Harem
- 2 years ago
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Prisoner In His Harem Ch. 06 free porn video
REWRITTEN AND EXTENDED VERSION
The story so far: Lisbeth Somerset is a 36-year old English workaholic who teaches human rights at a university in an Arab country. She is caught handing a bomb to the assassin who had plans to kill the children of the local ruler and of other dignitaries. That ruler, Sheikh Fouad, consumed with rage, considers the death penalty even too lenient for her and makes her an offer: she will be his prisoner for life having to serve him in his harem as a slave. From that moment on she is Rosebud.
Having no way to prove herself innocent of the crime she realises her only chance will be forgiveness and to be granted that the best she can do is to try and be very good at what he wants her to be and warm his heart towards her.
However it is the Sheikh himself who does prove her innocent as he has each stone upturned because he cannot believe this woman he has gotten to know very well will ever be capable of murder. When he realises he has imprisoned an innocent woman he moreover forced to share his bed he immediately sets her free and puts her on a plane home to England. By this time she however is already pregnant.
Her homecoming is less joyful then one would imagine. People start to question her story as she is looking well and is obviously carrying someone’s baby while people had expected her either dead or in a prison-cell. Her ‘married to a member of parliament’-sister is pissed off with her thinking she is damaging her husband’s career by having whored while he was petitioning for her release. Wherever she goes tongues are wagging or eyes are following her around.
She realises that although she is happy to see her parents again she is missing the Sheikh at the same time.
Sheikh Fouad was making love to his favourite harem lady. He had buried himself deep in the wet, hot core between her soft white thighs and was now slowly moving inside her. It had been a long time since he had her in his bed and he was enjoying every second of her body writhing under him.
Keeping himself positioned with one arm his other hand was stroking her velvet skin. His bronze fingers travelling the white skin of her breast. Red flashes caused by her arousal colouring her neck. Her pink pebbles now looking raw and red like wet raspberries after his lips had sucked on them diligently. Her curls were sticking damp to her face. With her eyes closed she was drowning in waves of pleasure, her face pressed against one pillow while her hand, with her knuckles white, tried to choke the life out of another pillow on the other side of her head. His little Rosebud. Trying not to make a sound. Completely focussed on what he was doing to her.
He brushed the damp strands of hair away and kissed her again. ‘Habibi’ Her blue eyes opened for a second, the beginning of a smile on her lips, when she flung her head back again and new waves of pleasure were drowning her once more. Her breath laboured, gasping for air. He felt the muscles in her belly move under her skin. Her hips meeting him while he was hammering in her. The muscles of her channel clenching around him.
Suddenly she pushed her behind down in his bed, changing the angle of his thrusts in her. Stretching her torso, arching her back, soft moans escaping her lips, her walls gripping him, adding more moisture and he knew she was coming soon. His own body responding and about to climax as well. He felt his seed rush. ‘Rosebud, Rosebud’ he growled in victory. ‘Fouad’…
‘Fouad! Lord, lord, wake up. Fouad! They are waiting for you.’
The Sheikh tried to focus. His mind waking up slowly. He looked into the face of Idriss his head eunuch and old friend who was happy to serve his friend in this capacity as he, as a gay man, was a safe man to protect his lord’s women and run his household. His hand reached out for Rosebud but his bed was empty. Slowly realisation dawned. She was gone. He had lost her. She and the unborn son she was carrying in her belly would live in England and he could not hold her in his arms anymore. Grief flooded his chest.
‘The servants knocked lord, but you slept so soundly they could not wake you, so they came to me. It is the day to hold court and grant people an audience like you always do on Thursdays. People have been cueing in front of the palace gates for hours already,’ said Idriss.
Suddenly the big black man sat down on the bed of his best friend and placed a hand on the Sheikh’s shoulder looking him in the eyes. ‘Fouad you were calling out her name! Why do you not go and get her back to West Tripolitania?’
‘A Sheikh cannot go and beg a woman to come to his bed!’
‘Lord forgive me but is that not just your pride talking? The two of us know how you feel about her. Go to her and tell her!’
‘Idriss even if I would forsake my position and my pride, have you considered how weak I and thus our country would look when I would go to her and ask her to come with me back to my harem and she would refuse? Because she will refuse. For her as a Western woman and a feminist human rights professor to boot, it is degrading to serve a lord like that! She does not want me or a life with me in my harem.’
‘She might not tell anyone but her sister will. That bitch of a sister with her MP husband have tried to use her already. That sister would not hesitate to tell the media this Sheikh, who imprisoned her sister, now crawled on his knees to ask her to come to him again and that he was refused. I know Rosebud never named me but do not count on that awful woman! People will come to know as well that I forced Rosebud to come to my bed. We will have a full international incident at our hands and Rosebud will never have any privacy again.’
Idriss nodded and had to admit his Lord was right.
‘She will be happy now she is free again and at home with her family. At least I could give her that.’
So Idriss made sure the Sheikh would be in time for the audiences and then packed his stuff and left the palace.
-******-
A few days earlier
‘Beautiful,’ he heard a woman say in Arabic from behind his back. The young dark man stopped sketching the carvings on the portal of the old Norman village church and turned around to see the daughter of the reverent standing there.
‘I did not know you speak Arabic,’ he said.
She smiled and said ‘Only a little bit.’ switching to her native English ‘I did not know you spoke it either. I can understand it quite well nowadays but when I speak it I sound like a child. Where are you from?’
‘Egypt,’ he lied looking at the woman who was carrying his Lord’s child. The woman he was send here to protect. His British colleague and him had pretended to be a couple of art students who were sketching the Norman church and the refectory for a project of what was quintessential English. Oh he liked the life in this small village drawing all day and fucking that hot blonde who was supposed to be his girlfriend all night.
‘I am Lisbeth by the way, the reverend’s daughter.’
‘Hi. I am Mo and your dad pointed you out to me. He said you used to work in West Tripolitania. My mum is from there.’ (And his dad and the rest of his family but that he did not tell her).
‘Yes I taught at the university and the father of this one here – she stroked her belly – is from there. My father said you and your wife are busy with a project sketching the church…’
He grinned inside because of her quick change of the subject but had noted how loving her stroke had been. His lord was a lucky man with someone so nice loving his child.
‘Yes’ he said. ‘These are some of the drawings I made. But I also made one of you.’ showing a drawing of her walking home from the library with her little neighbour girl dancing in front of her and the calico cat trailing behind. It’s tail like a question-mark in the air.
‘Wow that one is nice. Little Agnes seems to dance there.’
H
e offered to do a drawing of her that he would use as a study for a watercolour for her. She agreed to sit and model saying she would love to give that to her parents. He had smiled and thought that another copy would be send to his lord and master like he had already done with the sketch he had just showed her. His hands flying over the paper to catch her smile on it.
-******-
Afterwards Lisbeth had taken her books home and was about to walk into the living room when she heard her sister’s voice. The sister who had refused to come over the holidays saying she was too angry with Lisbeth.
‘Mum you do not know how hard it is for my husband and me. All those journalists! I cannot understand why she did not go and have that child aborted. The father for crying out loud is a rapist if I was going to believe her or just some lover she had while we thought she was in a jail. Everybody knows now she is having some Arab’s bastard. All high society is looking down on me. Saying I was stupid.’ Elisa’s voice rising in hysterics.
‘Are you not just being jealous?’ her mother asked. ‘You wanted a child and she is having one. You always were the glamorous sister with a husband from the country gentry and now someone who seems to have money as well wanted your tomboy bookworm sister in his bed. You are making it very hard for Lisbeth!’
‘Lisbeth is just a whore who used her cunt to stay out of jail. She could have refused!’
Lisbeth rather went up to her bedroom then join that conversation and went to sit looking out of the window a book on old Egypt on her lap. Outside the snow had melted this first week of January but rain was lashing the window. She looked at the pictures in the book of ancient ruins in the Egyptian desert and wondered if it was a coincidence that the word for eternal life in old Egyptian sounded like a moan from a woman who was climaxing.
Suddenly her body urged for his touch. His lips on the nape of her neck, his hands cupping her breasts from behind her, his battle-ram buried deep inside her gates of paradise. His head sleeping on her chest in the bath. The wide smile flashing white teeth under his dark moustache when they just had innocent fun about something.
She lifted her hands to cup her own breasts feeling her nipples press against the fabric of her dress. She imagined them to be his. That she would smell his aftershave when he would bend down to kiss her neck.
Was it weird that a woman like her, Western and educated and of a different belief altogether, would willingly want to be with a man so alien to her upbringings? Such a stranger to her background? Someone who had taken her as if he was the Bey of Algiers who took an English slave his staff bought on the slavemarket in Sale in 1750? A man who had many girls to choose from and would summon her while she could not call on him?
But she missed him. It was like a bodily pain. The thought of never to fall asleep again pressed against his chest. Never to find a book on her night-stand in the morning anymore, knowing that he had come to watch her sleep and left it for her as a present.
Was she throwing away all her years of education and work experience? Would wanting to be with him make her a whore like her sister Elisa called her? Should she not apply for a job at the local lawfirm and be content being a solicitor in a pinstriped suit advising the people of Little Puddington on the sale of land or how to divorce?
But had she not been an advisor to the ruler of a country these last months?
She remembered the Sheikh asking to her pass judgement on the human trafficker who smuggled asylumseekers to Europe and also the time he had handed her a heavy file with the paperwork for a meeting with the governments of neighbouring countries regarding human trafficking and had asked her to write down her opinions on the proposals. Or both of them discussing the newspaper he had been reading and translating to her over breakfast in bed. Was she less honourable advising a man while being naked in his bed then when working her arse off in a suit slaving for a fee?
Lisbeth remembered a book the Sheikh had given her a few months ago. It was about the great Turkish sultan Suleyman and his woman. That Roxelana had been in his harem all her adult life but still had been his main advisor.
She was sure people would call her a whore if she went back to the Sheikh but on the other hand they would call their son a bastard is she did not. Maybe she should just do what her heart wanted to do.
But how to tell him that she wanted to be back in his arms? It might be humiliating to the fullest but she could only come up with one way to make him see she did not want to live away from him.
But would he love her like she loved him? They had never spoken about it. There had only been one conversation merely grazing that subject.
-******-
They had been still in bed in the early hours of the morning. He had claimed her body as his after morning prayers and she was now looking at him preparing for work reading papers propped up in bed while she dreamily had laid beside him.
‘You seem very far away my little Rosebud,’ he had said. ‘Where have your thoughts send you this morning as somehow you lost your tongue?’
‘I was thinking how different things go in your country compared to mine.’ she had replied. ‘When you want me in your bed you just summon me to come while in my country men try to persuade women to allow them in their bed. So I was thinking about how you could have done that in the English style.’
He had raised his eyebrows and said ‘You mean how I would have gotten you in my bed if you were not a criminal who is not serving a life sentence here in my harem?’ and then curious had pulled her under him and said ‘Ok tell me.’
‘Well you could have found yourself an excuse to see me often. For instance asking me for advice on the people smuggling across the desert. Taking me on a trip to the refugee-camps and then on the way back buy me a lavish dinner and talk while we were alone. And then tell me I have the most beautiful pink…’
‘Nipples!’ he said with a boyish grin bowing down to suck one of them.
‘Lips! And I would look in your eyes and realise you eyes were not black when seen up close but the colour of milk chocolate and you had the most beautiful long lashes.’ her lips kissing them. ‘And back at my house I would realise I had such a great time with you so when you would ask for my advice again I would be glad to come and give it. So after awhile I would realise what a great guy you are and then when you …’
He had spread her legs and had said with a crocked smile and a fat fake French accent ‘Madam please allow me to ravish you as you have the most beautiful pink lips I have ever seen. I cannot sleep one moment more without having conquered them.’
When he had given her the big file with all the paperwork for the governmental meeting on the human trafficking a week later and asked her to read it and write down her thoughts on the matter he had bend down running his thumb over her lips saying ‘Madam you have such beautiful pink lips’ before walking away smiling.
-******-
She stood up and went to pack a backpack with some things. Now she still could travel. Waiting longer would make her pregnancy prevent her to board a plane. She would talk to her parents the moment Elisa would leave.
-******-
Her mother had been quite shocked but her father had taken her side saying that for the baby it would be best to have two loving parents and he agreed she should talk to the Sheikh. To her surprise she had noticed Mo the painter was on the same flight as she was. He had said he was going to visit his mum. She had told him she was hoping she could convince her child’s father to take her back. It was good to have a familiar face with her on the flight.
Lisbeth was queuing in line for immigration with Mo s
tanding behind her when she noticed Idriss’s big frame walking on the other side of the glass wall. She had banged the glass calling his name but he had not noticed as the sound was drowned by the buzz of a great amount of people in the hall. She wondered why he was about to board a plane to England.
When it was her turn to show her passport and work-visa the man from border-control told her her visa was revoked and she was not allowed to enter the country. She tried to explain that all charges were dropped but he just told her to move away and follow his colleague who would put her back on the plane to England. She almost collapsed on the floor when suddenly Mo reached some identification to the border-guard and told him Lisbeth was coming with him. The guy needed just one quick look at that ID and then waved them through.
‘What did you show him Mo? Who are you really?’
‘Our lord assigned me to protect you miss Somerset. I am one of his ‘hunters’. I am sure by breaking secrecy I am overstepping my assignment but I will help you. Who knows you might carry a future leader of my country. And moreover I think you two love each other and deserve to be together.’ He had picked up their luggage and brought her to a hotel where she could wait for the next day.
-******-
Although it was still early in the morning the day was promising to become very hot for a winter’s day. The guards had given her one of their own chairs to rest on while she was waiting in line to get an audience with the ruler of the country. The black coat and scarf could not hide she was a foreigner and pregnant so the men had felt pity with this woman who had been waiting here from daybreak to see the Sheikh. Mo had got her some water and was now a shadow keeping her safe as he was assigned to do. She was the fourth in the cue. The big wooden gate almost beckoning her in. The red terracotta wall of the palace the cushion she had placed her tired head against.
-******-
Sheikh Fouad was trying to pay attention to the people who were requesting an audience with him. He normally liked to hear people’s problems like the rulers of the old days but today he had problems keeping himself focussed on the requests. When he drifted just a few seconds he would still recollect his dream and the creamy tits with pink nipples begging to be sucked.
The old man in front of his throne was explaining that now the state had build a highway cutting his olivegarden in two he could not reach the other side of the road to tend his trees there as the road was busy and his bones were old but that the local civil servants had refused to compensate his loss. The Sheikh promised him he would see if a traffic light might do the trick so the old man would be able to safely cross the road.
The next petitioner was a woman. He looked at her prostrated on the ground and told her to voice her request. His eyes lingering over his computerscreen and a mail from Idriss he would be away for a couple of days making him again think of Rosebud.
Then all of a sudden he heard her voice…
-******-
Bowing deep down Lisbeth trembled. She had been listening to his voice all morning and now suddenly he commanded her to speak. Her lips seemed to have swallowed all the sands of the desert all of a sudden. While her throat seemed dry her eyes flooded.
She licked her lips and said: ‘My Lord I have come her because the father of my child has send me home to my parents thinking I rather lived there. I am begging you to help me because I rather live in his house and I do not know how I can tell him it is him I love.’ She felt tears now streaming down her face. Realising this whole court would be witness to her humiliation if he would send her away. Being afraid of his anger. The long scimitar sword resting on his hip.
The Sheikh was silent for a very long time. Then he said: ‘I have been told that in countries like yours women ask men to marry them if they love them and not wait for the man to ask her to marry her or ask her father for his blessing. Is that correct?’
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