[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.]
* * * 1 * * *
I was born in Bangladesh into a very poor rural family. My father, Abdul Ur-Rahman, had two wives, seven daughters, and unfortunately no sons. I was the youngest and he could not afford to marry any of us. By the time I was a teenager, my oldest half-sister was in her early twenties and the family was getting desperate.
A labor broker came to our village one day, offering contracts for domestic work in the Middle East. The contracts paid a lump sum upfront and the salary and the benefits seemed unbelievably lucrative to everyone in our poverty-stricken village. That evening, my parents met with all of us sisters.
"Suhaila, you are the youngest," said my father. "Your mother and I have decided you should go. The money will pay for at least two of your sisters to get married."
"But I have two more years of high school," I protested. "The headmaster thinks I could get a scholarship to go to university ..."
"Enough!" said my mother. "You've already studied far too much. You've passed the tenth grade, more than any of your sisters."
"But I'm only eighteen, Mother!"
"If we had money, you would have been married by now."
My father signed the papers. There was a huge sheaf and Father could not read it as it was all in English. I tried to look over his shoulder and what little I could read was not comforting. It seemed like Father was signing all my rights away, selling me to my eventual employer.
The broker took me to the city, got me a passport, and bought me new clothes -- a black abaya along with a colorful hijab that he wound around my long, lustrous black hair. At the end of the day, he took me to the airport.
"You are quite pretty," he said to me as he dropped me off at security. "Large, dark eyes, a pert, young figure with firm breasts, narrow waist, and a taut, round ass. A straight, thin nose. Plus, you are little, you barely come up to my shoulder and I am a short man. They will like you in the Middle East, Suhaila Ur-Rahman. It is a pity you are so dark, or I could place you in a much richer family."
"What will happen to me now?" I asked in a panic.
"Don't worry. It is a direct flight. It is printed on your boarding pass. Someone will meet you when you land. They will take you to your employer. It is all arranged."
He was right. There was a big man wearing military-style fatigues at arrival holding a sign with my name on it. He looked at me with a trace of contempt.
"Your hijab is not traditional," he said. "Wound in your hair, it looks like a turban. And you're black."
"I'm not black!" I retorted with spirit. "My skin is dark brown, like mahogany."
"You've got a tongue, you ugly bitch," he responded. "What the hell is mahogany?"
"I'm not ugly! My mother always told me I'm as pretty as a flower. And mahogany is a hardwood tree ..."
"Too much book learning," he said. "It will be beaten out of you. Give me your papers."
I handed him the folder the broker had given me with my signed contract and passport. He took it and put it in a briefcase. He led me out of the arrival hall into the searing heat outside and into the parking deck. He opened the rear hatch of a big four-wheel drive vehicle and I put my bag in it. He came behind me as I did so and put his arms around me, roughly kneading my breasts, squeezing my belly and my buttocks. I struggled, but he was much too strong.
"You're just the right size," he said, thickly. "Like a little dark doll. I'd like to put you up against a wall, ruck up that abaya and tear off your panties. I'll bet your pussy is tight, it would squeeze my big cock like a vise."
"No, no," I said, alarmed.
"I'm just feeling the merchandise. The chieftain bought you, you're his property, not mine."
"I'm no one's property!" I exclaimed.
He just laughed. I got into the back seat of the vehicle, and we drove off. He had the air conditioner blasting -- even though the day was scorching, I felt cold on the long drive. We soon left the city behind, and the desert stretched out in all directions. The road narrowed from a 4-lane highway to a 2-lane paved road and finally to an unpaved dirt track. We bumped along for hours, and it was dark by the time we got to our destination.
I got out of the vehicle in the courtyard of a rough mansion that had seen better days. Goats and camels wandered about. A middle-aged woman came and took charge of me. "Suhaila Ur-Rahman?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"I am Fatima," she said. "I am the harem mistress. Follow me."
I followed her into the house, carrying my bag.
* * * 2 * * *
I was lodged in a dark basement with another maid, a Filipina named Bitiun.
"You pretty," she said. "Tomorrow the master, he will want fuck you instead of me."
"I am a maid," I said. "I'm not a sex worker. It says so in my contract."
"Contract gone," she said. "Passport gone. You slave now. Master's concubine."
My passport and contract had indeed been taken away.
"My God," I said. "What will happen to me?"
"No worries," she said. "Me pregnant now, two months, still flat stomach. Master happy, he want me give him son. Then I move upstair into harem. You do same."
"But I don't want to sleep with the master," I said, tearfully.
She shook her head.
"You make trouble, they tie you down, he fuck you anyway. Stupid girl."
"What should I do?" I asked, continuing to cry.
"I teach you suck cock, make master happy."
She left and returned with a cucumber. She ran her tongue along it lasciviously, and then slowly, ever so slowly, swallowed it, inch by inch. She kept sucking on it strongly as it entirely disappeared into her mouth. She deliberately pulled it and held it up triumphantly, dripping with her saliva.
