[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 Thani and my father's family are distant relatives of the Qatar royal family. When I was eighteen, I was selected by Prince Walid of the royal family to be his fourth and youngest wife. He was forty-seven at the time, nearly thirty years my senior.
Just before the wedding, I had a chance encounter with a stranger in the First Class lounge at Doha airport. I was a virgin with no experience with men, and he used the most creative means to have sex with me -- he finger fucked me, went down on me, then fucked me like a satyr with his huge cock. He made me cum again and again, and finally ejaculated a copious outpouring of his seed deep inside me. (See my story, Zainab Habiba.) He impregnated me and the pregnancy resulted in twins, a black-haired boy that looked like the stranger, and a blonde girl that looked like me. The boy's black hair convinced Walid that the children were his since I am a very pale blonde.
I resumed my intense exercise routine on my stationary bike and with free weights soon after the children were born but Walid did not come to visit us till they were about three months old. By this time, I had lost all the weight I had gained and was feeling as fit and strong as I had before I got pregnant.
I had hoped to escape to have a tryst with my stranger, Jack Grierson, at our remote camel breeding station in Ras al Natheel. But I found that I was a virtual prisoner in the royal palace. I could not leave without Walid's consent, even to go home to visit my mother. Sadly, I sent Jack a text, telling him I could not make it.
I'll find a way, he texted back.
* * *
There was a big gathering of our clans the next week to be held in an isolated desert oasis quite far from Doha. These were usually men-only affairs, so I didn't think too much about it, except that it meant I wouldn't see Walid.
However, the day before Walid was due to leave, his harem mistress, Najma al Wakhar came to my suite. She had a darker shade of Arab coloring but was very pretty and moved sensuously. I suspected she was one of Walid's concubines, though she denied it when I asked her. However, Walid was always touching her rump and sometimes her breasts when he thought no one was looking. She had a five-year-old son who looked a lot like Walid.
Najma seemed to resent me from the first day I arrived in the royal palace. She indicated with word and deed that she thought I was not good enough for Walid. She fidgeted about for a few moments without saying anything.
"Get packed," Najma said. "You're going to the clan gathering."
"Why?" I asked.
"Don't ask questions."
I asked my maids to help me pack my things. One of them was Suhaila, a cute little dark thing from Bangladesh who barely came up to my shoulder. But she had winning ways and an ear for gossip.
"All the chieftains are bringing their newest wives to show them off, Princess Zainab Habiba," she said to me. "Prince Walid will be very proud of you, so young, so beautiful, so European-looking."
"I told you to not call me princess," I said to her, crossly. "You are my friend. Anyway, Walid is not proud of me. He hates how I look, 'too Russian', he always says."
"He says that to you perhaps," said Suhaila slyly. "But I have heard the chauffeurs and footmen say that he boasts about you to his clansmen, and even to foreign dignitaries."
This was news to me and I digested it slowly.
"I will take you with me to the gathering," I said to Suhaila.
"Oh no, Zainab Habiba. Only Prince Walid can decide who will go."
"I will ask Walid," I said determinedly.
Walid was not encouraging.
"We will be very short of water and all sorts of provisions. We cannot take superfluous persons. But if you must have her, tell Najma. She has made all the arrangements."
"I'm sure she has," I said sarcastically.
"You have no reason to be jealous, Zainab Habiba. You're my fourth and youngest wife. You have the lowest claim on me."
I don't want any claim at all, I thought. But I said. "I'll do as I'm told."
"Good, good," he said, and left rubbing his hands.
* * *
The gathering was at an oasis over the border in Saudi Arabia in the Rub al Khali or Empty Quarter. Chieftains from both sides of the border were there and our caravan of vehicles joined a much longer one as we got closer. No expense had been spared, and palatial tents had been put up all around the oasis. As a royal, Walid's tent was one of the biggest, with every modern convenience and multiple rooms separated by heavy drapes -- more like a suburban house.
"You will stay here in our suite," he said to me as soon as we got there. "When you are needed, I will send Najma to fetch you."
"As you wish, Walid," I said.
"You call me 'Walid'," he said. "You do not give me the respect I deserve. You don't understand the difference between us. I am a purebred Tamimi Arab, and through my mother, I am a direct descendent of the prophet himself. Whereas you are a mixed-blood mongrel who speaks Arabic with the rough accent of the desert, a girl raised in a remote oasis far from civilization." He paused for a moment. "Your father is quite respectable, related albeit distantly, to our royal family as well as the House of Saud in Arabia and the House of Makhtoom in Dubai. But your mother! Her father is a Bedouin chieftain and her mother was a Russian slave, a wild, aggressive girl who died in the royal dungeons. You seem to have inherited her temperament."
"Then why did you marry me, Walid? You could have left me where I belong, in the desert among the camels and goats."
* * *
I was left to my own devices for the first day. Suhaila and I chatted and played some silly games. Our suite had two bedrooms and I occupied the smaller of the two. I heard Walid and Najma having sex the first night, finally giving the lie to her denials. I heard her sucking his cock, then his loud groans. She made loud choking sounds. She certainly gave him a performance, with strangulated moans like she was cumming over and over as she sucked on him. He cried out, "Oh Najma! How you pleasure me when you choke on my manhood!"
Then I heard the slapping of his mount on hers as he began to fuck her. I counted the thrusts ... one ... two ... three ... then, sure enough, he cried out his release. It was less than fifteen seconds.
Nonetheless, Najma screamed with him, "Oh, Walid, I am cumming again! You are a stallion!"
I had over a year of sex with Walid, I could not believe that he could make any woman cum, let alone drive her to wild orgasms like that. I was sure Najma was faking it, but it obviously worked. I put an ear to the heavy drapes between our bedrooms and heard him whispering sweet nothings to her.
"I kiss your dark nipples, my dearest Najma," he whispered. "I kiss your shell-like ears. I kiss your big eyes, dark like the desert sky. You are a true Arab girl, unlike my young Russian."
"So pale, she looks sickly," responded Najma. "You should divorce her and get a real wife who can please you."
"Perhaps, perhaps. But she will impress the chieftains with her European looks. And she will be useful by my side when I go to Europe and America on business and diplomatic trips. She is beautiful in her own way, but much too high-spirited, too independent. I still have to teach her obedience."
"Beat her," said Najma, viciously. "Beat her every time you have sex with her. You must show her that you are the master. She is rebellious, and like her grandmother, she may turn violent."
"Quite right," said Walid.
"Najma al Wakhar is a witch," Suhaila whispered in my ear.
"You're just biased, Suhaila. Najma is very beautiful."
"What is she saying about your grandmother?" Suhaila asked curiously.
"My mother told me the whole story," I said. "Her name was Aiza Ismailova and she was a blue-eyed blonde born near Odessa. My grandfather bought her from human traffickers when she was very young. Though he beat her regularly, she was never violent, and never tried to defend herself. But when my mother was five, she tried to stop a beating and he turned on the child in a rage. Aiza screamed, 'You will have to kill me before you touch my daughter!' and struck him with a metal poker. As a member of the tribal aristocracy, my grandfather petitioned the royal court, and they sentenced my grandmother to be chained in the dungeons. She died there soon after. She was in her early twenties."
"What a sad story!" exclaimed Suhaila. "Do you still see your grandfather?"
"My mother and I, we never speak to him, we cannot bear to look at him. He is a monster."
"I saw your mother during your wedding," said Suhaila. "The two of you are the best-looking women I have ever seen. You look like sisters."
"All women are good-looking when you look at them with a loving eye," I said, putting my arms around her and enveloping her in a hug.
"No, no, I heard all the menservants and they said the same thing."
"If we attract lustful looks, then we are sinful," I said.
"The two of you cannot help how you look, Zainab Habiba. Allah made you both."
"Like he made you," I said, squeezing her tighter. "The dearest little bundle of joy."
* * *
Najma woke me the next morning, perfectly turned out. Her hijab was set to perfection in a stylish tie and she wore a thin gold chain around the waist of her abaya to emphasize how narrow it was. It also caused her abaya to cling to the swell of her belly. My mother always told me this was strictly forbidden for it drew lustful looks that the shapeless abaya was designed to prevent.
"Wake up, you stupid girl. You are to sit with Prince Walid in the reviewing stand this morning to watch the camel races. Then cheer him as he races against the other chieftains in the last race of the day."
"Camel races?" I cried, jumping out of bed. "I didn't know there was going to be fun like that!"
Suhaila helped me to hurriedly get ready. I worked hard to make sure my silk hijab was at least as well tied as Najma's. Then I put on my ankle boots and ran out to find Walid. He was waiting for me impatiently in the foyer of our tented suite and walked out immediately on seeing me. I followed him three paces behind like a good Arab wife. But on the way to the reviewing stand, I saw Mahmood, leading Berber, the fastest, wildest camel from our breeding station in Ras al Natheel.
I ran toward him and he dropped to a knee in front of me.
"Mistress Zainab Habiba," he said. "Apologies, I meant, Princess Zainab Habiba. Such a pleasure to see you."
"Oh, don't be like that, Mahmood!" I cried.
We had grown up together, riding and racing camels in the barren wastes around the breeding station at Ras al Natheel. I was always chaperoned by one of my mother's ladies or one of my older half-sisters, but we still had a lot of fun together as children. We both loved camels and camel riding. He was one of the best camel jockeys in the royal service -- I thought he was the best! He had represented Qatar at many international meets. I don't like to boast, but I think I was nearly as good as him -- there was no camel I could not ride.
