[This is a Jack Grierson story. It is related to many of my other stories about Jack. All characters are totally fictitious and bear no relation to any person, living or dead.]
* * *
My name is Zainab Habiba bin Khalifa al Makhtoom al Sura. The al Suras are desert tribal chieftains, but the main branch of the family migrated to the capital many generations ago and is now worth billions with interests in oil, banking, and global real estate. My father's branch of the family are distant cousins and oversaw the old fiefdom, managing the associated camel breeding station and tending to the subsistence goat herding operation. We lived in the old, decaying family mansion built over a century ago by a remote desert oasis. There were always camels and horses in the courtyard. Goats and chickens freely wandered in and out of the house.
My father administered the fief and dispensed local justice as the representative of his rich and powerful cousins. I was the youngest member of our household that included my mother, her three co-wives, and my many half-siblings. My mother's mother had been a blonde, blue-eyed slave from the North and she had passed on her height, light eyes, and pale skin to my mother. It was because of my Northern blood that I was taller and paler than any of my female half-siblings and had light brown hazel eyes.
Our wealthy relatives subsidized our family and I was sent to a very select and restrictive girls' finishing school in Switzerland. It mainly catered to wealthy, conservative families. I joined one of my half-sisters there, Salima Banu, who was the youngest daughter of my father's 3rd wife. She was only a few months older than me and the two of us had been inseparable ever since we could remember. She was my best friend as well as my half-sister.
We all wore abayas and hijabs, observed all our religious rituals, and adhered to our food restrictions. It was like a continuation of my life at home in the desert, except that it was colder, our teachers were European, and we had carefully chaperoned outings to learn to ski, hike, and climb -- all in our conservative clothing. I never met a man throughout all my years at school.
I graduated with high honors at eighteen and returned home. My father was very pleased with how well I had done at school. He decided to reward me by taking me on a two-week vacation to Istanbul. This was a surprise for he had never been particularly close to me and his relationship with my mother was dutiful rather than loving. He slept with her once a week, but that was all she saw of him.
"Istanbul is a city with so much history," he said to me. "We will tour all the famous sites there. This will be your last trip as my daughter for you will be married as soon as we get back."
"Why, Father?"
"It is time for you to settle down. You are running wild here, riding camels and horses, surfing sand dunes and climbing date palms, speaking Badawi instead of the civilized language of the capital. You're becoming a bad influence on your half-sister, Salima Banu. Her mother has been complaining to me that you take her out camel riding in the desert in the middle of the night."
"It was her idea to go out in the night, ..."
"Enough! You are a silly tomboy, you need a husband to turn you into a respectable woman."
"Will Salima Banu be married as well?"
"Soon. We are still looking for a match for her. You have been lucky, my kinsman, Walid al Sura has asked for you."
"Walid al Sura!" I said in dismay. "He's almost fifty, Father!"
"Yes, but his fourth wife died recently and he thinks you'll be a perfect replacement. It will be a good life for you, in the palatial al Sura mansion in the capital. Your husband will cover you with silk, gold, and jewels. Maids and servants will wait on you hand and foot."
"But he has a twenty-five-year-old son!"
"What's that got to do with it, Zainab Habiba? Has your mother been putting ideas in your head? I should never have impregnated her, there's too much Russian blood in her. And now in you as well."
I belatedly remembered that my father was more than twenty years older than my mother -- she was just thirty-four and he was nearly sixty. But Walid al Sura was almost thirty years older than me! I felt like crying, but I knew it was no use. My fate was sealed.
* * *
Father and I were in the First Class Lounge at the international airport. Father had decided to take no chances with the long drive to the city, so we were many hours too early for our flight. He sat on a sofa with his clamshell headphones, watching the Egyptian soap operas to which he was addicted. I wandered around the lounge, drinking sparkling water and nibbling on munchies. I finally settled in a seat around the corner from my father, idly people-watching.
I particularly watched the tall, good-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair who sat next to me. He was working on his laptop and I peered over his shoulder at this screen. He scrolled through tables of data, making rapid notes on an iPad as he did so. He seemed engrossed in what he was doing, so I was shocked when he addressed me.
"Sneaking a look at my figures?" he asked, his tone light and humorous. "Should I worry that you're planning to horn in on my deal?"
"Oh ...," I replied flustered. "I wasn't ... I mean ... I don't know anything ..."
"It's okay, I'm just ribbing you. I'm just going over the figures for the local airline. One of my companies is bidding to do some MRO work for them, I had meetings with them all day yesterday." He glanced at me and took in my hazel eyes and pale skin. "You have a beautiful face. Do you have a hard body under that pink abaya? Are you a hot babe?"
I laughed. Talking to this good-looking stranger, I felt bold and adventurous.
"I work out for over an hour every day. What do you think?"
"What do you work out on?"
"I have a Peloton bike. And free weights."
"Excellent," he said. "Cardio as well as musculoskeletal strength. You work out in those clothes?"
"Of course not. In private, or in the women's chambers, I can wear whatever I want. I work out in a sports bra and tights."
"Then you must have a hard body," he said. His eyes ranged over me. "I'm imagining you wearing nothing but your pink hijab. It's making me hard."
I blushed bright red and giggled. I knew nothing about men, so I wasn't quite sure what he meant by being 'hard'.
"I used to play like that with my half-sister, Salima Banu. When we were younger and first started wearing hijabs."
"Well, you wear the hijab well, you've tied it exquisitely. How old are you, my beauty? What's your name?"
"I'm eighteen, I just graduated from high school. My name is Zainab Habiba."
"A pretty name to go with your lovely face." He kept staring at me till I colored deep red again. "You're traveling alone?"
"Of course not! My father is right over there." I pointed to him. "He's watching his favorite show."
"He looks like your grandfather."
"My mother is his youngest wife."
He reached over and put a hand on my thigh. I'd never been touched by a man before and tried to push it away in a panic. But he held me fast.
"What are you wearing under that abaya?" he asked in a low tone.
"I can't say ... Omigod!"
His hand moved up my thigh, his fingers gripping, caressing, stimulating. I felt like an electric current was passing up my thigh and into my crotch. My breathing grew shallow and I felt like my throat was growing tight.
"I can't feel any clothing. Just stockings ... or pantyhose."
"Stockings," I said faintly. "And garters."
"Naughty girl," he whispered. "No skirt?"
"It's hot where we live," I whispered back. "My abaya is very modest, it covers all of me."
"Blouse?"
His hand was nearly at my crotch now and I couldn't form words, so I just shook my head.
"Just a bra?"
I nodded.
