to the wedding." "Yes, Ahmed." "She can not come to the wedding," Ahmed said, on the edge of angry. "I will not allow it. You must call her now and tell her that she can not come." "But Ahmed!" Daima pleaded, tears springing to her eyes "She is my only guest, my only family! My mother has already bought her ticket!" "You have plenty of money to refund her ticket," said Ahmed. "I will not allow her to come. Now be an obedient woman and call her and tell her she can not attend." "But why?" "I should think the reason would be obvious." "Because... because of my past?" Daima asked, shaking now. Aliya looked over from the far side of the room with a questioning look. She could tell something was wrong. Daima shook her head to indicate that Aliya should not come over. Daima and Ahmed had never discussed or mentioned her past as a man. After assurances from Baba that Ahmed knew the details, Daima had not felt the need to bring it up. And moments alone were rare and brief and were mostly spent in kissing and caressing each other. "Yes, because of your past," Ahmed said. A wave of anger crossed his face before he took a second to master it and return his features to a placid calm. "Daima," he said, tenderly, "I know of your past and I accept it. But others will not be so understanding. Right now you are Daima Al Muhairi, adopted daughter of a respectable Emirati family. It is clear that you are not of Arab blood, but that is acceptable. People can know that you are from America. American brides are very desirable. But people can not know that you were..." Ahmed scrunched up his face, with a look of profound distaste. "They can not know any other details of your past. Do you understand? We would become outcasts from Emirati society. Dubai may be a tolerant, modern city full of the rot of western ideals, but I can assure that Sharjah and Abu Dhabi are not. They are much more conservative there and your... past condition... must be kept secret. Even in Dubai society, I can assure you, if your condition became well known, it would bring shame down on my family and yours." Ahmed looked meaningfully over to Aliya and her mother who were busy addressing invitations. "Now, will you tell your mother to stay in America, or will I need to call off our wedding?" he asked. Daima felt lost in a vortex of emotions. Her face was red with humiliation. She felt sad and angry over what Ahmed was telling her. Would she really be forced to cut off her mother? Just then, she felt a comforting hand on her shoulder and looked up to see her adopted mother. "It's time for Asr prayers," she said, gently. "Asr can wait," Ahmed said, curtly. "I need for Daima to answer me." Daima's eyes welled up with tears, her internal emotions too turbulent to think about anything at all but raw emotions. "We will pray, and then Daima will come out with her answer," said Mrs. Muhairi, firmly. "Fine," Ahmed got up with an angry glare and stalked out of the room, presumably to walk to the local Mosque. They could hear, softly, the haunting call to prayer over the local loudspeakers, just like in Daima's dream. Daima, Aliya and her mother performed wudu in the washroom and then went to the musalla to pray. Daima felt herself become wrapped in the invocations to Allah and Mohammed, their comforting rhythms serving to settle her mind and her heart. Mrs. Muhairi led them through the raka'ah, taking her time and doing all of the optional prayers as well. By the time they were done, Daima had reached a decision. "Has Allah helped you through your crisis?" Mrs. Muhairi asked, gently, as they walked back to the dining room where the assembly line of invitations was set up. "Yes, Mama," said Daima, feeling sad. And so, when Ahmed got back, Daima sat with him again and held her hands in her lap, looking down at them, she gave him her answer. "I submit to your will, Ahmed," she said, a tear running down her cheek. "I will call my mother and tell her not to come to the wedding." "Thank you, Daima," Ahmed said, tenderly. "I understand that this is difficult for you, and I apologize for my earlier behavior. I promise to be more compassionate in the future." "Thank you, Ahmed," Daima said, looking into his eyes, grateful for the attentions of this sweet man. After all, given her background, she should be grateful that a beautiful, confident man such as Ahmed would even be seen in the same room as her. And now here he was, sorry for his previous behavior, and promising to do better. Yes, she was a lucky woman to have such a caring boyfriend. "Thank you very much," she said. "And I promise to always be dutiful to you and your needs." * * * Chapter 11: The Wedding On the morning of the wedding day, the first nikkah [religious ceremony] was for Ahmed and Daima. Daima dressed in a beautiful, white modest dress with a lacy veil. The skirt was made of shiny white satin with gorgeous lace trim down the fitted bodice which draped down to the floor with a minimal train. The sleeves were long and she completed it with loose white satin gloves and a snow-white hijab. She was delivered to the ceremony by her adopted father, Hajji Al Muhairi, and her two adopted brothers, Khaled and Mohammed Al Muhairi (a different Mohammed than Aliya's fianc?). Aliya was also there and Al Shaykh Sayyid performed the ceremony at the Emir's request (unbeknownst to Daima). The ceremony was held in the living room of the Al Muhairi household. The first part of the ceremony was the signing of the marriage contract. The contract included the negotiated mahr, the payment from the groom to the bride which itself was in two parts. The first part was the payment at the ceremony, which Ahmed produced and handed to Daima: a single gold coin, to match the gold coin recommended by the prophet Mohammed. Daima would later realize that this was a shockingly small amount for mahr. Aliya would later receive nearly 1.6m Dirhams (about $400K) for her mahr before the wedding. The second part of the mahr was the deferred amount [the mu'akhar], to be paid to Daima from her husband's estate should he die before her, or if he should divorce her for no reason. This second amount was unusually high, over 8 million Dirhams, about $2.2 million US Dollars. Daima had no idea why the amount would be so large, and just assumed that it was a consequence of Ahmed's rich family. What she didn't realize was that the amount was set by the Emir, who required such a high amount as a kind of financial handcuff, to ensure that Ahmed would not skip out of the marriage. The Emir wanted to ensure that Daima was safely married to an Arab man, and that the marriage would be permanent. All of the mahr would belong to the bride, as would Daima's own money (her earnings from the Royal Arabian Corporation) and, by sharia law, could not be taken away from her by her husband. After reading the contract aloud, both Daima and Ahmed said "qabul" [I accept] three times, and signed the contract along with Hajji Al Muhairi and her two adopted brothers. 'I am being given away by a man in a ceremony officiated by a man, to another man, as his bride,' Daima thought to herself, watching as the men contracted the business of transferring her from one household to another. She felt vaguely like property. According to Islamic law, the mahr was given directly to her and was hers to do with as she pleased, but she didn't realize that there was also a substantial bride price, paid for by the Emir, as part of the final payment for Hajji Al Muhairi's role in the whole affair. In this way, she really was property, a valuable asset to be exchanged between men. All of this financial negotiation and transfer of funds in relation to Daima and Ahmed's wedding was kept secret from Daima as well as Aliya, who was now considered to be 'compromised' now that her role Daima's capture and conversion was complete. Once the contract was signed by all parties, Ahmed and Daima shared the traditional sweet date. "Your veil," said Ahmed. Daima had promised her Baba to obey her husband in regards to wearing the veil, and Ahmed had made it clear that he wanted her to be veiled once they were married. So now that they were officially married, it was time to put on the niqaab. Aliya held the niqaab and helped Daima put it on. It was a white, "three layer niqaab", which meant that it contained three long squares of fabric in a complicated arrangement, attached together to make a mask. "Nice and secure," Aliya said softly, tying the mask very tight behind Daima's head using two fabric strips and then double-knotting it with a bow. To Daima, the mask of the niqaab was pressed against her face, as if hugging her head, in a tight grip. "It needs to be tight," Aliya had said earlier when the practiced, "because it will loosen during the day." Aliya then arranged the first layer of the niqaab (attached to the bottom of the mask) down her front where it draped down to just below her bosom. The second and third layers, attached to the top of the mask, were then draped over her head and down her back. Daima was now completely hidden from the men, with the exception of a narrow strip across her face, maybe an inch at its widest point, which exposed her vulnerable eyes, carefully done up in beautiful Arabic-style makeup at the salon that morning. Aliya fussed with the niqaab making sure that everything looked beautiful. Looking Daima in the eyes, she carefully adjusted the mask so that the string which spanned the slit from top to bottom lay directly in the center, across the bridge of Daima's nose. The panels draped down her back billowed out slightly, giving her head a graceful shape. "There," she said, finally, with a sad smile. "Your eyebrows are modestly covered." For the first time in her life, Daima was now completely covered, except for her eyes. Her wedding dress draped on the floor, covering her legs and shoes. The long sleeves of the dress covered her shoulders and arms and ended well past her wrists. She wore white satin gloves, shiny and loose as to not show the curve of her fingers. The dress was a draping style which obscured the contours of her body. She was wearing a white hijab which carefully concealed her hair (carefully styled in the salon for her husband) and draped elegantly around her neck and shoulders. And now, the final covering, the niqaab, a mask which hid the rest of her face and further contained panels which draped down her front and back, further obscuring her shoulders and frame from sight and leaving only her eyes, moist with the tears of the emotion of the moment, barely visible. In front, the niqaab draped down from the top of her nose (covering it) like an angled column, all the way to past her breasts, hiding completely her neck and shoulders. 'I am hidden, I am invisible,' Daima thought to herself. 'My body belongs to my husband now. It is for him that I keep it hidden, so that it is precious to him.' Like before, she felt enclosed and comforted. Safe in her anonymity and shielded from the world by her clothing and by her faith in Allah. But now... She also felt submissive. Submission to Allah was one thing, but this was submission to her husband. Submitting to him and saving herself for him. She was desperately horny, and had been for months now, desperate for sexual relief. The more she was covered, the more layers that were added, the more she keenly felt her body, as if her other senses were being removed and all she could do was to feel her new curves. The gentle swell of her large breasts carefully cradled in the white lace bra. The motion of her hips in the tight, low riding panties. The flow of the slip and skirts around her legs. The sway of her hips and bottom as as she turned towards Ahmed, her abaya flowing around her like a dense, clingy mist. Her entire skin tingled as she looked into his eyes. He smiled back and grasped her hand. Ahmed's eyes looked at her like a man who owned her. Like she was property. Like she had been something valuable that he now possessed. The look in his eyes made her realize, suddenly, what she had just done. She had signed over her life to this man! This man who now possessed her, both spiritually and legally. She was now legally obligated to obey him, by sharia law and by her devotion to Islam. A very conservative man who would control all of the intimate details of her life, including when she could leave the house, what she was allowed to wear, where she could travel, who she would be allowed to see, and who would be allowed to see her. The thought left her breathless. "Cover her eyes," said Ahmed, coldly. Daima's eyes widened in shock, but she stood, obedient, as Aliya took the middle of the three panels of the niqaab and gently draped it forward, over her head, obscuring her eyes from the world. This second panel was gauzy and see-through, but only for Daima. For the rest of the world, her entire head was now covered by three layers of wedding-white crepe fabric. Now even her eyes were hidden. Daima could now see only an obscured and veiled view of the world. Now she really was in her own world, a closed-in cave of fabric that she carried around with herself, only able to see the outside world through the veil of fine silk crepe. It was quieter too, with her ears covered by (now) multiple layers of fabric. The sound of her breathing and swallowing, the blood coursing through her veins, the synapses firing in her brain, all these sounds were more present now. She became acutely aware of the inner coursings of her body. The outer world retreated. She felt no longer a part of the world but now set apart from it. She was no longer in the world but now, somehow, viewing it from afar, like a disembodied soul floating and observing but unable to affect it, unable to truly live in it. And she felt submissive. Submissive to Allah, but most especially submissive to Ahmed. Her husband, for whom she had given up her freedom. After she was veiled, Al Shaykh Sayyid read the first chapter of the Qur'an [the Fatihah or The Opening] as symbolic of the opening of Daima and Ahmed's new life in marriage, followed by some additional blessings and a small sermon on the meaning of marriage and their responsibilities to each other. Finally, Ahmed wanted them both to say vows to each other. Daima had agreed and went first. "I, formerly Daima Al Muhairi, now Mrs. Ahmed Al Nahyan, offer you myself in marriage in accordance with the instructions of the Holy Qur'an and the Holy Prophet, peace and blessing be upon him. I pledge, in honesty and with sincerity, to be for you an obedient and faithful wife until death do us part." Daima looked at Ahmed, feeling love and submission, her eyes wet with tears, thankful for the veil after all, which hid her emotions. And then Ahmed said his vows. "I pledge, in honesty and sincerity, to be for you a faithful and helpful husband." That was it? Daima wondered. Nothing else? But before she could ponder it more, she felt Ahmed lift her veil, not so much as to expose her to anyone in the bridal part, but just enough for him to kiss her. She felt his carefully cropped beard, could smell his now familiar combination of cigarette smoke and cologne and could taste the cigarette smoke on his lips as he kissed her, his lips warm and soft. * * * After congratulations and hugs, the Al Muhairi's served everyone a massive lunch full of Middle Eastern delicacies from kebabs to delicious yogurt dishes and saffron rice with raisins. As the lunch celebration continued, more and more Al Muhairi family members arrived and joined in. All of this time, Daima sat modestly next to her husband, her hands in her lap, nervous because she had never eaten with a niqaab before. How does one eat when you have two layers of fabric hanging off your face and down to your breasts? How does one touch food when wearing fancy gloves? Is that even allowed? Do you put the glass under the veil to drink from it? She looked nervously from side to side and graciously accepted the congratulations that each newcomer to the party offered to the married couple. Ahmed was stiff and not very comforting, sitting up straight and accepting the complements and congratulations with sharp nods of acknowledgement. He also ate sparingly, as if the food was beneath him. "Here you go, dear." Daima looked up to see her adopted mother place a glass of pineapple juice in front of her with a straw. "Oh, thank you, Mama!" Daima said, grateful for her mother's understanding. Daima reached out and grasped her Mama in a hug, feeling tears spring to her eyes. "It gets easier," her Mama said, hidden behind her own (single layer) veil. "I promise." Daima carefully grasped the glass in her satin gloves and, after some fumbling, brought it to her mouth under the veil where she was able to sip it. The sweet liquid was a life line. * * * Aliya's nikkah ceremony was a more family affair, with large wedding parties on both sides. On the bride's side, only Daima was veiled. All of the other bridesmaids were in hijab but nothing more. For the ceremony, Daima changed from her formal wedding dress to a dusty rose-pink colored bridesmaid dress, covered with lace, which she wore with matching hijab and niqaab. Aliya wore a gorgeous, ball-gown style wedding dress with a long train. It was champagne colored, with beautiful gold embroidery. As always, she was wearing a matching hijab, which carefully hid her hair so that only the oval of her face was visible. Aliya's contract called for a mehr of $3.2m dirhams, about $800k, half of it which was delivered at the wedding and the other half deferred. Of course, she knew of the contract details ahead of time, but still Aliya beamed with gratitude as she signed the contract with her new husband Mohammed. The happy couple kissed and the ceremony continued with the Fatihah and a completely different sermon by Al Shaykh Sayyid. And then the couple kissed and everyone slowly exited, chatting and heading to their rooms to rest up and change for the reception. "But, Aliya is not wearing niqaab," Daima remarked to one of the bridesmaids. "I know!" The bridesmaid next to her, a childhood friend of Aliya's, responded. "She promised her Baba that she would follow her husband's instruction, and Mohammed told her not to! He said it was old fashioned and misogynistic. Can you believe that? Who knew Mohammed had such a spine! Baba was furious of course, but what could he do? They'll be like any other modern couple in Dubai, now." Daima watched from across the room as Aliya and Mohammed kissed and hugged, her face hot with embarrassment, feeling like a big, pink- colored fabric lump, a ghost clinging to ancient, outdated customs as all of the other young ladies chatted with each other, their eyes flashing and faces animated with delight in their shared companionship. Just then, her adopted mother showed up at her side. "Come," she said, gently leading Daima up stairs and to her private bedroom where she took off her veil and convinced Daima to do the same. "Oh, my daughter," she said, seeing tears streaming down Daima's face. "And on your wedding day!" "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry," Daima sobbed. "How did you know?" "How fortunate is the veil for those of us who grieve," she said. "But us Muslim women can tell. Why are you crying?" "I... I don't know." "Are you missing Aliya? Is that it?" "Yes... But no. I don't know. She's so happy... so free... so... in love." "Oh, my darling. You can also be all of those things." "I don't think Ahmed will allow it." "Lack of niqaab does not equal freedom," Daima's adopted Mama said, sensing what the problem was. "Many women wear the niqaab and are just as free, if not more free, than those who don't." "I... I guess." "My dear, would you like to pray with me? It is time for Asr." Daima looked into her mother's eyes, suddenly overcome with gratitude. She remembered Aliya's stories earlier about how she prayed with her mother and how those were the most precious memories of her life. "Yes, please," Aliya said. Daima was led to a private musalla just off the main bedroom where they went through the Asr prayers together. As they performed each raka'ah, Daima felt her heart settle, felt her mind bend towards Allah, felt her soul settle into its new position in life. "Allah provides," said her Mama. "Let His wisdom guide you. Obey Allah first, then obey your husband. If your husband wishes you to wear the niqaab, then realize that he is just helping you along your path to Allah." "Alhamdulillah," Daima agreed. * * * Chapter 12: The Wedding Night After Asr prayers, Daima followed her adopted Mama to the lady's reception and removed her hijab (including her abaya and niqaab) to reveal her reception dress, a gorgeous cream silk slip dress underneath a beautiful lace and embroidery over dress. She and Aliya were dressed exactly the same, the two sisters who were now both married women. Finally free of her niqaab, Daima brightened up. 'Just a year and a half ago and I was a man,' Daima thought, amazed. She reflected on her journey as she enjoyed the women's company, laughing with them. Someone turned on some music, a pop song from a modern Emirati singer, and several women got up to dance. "Come dance with me," Aliya said, her eyes sparkling and her face flushed. Daima looked at her, giggled and allowed herself to be pulled up. 'My god, she's...' Daima looked at Aliya in wonder. She was *glowing* and laughing and on the top of the world. Somehow, she's already had sex, Daima realized, happy and flushed with pleasure for her friend, wondering when they could have snuck away together. Of course, the ceremonies and the reception were in the Al Muhairi compound, so no one would know it better than Aliya. Daima danced with her friend, grinning wildly as they twisted and jumped and shook their bodies together, their matching dresses flying out as they twirled to the laughter and applause of all of the assembled Arab ladies. * * * "Where were you?" Ahmed growled. "What... what do you mean?" Daima shrank back. She and Ahmed were in his bedroom at his Al Nahyan compound. She had pulled off her niqaab and hijab and was standing before Ahmed in just her abaya. Ahmed stepped forward and grasped Daima's arm, roughly shaking her, his grip bruising her. "After the ceremony, you disappeared. I looked all over for you. Where were you?" "I was changing, into my bridesmaid dress." "NOT THAT CEREMONY. The Al Muhairi ceremony," he shouted. "I thought that, at a minimum, someone in your condition, I thought I could trust you not to run out on me." Daima had never seen Ahmed so angry. "I was with with Mrs. Al Muhairi!" Daima cried. "She took me to her room and we prayed Asr together! Please, Ahmed! Please believe me!" Like turning on a light switch, suddenly Ahmed's face became calm. "Was that all?" he said, loosening his grip and holding Daima gently. "Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, that was all." "You pray five times a day?" he asked. "Yes, Ahmed, I pray five times a day." "Such a good muslim you are." Ahmed pulled Daima into a hug. "And so beautiful." Daima looked down, not sure what to say. She was freaked out by Ahmed's outburst, but hopeful now that he had calmed down. 'I'm sure it's just that we don't know each other that well,' she rationalized to herself. 'He'll be better once he knows he can trust me.' Daima looked up and was surprised when Ahmed gently held her face and kissed her, his lips soft and gentle. "So beautiful," he said again, boldly stroking her body. Daima's skin began to tingle. She had been abstinent of all sexual pleasure since before her bottom surgery and was desperate for sexual relief. She had, of course, used the dilators on her new parts and could feel her arousal and so she knew that her new parts 'down there' were fully functional. But she was also nervous. Would her body please Ahmed? Of course, thanks to the Emir and a small fortune in surgery, she was as perfect and as womanly as modern medicine was able to achieve. But still... Ahmed's hands stroked down her front, grasping and kneading her breasts. Daima moaned and found herself pushing into his grasp. "I... I need to slip into something... more comfortable," Daima said shyly, smiling at him. "I'll be waiting." She grasped the shopping bag she had brought with her and went to the en-suite bathroom where she changed into her wedding lingerie, an angelic concoction of lace and satin panels which plunged low, highlighting her breasts and cleavage, a wedding gift from Aliya. She also took the time to generously lubricate herself, "down there", so there would be no impediment. Makeup enhanced and hair tidied, Daima shyly presented herself to her new husband. "Come," Ahmed said, patting the bed next to him. She climbed into bed and the two kissed for a while. He slipped a hand under her dress, stroking her pussy, making her sigh and press against him. "Make me hard," Ahmed instructed. Daima opened his pants and discovered, to her disappointment, that Ahmed was still soft. So she grasped his balls and stroked his penis, making small circles under the head where she knew it would be most sensitive. "Suck it," Ahmed commanded. Daima had thought a lot about this ever since she had accepted Ahmed's proposal. Would she be able to suck his cock if asked? She knew it was allowed by her religion, and also she wanted to please her husband. After a while, she began to look forward to the idea of exploring each other's bodies, and maybe even giving him pleasure that way. She fantasized about how he would be so grateful for it, and how he would come to love her even more as a wife and sing her praises that he had made the best possible choice. But here it was, soft in her hand. "What are you waiting for?" Quickly, Daima bent down and drew him into her mouth. Gently, she sucked on his member. He smelled musky and sweaty. It had been a long day. She used her tongue and stroked at his member. Gradually, Ahmed got hard and as he did, Daima was able to do a better job, sucking down his shaft and then lifting up and using her tongue to stimulate beneath the helmet of his member. She looked up at him with adoring eyes. "Teeth!" Ahmed growled. "I'm sorry, my husband!" "Enough," Ahmed roughly pushed Daima to the side onto her back. Fumbling beneath the skirts of her lingerie, he pulled her panties aside, prodded at her vagina opening a couple of times, found the opening and thrust inside. Daima gasped at being penetrated so quickly and so suddenly. She had lost some of her ardor as she pleasured him with her mouth, so she wasn't ready or especially horny. Fortunately, Ahmed was not especially large, and so his urgent thrusting didn't hurt as he looked to the side, eyes closed, and fucked her. Daima clung to his arms, her chin bumping against his shoulder as she grit her teeth, feeling him inside her. It was a strangely clinical feeling. Like it wasn't exactly happening to her, but instead to a body part which was not hers but just happened to be attached to her. Finally, Ahmed thrust forward, twitching, and orgasmed. "Alhamdulillah," he said. "I wasn't sure I could do it. But there. I've consummated our marriage. Now go." "Go?" Daima looked at him, confused. Ahmed looked at her for a second, trying to decide what to say and what not to say. "Yes," he said finally. "This is my bedroom. You have your own." "My own... we're not sleeping together?" "Of course not," Ahmed said, turning over and turning out the light. "Now leave. Find someone in the kitchen to show you where to go." "Ahmed, please," Daima pleaded. "You're... you're my husband. This is not how I want to live. Can't we share a bed?" Ahmed jumped up, grasped Daima by the arm and marched her to the door. "If this is going to work, you're going to have to respect your husband!" he shouted, thrusting her into the hallway, where Daima crumpled to the floor. Ahmed grabbed her reception abaya and niqaab and threw them on top of her, slamming the door behind her. Daima stared at the closed door, stunned. This was her wedding night? The night with her new husband that she had been dreaming about and so looking forward to? The night when they would finally be able to become intimate with each other? And now here she was, on the cold floor alone. Daima huddled against the door, staring out into the courtyard from the second-story colonnaded walkway which led to Ahmed's room, trying to figure out what to do. She felt his sperm leak out and drip down her leg. I feel so stupid, she thought to herself, over and over. What have I done? She realized that she barely knew her new husband. But maybe, once he sees how dutiful a wife I can be...? Daima wiped the tears from her eyes and got up on unsteady legs, gathering her clothes from the ground and brushing them off. * * * After some exploration around the house, she found a female Filipino servant having a late dinner who was able to show her to her bedroom. The house itself was beautiful and elegant, built as a square around a central courtyard with two trees and an octagonal fountain in the Sharjah district. Around the courtyard were four wings, three of them with two stories and one wing with just one story but with a tower in one corner. The ground-floor contained all of the public areas (kitchen, dining room, den) and the second floor contained all of the bedrooms. Rugs, carved stone and hardwood surfaces were everywhere. Daima's room was on the second floor off to the side. There was one small window with a view of the blank wall of the building next door, but it was covered by an ornately carved privacy screen and also protected by wrought iron bars set into the concrete. Her bedroom suite contained a small en-suite bathroom, a twin bed, a chest of drawers, a small closet, and a large desk with all her monitors and keyboards so she could continue her data science work for the Royal Arabian Corporation. Daima sat on the bed for a while, not moving, still shocked by what had happened with Ahmed. Obviously they would be sleeping in separate rooms, which was okay, she supposed. But what did he mean about giving him space? Would they ever become a real couple? She thought again, jealously, of her adopted sister Aliya and her Mohammed and how happy and affectionate they were at the ceremony. Of course, she never expected that from Ahmed, he was always too serious, but... she had heard that Arab men treated their wives like queens and were always wanting to take care of them. Was that too much to ask? Since it was getting late, Daima showered and performed her ritual cleansing [ghusl], discovering that the bathroom had been thoughtfully outfitted for all her needs (by Aliya and her mother). After her shower, she dressed in a simple kaftan and wandered into the courtyard to find the musalla for her isha prayers before going to bed. "Daima." It was said like a curse. Daima turned to face an old, gnarled woman who stepped forward and slapped her hard in the face. Crying out, Daima backed away, stumbled and fell down on the hard, tile floor, banging her elbow painfully. "It's because of you my son will have no more children," the woman snarled in Arabic. She kicked and continued to slap and hit Daima who backed away until her back was against the fountain, hysterical and desperate, trying to shield herself from the bows. Finally, the old woman tired, but not before giving her one last vicious kick in Daima's crotch. "Worthless Western whore," she said, coughing up a noxious ball of phlegm and spitting it directly into Daima's tear-stained face. Sobbing, Daima scrambled to her feet and ran back to her bedroom where she locked the door. "Allah," she prayed fervently that night. "What have I done to displease you? Is this a test of my obedience? Please guide me!" * * * Chapter 13: The Visit "Where in hell are we headed?" The Emir looked grumpily out the window of his armored limousine. "Cousins in Sharjah," his wife, Sheikha Fatima, said, looking up from the Qur'an she was reading. She kept it with her always and she read it especially at times like this when she was headed into what she knew would be a difficult situation. The Emir grunted and turned back to his phone call with the Finance Minister. His wife required that he go visit family twice a month, as was his responsibility, she continually reminded him, as leader of the Al Nahyan clan. The Emir was not in a good mood. The results from their special project, after peaking out at 16 billion AED in annual revenues had recently undergone a precipitous decline, and now were barely holding steady at around 4.5b AED. "How could it have gotten so bad, so quickly?" "The models, they need to be continuously tuned and adjusted, your Highness. The recent releases have not shown the results we are used to." "Then switch back to the old models," the Emir said, only understanding that something called a 'model' was 'trained' so that the machine could make him more money by optimizing his financial transactions. It was all no better than djinn magic to him. "We did, Your Highness, but those models are now performing even worse! Aliya and the experts in our business optimization group believe that we need to refactor the entire approach." "Then do that!" "We are trying, but these things take time." "The expo is fast approaching!" he said hotly. "And there's a bank in Switzerland you keep telling me to buy. We need that money or the deal will fall through." "Yes, Emir. Inshallah." But as they hung up, the Emir could already tell that his Finance Minister would be unable to deliver. He could hear it in his voice. * * * They arrived at the compound of Ahmed Al Nahyan and were greeted with surprise. "We... we weren't expecting a visit!" said Ahmed's mother. "No?" Sheikha Fatima, the first and senior wife of the Emir said, raising an eyebrow. Her face was veiled since she ran her household under strict purdah rules and since Ahmed was too distant a cousin to be mahram. "I humbly apologize! Our social secretary must have forgotten." "Of course, of course," said Ahmed, inviting them into his and his mother's home, knowing that to not do so would have been an act so rude as to be forever unforgivable. "Please come in!" Ahmed's mother rushed to the kitchens to yell at the help to gather some food for the Emir and his wife for this highly unusual and unexpected visit. Ahmed could feel the pricking on his skin. This was not right. Something was up. But as he escorted the Emir and his wife to the courtyard sitting area, the Emir commented abstractly on the architecture and the decorations in a bored way that made it seem like nothing was amiss. Ahmed's mother returned and assured everyone that some tea and tasty treats would soon be available. "Where is your lovely wife, Ahmed?" asked Sheikha Fatima, innocently. "You've been married now, for what? Six months?" Ahmed looked at his mother, quickly giving her a look. "I should see to the tea," she said, jumping up and quickly stepping out of the room. The Emir's wife watched all this with a sharp eye. "Y-yes," Ahmed said, stammering. "It has been six months since we got married." "Newlyweds!" said Sheikha Fatima. "Such a blissful time. Don't you agree, my husband?" "What? Oh, yes. You are a lucky man." "Indeed. Thank you, Your Highness," Ahmed bowed. "And where is your wife?" Sheikha Fatima persisted. "I would very much like to meet her." "She's... ah... upstairs. Resting." Ahmed said, feeling a sweat break out. "She's not feeling well," he explained. "So she won't be able to join us." "Oh, poor dear!" Sheikha Fatima said. "Well, it just so happens that I have the perfect thing. A special ginseng extract which was given to us by the Chinese Ambassador. I happen to have a spare bottle right here." The Emir sat up and looked at his wife. They had never received special ginseng tea from any Chinese Ambassador. What was his wife playing at? "I should like to give it to your wife, in person," Sheikha Fatima said, standing up. "Oh, that won't be necessary!" Ahmed rushed to say, starting to panic. "Not necessary at all! Just... just give me the bottle and I'll give it to her later." "What was your wife's name again?" Sheikha Fatima asked, innocently. Ahmed looked back and forth between her and the Emir. "Daima," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "What was that?" the Sheikha asked, "I didn't quite catch that." Ahmed cleared his throat. "Daima," he said. Suddenly, the Emir understood. Daima. His data science asset. They were in the house of the man she had been married off to. She was supposed to be safe. Safe and productive and happy and in love. But now the data models had crashed and his income from the data science team had dropped by over 60%. The Emir looked at his wife with intensity and their eyes locked. "I think you should let Sheikha Fatima see your wife," the Emir said. "Y-yes, your highness," Ahmed bowed, knowing he couldn't refuse a direct request from the Emir, of all people. He led Sheikha Fatima to the far side of the courtyard where they ascended the stairs and then turned right and walked around the covered walkway to Daima's room. He said a silent prayer to Allah that his mother had gotten there first. The two entered the room and found Daima and Ahmed's mother sitting together on the bed. Daima was wearing full modest wear, including her abaya, hijab and niqaab. It looked rumpled, as if hastily put on. Daima's niqaab was a black, three layer niqaab with the first two layers draped over her face so that even her eyes were covered. "Sheikha Fatima, allow me to introduce you to my wife, Daima," said Ahmed. "Your Highness," Daima bowed, her body completely covered. "It is my honor. I apologize for not meeting you in the courtyard." "Why are you veiled?" asked Sheikha Fatima. "I..." Daima hesitated. "She wanted to protect Your Highness from getting her illness," Ahmed's mother butted in, the old gnarled lady looking about with wild eyes. "Oh, goodness!" Sheikha Fatima laughed. "I've had 12 children! There is no illness in the UAE I haven't already been exposed to multiple times. I'm as healthy as one of my husband's horses. There is no need to veil yourself for me. Now come, Daima, remove your veil." "No," Ahmed said. "Why, Ahmed? Why no?" Sheikha Fatima asked. "Because... I command it," he said, unable to come up with a better reason. Sheikha Fatima walked over to Daima and grasped her hand. Ahmed looked at her, astonished, trying desperately to figure out what to do. But there was nothing. He couldn't assault the Emir's wife! He began to hyperventilate. "It's okay, dear," she said in a soothing voice, as she reached for Daima's veil and slowly pulled it up and off her head. * * * The Emir waited nervously on the sofa in the courtyard, watching the room upstairs and hearing the exchange above. There was a moment of silence, followed by a piercing screech. It was Ahmed's mother. Looking up, he saw her being forcibly ejected from the room upstairs by his wife. Ahmed rushed to help his mother and the door slammed behind them. * * * "Oh, my dear," Sheikha Fatima said, her heart breaking for this poor soul. The bruises on Daima's face were of many different colors, indicating a pattern of long term abuse. She had a cut on her lip which was still bleeding. Hair had been ripped out of her head on the left side. "I'm so sorry," Daima said, tears leaking out of her eyes and dripping down her cheek. "I'm not a good wife. He needed more money, but I didn't have any more to give. I told him that my prize winnings were not accessible, but he didn't believe me..." She started to sob softly. "I'm okay," Daima continued. "I know that Allah is watching out for me. I pray and I know that Allah... I know that..." she gasped for air, "that Ahmed is my husband. He says that he loves me. I must be a bad wife, for... for this... I try to be obedient. I do my best... And I know that he loves me. I know that... that he has important plans and this is temporary..." "Shhh," Sheikha Fatima said. "Close your eyes." Sheikha Fatima pulled out her cell phone and took some quick pictures. "Now, come, let's put your niqaab back on." She helped Daima restore her veil. "And now you're coming with me." Sheikha Fatima slowly led Daima out of her room. "Stay away," she said, curtly, to Ahmed and his mother. The Emir watched as a fully robed woman in all black was led by his wife down the stairs and across the courtyard. "We're leaving," his wife said. "What?" The Emir looked back and forth between his wife and the others. "You can't be serious?" "We're leaving," his wife said, in a voice which the Emir fully understood to be her non-negotiable voice. "You should know that she's a nasty, disobedient wife," Ahmed snarled as they walked out of the front door. Suddenly, he turned on Daima in a rage. "You are a viper!" he shouted. "I know you told them!" "A foreign whore!" shrieked Ahmed's mother. "A perversion! Good riddance! Her stench made me nauseous! She was a stain on our household!" "I will get you!" Ahmed shouted, his face red with fury. Quickly, the Emir's body guard blocked Ahmed's path. "There is no place where you will be safe! I will find a way to kill you all--" His yelling was cut off mid-threat as the door to the limousine was closed by the security personnel with a soft *thunk*. Daima was in a daze, not knowing what was happening, wincing as her husband verbally abused her. She just followed Sheikha Fatima, trusting her firm guidance and... hoping. "What have you done?" the Emir gasped, looking back at the man running after the limousine as it smoothly pulled away. "You stole Ahmed Al Nahyan's wife away? He's my cousin! We'll never hear the end of this. This is not how--" The Sheikha Fatima pulled out her phone and showed him the photographs. "Ya Allah," he muttered, shocked and revolted. And now, finally, it all made sense. They had found a man who was willing to marry Daima, but only for the money. And that man and his witch of a mother had beaten the poor girl into submission, so badly that she could no longer be the data scientist that he needed. And that's why the models had suffered. It was not because of market forces, or because of the financial feedback loops. It was because Daima was being beaten by her husband. "So what do we do?" The Emir asked. He knew that, in social matters like this, his wife's unerring instincts were best. "We take her to the hospital." * * * Chapter 14: A Safe Place "Broken nose, improperly healed. Fractured skull. Hairline fractures on both arms. Multiple bruises. Bruises to her groin. Bruises on her bottom. A broken rib. A broken finger, improperly healed." The Emir and his wife Sheikha Fatima listened in horror as the doctor read out the results if his examination. "Ya Allah! Will she... will she be alright?" Sheikha Fatima asked, close to tears. "Inshallah, she will be fine," the Doctor assured them. "Nothing is life threatening. We'd like to keep her here overnight to check for internal bleeding." "Of course." "Alhamdulillah," the doctor said, bowing. "Salaam [Peace be with you], Your Majesty." "Salaam," the Emir said, as the doctor retreated. "You were right to intervene," he said, turning to his wife. "You would have done the same had you but known," Sheikha Fatima said, careful to be deferential to her husband. She knew there were more difficult conversations coming up, and she needed her husband to be in a generous frame of mind. "My lawyers have more than enough for the divorce. Ahmed Al Nahyan lost all his parent's fortune on bad investments. Even after..." the Emir struggled to find the right words, "a recent windfall, he still had to spend his wife's money to keep the creditors at bay. The divorce will be finalized by tonight." "He is a stain on the family name," Sheikha Fatima shook her head. "Agreed. But now what do we do with Daima?" Sheikha Fatima closed her eyes and said a brief prayer. She then reached out and gently grasped her husband's arm. "She needs to be married," Sheikha Fatima said. "So that she can be safe from that madman, and so that she can heal her heart in Islam." "Married? Are you sure? After what just happened?" "And you must become her husband." The Emir stared at his wife, stunned, momentarily at a loss for words. "What?" he shouted, standing and flinging her hand away. "You can not be serious!" "I am absolutely serious." Sheikha Fatima clasped her hands together and lowered her head, humbly, but did not waver from her position. "Is this not exactly the reason why Allah has commanded men of means to have multiple wives? So that those women could be taken care of and protected? Should we not live as Mohammed lived? Is this not your requirement, to marry the woman who needs your protection and support to be safe and secure?" "But you can't expect me to... you know what she is!" "No, my husband, I do not know. Tell me, what is she?" Sheikha Fatima looked up at her husband with eyes full of challenge, daring him to say the words. The Emir stared at her, the words on his lips, but he knew he couldn't say them out loud. Because if he did, then he would be admitting that not only did he arrange for her to be married, sold, essentially, to a wife abuser, but also that he had a role in her kidnapping, coerced conversion and gender reassignment. He suspected his wife already knew about those things, but it would be much, much worse if they were brought into the open. "She's... a commoner," he said, finally. "She has no royal blood in her. She is not descended from the ancient tribes of the Emirati." "Did you know that her mother died? It happened just two months ago. And Daima doesn't know. Ahmed and his mother kept the news from the poor creature." "Allahumma ajirny min al-nar [O Allah, save me from the fire]," muttered the Emir. Somehow, the thought that Daima's mother had died, and that she didn't know, and could not have attended her funeral... somehow that was more devastating a betrayal than all her bruises and broken bones. The Emir wondered if Ahmed had kept the news secret so that he could steal Daima's inheritance as well. He would have the lawyers check on that. "Which means she's an orphan as well, since her father died when she was a child." The Qur'an was very deferential to orphans, the Emir knew that very well. Of course, Daima was too old to be an orphan by the Sharia definition, but still... "You are responsible for this woman," Sheikha Fatima stated, standing up, unfastening her veil and facing her husband so he could know how serious she felt this was. Sheikha Fatima felt her husband's soul was in the balance. That if he didn't repent to Allah for what he had done, then he would surely go to hell. "I've talked to her adopted family," she continued, "and her adopted sister, Aliya. You are responsible for her current situation more than any other. You need to repent for how you have treated this woman, and all for what? Greed!" "Careful," the Emir warned. Chastened, Sheikha Fatima sat down and refastened her veil. "I understand that the matters of state weigh heavy upon you," she said, speaking humbly. "I understand how hard you work to ensure the prosperity of your family and your country. But you have a responsibility for this girl, Daima. You *must* marry her. You know in your heart it is the only path which will keep her safe and the only path by which you can repay your debt to her welfare. It is the only way you can heal your soul." Sheikha Fatima had said her peace. The rest would be up to Allah. * * * "Daima!!" Aliya burst through the hospital door, Mohammed trailing behind her. The two sisters hugged and cried, not having seen each other in person since the wedding. "I am so sorry," Aliya kept saying, over and over. "I am so sorry." "It's not your fault, it's mine. I should have been a better wife. I should have tried harder..." "STOP THAT," Aliya said, her voice brooking no debate. "You are *not* to blame. You are the only one who is completely blameless in this whole disgusting affair. Look at you! Oh, my poor darling! Oh, my poor sister! I... I abandoned you! Just when you needed me the most!" "But you have your own husband," Daima said. "Of course you need to spend all your time with him." "Do you really think that is what Islam is? That women have to obey and cater to their husbands while their best friends and sisters are suffering? No! That is NOT what Islam says! We are duty bound by the Qur'an to take care of our family! And especially those who are most vulnerable, like you. My husband is bound by our religion to see that I fulfill my duties to my family." "But Ahmed said..." "Oh, Daima! Forget everything that Ahmed said! Please, I'm begging you! He and his awful mother are Shaytan, pure and simple." "I'm sorry, Daima. I'm sorry you had to come all this way!" "Shhhh," Aliya said softly, cradling Daima's head. "I love you, Daima. I will always love you. You are my sister. I can love both you and my husband. Love is an inexhaustible, self-reinforcing resource." "Like neural network training?" "Yes, like neural network training," Aliya laughed, seeing some of the old spark come back to Daima which she had missed so much. Just hearing her joke like that made her burst into tears. After the wedding, Aliya and Mohammed had gone on a long six-week honeymoon. Aliya had a lot of vacation saved up from her intense work for the Royal Arabian Corporation. When she finally got back to work, Aliya could immediately sense that something was wrong. Daima refused to use her web camera for video calls, claiming that it was broken. And she kept all of their calls short and stuck strictly to business. At first, Aliya had assumed this was because Daima was hurt about her marriage to Mohammed. But as the months went by, she began to get suspicious. Daima's voice sounded sad and depressed. She became unresponsive. Her productivity dropped. Finally, she began communicating entirely via e-mail. Aliya constantly asked if everything was okay, and Daima always responded in the positive. Things were fine. Ahmed was wonderful. She was enjoying married life. The house was beautiful. Ahmed's mother was very caring and attentive. Finally, Aliya couldn't stand it anymore. She contacted Majed who got the RAC security department to install a program to capture video from Daima's computer camera (it was not broken, after all). And what they discovered horrified everyone. The videos were stomach turning. Video of Ahmed and his mother shouting at Daima, punching her, kicking her, making her sign checks and documents. Daima falling back and hitting her head on the bureau and having to stanch the blood herself. Video of Daima praying to Allah in a piteous voice, asking for his help and guidance. "But what do we do?" Aliya asked Majed. "How do we handle this?" "Call this number," Majed said. "Tell her that Majed said to call and tell her everything. From the very beginning." "But whose number is this?" "Sheikha Fatima." "Ya Allah," Aliya murmured. "Inshallah, Sheikha Fatima will know how to handle it." And so, Aliya called and poured out her heart to Sheikha Fatima, leaving nothing out, and Sheikha Fatima assured her that she would take care of it. She then called the Finance Minister and got the full details of her husband's involvement, and that was when she knew exactly what needed to be done. Meanwhile, Aliya sat on pins and needles until finally Majed called her and told her that Daima had been moved to the hospital. Immediately, she called her husband in tears and they rushed to the hospital to see Daima. And here she was in person, looking so much worse than she had in the videos. Such a poor wretch, having suffered what no woman should ever have to suffer at the hands of a man. "I love you Daima, and I promise, I will never, ever, leave you. Not even for a day. Promise me that we will talk, every day, and that you will tell me *everything*. No more secrets. Do you promise?" "Oh, Aliya!!" Daima broke down into sobs, finally feeling the release that she had missed this whole time. "Yes! My sister. I promise. I promise. I promise." The two hugged and kissed. "And because we have no secrets..." Aliya said. She stood and pulled up her Abaya, placing Daima's hand on her swollen belly. "ALIYA!" Daima shouted, squealing like a little girl. "YOU'RE PREGNANT?? That is so wonderful! I am so happy for you! Oh, Allah! Oh Allah! Alhamdulillah! Alhamdulillah!" "Alhamdulillah," agreed Aliya. "I'm over six months now." "That means..." Daima said, in hushed tones. "Yes, I got pregnant the day of the wedding. So you see, since it was a double wedding and you were there, it's really like the baby is your baby too." "Oh, Aliya," Daima said, descending into tears again, at the thought of being an auntie to this little life growing inside of her pregnant sister. "Although shame on you for not telling me sooner! Shame on you!" "I know," Aliya said, toeing the ground. "I'm sorry. We didn't tell anyone until after the first trimester, you know, just in case. And then, well, I was worried about you and I didn't want to act like I was bragging because... you know..." Aliya shrugged. But Daima understood. "How could bringing a new life into this world ever be a worry? I am so happy for you, and it makes me happy when you are happy because I love you more than anyone. Oh, Aliya, no more secrets?" "No more secrets." * * * Daima and Aliya were both in hijab for the meeting with Sheikha Fatima. Aliya had bought Daima a new dress to wear since Ahmed refused to release any of her belongings. The meeting was held in a lady's sitting room in the hospital. Aliya and Daima were sitting on a sofa and holding hands when the Emir's wife entered. Mohammed and the Sheikha's eldest son waited outside. "Daima," Sheikha Fatima began. "Your husband... it is shocking and horrific what you have suffered at his hands. Fortunately, the law is quite clear in such cases. You are entitled to a divorce, and you do not need your husband's permission. I have the papers here for you to sign. They have already been approved by the courts, so as soon as you sign, your divorce will be final. Will you sign?" Daima looked at Aliya, who nodded. Daima looked at the papers. To Daima, they were both an admission of her failure as a wife, but also a gateway to a new life, free of fear and pain. "It is not your fault," Aliya said, grasping Daima's hand. "He is a bad man. He is Shaytan. You need to be free of him and don't ever look back!" "But--" "Sign it," Sheikha Fatima said. "Don't allow that man to have any more power over you." "Yes," Daima said, nodding, "I know I need to." She picked up a pen and carefully signed. "But now what do I do?" Daima asked, her voice so plaintive and lonely it finalized Sheikha Fatima's decision. "You can come stay with us!" Aliya said. "Aliya," Sheikha Fatima broke in, "I'm afraid that we can't let that happen. We know that Daima's husband is a dangerous man. He has made... threats against her. UAE police have investigated these threats and have found them to be credible." "Ya Allah," Aliya muttered. "Yes, we are all very concerned," agreed Sheikha Fatima. "This is all the more concerning because of your mahr. There was quite a lot deferred, do you remember, Daima?" "Yes," said Daima. "8 million Dirhams". Aliya's eyes went wide with astonishment. "It was supposed to keep you safe," Sheikha Fatima said. "It was supposed to ensure that your husband treat you well, so there would be no cause for divorce. But clearly, it had the opposite effect. We now suspect that, once your accounts had been drained, he would have murdered you." "Ahmed?" Daima asked, feeling like she was falling down a pit. "That's horrible!" Aliya said, hot with shame. It was Hajji Al Muhairi, her father, which who had arranged the marriage. "Can't you send someone to pick him up? Throw him in jail?" "We did. He is no longer at home. His mother doesn't know where he is, or she's not telling." "Ya Allah!" "Yes. It is a frightful situation. And so, Daima..." Sheikha Fatima took a deep breath. This was it. There would be no going back after this. "The Emir and I would like for you to move into our family compound. It is guarded 24x7 by the state. There is no safer place in Dubai." "Oh, Daima!" Aliya exclaimed, astonished. Daima live with the Emir's family? At his wife's insistence? Would the wonders of Allah never cease? Who could have envisioned such a thing? "Are you... are you serious?" Daima asked, her eyes wide. "Yes, very serious. I want you to come stay with us. I will help heal you and take care of you and make sure that you will be treated with respect." "Oh, Your Highness!" Daima cried, a hand over her mouth. "But how would this work?" Aliya asked. "A strange woman? Living in your home? With no family? She would need to be covered all of the time." "Exactly," Sheikha Fatima said. "Which brings me to my last... request. Daima, I have arranged for you to marry my husband. You will become his third wife." There was a long moment of silence. Daima tried to parse the words in her head, not quite able to grasp what Sheikha Fatima was saying. Marry? Again? So soon? Marry... her husband? The... Emir? Become... "Eep!" A small squeak escaped from Daima's mouth. "Your Highness, you can not be serious! I can't! It's not possible!" "Why not? There would be no expectation of intimate relations. This is strictly for your safety and well being." "I... I'm from America. I'm not of this land." "Are you a UAE citizen? Are you an observant Muslimah? I believe you are." "But shouldn't the Emir marry, you know, a princesses from Europe or something?" "Why does Islam ask men to take on more than one wife?" Sheikha Fatima asked. "It's simple, so he can take care of her welfare. So he can keep her safe. Because women in this world are not safe from men like Ahmed, and if a man can afford it, Allah says he should take on a second, third, or fourth wife as his means allow. You are a textbook case, Daima! You have been horribly abused by a member of our Al Nahyan extended family, and it is our responsibility to take care of you. And there is no better way, no other way to guarantee your safety, than for you to marry the Emir and become his third wife." "But he can't marry me!" "Whyever not?" "Because.... because..." Daima struggled, but ultimately decided she had to say it. "Because I was born a man," she said, "and a Christian. My name was Paul J?sus Christiansen. I was born in Maryland." "That's interesting, what you say," said Sheikha Fatima. "Because I have seen official papers which say that your maiden name is Daima Al Muhairi." "Well, that is my new name." "I've also seen a fatwa which states that you are, in the eyes of Islam, a woman." "Well, yes..." "Allah makes no mistakes, Daima. If your name is Daima and you are a woman, then does it matter how long was the journey which brought you here?" And then Sheikha Fatima quoted the Qur'an, "O you who believe, seek help through patience and prayer. Surely, Allah is with those who are patient." "It seems to me that your journey is not yet over, my dear," she continued. "Allow me and my family to take care of you and to ease your burden. Come stay with us. Agree to be married to the Emir so that he can protect you and keep you safe and provide for you." Daima looked at Aliya and the two sisters hugged for a long time. She knew she wouldn't be safe just anywhere in the UAE with her husband on the loose. She could feel his violence and wasn't surprised about the report from the police. But to actually stay with the Emir's family? To become... a third wife of the Emir? Daima closed her eyes and said a quick prayer to Allah for guidance. "Yes," she said, opening her eyes. "Yes?" asked Sheikha Fatima, feeling a sense of relief, a sure sign from Allah that this was the proper path. "Yes," said Daima. "Yes, I will come with you and yes..." Daima took a deep breath. "And yes, I will marry your husband, the Emir." Daima felt a rush of emotion. Am I really doing this? she wondered. Is this really happening to me? Am I going to be... a wife of the Emir? * * * Sheikha Fatima didn't waste any time. She was worried for Daima's safety and the police and the Emir's security had both said that they shouldn't spend time in public or semi-public places. So, both she and Daima put on their hijab and veiled themselves with niqaab and followed her son and the two security guards down the hall and to a back door to a garage where the Emir's limousine was waiting. Quickly they all got in, the garage doors opened and the limousine smoothly moved out onto the streets of Dubai. That evening they held the marriage ceremony in a private room in the Emir's compound with just the Emir, his wife, and the Emir's religious Sheikh. The wedding contract was very simple and stated that the mahr was waved. It was already signed and witnessed by Hajji Al Muhairi, Daima's father, and his eldest son. Daima was still unfamiliar with gulf state wedding customs, and so didn't realize that this was incredibly disrespectful to her. Sheikha Fatima had argued for some minimum mahr, anything really, but the Emir had flatly refused. He had already felt pushed into this arrangement, and knew he would not have a moment's peace from his senior wife if he did not go through with it, but he drew the line at mahr. And so, they both signed the contract, the Sheikh said a few words and Daima was now married, for the second time in a year. "I hope you will find our home, now your home as well, a safe place to heal," the Emir said, bowing and then immediately leaving the room. Daima hadn't expected any affection on his part, she knew that this was a marriage of convenience, but still his departure was abrupt. "Welcome to the family," Sheikha Fatima said, giving Daima a hug. "Now, let me show you to your quarters." * * * Chapter 15: Living in the Palace "Are you Baba's new wife?" Daima turned away from her computer to find a 12 year old girl sitting on her bed, swinging her legs back and forth. This was the first time Daima had opened the door to her room to the courtyard (one of four courtyards in the Palace) to get a breeze, and now already here was a child. Since being brought to the Palace, she had stayed entirely in her own suite which was basically a hotel suite with a bedroom, living room, office space (with a brand new computer and monitors connected by fiber to the RAC data centers) and kitchen area all combined together in an open floor plan. She had spent the first week just recovering, praying, crying, and talking to Aliya (who visited several times). Food was brought to her by servants and her refrigerator was kept stocked. She spent her spare time reading the Qur'an, finding comfort in its now- familiar words. Finally, after a week, her headaches lessened, her bruises, while still gross, had lessened begun to fade, and she felt well enough to return to work. Daima had no idea how to answer the girl's question. Was her wedding to the Emir supposed to be kept a secret? Aliya had said she had been sworn to secrecy. Aliya couldn't even tell her husband, Mohammed. Even her Baba and her brother, even though they had signed the wedding contract, had no idea to whom Daima was married. But what was the story inside the palace walls? Was she supposed to pretend she was the Emir's cousin or something? Was it okay to tell other family members that she was married? "Mama says you are," the girl repeated. "And if you are, I hope you're nicer than Baba's second wife, Mama Cosima. No one likes her." "I... I guess I am," said Daima, looking down at her hands. "Why don't you join us for eating?" "I... I don't... I'm wasn't sure I was invited," Daima said, blushing. "Of course you are! We're all wondering when you'll finally come to join us." "Also, I'm not sure I'm ready," Daima finished. "How did you get your bruises? Do they hurt?" "I..." Daima turned her head away, embarrassed. "A bad man did this to me," she said, finally. "They used to hurt, but they don't anymore." "Yasmin!!" Daima looked up to see a Filipino maid motioning for the little girl. "My name is Yasmin," the little girl said quickly, her words tumbling over themselves as the maid tried to pull her out of Daima's bedroom. "Like the Princess in Aladdin, only I wasn't named after her. I was named after my grandmother. I wish I had a tiger, though, although I would give him a good Arab name like Khuram and not an Indian name like Raj. I like you! Bye!" * * * "I hear you have met Yasmin, our little gossip," Sheikha Fatima said. "She's adorable," Daima smiled. "I confirmed to her that I was His Highness' third wife. I hope that was the right thing to do?" "Of course it is! You are his wife. You should not be ashamed of that." "I'm not ashamed, I just..." Daima trailed off. "Daima?" Sheikha Fatima asked. "I just don't want to cause any trouble." "Hush," Sheikha Fatima gave Daima a hug. "I don't think that you could ever cause anyone any trouble, you are such a gentle, devout, humble soul. Everyone knows how much you pray." Daima blushed, wondering how they would know that. "Will you join us for dinner?" "No..." "Is it because of your bruises?" Even after a week, her face still had cuts and ugly purple and green splotches. "I'm hideous," Daima said. "They are not your fault. You should not be ashamed." "I..." Daima shrunk back. "I'd rather eat here," she said, timidly. "Very well. But I will expect you to join the family for lunch tomorrow, right after Druhr prayers." Daima felt like a little child being chastised and managed by her mother. It was not a wholly unpleasant feeling. "Yes, Your Highness," she said, humbly. * * * The next morning, Daima got another visit from Yasmin. "What you doing on the computer?" she asked. "I'm doing data science for the Royal Arabian Company." "That's Baba's company! He says I can run it when I'm older, but only if I study hard." "The Royal Arabian Company is owned by... the Emir?" Daima asked. "Of course, silly! It's his favorite company." "I... I never realized that," Daima said. "It makes sense." "Come! Mama sent me to fetch you for lunch. Everyone's going to be there." Daima carefully put on her full hijab and niqaab before going down. Feeling safely covered, she followed Yasmin down the stairs, and the the next courtyard where they entered a long dining room with a large buffet lunch set out. There were so many people! Daima counted over 30 for lunch. There was Sheikha Fatima and what looked like all her children, ranging in ages from 25 to 8. The older ones had spouses and there were a few matrons who were clearly sisters of the Emir or his wife. There was no one who looked like his second wife. Daima assumed she must have her own house someplace else. "Daima, I'm so glad you decided to join us!" Sheikha Fatima said, coming over and giving Daima a hug. "But you don't need to be covered up. We are all family. Take off your veil and your hijab and join us for lunch." "Oh, I don't think..." "Daima, don't be ashamed. Take it off." Suddenly the entire room fell dead silent, looking at Daima. They all knew she was the third wife, and here she was already being scolded by the first wife! As well as appearing to be inappropriately modest. There's no reason to cover up inside the house, of all things! Was this some sort of misplaced devotion? Looking around the room, Daima realized she couldn't refuse without causing a scene, so she slowly slipped the niqaab off her head, and then pulled off her hijab, handing them to a servant who hung them up on a coat rack in the corner. There was a collective intake of breath and horror as everyone saw Daima's bruises. "Everyone," Sheikha Fatima said, "I'd like to introduce you to Daima. She was married to a bad man who beat her and would have killed her, but thankfully our father, the Emir, rescued her, and not a day too soon! And then, His Highness, as commanded by Allah, his charity above all others, has taken Daima as his third wife, so that she may be kept safe and cared for. I hope you will all welcome her with open arms into our family." Daima looked at Sheikha Fatima, shocked, as she told everyone the details of her failed marriage. How dare she? Daima stared at the ground, her face flushed hot with shame, feeling like a failure all over again. A failure for agreeing to marry Ahmed, and then a failure for not being a good enough wife for him, and a failure for not being strong enough to stand up to him. Just then, she heard a hush fall over the family. Daima looked up to see the Emir enter the room. Suddenly, she was taken by how handsome he was, standing tall with his close-cropped beard in his white robes, his intelligent and piercing eyes looking out from his wire-rimmed glasses. "Ya Baba!" Yasmin jumped up and hugged her father. "You are so wonderful! Rescuing Daima from that bad man! You are such a hero!" Daima looked on, astonished, as people congratulated the Emir for his bravery in rescuing her while Daima also accepted some hugs and sympathies from the women in the group. Daima and Sheikha Fatima locked eyes for a second and Daima quickly realized the social genius of the Emir's first wife. In one fell swoop, Sheikha Fatima had brought the entire family to Daima's side, while at the same time giving all of the credit to her husband, building him up in the family's eyes. And at the same time, Daima realized, Sheikha Fatima had also delivered a subtle lesson on female empowerment and what could happen if a husband and a wife do not have mutual respect during marriage. * * * After her 'introduction to the family' lunch, Daima started leaving her door open all the time, and consequently got more and more visitors. The children, having someone new to play with, came by multiple times a day to play games or talk. "Daima, Daima!" two girls rushed into her room, holding dresses. "What do you think? Shamsa likes this dress, but I like this one!" The two girls were Shamsa and Latifa, both giggly girls in their early teens. Latifa held up one dress, a beautiful gold shimmery dress, and then the other, a dark blue with delicate flower embroidery. "Oh, goodness," Daima exclaimed. Daima had resolved to be as low impact on the family as possible. Of course, the children had made that difficult at times, but she was careful to express her opinions as little as possible. "Tell me why you like the blue one, Shamsa," Daima said. The girls debated back and forth the various advantages of each dress. One of them went better with her beautiful hijab, but the other was more flirty, they felt. "But how can you tell," Latifa suddenly realized, "Unless you see them on?" "Of course!" Shamsa said. The door was closed, and immediately both girls were stripping to bras and panties. "But, but..." Daima sputtered as the two girls threw off their clothes left and right. "Why are you *both* undressing??" "Because," Shamsa explained. "I get to wear whatever dress Latifa doesn't wear." Daima looked around, stunned. Two young, teenage girls, had both just waltzed in on her and were now stripping in front of her, without a care in the world. Of course, we are all women, Daima realized. But this was a completely new experience, women exposing themselves in her presence, without any self consciousness. It was so refreshing and wonderful and she just wanted to hug them and say thank you! But instead, she did her best to look at the dresses thoughtfully and take their feelings into account. And of course, the two girls had to strip twice more to exchange the dresses to so Daima could see each dress on each girl. "I think, Latifa, that you should wear the gold one after all," Daima said. The color is so beautiful with your eyes. And Shamsa, the dark blue one makes you look like such a princess. It suits you so well." The girls squealed in delight, since they had already come to the same conclusion. "It's a shame you have nothing nice to wear," Latifa said, as the girls and Daima were all relaxing in bed, the two girls having borrowed Daima's robes. "I have plenty to wear," Daima said. "I don't need much anyway. I just stay and work all day." "And your hair and makeup are always so plain," said Shamsa. "Oh! I know! Latifa! Let's get Daima a makeover! We can ask Miranda!" "Oh, yes! Oh, perfect! Let's do it!" "Who's Miranda?" asked Daima, worried. But the girls refused to say anything more and just giggled and chatted to each other in whispers, grinning and scheming as they got dressed in their everyday dresses and raced away to make arrangements. * * * A week later, after fajr prayers, Shamsa and Latifa put their plan into action. "Daima!" they said, sitting on either side of her at the breakfast table. "Miranda is here! She's ready to do your hair styling, and she brought her daughter who does makeup!" "Right now?" Daima asked. "But... but I have work to do!" Daima and Aliya were in the midst of testing a brand new time-series neural network topology for classifying financial transactions to estimate the continuous probability of delinquency. It was part of a new initiative to create models with long-term stability. "Work! Bah!" Latifa said, snorting. "Women don't need to work. We stay home and take care of the house and the children." "And our husbands," Shamsa said. Both the girls dissolved into giggles which they tried to suppress, failing miserably. "But I need to work!" Daima objected. "The Emir wants me to work." "Not today," Latifa said, with the positive self confidence that only a young teenager has. Daima tried to object, but the girls weren't having any of it. They dragged Daima away from the breakfast table and to a special room which had been set up as a beauty parlor. For the next two hours, Daima's hair, which had grown considerably during her time in Dubai (thanks to her hormone therapy) was colored with delicate highlights and permed into long, soft waves that framed her face. Miranda was even able to weave in some extensions to cover the hair which had been ripped out by Ahmed's mother. But that was not all. While Miranda worked on her hair, Joy was busy with her nails, giving Daima both a manicure and a pedicure in a beautiful shade of rose. "Oh, I love that color!" Shamsa said, examining the nails. The girls spent the entire time with Daima, also getting touch ups on their hair and chatting the entire time. "Shall we pierce your ears?" Joy asked. "P-p-pierced ears?" Daima asked, unconsciously reaching up and fingering her earlobes. "YES!" Latifa said, jumping up, running out of the room and returning 5 minutes later with a pair of gorgeous gold earrings and a necklace. The earrings were large, tear-drop shaped with an outer delicate gold filigree frame surrounding a tear-drop shaped row of diamonds around a stylized gold script of some Arabic word. It was accompanied by a gold necklace with a large gold and diamond pendent of the same design. "I got this from Mama!" "Oh, Latifa, I couldn't!" Daima said. "She needs to wear surgical posts," pointed out Miranda, as she prepared the piercing gun. "But could she wear them, just for lunch? And then we put the surgical posts back?" Latifa pleaded. "Well..." Miranda said, putting dots with a pen on the Daima's ears where the piercings would go. "Okay. But for no more than two hours, do you understand?" "We understand," Shamsa said. The two girls eyed each other and giggled some more. "Hey! Don't I have a say-- unh!" Daima grunted as the piercing gun pierced her first ear with a large gold stud. "Really, girls, I think that this is-- Ya Allah!" she exclaimed as the second ear was pierced. * * * In addition to an actual mosque, attached to the ceremonial wing and used by the men and the palace staff, the palace also contained a private musalla in the residence for the women to use for their daily prayers. After dhuhr (noontime) prayers, Daima exited the musalla and immediately ran into Latifa and Shamsa who dragged her back to her room. "Alhamdulillah! Joy's makeup for you is so beautiful!" Shamsa said. Daima hadn't actually looked at herself in a mirror since the makeover that morning, so she didn't really know how she looked. "Now, we have to get you ready for lunch. Quick!" "Why? What's going on at lunch?" The two girls looked at each other. "Nothing!" Latifa trilled. "We just want to show off your new haircut, that's all. Now, we've picked out a new dress for you to wear." What followed was a sexy fit and flare dress with a snug fitted bodice in lace and gold with a flared skirt in cream satin with several tulle underskirts to give it extra poofiness. "Girls!" Daima said, shocked. "This dress, it is much too low cut!" "It's just family," pooh-poohed Latifa. "Live a little, Daima! Noora wore this last year, and there was no problem at all." "Are you sure?" "Of course we're sure!" Shamsa said, making significant eyes at her sister. The girls zipped up the dress in back and then turned Daima around. Latifa focussed on touching up Daima's makeup and hair while Shamsa worked on replacing Daima's surgical studs with the gold, filigree and diamond teardrop earrings. "What are you two girls up to?" Daima asked, suspicious. "Nothing!" Latifa said, her voice confident. She looked over at Shamsa and the two girls giggled some more. "Nothing at all!" Shamsa agreed, carefully fastening the necklace around Daima's neck. "Oh..." Latifa said, seeing the entire effect. "Oh! You must come and see!" They girls dragged Daima over to the bathroom where Daima stared at her image. "I look..." Daima said, her voice quavering. She looked at her image, her skin tingling with pleasure. All her bruises had long since healed and now her skin was soft and beautiful. The hair style that Miranda had created flowed around her face giving her a youthful, innocent and vulnerable look. Joy's makeup had been done in the Arabic style, with sensual cat-like eyes and soft, sensual lips. The sweetheart neckline of the dress highlighted her breasts which were soft and round and inviting. The beautiful pendant drew the eye to her cleavage. "You look beautiful," Latifa said, squeezing her waist. "A beautiful Arab princess, which is exactly what you are." Shamsa pulled out some perfume and used the stopper to dab it delicately on Daima's wrists, neck and cleavage. "Me... a princess?" Daima asked, feeling a bit overwhelmed. "A princess," agreed Shamsa. "A Sheikha." * * * "In here!" Latifa said. The two girls were escorting her to lunch, but took a right-hand turn at the last minute and dragged Daima into a sitting room. "Just wait here until we come back and fetch you," Shamsa said. "We... uh... just want everything to be perfect... uh... before you make your big entrance!" "What are you girls doing??" Daima asked, but before she could get a response, Daima Latifa and Shamsa had closed the door and were gone. Daima looked around the room. It was one of Sheikha Fatima's sitting rooms which she used for private functions. There were sofas along one side, a wall full of books, another wall which tastefully displayed gifts the family had received from various dignitaries. And then Daima noticed the table. It appeared to be set for lunch. Was Sheikha Fatima supposed to be coming? The door opened and in walked the Emir, looking flustered and annoyed. Immediately the door behind him closed on its own and Daima could hear the giggling of the two girls. "Y-y-your Royal Highness!" Daima stammered, bowing. The Emir looked as handsome as she remembered with his sharp intelligent eyes and his sculpted jaw. He carried himself with a magnetic grace and confidence. The Emir looked over at the blushing woman. He allowed himself to admire her womanly figure. Her breasts were quite large for such a small frame. Her legs were long and smooth, her skin was beautiful and she was done up in the Arab style with gold adornments and sultry makeup. The fact that she was so deep in the palace meant that her presence had been approved by Sheikha Fatima, and so the Emir felt no qualms about admiring her body on display for him. Because she was dressed so immodestly, with her plunging neckline, she was probably a TV personality or famous friend of her daughters. Regardless, if she wanted to dress like a slut for him, he would happily enjoy his time with her! He felt his excitement build. He imagined stripping her naked and fucking her as she screamed in ecstasy and begged for more. Perhaps they could even do it right here? There were plenty of sofas and cushions. He felt his manhood grow hard. "You are very beautiful," the Emir said. "Th-thank you, Your Highness," Daima blushed at his compliment. She felt herself tingle under his piercing male gaze, as if he were undressing her with his eyes and stroking her naked body with them. "What is your name?" "M-my name?" But still, surely he must know her name? Daima wondered. "Yes, presumably that is not a hard question. What is your name, my lovely?" "It's... it's Daima," she said. "Ah, what a beautiful name. It means 'Always'." "Yes, Your Highness. Always. Always faithful." "And to what family do you belong?" Daima looked at him, confused and now seriously freaked out. He doesn't know who I am? "Al Nahyan," Daima said, softly. "Al Nahyan..." the Emir said. "But that's..." The Emir looked closely at the lovely, blushing, innocent and vulnerable feminine creature before him, and felt himself turn angry with embarrassment. This was the man they had turned into a woman! "You're Daima Al Nahyan," he said, the anger clear in his voice. "My third wife." "Yes, Your Highness," Daima said. Then, sensing his rising anger, she continued quickly: "But I did not know I would be meeting you! I am so sorry! Your daughters, they did not warn me or I would have made sure to have made an appointment ahead of time! And this is the first time I have been to the salon and I... I..." Hearing her pitiful apologies and remembering the bruises from her first husband, the Emir's anger quickly subsided. "No, my dear, you have done nothing wrong. It is I who should apologize. I didn't recognize you since the last time I saw you, your face was..." the Emir struggled to find the right words. "Yes, Your Highness, it is perfectly understandable." "Are you feeling better now?" "Much better, Your Highness. Completely healed, thanks to the generous attentions of your wife, Sheikha Fatima and the palace staff." "Shall we sit?" The Emir indicated the lunch table which had been set out for them. "Apparently, Latifa and Shamsa have been planning this for some time." "They are wonderful and intelligent girls, Your Highness. You should be very proud of them," Daima said, thinking it was always a good idea to complement a man's children. "Oh, I am," the Emir said. "Although they can be mischievous at times." They could hear giggling from the other side of the door. "LEAVE US ALONE!" the Emir shouted, but with good humor. "WE'RE SITTING DOWN TO EAT!" "YAY!" they could hear through the door, followed by applause. "ENJOY YOUR LUNCH!" The Emir and his third wife sat down to enjoy a Lebanese meal of lamb kebabs and couscous with several delicious sauces, eating in silence. "I hope Your Highness is satisfied with my work," Daima ventured, after a while. "Your work?" "Yes, Your Highness. For the Royal Arabian Corporation. My data science work." Hearing this, the Emir again connected this woman who was in front of him with the data science savant who worked for his Royal Arabian Corporation. The Emir remembered his last conversation with the Finance Minister. Since Daima had been moved to the Palace, the Finance Minister said, revenues from the data science project had tripled, to about 14 billion AED, annualized. Just moving Daima to the palace had made the Emir over $375m USD in just six weeks. But how could this delicate, feminine woman possibly be The Nerd? He knew, of course, of the surgeries that she had undergone. He himself, after all, had paid for him, so that she could be kept safe in Dubai as a Muslim woman and unable to escape. It seemed inconceivable that the two must be the same person, but it must be so. "Alhamdulillah," said the Emir. "I do know of your work for my Royal Arabian Corporation and it is most satisfactory." "Oh, I'm so glad," Daima said, and the relief which washed over her face was apparent. "I work so hard to make myself worthy of your generosity, Your Highness, and how you and Sheikha Fatima rescued me... It is all I think about." "Well.... have no fear, you work is most satisfactory. Your company, your country, and most of all, your Emir - we all thank you for a job very well done. You have allowed us to..." he paused to find an appropriate phrase, "optimize our operations to great benefit to the corporation and the country." "I am so glad," Daima said, bowing her head with humility. "I never know how my analysis is used by the business, so this confirmation of my value to you is truly wonderful. Alhamdulillah." "Alhamdulillah," the Emir agreed. The two ate in silence for a while. "How are you getting along in the palace?" he asked. "Oh, very well, Your Highness," Daima said. "Sheikha Fatima is wonderful and your children are such a delight. We often play games or read the Qur'an with each other. I am teaching your youngest son, Mohammed, how to program computers. He is quite brilliant at it." "That is very good," said the Emir. He finished his meal. "Well, if there is anything else that I can do for you, please all you need to do is ask." "Your Highness, there is one thing..." Daima hesitated. "What is it?" "Your Royal Highness..." Daima hesitated again, looking down at her hands in her lap. "It's my mother. I've tried to reach her several times since I've arrived at the Palace, but my e-mails to her have gone unanswered. And her phone appears to be disconnected. Could I... Would Your Highness see it in his heart to check on her well being? I'm so worried about her." "You mean you haven't been told?" "Told what?" "Your mother died. Two months ago." Immediately the Emir knew he had made a mistake. Usually he left delicate social communications to his senior wife, but Daima's request was so unexpected that he just responded immediately without thinking how it would it would be received. "SHE'S DEAD?" Daima cried out, her voice dissolving into a pitiful wail of pain and suffering. "I apologize for not having you informed sooner," the Emir said, rather stiffly. "I thought someone would have told you by now." "She's dead?" Daima asked again as tears began streaming down her face. "How did she die? When did she die? Why didn't anyone tell me?" "I believe it was a medical condition. Sheikha Fatima--" But Daima had already raced out the door, not wanting to be emotional in front of the Emir, a hand over her mouth as she sobbed in agony, leaving the Emir sitting by himself. * * * "But I didn't know that she didn't know!" the Emir shouted, angrily. Sheikha Fatima was well used to her husband's angry outbursts and knew by now exactly how to handle them. After all, he was, fundamentally, a very good man. But like all good men he could become passionate, especially when embarrassed. It was the primary weakness of their sex, she reflected. "But is it not the duty of a husband to tell his wife of such news?" Sheikha Fatima said. "Well, normally, yes. But this is not a normal situation!" "How is it not normal? Are you not her husband? Did you not get married in the eyes of Allah? Are you not responsible for her welfare? Does that not include both health and safety but also her mental welfare?" "Do not lecture me on my responsibilities! I know very well my responsibilities!" "And did you not know of her situation? I did not tell her because I did not want to 'overstep my bounds' and perform duties which are properly the husband's responsibility." With this statement, Sheikha Fatima referenced a common argument they often had. The Emir growled and harrumphed. Once Daima was married and safely stashed in the palace, he thought he could just ignore her for the rest of his life. But clearly Allah had other plans. "So now what do I do?" The Emir asked. How did his senior wife always seem to get her way? "You are her husband. Go comfort her." The Emir grunted and stubbornly didn't move, feeling manipulated. "It is your duty as a husband," Sheikha Fatima said. "The poor girl has suffered so much already, and for what? So that she can be a better worker for your company and make you a lot of money? You know it's true. She hasn't left her room all day. She hasn't eaten. Her door is locked and she won't let any of us in. The poor dear is devastated, and only her husband's attention will help her." "Fine," he said, finally admitting his duty. * * * Standing outside Daima's door, the Emir motioned for the palace staff, a Filipino woman, to unlock the door with the master key. This was his right as a husband. Daima could not refuse her husband's entry to her bedroom. "Allahuma thabetna" [God, give me strength] the Emir said quietly to himself. Entering her room, the Emir saw Daima on the floor, facing qibla, kneeling and praying. She looked up at him briefly, her eyes red, blotchy and wet, and then went back to praying. He closed the door and waited until she was done. Her voice was beautiful and high and her prayers were so intent and full of devotion to Allah that it moved the Emir. How could such a beautiful thing be formerly a man? He wondered, watching her. She was dressed in a simple night gown, fully revealing the curves of her breasts and bottom, as her long wavy hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back. Against his will, he felt himself grow in her presence. Even knowing she used to be a man, a thought which disgusted him, even knowing this, his eyes and body deceived his mind and he became desirous. And I am her husband. The thought entered his mind, unbidden. She is mine to have. Finally, Daima was done. She stood up and bowed. "Your Highness," she said, her voice cracking. "I wish to humbly apologize for my behavior earlier. I sh-should have not run out like that when you... you... you t-t-told me of my... my..." Daima gulped, desperately trying to keep herself together. "When you told me of my mother," she finished. "I am so sorry, Your Highness. I am so grateful to you and Shiekha Fatima for taking me in. I owe you my life and... but... I..." Daima dissolved into tears. The Emir sat on Daima's bed and beckoned for her to join him. Following his guide, she sat in his lap like one of his daughters, and he pressed her head to his shoulder so she could cry and be comforted. Daima felt his arms envelop her, feeling the comfort of his powerful presence. She felt like a child being taken care of, not like a wife or an equal at all. Finally, Daima settled down, having cried herself out. She leaned over and gracefully snagged a lace and cotton handkerchief from her nightstand to clean herself up, looking into the Emir's eyes, held in his embrace. She could feel his warmth and smell his scent. A scent of leather and male musk and faded cologne and horses. "I have made inquiries since we last met," the Emir said, his hands wrapped around Daima's waist. "I believe you have an aunt, Sarah?" "Yes, Your Highness." "Your Aunt Sarah was with your mother when she died and has taken over as executor of your late mother's estate. She has gathered up and sorted her things and has a box of your mother's personal belongings which she is having shipped to the palace. There are also some forms for you to sign, as you are the sole inheritor of your mother's estate." "Thank you, Your Highness," Daima said. For a moment she felt like she was about to slip into tears again, but just at that moment, the Emir pulled her into his embrace and comforted her. Daima felt herself being wrapped up by this man. His presence was comforting. She felt safe and cared for. Although outwardly calm, the Emir was having an entirely different conversation in his head. Having this beautiful, feminine woman in his arms had awoken something inside of him. Hearing her pray to Allah and then holding her in his arms as she cried... there was something so child-like and innocent and vulnerable and most especially feminine about her. Something so trusting and humble. She was unlike other women he typically met, most of them scheming and deceitful, vying for his attention and using any stratagem of beauty enhancement or name dropping to turn his head towards their favor. No, Daima was free of all that. A simple, devout Muslimah, with no thought other than how grateful she was. And his body responded. It responded with desire. A breathless desire to take this creature, technically his wife, and make her fully his own in every way. To own her body and her soul and to stake his claim as her husband. But he knew she used to be a man... and so he did nothing. Did nothing but fight with his own animal passions. And as she sat in his lap, Daima could feel his conflict. She felt his comforting arms, she could hear his heartbeat, she could feel his breathing, and she could feel his hardening manhood pressing against her. "Better now?" The Emir said, getting up abruptly, sliding Daima onto the bed where she fell back, her hair cascading over her eyes. Daima struggled to sit up and bow her head. "Yes, Your Highness, thank you," she said, humbly, not daring to look the Emir in the eye. "Salaam." * * * Chapter 16: The Emir The Emir's visit helped to settle Daima's mind and spirit about her mother. She would continue grieve for the rest of her life, of course, but it now became a part of who she was rather than something which caused her suffering. And prayer helped her most of all. Putting herself in Allah's hands, adhering to the five pillars, knowing she was a humble servant for her God, helped to sooth her mind so that, after a week of mourning, she was able to return to normal life at the palace, working during the day and spending time with family. And then one night, Daima dreamt of the Emir. In her dream, she was in full hijab with her niqaab veil standing. The Emir was formally dressed in his white robes with his headscarf and black rope head band. He stared at her with his piercing eyes. "Please remove your clothes," he told her. Slowly and without any sign of self consciousness, Daima undressed for him. First she removed her niqaab, and then her hijab. Next, she removed her her abaya and she was left standing before him in just her cream and gold dress and high heels, the same outfit that Shamsa and Latifa had made her wear for their lunch together. "Please continue," he said in her dream. Magically, the zipper at the back of the dress became undone, and Daima felt the dress fall from her shoulders. She was now standing before him in just heels, stockings, and a full slip with bra and panties underneath. "Please continue," he said again. First, she stepped out of her heels, feeling him tower over her. Then she unclipped the stockings from her garter belt, taking them both off. Finally, she pulled off her slip, laying it aside and standing before him in just bra and panties. As she stood before his admiring gaze, she realized that she was very horny. Her pussy was wet and soaking her panties, even though this was technically not possible. She clenched her legs together, trying to get more pressure there. She felt the bra hold her breasts out to the Emir, as if they were a present for him. The soft silk fabric of the panties delicately hugged her bottom and gently cupped her sex. "Please continue," he said. Just as she was unhooking her bra to expose her breasts to the Emir, she shuddered in orgasm and woke up. "Alhamdulillah," she moaned, as her orgasm flowed through her. Finally, her horny mind settled and she went back to sleep, grateful for the gift from Allah which had occurred in her sleep. * * * The Emir was having similar problems. "You seem distracted," Sheikha Fatima whispered. It was Friday evening and the entire family had just returned from isha prayers at the Palace mosque. Sheikha Fatima had observed her husband and how he kept glancing at Daima. His movements were subtle. It was unlikely that anyone other than his senior wife would be able to tell. To test her theory, she carefully placed Daima across from The Emir in the living room, so that he could observe her as the family shared a late-evening snack before heading to bed. Everyone was sitting on sofas around the large living room around coffee tables laden with small plates full of delicacies. "It is nothing," the Emir said, snapping out of his trance. "She is very beautiful," Sheikha Fatima whispered into his ear, teasing him. "I don't who you are talking about," the Emir said, in a huff. The rest of the party was chatting about Ramadan, which was about to start next week, and who might be hosting iftar [evening meals, to break the fast] each evening and what they should wear. Several iftars would be hosted as charitable events in various villages of the UAE, so there was a lot of planning involved and some of the older children in the royal family had taken this on for the first time. "Her breasts are quite large, are they not?" whispered Sheikha Fatima. The Emir turned bright red, and was about to scold his wife, but held his tongue. "Daima," called out Sheikha Fatima. "Could you pass me that plate of dates?" "Of course, Your Highness," Daima said. In order to reach the dates, Daima was forced to lean over the coffee table, exposing her cleavage (since, of course, all women remove their modest clothing when at home with family) to the Emir's hungry eyes. Daima's dress had been picked out by Shamsa and Latifa, who were still scheming to make her attractive for their father, although in more subtle ways. The Emir gulped and thanked Allah, and not for the first time, for his loose robes which concealed his growing erection. "You are Shaytan," he whispered back to his senior wife. "How is this wrong?" she asked, batting her eyes at him, innocently. "Daima is your *wife*, my husband. There is nothing wrong with a husband admiring his wife, is there?" The Emir grunted and adjusted his robes some more. * * * "Why are you doing this?" the Emir asked his senior wife when they were alone together. "Why are you so intent on getting us together?" "It is your duty as a husband," Sheikha Fatima explained. "You know it is. Have you even consummated your marriage?" "No." "And I know you find her attractive." The Emir just glared. "She is your *wife*," Sheikha Fatima explained. "If you find her attractive, that is the work of Allah working upon you." "To Allah belongs the Mystery of the heavens and the earth," quoted the Emir. "It is really not that mysterious," Sheikha Fatima said, rolling her eyes. * * * "Miranda? Joy? What are you doing here?" It was late, after isha prayers, and Daima was preparing herself for bed. "We have been sent by Sheikha Fatima," Miranda said, she and her daughter entering the room caring several bags. "We are here to prepare you for the Emir." "The... The Emir?" Daima asked. "Yes, Sheikha Daima," she said, humbly. This was the first time that anyone had referred to her as 'Sheikha Daima'. Although it was technically correct, the family never referred to each other this way, except for Daima who used Sheikha for Sheikha Fatima, the senior wife. Daima didn't feel worthy of the title. Miranda instructed Daima to shower. Daima performed her normal shower ritual which included shaving her legs and armpits. Most of the rest of her body was now naturally hairless, thanks to her hormone and laser therapy. Most, but not all. "Now, we must shave you, down there," Miranda said, holding a can of shaving cream and a lady's razor. "You can't possibly mean..." "Yes, Sheikha." "No! I... will not allow it!" "Sheikha Fatima says that it is expected." Daima, the large towel wrapped around her body hesitated. She felt profoundly embarrassed that her senior wife had ordered her pubic hair to be shaved. She had never exposed her new body to anyone, not even Aliya. "If it helps, Sheikha Daima, I have shaved Sheikha Fatima to the Emir's satisfaction as well." That does not help at all, Daima thought to herself, embarrassed to know this intimate information. Daima took a deep breath, dropped her towel and sat in the chair offered by Miranda. Closing her eyes and turning her head to the side she spread her legs. Miranda separated them further, lathered up her pubic mound and then shaved it, working carefully but efficiently. Daima bit her lip and held as still as possible, feeling her excitement grow, despite herself "Joy!" Miranda called out, when she was done. The two Filipino women rubbed spice-scented moisturizer over Daima's entire body, including between her legs and under her arms. The scent was exotic and Arabian, a mixture of cinnamon and incense. Daima stood, as in a trance, her arms held out, feeling the women's soft hands rub over her naked skin, feeling her body come alive. After wiping off the excess moisturizer with soft cotton cloths (her skin taking on a rosy glow), Miranda and Joy sat Daima down and worked on her hair and makeup. Daima felt self conscious. Here she was, after all, completely naked, hands in her lap hiding her (now bare) sex, in front of these two experts as they made her beautiful. But if they noticed they said nothing, working intently until her hair was beautifully coiffed in a kind of up-do with delicate tendrils floating down and her makeup was sultry and inviting, pouty lips and wide eyes giving Daima an innocent, vulnerable look. "Now, come. We will help you dress." Miranda and Joy extracted sumptuous lingerie and jewelry from their bags. Would wonders never cease? "From Sheikha Fatima," Miranda said, helping Daima into a gorgeous lace and silk night-gown, elegantly tiered, embroidered with delicate gold thread. "It is your wedding gift." Daima felt like she was glowing. The gold and silk caught the light and followed her curves like it was liquid gold poured over her body. Her large breasts, larger than most women in Dubai, were carefully presented with hard nipples tenting out the smooth fabric and her ample cleavage framed in lace. Daima was astonished to incomprehension at the thought that the Emir's first wife was helping to prepare the Emir's third wife for his pleasure... like a dish for him to feast upon. And here Daima, her desire for the Emir growing by the second, was all too happy to be the main course. Miranda and Joy added dangly earrings made up of gold coins dripping with delicate gold chains and a gold necklace of the same design. Miranda weaved wove a delicate gold chain into her hair. Gold bangles were placed around her wrists, two on one arm, three on the other. And finally, another delicate gold chain was hooked around her right ankle, dripping with semi-precious gems. "That is how an Arab bride should look for her husband," Miranda said, satisfied, turning Daima towards the mirror, where Daima was confronted with an image that reached a nearly spiritual level. She felt like a flower, beautiful, innocent, desperate to be plucked by her husband, made from heavenly materials. "So beautiful!" said Joy, with such honest awe in her voice that Daima felt tingles run over her body. "Oh, Miranda, Joy..." Daima said, her hushed voice still not believing that this image could be her. "This is magic. You are djinis." "The magic is inside you," Miranda said. "Now come, let's take you to the Emir before it gets too late." They helped Daima into a long robe of the same material and styling as the nightgown, and then into a pair of satin and gold embroidered mules, but before they could leave, Daima had one last task, so she quickly darted into the bathroom, applied an enormous amount of lubricant to her dilator, and used it to ensure that she was fully ready for the Emir, come what may. That last task accomplished, Daima followed Miranda down the dark hallways of the palace leaving Joy behind to clean up. Their shoes made soft "shuff shuff" sounds on the marble floors echoing through the empty halls. They walked from one end of the wing to the other, down a long corridor and to a new wing that Daima had only visited once, when she was given a (rather scatter brained) tour of the house by the children, where the Emir's bedroom lay. "Here you are," Miranda said, depositing Daima in front of the Emir's bedroom door. "See well to your husband's needs and make his pleasure your goal." "Bless you, Miranda," Daima said, hugging her briefly. And then Miranda waited and watched, and Daima, feeling Miranda's eyes on her back, somehow knowing that she would wait as long as it took to make certain Daima entered the Emir's bedroom, took a deep breath and opened the door. * * * The Emir looked up from his reading and almost didn't recognize her. Who was this glowing vision that entered his door? Almost, disastrously, he asked 'who are you?' only to stop himself just in time to realize that this was Daima, his third wife, come to see him. Since he was not the one to call Daima to his chamber, Sheikha Fatima must have set this up, the Emir realized. He admired the swell of her curves and the size of her breasts from the side as she softly closed the door and turned to face him, standing shyly, waiting for him to acknowledge her. He could tell she was nervous, but at the same time he could also feel her desire. She wanted to be here and she looked upon him with a naked hunger that was intoxicating. The Emir silently beckoned her forth. Daima left her slippers by the door and walked to him, her bare toes sinking into the sumptuous Arabian carpeting that covered the floors of the Emir's bedroom. She looked so fragile, walking towards him. Fragile and delicate and innocent and trusting, and all the Emir wanted at exactly that moment was to take her as his own and claim her. To claim her passion for his own to make her love him. He would force her to rise to his pleasure and to force upon her the ultimate pleasure for herself, a searing pleasure which would bind her to his soul forever. No longer was she the man who he had turned into a woman. To the Emir she was now a woman. A woman he desired. "Take off your robe," he said. Daima felt a shiver run up her spine and a blush rise to her cheeks. Carefully, she unfastened the bow which held the neck of her robe together and then unbelted the sash. The robe slipped to the floor, unwrapping her body for her husband, the skin of her arms and legs shockingly naked before his hungry eyes. The Emir sat for a moment, letting the moment stretch out, testing her obedience, enjoying her hesitation and her rising anticipation. Long moments passed. Daima felt faint with breathless desire. Finally, he pushed aside the covers and got out of bed. "Undress me," he said, standing before her. Daima looked into his eyes and trembled. "Yes, Your Highness," she whispered. Slowly, gently, she slipped his nightshirt over his head and down his arms. The Emir stood before her, early-middle aged with a slight paunch, but still strong and spry, a muscled man well used to horseback riding and prayer and nights in the desert with his Bedouin friends. The hair on his brown chest was black and wiry. He smelled of male sweat. It made Daima faint with desire. Since that the day that she had given up masturbation for Allah, she had not reached orgasm, not even with Ahmed, except a few times in her sleep, Alhamdulillah. She felt as if a coiled spring had been wound up inside of her, waiting to be released for release, desperate to be released to relinquish its erotic energy. As a boy, she had masturbated at least one a day, sometimes twice. And then... nothing for almost a year now. She was vibrating with need. Unable to help herself, Daima ran her fingers down her husband's arm, feeling the warmth of his skin and the muscles underneath. The touch was electric and shot through her fingers and directly to her sex. Kneeling before him, like she imagined a dutiful wife should do, Daima unknotted the silk cord which served as a belt for his long, loose sleeping trousers. Daima gasped as the the soft, thin trousers sagged from his body revealing his hard, brown cock which bobbed up eagerly to meet her. Looking into his eyes, she caressed it in her fingers, thrilling at it's straining passion for her. The Emir stepped out of his trousers and reached down to stroke her soft, luxuriant hair. It was light brown and done up by Miranda so the graceful line of her nose and neck were available for his fingers to explore. "Oh!" The Emir's eyes almost bulged from his sockets as he felt Daima's warm mouth surround the helmet of his member. No wife had ever done that for him! Both of his other wives had been entirely focussed on intercourse, consummating their marriage. Yes, sex was pleasurable, how could it not be? But this! Daima, for her part, had just assumed that this was the first step towards all marital sex. After all, Ahmed had required it that one time when they had slept together. She had mentally prepared herself for it, and so drawing the Emir into her mouth felt exactly right. But how different this was from Ahmed! The Emir was already hard, and how much more thrilling it was to have a hard cock in her mouth! She could feel his desire. As her tongue and lips slipped over the stretched skin and his veins and ridges, she felt a small peak of desire in her sex, her eyes fluttering closed for just a second as she drew him deep into her mouth. But already the Emir was getting close. It would be disaster if she brought him to completion first! He must claim her, make her his own, bind her soul to his, by Allah! And so he pulled out and grasped her arm to lift her up. Daima, surprised, allowed herself to be manhandled and thrust into the Emir's bed, sinking into the deliciously soft mattress, her head on his pillow. She looked into his eyes, seeing the ferocity there. Wanting that fire for herself, she spread her legs as he got into bed and got on top of her. His hands briefly ran across her sex, causing her to gasp and clench. Finding her wet and ready (thanks to her early preparations), he quickly positioned himself at the entrance to her sex (she was wearing no panties) and, after first rubbing the head of his cock up and down her sex to get lubricated, thrust inside of her. "ALLAH!" Daima screamed. "Oh, BLESS YOU! BLESS YOU!" she shouted, as he pressed deep into her, pressing his pubic bone against hers. She could feel him, he was a perfect fit, filling her up, deep inside of her, pressing and massaging those deep parts that had never been properly touched until now. The pleasure was so intense, the anticipation had been so exquisite, the Emir's taking of his third wife had been with such aggression and confidence, that Daima only lasted a few thrusts before the coiled spring in her body released with an orgasm so great she saw stars. Daima desperately clutched at her husband, drawing him in as deep as possible, thrusting her body against his, shaking and spasming as her pleasure flowed through her body, surging back and forth. And not a moment too soon, as the Emir himself, with a guttural cry, pressed into her and felt his own tidal flow of pleasure, spurting his seed into Daima, claiming her as his wife, marking his territory, making her his own, now and forever. "Allaaaahhh!!" Daima continued to wail, her pleasure lasting longer than she thought possible, as she held onto her husband desperate for every last drop of it. Later she would wonder if invoking Allah's name at such a moment was proper, but fortunately, her husband would assure her that it was. And when it was all over, Daima felt tears streaming down her face. Tears of pleasure and tears of gratitude, for the Emir who had taken her in and now this man, her husband, who had shown her the path to such pleasure. She had saved herself for this for so long, she had suffered so much, and finally... it had all been worth it. "Allah is great and merciful," she said, looking into her husband's eyes. "Alhamdulillah," he said, grinning from ear to ear, because he knew now that she was his. He had claimed her like he had never claimed anyone before in this life. Not Sheikha Fatima and certainly not his second wife. But now, with Daima, he had found her at last, a beautiful and sensual treasure that he could claim completely as his own, who was enslaved to his body and his soul by her gratitude and her love and desire. Daima spent the entire evening with the Emir. She now thought of him, for the first time, as her husband, the two of them talking in soft words, exploring each other's bodies and having sex two more times (with help from the lubricant that she had secreted in the pockets of her robe), long and slow and sensuous and warm and full of love. * * * Of course there are no secrets in the palace, so the next morning at breakfast, Daima shyly blushed and looked at the ground hearing the giggles and whispers from the rest of the family as they smiled at her. "Good for you," Sheikha Fatima said, squeezing her hand. "Alhamdulillah." "Alhamdulillah," agreed Daima. Shamsa and Latifa were beside themselves with glee. Their plan had finally born fruit! And they could see the pleasure radiating from their father's face, and they could see the gratitude and beauty shimmering in Daima's eyes and demeanor. "That is how it should be," Latifa whispered to her sister, who nodded back, kissing her on the cheek. "Let's go buy her some more lingerie! I think she'll be needing it." And so they found their older sister, Maryam, and the three of them cornered Daima in her bedroom as she was about to log in for work, and carefully measured every inch of her body. "Why are you doing this?" Daima asked. "I am in need of nothing." "It's not for you," Latifa giggled. "It's for Baba." "Latifa!" Daima said, honestly shocked. But these were worldly girls who understood the birds and the bees, thanks to Sheikha Fatima's careful teachings, and any of them might be betrothed at any moment (and, indeed, Maryam was about to complete her nuptial contract in just a few weeks). * * * Daima was shocked when Miranda and Joy showed up later that night. "But... I just slept with him last night," Daima said. "This morning, actually!" "He wants more of you," Miranda said, grinning. This time, Daima was made up as a goddess, with long flowing hair woven with delicate flowers. Her makeup was natural and her lingerie was flowing, but still in silk and lace. And it was another night to remember, just as pleasurable as the night before but this time with more love, more kisses, more stroking and caresses. Daima began to understand her husband's needs better, as she stroked and massaged his body and his tired shoulders before being captured in his arms for another round of lovemaking. And then the days started to blur into each other, as Daima spent them in a haze of work and family and sex with her husband. He was insatiable! There were times when he would surprise her after noon-time prayers, locking the door behind her as she quickly ran to the en-suite bathroom to prepare for him. Sometimes he couldn't even wait for that. "Just your mouth," he would say, and of course Daima was more than happy to drop to her knees and pleasure him that way, as he sat on the bed, gasping as she drew out his pleasure and then swallowed it, smiling and feeling a surge of satisfied pleasure. Their coupling got to be so frequent that Sheikha Fatima had, eventually, to intervene. "Have I created a monster?" she wondered to herself, before summoning Daima to her bedroom. The Emir's second wife had complained bitterly to her that she had not seen her husband all month, because he had been shacked up with that 'foreign whore', and Sheikha Fatima had agreed to take care of it. Upon entering the bedroom, Daima bowed, her face aglow with pleasure from having recently been fucked by her husband, yet again. Sheikha Fatima walked over to her and grasped her ear, hard, and pulled her over to the bed. "He has three wives, you know," Sheikha Fatima said. She roughly lifted up Daima's skirts to expose her bottom, she was wearing pair of sexy, lace high-rise panties, and gave Daima ten spanks on her bottom, Daima crying in shame. "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" Daima said, over and over. "Usually, I'd wait until you had your period. Or until you got pregnant," Sheikha Fatima knew that a firm hand from the senior wife was required in such situations. "But then I realized that I would be waiting forever, wouldn't I? You'll never have a period, you'll never get pregnant, will you?" "No..." cried Daima, tearfully, wishing fervently that she really would get a period, if only so that she wouldn't disappoint Sheikha Fatima to whom she owed everything. "Please, Sheikha Fatima, what can I do! Please, tell me what to do and I'll do it!" "You must limit your time with him," Sheikha Fatima said. "To a maximum of two weeks per month." "Only two weeks--" Daima said, shocked, before quickly covering her mouth and bowing to her senior wife. "Of course," she said, quietly. "I shall do your bidding." "I shall explain this to the Emir," Sheikha Fatima said, with a sigh. "He will not like it, but he will agree. But he is weak, especially when it comes to sex and beautiful women." Sheikha Fatima gently grasped Daima's chin, to look into her eyes. "Like you. So, when it is not your week, you must refuse his advances. If there is a problem, then you must see me. Do you understand?" "Yes, Sheikha Fatima, I understand," said the cowed Daima. "Very good, my girl. Now, since you have had such constant access to the Emir's bed these last two months, you will need to abstain from those pleasures for the next month." "A whole month?!" Daima felt like she would die. "Yes, a whole month!" Sheikha Fatima pinched Daima's ear nice and hard for good measure. "Yes, Sheikha Fatima." "And then after that, you may have him every other week. Do you understand?" "Yes, Sheikha Fatima, I understand." "Oh, don't look so glum, my darling. I think you'll find that this schedule will only hone your ardor for him." * * * Chapter 17: The Hospital Daima woke slowly, her head fuzzy, her arm in tremendous pain. As she moved her head, it felt like a nail had been thrust into it, the pain was excruciating. "Oh, Daima, Daima... Oh, praise be to Allah that you are awake!" She looked over to see Sheikha Fatima, getting up and coming to her. Were those tears in her eyes? She felt a hand gently cup her cheek. "What... what happened?" she asked, looking up at Sheikha Fatima. "Where... where am I?" "You are in the woman's wing of the hospital," she said. "The guards... they heard shouting in the hallway outside the Emir's bedroom and found you yelling and struggling... with Ahmed, your ex-husband." "Ahmed!" Daima cried, suddenly tears springing to her eyes as the memory of the previous night came to her. "I remember! He had a knife! He said he was going to kill the Emir and all his family! I had to stop him! Are you okay? Is the Emir...????" "He's fine. We are all fine, Daima, Alhamdulillah, and all thanks to you. The guards heard your screaming and found you struggling with Ahmed for the knife. Before they could do anything, he broke your arm and swung your head against a table and, mercifully, you blacked out." "And Ahmed?" "He was about to stab you through the heart when they shot him dead." "Ya Allah!" Daima said, breaking into fresh sobs. "Oh, Sheikha Fatima, Your Highness, I am so sorry to bring this upon your family! Please forgive me!" "It is not your fault, Daima," Sheikha Fatima said. "Ahmed befriended one of the kitchen staff and pretended to be her boyfriend. Once she explained how the palace worked, he slit her throat and then let himself into the palace through a back door with her key card. They found a letter in his apartment describing how he intended to kill us all in our sleep. It is thanks to you that we were saved." "Oh no, it is all my fault..." "Sleep, my darling," Sheikha Fatima said, motioning to the nurses. * * * Daima spent the next four weeks in the hospital recovering. In addition to her broken arm, she also had a bad concussion and had lost a lot of blood due to two stab wounds, one across her belly and a second one on her shoulder. Her concussion was especially bad. The first week, her room had to be completely dark and silent, since any noise or sound would start her head to aching. During this time, she only saw Maryam, Aliya and Sheikha Fatima (and occasional female doctors and nurses), who alternated washing her and feeding her. Gradually she began to improve until finally, after a few weeks, she started to feel like her old self again. "I have something for you," said Aliya. It was to be her last day at the hospital. Daima was sitting up in her bed, dressed in a simple kaftan. Her abaya, hijab and niqaab were in her closet, waiting to be put on. The rest of her clothes had already been packed away. They had been reading the Qur'an together, discussing its passages just like they had done so long ago when they lived together in Dubai. Aliya handed Daima a large sealed envelope. "What is this?" Daima asked. "It's from the Emir," Aliya said. "Daima.... I love you. You do know that, don't you?" Aliya reached out and grasped Daima's hand. "Of course, Aliya!" "Please remember that," Aliya said, a tear in her eye, hugging Daima and giving her a fervent kiss on the lips. "Please, never forget that I love you. And... no more secrets." "But... where are you going?" Daima asked, as Aliya got up. "In the envelope is a letter. Read it," she said, letting herself out of the hospital room and leaving Daima alone. * * * Daima sat on the bed, the letter in her hands, staring out the window at the busy traffic of Dubai. The letter had explained everything. How she had been brought to Dubai under false pretenses. How Aliya had been working for the Emir and the Finance Minister this whole time. How she had been carefully led down this path and gently coerced into giving up her citizenship, into converting to Islam, and into changing her sex. The letter also explained how Ahmed had been recruited, by the Emir, to be her husband, so that she would be trapped as a woman in an Arab country, and how Ahmed had only agreed to the plan because the Emir had paid him to. And how all of this had been done so that the Emir could take advantage of Daima's talents at Data Science. The letter also expressed the Emir's profound apologies. He had finally been graced by Allah with true understanding. He understood now how everything he had done had been selfish and shameful, and now he would be repenting for his actions for the rest of his life. And so, as part of his tawba, he had included signed divorce papers in the envelope, and further he had created a bank account for Daima with her proper share of mahr - about 1 billion AED, or just over $250 million dollars. The envelope also contained her UAE passport and a letter from the U.S. Ambassador with instructions on how she could regain her U.S. Citizenship. And now she was a free woman to go and do as she pleased. He was releasing her. * * * Daima sat for a very long time. The evening began to darken, and still she sat, looking out over the Dubai skyline, watching the lights of the high-rises gradually blink on. She was a very rich woman now. Rich and free. She could retire and go anywhere and do anything that she wanted. Daima thought about Aliya and her role in the entire scheme. It was clear now that she had been the careful orchestrator of Daima's conversion. But still she loved her. Daima was certain of that. And then Daima thought about the palace. Sheikha Fatima, Shamsa, Latifa, Yasmin, young Mohammed, Maryam and all of the others of the Emir's large family. What would they think if she just disappeared? And she wondered about Hajji Al Muhairi and his wife, her adopted parents. The letter had made clear that money had exchanged hands for their participation. Daima had been bought and sold several times over. And finally, Daima thought about the Emir. Just then, her thoughts were interrupted by the call to maghrib [sunset] prayers. The plaintive call of the singer flowed into her body, touching her heart. Daima got out of bed and knelt down on the floor to pray. The raka'ah were soothing to her, the familiar rhythms brought peace to her soul. By the time she was done, she knew what to do. This was her dream all over again. This was what Allah had been trying to tell her all along. Her dream, after all, had occurred early on, when she was still a man, before her destiny had been fully determined. Daima went to her closet and put on her Abaya, covering her body with its gentle folds, feeling the protection it provided... its safety and security. Next, she wrapped the hijab around her head, grasping it together underneath her chin and then wrapping it around her head and tucking it in, then fixing it into place with the hair clip, her motions fluid and practiced. Her hair was now completely covered, her face shown as a feminine oval, she was fully modest by Dubai standards. Daima picked up the niqaab and held it over her face, like a mask, reaching behind (painful because her arm was still healing) and tying it tightly behind her head. She arranged it carefully so it draped down in front, obscuring her face and neck from the bridge of her nose down to her breasts, making sure that it was neat and symmetrical. Then, she pulled one of the layers forward, covering her eyes with a gauzy fabric. Finally, she found the gloves, black and loose, which she pulled on, covering her hands in soft fabric. She was now completely covered. Anonymous. Free. Rich. Daima stepped out of the hospital room, not sure what to expect. "Majed!" she said, surprised. "Your Highness," Majed said, bowing. "I have been instructed to take you to wherever you would like to go." Daima looked at Majed, realizing that this man was simultaneously her protector but had also once been her prison guard. But all she felt was affection for him. "Take me to the palace," she said. * * * "I never knew such peace existed until Allah showed me the way," Daima explained to the Emir. She was kneeling before him, her knees nestled in the soft carpet of his bedroom where she had been summoned immediately after arriving at the palace. She had removed her hijab and abaya and was dressed simply, in a kaftan, with no makeup, her hair down and loose. "My life before Allah was shallow and unworthy," she continued. "I feel this has all been part of His remarkable plan, and we have all played our part. You, Your Highness, as well as Aliya, the Finance Minister... even Ahmed. We have all been caught up in Allah's plan, for surely only by following Allah have I been blessed to achieve such peace of heart, such noble purpose, such... love," she said, daring to look at him. "So, I beseech Your Highness," Daima continued, "to please take me back. Please do not divorce me! I feel my place is here, in this palace, serving you and serving your country as best I can in any way this humble wretch can serve. I have found my peace by submitting my will to Allah and following his words from the Qur'an. I further submit my will to Your Highness... my husband. I will obey and serve Allah to the end of my days, and I wish for nothing more than to obey and serve you... my husband... to the end of my days." "I love you," she added. "Please... let me serve you." Daima waited several long moments, before finally, she felt the Emir lift her up. He hugged her and held her gently, like a husband hugs and holds his wife. "Daima," he said. "Always." THE END Copyright (c) 2020 by RH Music, all rights reserved. A special thanks to Trish for her excellent story, "Be Like Others", which served as an inspiration for this story. Thanks to Robyn Hoode for her excellent editorial help. Thanks to Samirah for her review for cultural content. Errors which remain are entirely the fault of the author.