HAREM CAPTIVE by Allan Aldiss

copyright Allan Aldiss

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The story of an English woman inveigled into a modern harem

      Another of Allan Aldiss's erotic and best selling harem stories, in the tradition of "Slaves for the Sheik" and "Harem Breeding Slave", as well as the "Barbary" series.

      In this story, a wealthy, but gross and repulsive, Arab Prince, living in a luxurious palace in North Africa, places an order for another matched pair of European women for his harem. It is a harem where black eunuch boy overseers control the rival teams of women and masturbation is punished by female circumcision.

      Meanwhile, Penelope, a pretty young English actress, breaks off her engagement and secretly goes alone to Tangier for a long holiday, to get over it all. No one knows where she has gone.

      Little did she imagine that meeting there a charming young Frenchman would lead to her being tricked into the harem of the cruel and repulsive Prince, together with a pretty married Frenchwoman. Branded, ringed and infibulated by the Prince's black eunuchs, they find themselves, like a pretty mother and daughter, another of the Prince's carefully chosen Matched Pairs of helpless indentured servants.

       But this is a harem with a difference, for the cruel swine of a Master not only enjoys degrading the white women in his harem, but also has a rather special hobby: making them submit to a certain traditional form of revenge on despised Westerners - forced breeding.

CONTENTS

PART I - PROLOGUE

  - A girl is ordered to be punished.

PART II - HAREM DISCIPLINE AND AN INNOCENT AT LARGE

1 - An engagement is half broken off

2 - The Prince's palanquin and the cruel team system

3 - Penelope's travel plans

4 - The Prince shows off a mother and daughter

5 - Penelope's plans are suddenly changed

6 - The Prince places an order for two new women

7 - Penelope feels lonely

8 - Mizzi's terrible punishment

9 - An unsuspecting prey

PART III - A CRUEL PRINCE AND AN UNSUSPECTING QUARRY

10 - The Prince inspects his harem

11 - Penelope takes the bait

12 - The Prince impresses the Imans with his devoutness.

13 - Some interesting photographs of Penelope and a video

14 - The problem of culling - and a novel solution

15 - Penelope's potential is unsuspectingly recorded

PART IV - THE TRAP IS SET

16 - The Prince sees a brochure

17 - Penelope is thrilled

18 - An unsuspecting Penelope is inspected for a new role

19 - The Prince prepares to receive his new matched pair

20 - An unsuspecting guest

21 - Pierre sees how his previous captures are coming along

PART V- A TERRIFYING INITIATION TO HAREM LIFE

22 - Penelope's awakening

23 - Ringed!

24 - Initial disciplining

25 - The Blue Team

26 - The black eunuchs and the Prince's new acquisitions

 PART VI - TAKEN INTO THE HAREM

27 - House trained

28 - Well disciplined teams

29 - Harem talk

30 - Mother and daughter - both mothers-to-be

PART VII - PENELOPE EXPERIENCES THE FULL HORROR OF THE HAREM

31 - Branded!

32 - The healing of the brand

33 - Taken by the Master

34 - Bathroom girls

35 - Broken-in and schooled

PART VIII - BREEDING!

36 - A certain performance is planned

37 - Mated!

38 - The Master's prize brood mares

PART IX - EPILOGUE

      Under their Master's control

PART I

PROLOGUE

A GIRL IS ORDERED TO BE PUNISHED

'Number 12. She caught Masturbating, Your Highness.'

      Malaka, the Prince's short little chief black eunuch, sounded grim. He was speaking slowly in his broken English so that the frightened half naked Austrian girl, kneeling on all fours by his side, would understand. Arabic and English were the only languages allowed in the harem.

      'What!' exclaimed the gross, cruel looking, Prince angrily. 'One of my concubines caught playing with herself in secret! Deliberately deceiving me, her Master! That's almost as serious as being caught in adultery!'

      Malaka nodded.

      'European women,' went on the furious, repulsively fat Arab Prince, 'might be free to masturbate in private in the degenerate West, but they were certainly not allowed to do so in my harem! My concubines only exist for my pleasure - not theirs.'

      The Prince paused angrily.

      Of course having a number of white Christian women incarcerated in his harem was a most enjoyable and satisfying hobby. The modern drive in the West, for female emancipation and "women's lib", made it all the more satisfying to impose strict discipline on well educated European women, previously used to being free and independent.

      'Was she alone?' the large fat Prince demanded.

      To women he seemed, at the best of times, to be a sadistic brute of a man. Now his unattractive plump face with its hook nose, cruel eyes and short goatee beard, was flushed with anger.

      His bulky size contrasted sharply with that of the slim little blond creature abjectly kneeling on all fours at his feet. Similarly, his immaculate fine white Thobe, or Arab robe, covered in a black lace cloak embroidered with gold, and the gold tasselled Igaal, that went round his headdress, all contrasted vividly with the girl's skimpy green harem dress - green denoting that she belonged to the Green Team of concubines.

      'Was she with another girl?' again demanded the Prince, also speaking in English. His sinister eyes glinted. For two girls to be caught playing with each other was almost as bad as being found committing adultery - for which the traditional punishment was death.

      'No, Your Highness, she alone' replied Malaka. 'Her overseer, he hear bracelet bells tinkle as she play with herself.'

      He spoke in a high pitched voice that seemed to belie his muscular appearance. Despite being a small man, he was a formidable figure with his well oiled torso gleaming under his gold embroidered waistcoat, his voluminous Turkish trousers of golden silk, and his matching golden silk turban - all of which indicated his status.

      In the West, black eunuchs are sometimes derided as figures of fun, but no woman in his charge ever tried to make fun of Malaka!

      He was holding a silver tipped dog whip in his hand - his badge of office. It was largely this, coupled with his small cunning pig-like eyes and the deep tribal scaring on his cheeks that made him also a terrifying figure for the women under his control, especially the white European ones.

      'But, Your Highness, I have more to report. She also show Lack of Respect, to yourself.'

      'How? How?' demanded the Prince furiously. Lack of Respect, even to a black eunuchs, was a serious offence in the harem, especially by a white woman. Lack of Respect to himself was intolerable.

      'When Team Overseer tell her, you now approved her selection for honour of being mated with Black Guard to become Blue Team entry for next European Brood Mare competition, she say you a cruel swine.'

      'What!' The Prince exploded. 'This wife of an unclean pig of a Christian had the temerity to call me a swine?'

      'Yes, Your Highness. And she also say she soon get rid of progeny - but no chance of that, Your Highness,' he added with a slight laugh, 'once she locked into chain mail breeding belt.'

      The Prince laughed unpleasantly as he remembered the old axiom that his grandfather, the late Ruler, who maintained a substantial harem, was fond of quoting:-

"Revenge yourselves on the hated Christian infidels by enslaving their wives and daughters and by then forcing them to breed good Moslem half black servants for yourself - and for the greater glory of Allah and of his blessed prophet."

      This was just what the Prince did - and enjoyed doing.

      How lucky he was, he often thought, that the oil revenues of his family had enabled him to re-establish this cruel form of revenge - and on arrogant modern-day Western women, too.

      Yes, mating an intelligent and horrified European woman with a black servant, and making her carry and deliver her black progeny was indeed a cruel and enjoyable pastime, that went back to the days of the Crusades. And these days the mulatto progeny made excellent workers for his estates, just as they had made excellent slaves for his ancestors!

       It was all the more enjoyable if the now helpless young woman, like this one, had been happily married and in love with her husband from she had been cruelly separated.

      He would justify his apparent cruelty with another of his grandfather's axioms:-

 "A harem is not a harem without a few nicely curved white bellies, and breasts in milk - and remember, the whiter the woman, the sweeter the milk."

      Like his grandfather, he scorned the men of the West who eschewed pregnant women. On the contrary, like his grandfather, he considered maternity to be a natural state for a slavegirl - and one that enhanced her beauty. And if it was an enforced maternity - then so much the better!

      He had not, therefore, needed much persuading by Malaka, before allowing this lovely, and formerly happily married, young, Christian woman to be earmarked for mating with one of his giant Dinka Black Guards. How his grandfather would have approved. Revenge on the hated West! And all in the name of Allah!

The Prince's reverie was interrupted by his chief black eunuch.

      'And, Your Highness, she spit out preliminary fertility pills that Team Overseer give her to make sure she become satisfactory brood mare and milkmaid for Your Highness.'

      'What!' he cried, going red in face with anger. This was deliberate disobedience - and of his own orders!

      'Then she deserves further punishment,' said Prince, infuriated by this girl's obstinacy to the honour of becoming one of his chosen milkmaids.

      The Prince turned to Gorka, the diminutive little black pygmy boy, dressed like a smaller edition of Malaka, but with green stripe in his turban to denote that he was the black eunuch overseer in charge of the Green Team.

      The Prince's concubines, all branded on the belly with his crest, came from four main sources, each divided up equally between the four teams.

      A dozen were pretty Arab girls, mainly Egyptian or Lebanese belly dancers, whose contracts had been discreetly offered to Malaka by cabaret owners, delighted that the girl had caught the eye of such a rich man.

      The Prince himself, of course, did not discuss the acquisition of his women - he left checking a girl's suitability and haggling over price to Malaka. But how he enjoyed the feeling of a trained belly dancer wriggling under him, as he drove in and out of her, or as she sat astride his large stomach wriggling delightfully as she carefully kept his manhood inside her.

      Another half dozen of his girls were lovely slim girls from Thailand and Laos, trained dancing girls, who had been tricked by the modern equivalent of slave dealers into signing contracts to work abroad - contracts which had then again been offered to Malaka. Because they were so tiny, and he was so large, their Team Overseers tended to concentrate on training them in the exquisite art of oral sex.

      Another half dozen were beautiful Pakistani or Indian girls who had rashly accepted apparently lucrative jobs in Arabia - only to end up in the Prince's harem. Subjugating them he found to be very satisfying.

      But the Prince's pride and joy, and indeed that of his four Team Overseers, too, were his dozen well educated European women. They were nearly all blond, as was his, newly acquired, prize matched pair: a beautiful young Dutch woman and her pretty, look-alike, teenage daughter. .

      These white women had all cost a small fortune to acquire, including Mizzi, the Austrian young married woman now kneeling trembling at his feet.

      Following his grandfather's dictums, it was these Christian women, split up between the four teams, who were made to provide the swelling bellies, and breasts in milk, that he so enjoyed.

      As for using them for his pleasure, he followed another of his grandfather's maxims:-

"The Christian dogs in your harem are not worthy to be to receive their Master's manhood like a woman. So mount them from behind like the dogs they are, and then use them like boys."

       Oh, how they all hated it! Deliciously so!

Gorka was standing behind the humbly kneeling Mizzi and was holding her proudly by a lead fastened to her slave collar. It was a strict harem rule that, to prevent resentful Christian concubines from trying to attack their Master, they must, when brought before the Master, always be held on a lead by her Team Overseer - even when brought to his bed.

      'Make sure, young Gorka,' said the Prince, still speaking in English to further humiliate the girl, 'that, whether she likes it or not, she properly completes the full course of fertility pills. I shall want to see a good swollen belly on this girl - good strong twin mulattoes at least!'

      Mizzi blanched. Twin mulattoes! Oh my God!

      'Oh yes, Your Highness,' she heard the young pygmy boy reply proudly. 'I make certain she conceives twins.'

      'And, Your Highness,' cut in Malaka, 'she has good child bearing hips. We not expect any problems.'

      'Good!' said the Prince. Although Dinkas were giants, they had small heads - and this made delivery of their progeny relatively easy, even in a first pregnancy.

      'And when is she due to be put to the Dinka?' asked the Prince.

      'In three month's time, Your Highness,' replied Malaka. He liked to take personal charge of forced breeding arrangements in the harem. 'She then nicely placed for next year's competition.'

      'So there's time for her to have a good thrashing - and undergo something else,' said the Prince with a sinister laugh, as he looked down contemptuously at the silent, half naked young woman kneeling humbly before him.

      Despite his continuing anger at this girl being caught trying to give herself pleasure, he had to admit that she made an erotic sight with her head now down on the floor, her buttocks raised high and her long blond hair flung forward.

      Her long naked back prettily curved upwards from her lowered shoulders past her slim waist to the swell of her hips.

      A collar made of shiny metal links, like an expensive wristwatch strap, was locked round her neck.

      Locked on her wrists were the belled bracelets, that had given her away. Like all the white women in his harem she wore white gloves in the presence of her Master - as a constant reminder that unclean Christian dogs were not worthy to touch their Master's body with their bare hands.

      As the Prince looked down at the kneeling white woman, he could feel his manhood stirring. A feeling of power and pride of possession surged through him. This once free white woman was now his - his to do with as he liked.

Mizzi did not dare to utter a word as knelt humbly in front of the large Prince, her loathsome and terrifying Master, who was old enough to be her father.

      He was the only man she had seen now for months. Much as she tried to think about her handsome young husband, and much as she found her Master repulsive, nevertheless it was her Master, the only man she was allowed to see, who now dominated her thoughts by day and her dreams by night.

      She could not help now being thrilled when she felt his strong manhood masterfully thrusting into her specially stretched backside, as she, as a mere Christian dog, knelt on all fours on his bed like a dog - the required position for his white Christian concubines.

      Always on a lead, humiliatingly held by the horrid little Gorka, she would have to lower her head and offer her buttocks like a bitch - or feel Gorka's whip.

      At first she had been shocked, but the terrible truth was that here, shut up in her Master's harem, she did indeed, secretly, get pleasure in submissively serving and arousing her strong, rich and powerful, but horrible, Master. Oh how ashamed she was, when he would reach forward and excitingly play with her nipples, and she would find herself raising her backside to him - like a bitch on heat, whilst he laughed cruelly - and complimented Gorka!

      She still knew next to nothing about him nor had she ever had a proper conversation with him. She did not even know his full name. He was just The Master, her Master, her Overlord. It was even, as she well knew, a punishable offence for a mere concubine to speak, uninvited, to the Master, never mind question him.

      Here, there was no question of equality of the sexes. Now, her sole purpose and aim in life, and that of the other women in the harem, was simply to be chosen to give her Master physical pleasure. Indeed, the black eunuchs had taught her that her pleasure, as a mere concubine, must now come from giving pleasure to her Master. An essential part of the harem system, she realised, was the sexual frustration to which the women were subjected.

      So, gone were the days when her husband would actively seek to give her pleasure. Here, when her Master chose her for his pleasure, her young overseer would be humiliating holding her lead and watching her to make sure she did no climax without her Master's express permission - something which he rarely gave.

      So, too, were gone the days of private intimacy that she had so enjoyed in her husband's bed and which Western women expect as a right. Here, not only would young Gorka always be present, holding her on a lead and ready to use his dogwhip at the slightest sign of revolt or repugnance, but invariably there would be at least one, and probably two other woman from the Green Team as well - all fearfully eyeing Gorka's dogwhip as they, too, pleasured the Master.

      One would frequently be a girl in milk - another Christian girl, also held on a lead as she knelt offering her milk swollen breasts to her brutal Master, whilst either she or the third girl, driven on by their young black overseer's whip, would be licking their Master's backside - one of his favourite delights, especially when performed by a dog of Christian girl.

      Gorka would, of course, be striving to make his girls to give the Master more pleasure than the girls of their rival Red, Yellow and Blue Teams - and so earn himself a good tip.

      Gone, too, was her active interest in world affairs. The black eunuchs allowed no newspapers, radios or TV in the harem. The women must not be distracted from thinking and talking only about the Master and, egged on by their rival Team Overseers, on catching his eye.

      But, oh the frustration!

      She gave a little shiver as she remembered how Gorka had gleefully told her that soon he would be recommending her for the honour of being selected to become a little mother-to-be. Then, paraded before the Master with the other Team's mothers-to -be, she would be his entry for the annual prize for the Team Overseer who produced the girl with the prettiest curved belly.

      Later, as she was such a buxom girl, she would be his entry for the prize for the Team Overseer with the milkmaid producing the greatest yield.

       The size of the prizes ensured that competition between the Team Overseers was fierce.

      Oh the shame! Oh the horror!

      Prizes! All the poor girls got were little red stars branded on their bellies - one for each forced pregnancy they had successfully undergone for the amusement of their Master and for the honour of their Teams.

      Honour of the Team! Some honour, she thought bitterly. Quite apart from the chance of winning the prizes, these black boys, coming from a simple native background, obviously got a great kick out of forcing an educated white woman into an unwanted motherhood and then of experiencing the trauma of carrying a couple of black progeny, destined to labour on their Master's estate.

      She remembered seeing other European women in the harem tearing in vain at their chain mail breeding belts as they felt their unwanted progeny kicking inside them.

      It was she decided now or never, for once locked into breeding belt she would not be able to touch her now constantly throbbing beauty bud. Desperately, she had sought to give herself the relief for which her body was screaming.

      But, oh what a fool she had been to think that she could get away with it, behind the back of her horrible little Team Overseer. Like all the black eunuchs, Gorka had a thing about his girls masturbating.

      He had even specially locked belled bracelets round the wrists of his team to warn him if they tried to excite themselves. It was, she knew, the damn tinkling of the little bells that had given her away - just as she was secretly reaching the so longed-for climax.

But, oh what an even greater fool she had also been, originally, to have allowed herself to be persuaded by a young Frenchman, Pierre, to spend a romantic and secret weekend in the fabulous palace of a wealthy Arab Prince - whilst her husband was away in the Far East for a month on a business trip.

       It was all to be so excitingly secret. She was to use an assumed name and sign a strange looking document in Arabic that Pierre said merely confirmed that she was travelling with him as his secretary. She did not even know where Sheik's private jet was taking them, nor even his name.

      She had found herself in the palace alright - but in the harem of the cruel and terrifying Prince. Pierre had disappeared, having apparently been specially commissioned by the Prince to bring him a pretty young married European woman as an addition to his harem. And no one, back in Austria, had any idea where she was! It was all so clever!

      She had soon learned that there was no chance of escape, nor of getting a message out to her husband to tell him where she was, or even that she was alive and well. He must have given her for dead by now - as having just mysteriously disappeared.

       Was she destined to spend the rest of her life here? Did the Prince really let the white women, he had tired of, go back to Europe - and risk them telling their story? She had seen how some of the older concubines had suddenly disappeared, but no one knew what had happened to them. She had once asked Gorka about them - and had been beaten by him for "Impertinence".

With a grim smile, the Prince returned to the business in hand. He nodded to Gorka.

      Gorka cracked his whip.

      'Stand for sentencing!' Mizzi suddenly heard her awful little eunuch overseer shout in English. 'Display Position!'

      Terrified and biting her lips to keep back her tears, Mizzi jumped up and stood in the degrading position that Gorka had so often made her practice: head up, hands clasped behind her neck, eyes fixed on the wall behind her Master, legs well apart, and her belly and hairless, pouting, beauty lips thrust forward.

      Feeling scared stiff, she was biting her lips and trying to keep back her tears.

      Angrily, the Prince looked at the girl now standing silently and rigidly in front of him. She looked very pretty in the Harem dress of the Green Team: embroidered cap, open bolero, silken trousers, Turkish slippers - and all in green.

      Her registered number as an indentured servant, together with the name and crest of the Prince, were engraved on the side of her collar. Her registered number had also been tattooed on the back of her right hand.

      Slavery, of course, had been no longer existed here in North Africa. However, particularly as a gesture to wealthy members of Ruling Families from Arabia settling there, indentured service by women could still be discreetly enforced. Moreover the progeny of a female indentured servant were automatically indentured, too.

      The authorities insisted, however, on European female indentured servants being prominently marked with their registered numbers. These numbers were registered with the police and with the emigration service at ports and airports. Neither the local authorities, nor the Ruling Families, wanted the scandal that would result if a white woman escaped from a harem back to the West.

      But what really caught the cruel Prince's eye was the way the girl's green silken harem trousers had been cut away in front displaying her belly and beauty lips that she was straining to keep thrust forward in the Position of Showing Respect.

      The still angry Prince feasted his eyes cruelly on the sight of his crest, two green scimitars within a black circle, neatly branded onto the girl's soft, pouting, belly.

      And above her navel was another brand: also a black circle, this time enclosing the Arabic numerals ,of her Harem Number: "12" - also prettily branded in green, the color of her Team.

      The different colorings had been achieved by the girl's her overseer, young Gorka, carefully rubbing the appropriate pigments into the wound of the brand before it was allowed to heal. Once the brand of a girl's harem number had been coloured she would belong to that same team for the rest of her time in the harem. Her loyalty was now to her team and her team overseer - after the Prince, of course.

      At first the Prince had been unsure just where to have his women branded. He had experimented with having the brands placed on a girl's buttocks, like on the hindquarters of one of his horses. He had also experimented with having them placed on a girl's breasts.

      But, he had finally decided, it was on a girl's soft little, belly, just above and below the navel, that they looked best - and, moreover, would stretch prettily if the belly was made to swell.

      The sight of the brands made a further feeling of power and pride of possession sweep through the Prince. Like his name and the girl's registered number engraved on the girl's collar and on the back of her hands, these brands were a further sign that this once free Christian girl was now his property. She was now the helpless and registered property of an Arab Prince, and his to do with as he liked.

      He wondered how the brands would look, stretched by a well swollen belly - and with a shiny chain mail breeding belt, locked by her black overseer over her beauty lips, to prevent her from interfering with what he had ordered was to be done to her. More power!

'Green 12! You're a disgusting little slut,' Mizzi heard the Prince say contemptuously in his heavily accented English.

      She gave a little shiver of fear.

      'I'm not,' he went on, 'going to stand for you white girls thinking you can get away with masturbating in my harem. Any sensual pleasure you may be allowed will be decided by me - and only if you have earned it whilst pleasuring me. Do you understand, Green 12?'

      'Yes, Master,' Mizzi cried out keeping her eyes fixed on the wall behind her terrifying looking Master.

      'Give her twelve strokes with the rattan cane,' ordered the Prince slowly. 'To be delivered in front of the whole harem in two days time - that'll give the girl time to think over the error of her ways - and put the fear of God and of the rattan cane into the other women, too.'

      Mizzi gasped. Twelve strokes! And with the awful rattan cane! The dreaded words ran through her brain. cane. And in front of the other girls. But not for two whole days! She would go mad with fear meanwhile. Oh what a fool she had been to think she could ever get away with it.

      There was a pause.

      The Prince remembered the traditional punishment meted out to white slave girls caught masturbating. It was moreover a punishment that, involving putting a despised Christian, or Western, woman permanently into a state of Salat, or purity. This would also make him popular with the fundamentalist Mullahs who were becoming increasingly influential and with whom it was important that he retained good relations.

      'And after she has been thrashed,' he ordered,' she is to be cut.'

'Cut! Oh my God, no,' cried out Mizzi. 'Please, Master, please!'

      She remembered how one of the other white girls, Maria, another Austrian girl, but in the Red Team had been cut, as it was so casually called, or circumcised, by her slave dealer, to increase her value, before she was bought by the Prince.

      Like the other Team Overseers, Gorka did not allow his girls to talk to girls in the other teams for fear of his strict discipline being undermined. One day, however, she had managed to have a hastily whispered conversation with Maria in German.

      Like all the girls in the Red Team, Maria was a jolly girl with artificially enlarged breasts and nipples. But it was in horrified tones that she had told the shocked Mizzi about her little operation. It had at first seemed such a tiny affair, with just the tip of her beauty bud being snipped off. But the effect had been devastating.

      No longer, Maria had whispered, could she get any pleasure from secretly playing with herself. Now the only pleasure she could get was when something actually penetrated up inside her - a dildo, another girl's tickling finger, a banana, or a cucumber. But here in the harem the black eunuchs made sure that there no dildos or tickling fingers, and that bananas and cucumbers were always first sliced.

      The only thing in the harem that could penetrate her, and her give her relief, was her Master's manhood. But, of course, that was rarely possible for he would not normally deign to penetrate a mere "Christian dog" normally - as a woman. No, like the other European women in the harem, she was just occasionally sodomised.

      But to be taken properly by her Master was something which now obsessed her, something she dreamed about every night, even more than the other frustrated concubines. It was something for which she would do anything, submit to anything.

       No wonder, she had told Mizzi, that so many men in Africa, and in the Moslem world, insisted on their women being circumcised. No wonder the slave dealer, into whose hands she had fallen, had had her done. A circumcised European woman was indeed as rare prize!

      Remembering this terrifying conversation, Mizzi now wanted to scream out in protest, or to fall to her knees before the Master and beg him to spare her this cruel punishment. But a tug on the lead fastened to the her collar and a sharp tap on her buttocks from Gorka's whip reduced her to a petrified silence.

      So, she just stood there, horrified.

Young Gorka heard the double sentence with grim satisfaction.

      Twelve strokes of the rattan cane from the hands of the powerful looking Malaka would certainly help enforce the strict discipline that he liked to see in his team. He would look forward to seeing a white woman screaming and writhing, as she hung by her wrists, and as Malaka slowly proceeded with the punishment.

      As for the girl being circumcised, if he had his way, all the women would be done - just as they were back in his native village where they also cut back the beauty lips as well. It would make his job as guardian the purity of the Prince's Green Team that much easier.

      He cracked his little whip. Automatically Mizzi stiffened.

      'About turn,' he ordered.

      Mizzi raised her right knee high in the air and with a practised precision that would done credit on the Guards parade ground in London, turned round. But. she thought, how degrading it was: a grown up married woman being drilled like this by a nasty little black boy.

      Again he cracked his whip.

      'Prance out!' he ordered.

      Obediently the girl pranced slowly out of the room, her breasts bouncing, as feeling Gorka's dogwhip on her buttocks, she strained to raise her knees higher and higher in the air and to keep her hands clasped behind her neck.

       She made a perfect picture of well disciplined white womanhood, as Gorka both held her back with the lead still attached to the back of her collar, and drove her forward with his dogwhip.

PART II

HAREM DISCIPLINE AND AN INNOCENT AT LARGE

1 - AN ENGAGEMENT IS HALF BROKEN OFF

Several thousand miles away from the Prince's harem, the telephone suddenly rang.

      Penelope sat up in bed to answer it.

      'Darling,' came a well known voice, 'I hope you feel better this morning and didn't mean all you said last night.'

      'Oh, hullo. It's you! I didn't expect you to want to speak to me again.'

      'Well, I do, and I've thought hard about what your said about us breaking off our affair. You say that perhaps we should not see each other for a bit. We haven't in any case gone firm on wedding plans. So we could break it all off temporarily and then see how it goes?'

      'Exactly what I want,' agreed Penelope petulantly, though secretly she felt very sad about it all.

      'Well, it needn't be final and, as I'm going to the States for some weeks, we would not be being seeing each other anyway.'

      Penelope was silent for a moment.

      'Darling,' came the same, rather weak, pleading voice, 'let's have a compromise and not be too final about it all ...

      Oh God, thought Penelope, why can't he be decisive and, either sweep me off my feet, or just decide to stick to Pamela and disappear out her own life.

      'No,' she muttered, her voice becoming increasingly angry. 'This just what's been our whole trouble: it's never one thing or the other. We just drift on, and I did hope that this time you'd agree to a clean break and wouldn't contact me...

      'But Darling ... ' came that same weak, pleading, voice.

      'No! Let's not see each other for six months, and then please let it be me that first gets in touch with you.'

      'Six  months!'

      'Yes, and promise you will not badger me as you always do, and get around me. If I don't contact you, it will be because I feel the same as now - and last night.'

      'I'm not sure I'll be able to promise that, came the doubtful answer. But do anyway please keep the ring I gave you.'

      'Well!' laughed Penelope, looking down at the eye-catching lapis lazuli stone on her finger that he had given her as a token. 'Alright. But I do mean what I said. I think we must have a little time apart. So , I won't take any calls or answer any letters. So goodbye - and good luck. Perhaps you'll find a stronger minded woman.' Penelope replaced the receiver, and then took it off its cradle to prevent him from calling back.

                *          *          *          *          *

Her life, Penelope thought, was in a really boring negative phase. She was 26, tall, vivacious and, she knew, strikingly pretty with a good figure that make turned men's eyes. And yet and yet ... Oh, if only she could find a rich older man who would look after her and take charge of things.

      Straightening her stiff legs, she stood up and went into her bathroom . She pulled her pyjama top over her head, slipped the bottoms down to her feet and stepped free to appraise herself in the mirror.

      Her newly capped front teeth were a source of delight, after years of being acutely conscious of her cramped upper jaw with the center teeth almost crossing. Her shoulder length hair, though still tousled from sleep, was well cut and her natural blond colour was high-lighted with pale streaks.

      She had no close relations and her parents had recently died in a car crash and she had just received the money they had left her. Her own earnings as an actress had been rather meagre and erratic. She had wondered about spending some of it by going away to somewhere exciting - away from Charles. But hopes of getting a role on the stage or on television had held her back.

      Penelope had gone to RADA on a scholarship, and with assistance from their local council. There she had been regarded as talented. However jobs in the theatre were nigh impossible for an unknown actress and her teeth hadn't helped. Finally, in despair, she had taken a job as a secretary. However she had had to give that up and take redundancy when her employers were taken over.

      The small redundancy payment had paid for her teeth and a small, but beautifully co-ordinated collection of clothes and shoes. She had circulated photographs of the new Penelope and these had been well received. She had even been told, in the auditions that followed, that she stood a good chance of getting a part in a film. It would have launched her career, but, alas, she had just heard that she had failed to get the part.

      'She's not sufficiently decisive and forthright for the part,' her agent had been told.

      Not decisive enough! Had they spotted, under her mask of vivaciousness, her secret desire to be submissive and to be controlled? Indeed, only in her recent dealings with Charles, her former fiance, had she shown any decision - and that was only after being driven half mad by his weak character and indecisiveness - and financial unreliability.

      Penelope looked at her breasts and cupped her hands under them. They had not flopped at all despite Charles's attentions.  He had nestled his face between them, sucked and tugged the nipples as he sought with a free hand to stimulate himself - generally with only moderate success.

      He liked her to tie bows to her nipples so that he could pull the ends free, or put elastic bands round them so that they protruded palely, and would then be rouged by him. He liked to place his limp manhood between them and squeeze her breasts together as he moved up and down between them.

      He was a bosom fetichist and had been ingenious in his ideas of how to provide stimulus for himself. Some she rather enjoyed, like being laced into a tight corset so that her waist was only twenty-two inches and her breasts were pushed up and exposed. Then her nipples would project out of their own volition, hard and pink and the sensation of lust between her legs would make her yearn for a firm manhood to thrust up into her.

      To try and capture Charles's attention, she had trimmed her beauty hair into a blond triangle and squeezed cream inside her to make herself moist and alluring. However, it was a great frustration to her that he rarely showed interest in her there.

      His financial status was also fairly moderate and he had suggested that by moving into her mews flat, he could economise on his out-goings.

      Yes, Penelope had decided in a rare moment of resolution, it was time for a change. This unsatisfactory relationship just couldn't go on any longer. Charles clearly longed for a strong minded woman of independent means who would take charge of his life and she equally longed for a strong minded man: a father figure.

      She had, indeed, adored her rather, who was demonstrative to her, kissing her on the lips and cupping his hands under her breasts as he released her from a hug, or innocently sliding his hands down her back as they passed.

      There must, somewhere, be a positive and loving man for me, Penelope thought, a man who would enjoy this slim body and perfect breasts; a man who would respond to her longing to be dominated; a rich man who would shelter and protect her. But where?  And how can I meet him?

      'My luck must change for better,' mused Penelope. 'Maybe I should give my agent a ring just in case he's any news.'

2 - THE PRINCE'S PALANQUIN AND THE CRUEL TEAM SYSTEM

The Prince walked towards the short mounting ladder that lead up to the comfortable six-women palanquin that would carry him up the steep winding path to his Guest House where several male members of his family had just arrived. A prettily fringed awning would shade him from the sun.

      Being a rather corpulent gentleman, the Prince used his ornately carved palanquin, for going up the zig-zag path that lead up to the Guest House, a couple of hundred feet above the palace. It was a simple variation of a traditional Eastern method of transport and one that made good use of the women in his harem.

      He used to use a small carriage drawn by mules, but Malaka had recently suggested replacing these by one of the harem team, changing the team every week to make it more interesting and competitive. It had proved to be an excellent suggestion - and a fine way of keeping his women fit and on their toes. It was also very arousing sport.

      Indeed, a feeling of power surged through the Prince as he looked at the six women, three kneeling up in front of the palanquin, known as Leaders in horse driving parlance, and three behind, known as Wheelers. Twin poles projected from the front and rear on each side of the palanquin. Each of the women's wrists were, in turn,  securely manacled above her head to a large metal spring attached to wooden crosspieces that linked the ends of the poles.

      The extent to which the springs were compressed instantly showed the Team Overseer, mounted on a donkey by the side of the palanquin, whether a particular woman was pushing up properly to bear her share of the weight of the palanquin and its passengers.

      If a woman slackened off even slightly, then her springs would immediate show as being less compressed than those of her team-mates. This in turn would result in immediate application of the overseer's long driving whip to the exposed backside of the offending young woman.

       Once fastened in place, there was no escape for a woman  as kneeling, waiting for their Master, they held up his palanquin with their upstretched arms. Nor would there be when, soon, moving a smart trot, they strained, driven on by their overseers whip, to carry the palanquin on which their Master would now be reclining, to the top of the hill. Then, indeed, like real carriage horses, they would, if necessary, have to relieve themselves on the move.

      The women were naked except for little running shoes and capes that, in the front, came down to below their hips and which were fastened by a long line of brass buttons. The women made an erotic sight, for at the back the capes were cut away so as to leave their pretty little bottoms quite bare - ready for the application of the carriage whip that their overseer used to spur them into greater efforts.

      As they were used in the large park that surrounded the palace, their heads were entirely hidden under black leather hoods that prevented any spectator from seeing their faces - or even the colour of their hair. The hoods also acted as muzzles.

      Little hinged leather lids could be lowered over the small eyelets in the hood. Held in place by velcro, they prevented the women from seeing any man to whom the Prince was showing off his beautiful palanquin. Even they did fleetingly see another man, only if the zip fastener across the mouth of each mask was pulled back, could they call out to him.

      No one, watching the Prince's palanquin go by, would ever have guessed that under several of the hoods was a beautiful European woman straining her utmost from fear of the whip - though their existence in the Prince's harem was widely, and approvingly, rumoured in the local bazaars.

      The blue capes showed that this week it was the turn of the Blue Team to carry the Prince's palanquin. Each of the rival coloured harem teams, Green, Red, Blue and Yellow, would take it in turn for a week to provide the women for the task.

      The times that each team took to carry the Prince up the long winding path that led up to the top of the hill, looking over his domain, were automatically recorded by a electronic timing device.

      Each team's young black eunuch overseer would be desperately trying to make his team achieve faster and faster times during their week on palanquin duty. His aim was to out perform his  rival overseers and so win the monthly cash prize for the fastest run up the hill.

      Competition was fierce and each overseer was allowed, each day, to make changes to the composition of the team of six that carried the palanquin, resting one or two girls and trying out others.

The Prince looked at young Burka, the Blue Team Overseer, mounted alongside the palanquin on a donkey, his whip ready to spur the women of his team into greater efforts.

      Partly, perhaps, because he knew the women, and especially his European ones, hated it, the Prince preferred to have young black eunuchs in direct charge of each team, rather than older ones. It appealed to the Prince's cruel character.

      Certainly his sophisticated grown-up European women who so bitterly resented merely being locked up in his harem, really hated the additional humiliation of being intimately supervised by ignorant young black boys, especially as they had the authority to beat them at the slightest sign of impudence or surliness.

      These  young eunuchs were still, of course, all under the experienced guidance of Malaka, in whom he had complete confidence. If a serious situation arouse, as when Mizzi was caught masturbating, then Malaka would take direct charge.

      But there was another reason for him deciding to use these young black eunuchs as Team Overseers: he liked a girl's overseer to be present, holding her lead, when she pleasured him in his bed, so that he could make sure she performed well.

      But whereas the presence of a big fat, plodding, older eunuch might have been off-putting for him, he felt no embarrassment in taking his  pleasure with a woman in the presence of a young black boy - or indeed of his young Italian, white eunuch, personal valet, Rosebud.

       When the unsuspecting boy had entered his service, he had had him gelded, so that he could accompany his Master into the harem. Now he was too ashamed to run away back to the derision that would greet him in his home town in Italy. Instead, just as a neutered dog stops running away, so, too, Rosebud, was now devoted to serving his cruel Master.

      Indeed, he had at one time considered using the well educated Rosebud as a Team overseer. However, it was noticeable that the women did not treat Rosebud with the same respect that they gave to the more frightening young black eunuchs. On the contrary they rather regarded him as one of them - which in some ways he was, for the Prince did not hesitate to use him for his pleasure when travelling away from his harem.

      No, the Prince had decided, the traditional custom of using black eunuchs to control the women in a rich man's harem and of using white eunuchs as personal attendants and pleasure boys, was undoubtedly right.

To stimulate rivalry between the Team Overseer's and to encourage each one to train his girls in the art of giving pleasure, the Prince would give a substantial tip to an overseer whose girl, or more usually girls, had particularly pleased him in his bed. Thus, the overseers all had one simple aim: for their girls to please the Prince more than those of the other teams.

      By allowing each Team Overseer a high degree of independence in the appearance, discipline and training of his team, the Prince further encouraged the rivalry between the young Team Overseers and, thus, between the teams themselves.

      Each Team Overseer had his own budget and it was largely up to him how it was spent: so much on acquiring new blood for his team to enable it to compete for the Master's attentions against its rival teams; so much on expensive beauty treatments, such as breast enlargements or re-shaping; so much on scents and beauty preparations: and so much on silks and embroidery for the teams' competing and erotically skimpy dresses.

      The Prince allowed the rival overseers considerable latitude on how they dressed their teams - provided it was erotic, provided each team was dressed identically and in the team colour, and provided that all their little bellies were bare with their pretty brands well displayed.

      The Prince also enjoyed the sight of each rival team complying with his grandfather's dictum about a harem always having a few prettily curved white bellies on display - and a few breasts in milk to provide sustenance for the Master. Each team was allowed to have one of each.

      A special reward was given to a Team Overseer if his girls, helped by being made to take a course of fertility pills, successfully produced mulatto twins or triplets, who would  be brought up to labour on the Prince's estates. Inheriting their white mother's intelligence and resourcefulness, and their father's strength and resilience to the harsh climate, they made excellent and docile workers.

      The Team Overseers competed against each fiercely for the annual prizes for the prettiest curved bellies and for the girl giving the most milk.

      The biggest monthly prize, however, was for the Team Overseer obtaining the fastest time carrying the palanquin up the hill. Here, an overseer could earn a big handicap for his team if he included his team's mother-to-be in his palanquin carriers. It was, moreover, a handicap that increased with each month since the girl was successfully mated.

      Inclusion of the team's milkmaid or milkmaids earned another handicap.

      It was all a competitive system, the Prince felt, that had worked out very well and given him a lot of pleasure. At the same it kept the Team Overseers on their toes with each desperate to win the prize by a mix of his strongest girls and the biggest handicap.

      It also made the Team overseers think very hard about the acquisition of new girls - for which each would have to put aside part of his budget and his earnings from prizes and tips.

      The original choice of a new girl lay, of course, with the Prince and Malaka, his chief black eunuch. Payment to the  dealer, who produced the girl, would be made by a special fund administered by Malaka.

      However, once acquired, the various Team Overseers would bid to have the new girl, if they could afford her, allocated to their team. In this way Malaka's fund was constantly being topped up again by receipts from the funds of the Team Overseers.

      In deciding how much to bid for a particular new girl, the young Team Overseers would, of course, not only would be assessing her beauty and attractiveness. Character was also important. Would she, for instance, train well and thus give her Master extra pleasure - and thereby earn her overseer substantial tips.

      However, was she also strong enough to play her part in carrying the palanquin so that her overseer could win the coveted big monthly prize?

      In the case of white women, how would she look after being mated with one of the Prince's giant Dinkas guards or with the pygmies, or black dwarfs, preferred by some of the Prince's rich friends. Would she still then be strong enough to take her place, right up to the foaling, in carrying the palanquin, and so qualify her team for the special handicaps? Might she earn her Team Overseer, the prizes for the prettiest belly? Could she carry twins or triplets? Were her breasts big enough to earn him, later, the prize for the girl producing most milk?

      Tall European girls, with their good child-bearing hips, gave an overseer the best chance of winning these various prizes, but they were very expensive and rare.

      Each team was therefore composed of a mixture of beautiful women from different parts of the world and the rival Team Overseers' role in choosing, buying and training their teams of women was somewhat similar to that of rival football team managers in choosing, buying and training their teams of players.

Team Overseers were selected for their intelligence. It was a position of considerable responsibility for young boys, who until they were castrated, had only experienced the harsh life of their African rural home.

      Now, as black eunuchs, they may have lost their virility, but they had gained a life of ease that would have been unimaginable back in their poor native village. Now they were well fed, well dressed, and in a position of power: each responsible for the disciplining a team of young women, all older than himself, including white women whom he had been brought up to regard as untouchable goddesses.

      How often, back in his village, they would have heard men describing the much longed for, but unobtainable, beauty of white women. Now they, still mere boys had some of them under their control! They were theirs to train, theirs to supervise in their most intimate moments, and, above all, theirs to punish.

       No one back in their native villages would ever believe it, but they were actually allowed to beat white women with a dogwhip. Oh, how they enjoyed doing that!

      The Prince was convinced that the best way of bringing on these clever young boys was to put them in complete charge of a team of valuable and beautiful concubines. Having to cope with the tantrums, anxieties and petty jealousies of a team of women, especially the white women in the team, as well as keeping them fit and healthy, well trained, obedient and subservient, quickly made the eunuch boys into effective Team Overseers.

      But that was not all, for as Team Overseer, each boy was responsible for supervising and recording his girls' natural functions; for checking and synchronising their monthly cycles; for bringing on the milk of those he selected to be the teams milkmaids and for maintaining a good flow.

      He was also responsible for recommending a future mother-to-be and for assisting with her mating or, if the girl was to be kept, initially, unaware of what was happening, with her artificially insemination.

      He was responsible for subsequently checking that conception had been achieved; for supervising the girl's subsequent progress, and for ensuring that she did not interfere with what nature intended: and for finally making sure that all went well on her day of deliverance.

      These boys kept themselves aloof from the European women in their charge, whom they associated with the hated white slavers who had so cruelly carried so many black people off to slavery in the New World.

      They equally distanced themselves from the pale olive skinned Arab women in the harem, whom they related with the hated Arab slave traders of yore who had cruelly carried off so many black people to slavery in Arabia.

      Instead they took advantage of these women's natural fear of black men to impose their authority on them.

      Young though they might be, their position of authority in the harem gave them the opportunity, whilst loyally serving their Masters, of paying getting their revenge for the cruelty and domination that their forebears had suffered from their Arab and European captors.

The Prince laughed to himself at the thought that no matter how much the women might resent the humiliation of being controlled by a young black boy, nevertheless they all soon assumed the characteristics and personality of their overseer:-

The Green team, for instance, had taken on the serious and earnest attitude of the young pigmy eunuch Gorka and were conspicuous for their fitness and slimness.

      This was the result of hours spent in the e harem gymnasium being drilled and driven on, by young Gorka's whip, to further and yet further efforts on the treadmill and weight lifting machines, as well as over the leather covered "horse".

      Marching into the harem in perfect unison, half naked, with their heads up, their svelte bodies shining, and the bells on their bracelets tinkling, the Green Team made a fine and erotic sight of well disciplined young womanhood. 

The Red team, however, took after their plump and more easy going young overseer, Rafta.

       At eighteen he was the oldest of the Team Overseers. His girls were a laughing, bubbly, buxom lot - for Rafta had had all their breasts enlarged and their nipples stretched to bring them more into line with those of the young Negresses back in his home village.

      They, too, also made a splendidly arousing sight for their Master and, in particular, the effect of breast enlargement and nipple stretching on the normally slight little Thai girls was very erotic.

The Yellow Team's young overseer, Yoka, had also introduced some of the customs of his native village back in Africa where women were kept strictly subjugated. For a start, therefore, all his women's heads were kept shaved and shiny, with the Prince's crest and the women's harem numbers tattooed on their polished craniums, matching the brands on their bellies.

      Each was also fitted, like the women back in his village,  with a large, animal-like, brass nose ring that went down to her chin and round her mouth. From the ring hung a little bell that tinkled prettily with their every movement.

      The little needle-like ends that went through their nostrils were brazed together to prevent the women removing them. Each woman had to keep her brass nose ring carefully polished or else!.

      Similarly, the only clothing they were allowed to wear was a yellow coloured, little native modesty flap, made of bark, which was supported by a string strung round their waists and which hung down, below their branded bellies and over their hairless beauty lips.

      Yes, the Prince reflected, his Yellow team certainly made an arousing sight of delightfully degraded female slaves - particularly the European ones. He thought, for instance, of Inez, a tall, young, Spanish woman. Working as a Governess, she had been saving up to get married to her childhood sweetheart, when she was abducted and sold to the Prince.

      Once she had lovely long black hair, but Malaka, knowing that the Prince wanted only blond European women in his harem, had assigned her to the Yellow Team where she would be destined to lose her hair anyway.

      She now resembled a naked white Negress with her bald shiny head, her nose ring and her little strip of bark. Like her team-mates, she made a sight that particularly aroused the Master when she was made to kneel down between his knees and pleasure him.

      It was indeed difficult for him to decide which was more exciting: seeing her well polished cranium, tattooed with his crest, moving obediently up and down below his large belly; or feeling alternatively the cool of her nose ring, and then the soft heat of her tongue on his manhood; or simply thinking of how this once free and well educated young woman was now in his power and had been reduced to such a servile status. 

The twelve year old overseer of the Blue team, Burka, had also introduced a custom from his native village - one that was also intended to enhance the Negress--like appearance of the women in his team. He would bind the nipples and the beauty buds of his girls with cotton thread so that they became greatly swollen and extended. Then he pierced them and fitted them with gold rings, an inch in diameter.

      From each of the nipple rings hung, humiliatingly, a little bell which tinkled with the girls' every  movement. From the ring through their clitorises, however, hung a pretty little jewel that glittered with their every step.

      The swing of these jewels also had another effect, however. Because of the movement of the gold ring itself, they were kept  in a state of constant, if frustrated, arousal. This made them more desperate than ever to catch the eye of their Master - and to please him, their only permitted source of pleasure. And, of course, the more they pleased him the bigger Burka's tip ...

Although each Team Overseer was responsible for the appearance of all the women in his team, they had the support of another black eunuch, Hurta,  whom the Prince had had trained as a beautician and hairdresser - though this last accomplishment was not of much use as regards the Yellow Team!

      Similarly, although each overseer was responsible for the progress of his own reluctant mothers-to-be, they could call on the advice of the experienced black eunuch, Nadu, whom Malaka had had trained as a male midwife - and as an expert in the art of artificial insemination.

      The task of the young black Team Overseers in his harem, the Prince often thought, was not unlike that of his young Arab grooms in the stables of his stud. Both were responsible, under the supervision of the chief black eunuch or stud groom, for the valuable and delicate young women or brood mares in his care.

Moreover, just as the young grooms could call in the assistance of the stud blacksmith and veterinary surgeon, so the boy black eunuchs could call in the specially trained harem eunuch hairdresser and eunuch midwife.

      Malaka also employed a retired chief black eunuch, Patak, to patrol the dormitories at night. The dormitories were kept lit up at night and television cameras, high up in the roofs, recorded the women's every movement. Nevertheless, Malaka wanted to be quite sure that the women did not misbehave whilst their overseers slept.

      Patak was the night-time guardian of the purity and frustration of the Prince's women.

Yes, the Prince thought, variety, as the English say, is the spice of life and Malaka with his young rival Team Overseers, and supporting older black eunuchs, certainly succeeded in providing that.

       At least his grandfather could never accuse him of keeping his concubines all boringly alike!

3 - PENELOPE'S TRAVEL PLANS

Back in London, Penelope's agent was still enthusiastic about her new photographs and told her that he had also circulated them to Australia. He had now just learnt that it was almost certain that she was going to be offered the new part of an English girl in a television 'soap' that had been a great success there. He told her to be ready to travel to Sydney at a day's notice.

      'How wonderful!' cried Penelope, her self confidence restored. Thrilled, she promptly rang up all her girl friends to tell them of her good fortune.

      The next day, Penelope thought that it would be a sensible precaution to enquire about the immediate availability of flights to Sydney. So, dressed in white jeans and a red shirt under a black blazer, she made her way to the Knightsbridge travel agency that she had heard specialised in cut price fares around the world.

      Whilst she was waiting for details about possible flights to Australia, the helpful clerk was called away to the telephone.

      'Oh dear, ' he said on his return, looking rather crestfallen, 'another last minute cancellation. And I'd taken so much trouble over it.'

      'Where was it to?' she asked politely.

      'Tangier!' he replied enthusiastically. 'It's wonderful place. So romantic and different! And the hotels are cheap now, out of season. And I'd booked him out on tomorrow's flight and into a charming, but inexpensive, hotel that we know. Discreet and very comfortable, with a swimming pool. Oh well ...  Now, Madam, about your flight to Australia ... '

4 - THE PRINCE SHOWS OFF A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

Although their heads were all hidden under their hoods, the Prince noted that from the white skins and larger build of the two Outside Leaders that two of the six women bearing his palanquin today were European.

      He also noticed that the bellies of both these Outside Leaders, proudly chained by their Team Overseer in the positions of honour, the display positions of his palanquin, were prettily pressing against the fronts of their capes.

      Also not unnaturally, in view of the handicap earned by women in milk, he saw that the breasts of two of the three women at the back of the palanquin were also pressing against their capes.

      Clearly Burka was experimenting to get the fastest time and the biggest handicap and using today both his Matched Pair of a pregnant mother and daughter to carry the palanquin, as well as one of is girls in milk

      It was ,of course, always a difficult judgement to balance the extra handicaps given to Mothers-to-Be and to heavy breasted Milkmaids against their likely reduced stamina and consequent slower time - especially when the Mothers-to-Be could, as in this case also qualify for an additional handicap as a Matched Pair!

      It was just this sort of problem that made palanquin racing with girls such an absorbing sport - whether confined simply to his  own different harem teams or to the teams of some of his neighbours with similar harems, whom he would also challenge to come and compete.

The Prince also noticed that each of the women's heads were indeed completely hidden behind their leather hoods and that the muzzling zip fasteners were closed. There would be no risk of any gardeners, or other men, seeing the faces of his concubines or hearing them call out.

      Nor, if the eyelet covers on their masks were lowered, would the women be able to see any other men. Naturally, the only man they were ever allowed to see close-to was himself! He did not want the sluts mooning over a handsome young gardener - nor over one of his young cousins!

      He noticed that another masked woman was strapped down in the palanquin, with her face forming the bottom of  the seat on which he would sit cross legged. The zip fastener over her mouth had already been pulled back zipped back. She would earn her team another handicap - provided she silently used her tongue to perform its secret task to his satisfaction.

      Thus it was that the Prince had in effect four rival teams for his palanquin, each kept fit by it's overseer and each consisting of six women, in this case with a Matched Pair in the last stages of an enforced maternity as Outside Leaders, and another woman performing a rather special function in the seat.

The Prince gestured to Burka to raise the capes of the two Leaders. He grunted with approval as he saw two nicely swollen bellies each emblazoned, under the brand of his crest, with the numbers 20A or 20B, those of his valuable Dutch mother and daughter. He wanted to make a good display in front of is cousins.

      He then gestured to Burka to bare the breasts of the girls at the back of the palanquin. Again he grunted with approval as he recognised the branded numbers of Blue Team's current milkmaids, one an Arab girl and the other a Pakistani - they had been Burka's entry last year for the prizes for the prettiest swollen bellies and this year for the greatest yield of milk. They too would impress his cousins.

      The Prince now laboriously climbed up onto the palanquin. He had a glimpse of a pretty little face and then sat down on it, lifting up and gathering his loose robes around him.

      As he did so he felt a little hidden tongue thrusting up eagerly between his buttocks. He squirmed in his seat, making sure that the tongue would be licking the most sensitive part of his anatomy and then pressed himself down on the woman's face.

      A feeling of intense physical pleasure shot through his body as the tongue reached up and licked - together with a equally intense feeling of power as he looked down on the helpless women chained to his palanquin.

      He nodded to the boy overseer now mounted on his donkey.

      Burka cracked his whip and in a piping little voice called out: 'Up!'

      Like a camel or an elephant rising to its feet after being mounted by its rider, the six women carefully rose to their feet, raising the swaying palanquin up high with their manacled hands.

      There was another crack of the whip.

      'Prance!'

      The six women were now high-stepping in perfect time as they approached the start line at the bottom of the hill.

      Suddenly they heard a crack of the whip. They were across the line!

      'Trot!' cried Burka, applying his whip to all six backsides

As the straining women carried the palanquin up the steep slope, the Prince reflected on how several of his equally wealthy friends had boasted to him of their white Pony Girls. He had been tempted to start, like them, a separate stables for Pony Girls.

      However, the great advantage of these Palanquin girls, over Pony Girls, was that they did not require separate stables and treatment. They could live in the harem as ordinary concubines. They could, thus, be used as normal concubines for his pleasure as well as for carrying his palanquin up and down the hillside when it was their team's turn.

      Indeed as ordinary members of a particular team, they would spend one week a month in his private ablutions as his personal attendants, one week as his pleasure slaves, one week as carrying his palanquin and one week resting - their young overseers having carefully brought their monthly cycles into coincidence.

The Prince's cousins were waiting for him on the steps of the Guest House as the palanquin crossed the line that marked the end of the hill climb.

      'Prance!' cried Burka again and cracked his whip.

      The exhausted women slowed to a walk and then, after two paces, prettily started raising their knees high in the air again, pranced towards the Guest House, making a fine picture of well disciplined, if half hidden, womanhood.

      'Halt!' ordered Burka as the palanquin opposite the steps  of the guest house. Again after two paces the women came to a smart  military halt.

      Burka now discreetly lowered the lids over the eyelets of the  women's hoods, so that they would not see the Prince's handsome young relations.

      The six women, now soaked in sweat, were breathing heavily as the repulsively large Prince reached down to close the zip-fastener over the mouth of the girl under him and gathered his robes around him.

      'Kneel!' ordered Burka with a crack of his whip.

      The women slowly dropped to their knees, still holding up the swaying palanquin.

      The heavy, fat, Prince slowly climbed down the steps and went forward to greet his guests, dressed like himself in spotless white Arab dress and headdress.

      Ignoring the half naked women, they embraced each other effusively and went inside to sip coffee and discuss the situation back in Arabia.

Half an hour later they emerged, smiling.

      'I must congratulate you, my brother, on your palanquin women,' said one of the Prince's cousins.

      'And I see that some look like accursed white Western women,' said another.

      'And there's an interesting looking pair at the front,' commented yet another.

      'Indeed,' replied the Prince jovially, moving over to the two Leaders. 'Have a look at these two - they're a special matched pair,'

      As they stood there helpless, unable to speak or to see anything and with their with their hands manacled above their heads to the palanquin, the mother and daughter heard their Master tell their young overseer to unbutton their capes.

      They could hear several male voices - deep voices not the squeaky falsetto of the black eunuchs. The voices were speaking in Arabic which they could not understand, but they blushed under their masks as they realised that they were being shown off to strange men.

      'Look!' the Prince was saying proudly, patting the swollen white belly of the right-hand woman. 'A European Christian woman! You can see she's not a young girl but she's making a fine job of carrying a pair of Negro twins, sired by one of my giant Dinka guards. They'll be reared to make fine workers on my estate.'

      'And fitted with a breeding belt to prevent anything untoward from happening,' remarked another pointing at the filagree silver pouch chained over her beauty lips.

      'Yes, one can't be too careful with these white sluts,' replied the Prince. Then he pointed to his now distended brand which was prominently displayed on her belly.

      'Our family crest!' exclaimed one of the party.

      Above it was branded in blue the Arabic numerals of her harem number, 20, followed by the letter "A".

      The Prince put his hand on the blushing woman's spreading hips. 'She's carried them well and we think she'll have no difficulty when it's time to drop them,' he said casually.

      He now nodded to Burka who now quickly unlocked the tiny  padlock in the small of the woman's back. Her breeding belt fell to the ground, displaying the woman's hairless mound and glistening beauty lips - and the gold ring through her out-stretched and swollen beauty bud.

      There were cries of appreciation as Burka now parted her beauty lips to show how the ring ensured that she was kept moist and well aroused, even when straining to carry the palanquin up the hill.

      Then Burka drew back the capes over her breasts, displaying their enlarged and ringed nipples.

      There were further cries of admiration.

      The Prince lifted up one of the woman's swollen breasts.

'And there's every sign that she'll make a fine milker, too,' he said. 'Of course, these days you can bring on a girl's milk at any time, but I like nature to take it's course with the breasts having to grow fast as her body realises that in principle she'll soon have to start feeding couple of hungry baby giants.'

      'Though in fact they'll be taken away from her, I presume,' said one the Prince's guests.

      'Of course,' laughed the Prince. 'My women's milk is for me alone!'

      The Prince now moved across to the other woman whose face was also hidden behind her leather mask.

      Again he drew back the cape. Again the same brands were displayed, but the letter in blue was not "A" but "B".

      'You mean these two masked white women are mother and daughter,' cried one of the Prince's younger cousins incredulously.

      'Oh yes, and from Holland,' replied the Prince, running his hands over the young girl's swollen belly in a proprietorial way. 'And both mated to the same Sire. Originally I had thought of having them artificially fertilised, unknown to them. But in the end I arranged for their mating to be the highlight of a party I gave for my friends here. Their  chosen Sire, one of my Black Guards, a very virile giant Dinka, mounted them one after the other - though of course they were hooded so that they never saw him - or my guests.'

      'And it took?' laughed one young man.

      'Oh yes, the scan quickly showed their progeny coming on nicely.' replied the Prince proudly.

      'So they're both carrying the progeny of the same Dinka father?'

      'Yes, the progeny will be half brothers with the mother also the grandmother of her daughter's progeny,' said the Prince with a cruel laugh.

      'What a fascinating combination,' said one the cousins, whilst the other nodded in agreement. Fascinating indeed!

      'And is this one carrying twins also?' asked another cousin

      'Yes,' laughed the Prince, 'thanks to the fertility pills used by my clever chief black eunuch.

      The Prince's cousins laughed cruelly.

      'We had,' the  Prince went on, 'wondered whether it might be better to mate them this first time with my little pygmy stallion, so that the daughter's hips would have been spread more before putting her to one of my giant Dinkas. However, my chief black eunuch was satisfied that with these Dutch women, even young girls have good child bearing hips. So we went ahead.'

      Even so, isn't that rather risky - especially as you must have paid through the nose for this pair.'

      'Yes, they certainly cost a lot,' laughed the Prince, 'but Dinkas have quite small heads, despite their size, so there's little risk when a girl foals - which is why, of course, our forefathers always used Dinka stallions on their slavegirls.'

      'And her breasts look like coming into milk well, too,' laughed another cousin.

       'Yes,' laughed another, 'and we can certainly see you're taking seriously the tradition of our ancestors: "seek revenge on the hated infidels by mating any of their women, that you capture, with black slaves!"'

      'Indeed!' replied the loathsome Prince with a rather grim smile.

5 - PENELOPE'S PLANS ARE SUDDENLY CHANGED

That afternoon Penelope was sitting alone, thinking of her father and how decisive and so protective he had been. He made other younger men seem so unsatisfactory, especially Charles. If only her darling Daddy was still alive. She would have made up for here mother's undemonstrative attitude and have kissed and loved him. She caught her breath. Oh, how she missed him.

      Just then the telephone rang, It was her agent again,

      'Bad news, I'm afraid,' he said. 'I've just been rung by my Australian contacts. Apparently the Producer there has just decided at the last moment not to go ahead with the part of the English girl, after all. So bad luck, darling - but keep in touch! Ciao!'

      'Bad luck!' Penelope cried aloud in anguish as the agent put down the phone. She burst into tears. It was too much! And just after she had told everyone, that she was going to Australia! Now she would look a complete fool.

      Oh God, what more could go wrong with her life here in London? She must get away!

      Suddenly she remembered the telephone conversation she had heard in the travel agency. It had been about Tangier. She knew nothing about Tangier but the man had said it was romantic and cheap out of season. At least it would get her away from London for a bit, away from Charles, away from her Agent.

      Best of all, no one need know where she was or that the Australian role, that she had so stupidly boasted about so much, had fallen through. Everyone would just assume that she'd gone off to Australia.

      And there was flight to Tangier tomorrow!

      Yes, she thought, why not? Tangier might be fun. And that "charming, but inexpensive, discreet and very comfortable hotel with a swimming pool" sounded just what she wanted. She could afford to go there for a couple of months and then contact her agent again before returning to London.

Penelope reached for the telephone and dialled the travel agency's number. She got through to the same helpful clerk.

      'That cancelled booking on the flight to Tangier for tomorrow,' she said. 'Can I have it? And the booking at that nice hotel?'

6 - THE PRINCE PLACES AN ORDER FOR TWO NEW WOMEN

It was shortly after the visit of the Prince's relatives that that Malaka came to see him.

      He coughed discreetly. The large Prince looked up from his book. Malaka was an excellent chief black eunuch. He ran the harem excellently, imposed a strict discipline and only bothered him with the women's major problems. He was also his confidant, someone to whom he could speak openly about his women and his desires, without embarrassment - just he could speak to his head groom about his well bred Arab horses.

      'Your Highness,' he began, speaking in fluent Arabic, 'young Burka, the Blue Team overseer, is worried about being able in future to provide a satisfactory team for the palanquin.'

      'They were running very well the other day,' laughed the Prince, 'and the similarly swollen bellies of our young mother and daughter were greatly admired by my cousins.

      'That is exactly the problem, Your Highness' replied Malaka in an anxious tone. 'Repaying me for the acquisition of such rare delicacies as a white mother and daughter used up all poor little Burka's budget.'

      'But a very well worthwhile acquisition they were,' exclaimed the Prince, thinking back to their initial training and breaking-in which had enabled him to take the virginity of the daughter whilst, from underneath, the tongue of the mother provided him with additional delight.

      'Indeed, your Highness, indeed,' agreed Malaka ingratiatingly. 'But they are due to foal in only three months time. When they have dropped their progeny, Burka will need another European woman, with a prettily swollen belly, to take their place - until the mother and daughter are ready to be mated again.

      'And what you're saying is that he'll need extra money to acquire one.

      'Exactly, Your Highness.'

      'Well, I don't want to start trouble amongst the other Team Overseers by giving Burka extra money for his team. They'll say that it's unfair and they'll want more, too.'

      'Not really, Your Highness, there is a general understanding that the acquisition of a white mother and daughter was a quite exceptionally expensive item. Whilst, of course, the other Team Overseers are jealous that they were put into Burka's team and not into their own ones, they do nevertheless realise that it used up all his budget. I don't think that there would be a problem if Burka's budget was now topped up again.'

      The Prince stroked his beard as he considered the matter. In fact, quite separately, Malaka had already advised him that it was now time to cull one or two of the girls and get in some new blood. He himself had begun to feel that he needed the excitement of acquiring a new girl - or better still what about another matched pair?

      'Well,' he said again, having now made up his mind, 'after the good news about my share of our family income, that my cousins brought me yesterday, I think I can afford to buy more than just one more white girl. I think another matched pair is called  for!

Another matched pair of Christian European women! Well, Malaka thought, that would set the pigeons alight amongst the Team Overseers. They'd all want them. But Burka only had two white women in his team, the Dutch mother and daughter, and he had been highly successful in handling them - and fairly soon he would need a European woman, or better still two, with nicely curved bellies.

      It seemed only fair to reward Burka with the new Matched Pair. It would certainly keep all the Team Overseers on their toes. Burka would be trying justify his special treatment and each of the others would be desperate to show off his own competence, and so perhaps get the next white woman allocated to him. Each was only too well aware that these white women could be money spinners for their Team Overseers, earning him a small fortune in tips from a delighted Prince.

      But all this, Malaka thought, was rather premature. The first thing was to find a suitable matched pair, for they did not grow on trees - especially not Christian European ones!

      He wondered if Pierre might be the answer. Several times in the past, like some of his fellow chief black eunuchs, serving other rich Arab Masters, he had used Pierre on behalf of the Prince.

      He was, Malaka thought, a charming young Frenchman whom the Prince liked. He was not cheap or quick, but if given a firm commission he did have the knack of  eventually coming up with just the sort of basically submissive European woman who would adapt well to harem life - despite her initial rage at finding herself a mere indentured servant.

      Moreover, Pierre operated in a very discreet way so that there was no hue and cry when a girl disappeared into a harem.

      It was now six months since the Prince he had bought a new European girl for his harem - and that had been through Pierre. She had been the pretty Austrian girl he had recently ordered to be thrashed, and cut, for masturbating. And before her, he had also acquired the Dutch mother and daughter from Pierre.

      'Perhaps, Your Highness,' Malaka suggested tactfully, ' we might see what Pierre could produce?'

      'Yes, a good idea,' agreed the Prince.

      He liked dealing with Pierre. He knew that he was not going to cheated. Although he was careful not to "damage the good", he did seem to be able to supply a lot of intimate preliminary information, which the Prince could discuss with Malaka, often including photographs and videos of the girl, often undressed, and which she seemed to be unaware were being taken. With Pierre, the Prince felt, he would not be buying a pig in a poke.

      He reached for his pen and started top write out a telegram for Malaka to send to Pierre. It was written in a coded way that would throw any casual reader off the scent.

      WE REQUIRE MATCHED PAIR STRONG EUROPEAN THOROUGHBREDS PREFERABLY CHESTNUTS. GOOD MOVERS AND GOOD CONFORMATION ESSENTIAL ALSO MUST BE SUITABLE FOR EARLY USE AS BROOD MARES. WILL BE STABLED HERE AND REGISTERED UNDER USUAL CONTRACT. PHOTOGRAPHS REQUIRED. WILLING TO PAY MARKET PRICE AND EXPENSES FOR UNUSUAL REQUIREMENT. PLEASE ADVISE HEAD GROOM IF LIKELY FILLIES FOUND. WILL SEND HIM TO INSPECT DISCREETLY BEFORE BUYING

7 - PENELOPE FEELS LONELY

Blissfully unaware of the order that the Prince had just placed, young Miss Penelope Lyndsey-Baker had just arrived in Tangier.

      Life here, she told herself, certainly seems rather exciting and very different from boring old England. She was so glad that she had come out of the tourist season. She was fascinated by the sight of fierce looking men in immaculate long Moorish woollen robes with hoods, or in long cotton caftans. Others were in long  white cotton robes with Arab headdresses and black silken over-cloaks with gold lace edges - the sign, she learnt, of wealthy Arab Sheikhs from the Middle East.

      All she could see of the women was their hands - and not always that for they often wore black gloves , as well as ugly black boots to hide their ankles. Over their heads they wore a long black or white shroud, with a little gauze strip over the eyes. How awful, she thought.

      She was even more shocked latter when she learned that the women of richer households were hardly ever allowed out at all. Do rich men here still have harems, she wondered. How dreadful! But surely the days of half naked concubines watched over by black eunuchs don't exist these days - not outside Hollywood! Certainly no educated European woman would stand for being kept locked away in a harem.

      She hardly ever saw a young man and a girl together. Instead, young men and youths walked about the streets, openly holding hands.

      And everywhere there were the smells and scents of the Orient ...

She was beginning to regret not having her former fiance, Charles, here to share this new experience. Had she been stupid, she wondered, to break off their affair?

      Oh why, she kept asking herself as she looked down on Charles pretty ring on her finger, did he want to go off with that horrible old dominating Pamela Strickland when he could have had delicious little me as a future wife. After all, she was very pretty and vivacious, tall, with lovely soft blue eyes, silken honey  coloured hair, good legs, a slim waist, and firm breasts - a figure that turned men's eyes. And she was just as tall as Pamela. And she was only 26. What more could a healthy young man want?

      Did she still love him? Had absence made her heart grow fender?

      It was a question that she found difficult to answer. Certainly she missed him. Certainly she was still wearing his ring.  But she had been very hurt when she found out about Pamela. There he was, half engaged to her, and still running around with another, older, woman! My God!

      It really annoyed her that he was so weak. Why couldn't he take charge of things like a man?  Why couldn't he take charge of himself?  Why couldn't he take charge of her? She liked a man to assert himself and make decisions.

      And why couldn't he get a proper job and earn a regular salary, instead of adding to her own financial uncertainty?

      Anyway she told herself, for better or for worse, she had secretly come here alone for a couple of months to get away from it all. She had no plans, except to see new places and meet new people.

      Perhaps if she met a ravishing young man and had a mad fling with him, and wrote about it to her friends then Charles would hear about it and come rushing out to claim her as his own! Yes, she thought, perhaps that's what she should do. It would be rather fun and she could do with a little loving care and attention after all that she had gone through - and anyway she was already feeling a little lonely.

      She had noticed that there were not many Englishmen around, and so perhaps she should look for a Frenchman or an Italian. That would be all the more exciting - and make Charles all the more jealous.

      Meanwhile, the great thing was that no one, but no one, knew she was here. She was free to do as she liked!

8 - MIZZI'S TERRIBLE PUNISHMENT

The gross, cruel-looking, Prince stepped quietly from his private study out into his viewing balcony. It was carefully screened in the traditional Middle Eastern style by lattice work, so that the women below would never knew whether they were being watched by their Master. He sat down on a comfortable chair.

      Like the owners of many a large harem, the Prince enjoyed spending long hours watching his concubines relaxing under the supervision of his black eunuchs, or being put through their paces by them.

      Moreover modern technology in the form of internal television had made this even more practical. It also ensured that the women had no privacy, even when the backs of their black eunuch Overseers were temporarily turned away - as Mizzi was now going to learn to her cost.

      A large television monitoring screen in his study was linked to television cameras situated throughout the harem. They covered the four team dormitories and bathrooms, the garden, even, from underneath, the shaded harem swimming pool. The remote control enabled him to train the cameras up and down, or left and right, to zoom in, or to the continue just moving slowly to and fro.

      The balcony looked down into the air-conditioned main room of the harem with its central fountain surrounded by large cushions. On these were sitting four separate groups of some ten women, each dressed in a different colour. Some of the women were obviously Arab, others looked Indian or Siamese. Some were European.

      All the women were present - except one, he laughed to himself. Even those on bathroom duty and resting had not  been excused.

       There was an expectant air in the harem as if the women were all waiting for something to happen. Some of women in each group were nervously whispering to each other like frightened children in a confused mixture of English and Arabic - the only languages allowed in the harem. Some were quietly embroidering. The Prince was glad to see that there was no talking between the rival groups

      The Prince smiled as he saw that some of the women were holding  children's picture books and magazines. They were avidly turning over the pages as if looking for pictures of handsome film stars or pop artists. But they looked in vain, for Malaka did not allow the women to see any pictures of men, other than their Master, and, cruelly, for white women, those of their now lost husbands and lovers.

      For this reason, too, the only videos they were allowed to see were children's ones and cartoons. Malaka liked to see his charges laughing away like innocent little children.

      To heighten the white women's feeling of helplessness, Malaka even allowed them to keep to keep photographs or other mementos of their former boy friends or husbands. It made them realise all the more that they all belonged to His Highness now!

The Prince smiled cruelly as he saw that several of the white women's bellies were nicely curved, with a shiny chain mail breeding belt locked over their sex lips and around their loins.

      Their liquid wastes could pass through the chain mail but they could not reach up inside themselves with even a little finger or a pencil, the only writing material allowed in the harem. These young mothers-to-be had no control or say over the progress of their maternities, just as they had had no control or say over their mating.

      Once again the Prince reflected on how he agreed with the maxim of his grandfather, and indeed of most owners of well stocked harems, that a harem without several prettily curved bellies was a dull place. Moreover, like his peers, he agreed that maternity was a natural and attractive state.

      Thus, another source of great pleasure for him was breeding from his collection white women. Naturally he did not use them for breeding sons of his own. He did not want any half-caste mongrel sons! No, producing his sons was the role of his wives - women who shared his own pure bedouin breeding which could be traced back to the Holy Prophet himself.

      They each had their own villas in the palace park were he periodically visited them. But it was his harem of concubines that took up  most of his time.

      Nothing, he felt, could beat the feeling of power that came  from seeing a horrified white woman being controlled by his black eunuchs and then brought to him for his amusement - or of having her forced into an unwanted maternity. It was as fascinating experimenting in breeding from these white women in his harem, as it was from his prize brood mares in his stables.

      It was indeed fascinating to choose a suitable black stud for a particular white girl - whether, for instance to have her covered by one of his friend's pygmy midgets, or by one of his own seven foot Dinka Black Guards.

      It was also fascinating to decide whether the white woman should be hooded when she was mated or allowed the horror of seeing her giant chosen mate. Or, alternatively, whether, using the new medical techniques, she should be artificially fertilised, without her knowledge - with the girl thinking that her young Team Overseer was merely douching her again.

      Nor was it only young white girls who, he enjoyed breeding from, but also slightly older married white women as well. They often felt the degradation even more!

      Indeed, he had recently achieved one of his ambitions: to acquire a beautiful white mother and her pretty teenage daughter. It had been a highly erotic and mentally gratifying experience having a mother and daughter taught, by fear of the whip, to please their Master together, and then to have them nervously perform together in his bed.

      Then he had them both put on a course of fertility pills and put to the same Dinka giant. It was really mind blowing to have a white mother and daughter being paraded by Malaka for his inspection, both pregnant by the same Dinka black Guard, and both expecting twins.

      For some time, his secret ambition was to acquire a well educated English or French woman. He had blond women of several different European nationalities in his harem, but no English or French ones. It was time that he owned a representative of the arrogant races that had once so dominated the Arab world - or better still one of each!

      He wondered what Pierre would come up with this time.

The Prince smiled again cruelly, as he remembered that only two weeks earlier he had watched the branding of a newly arrived  Arab girl, an Egyptian belly dancer. Screaming and begging for mercy, she had been fastened with her back to a special pillar so that she could not move. Her belly was thus thrust out nicely for the branding iron.

      Then, whilst more screams filled the harem, the white hot brands had been carefully and relentlessly applied - together with the appropriate coloured pigments and a special ointment that that would slow up the healing process, so as to leave a good clear brand mark.

      Then for several days the girl had been fastened down on her little bed in the team dormitory, with her hands tied above her head - to prevent her from scratching her itching brands and disturbing the production of a perfect mark.

The Prince was glad to see that watching the women from a raised podium was the green clad Gorka, the black eunuch on duty. It was a strict harem rule that the women were to be constantly to be under the supervision of a black eunuch, even when relieving herself or asleep.

       A battery of small television monitoring screens in the podium enabled the black eunuch on duty to see what was going everywhere in the harem from each team's dormitory and bathroom to the garden and swimming pool. A larger screen enabled him to have a closer look at anything suspicious that caught his eye.

      He was also glad to see, prominently displayed on the front of the podium, the curved rattan cane used for major punishments. This was something that he himself had introduced.

      'Your long whippy cane,' the cruel Prince had recently told Malaka, 'is alright for quick minor punishments, but there is nothing like a good knobbly rattan cane for installing real fear into women - and I want my women to be constantly scared of a beating.'

      The Prince smiled as he saw how the women kept glancing nervously up at the new rattan cane. It was obviously having a powerful effect on them. Fear of the cane had always been a key feature of harem discipline. Now the sight of the dreaded new rattan cane had increased that fear nicely - as had the notice in Arabic and English underneath it.

      "Take heed women!

       This cane will be used to thrash any woman:-

      1. Who fails to show proper subservience to the Master at any  time, stands in his presence, looks directly at him or speaks to him, without permission.

      2. Who, when selected by the Master for his pleasure, does not do her utmost to give him pleasure, without seeking any for herself.

      3. Who tries secretly to climax without the express permission of the Master, when pleasuring him, or during training sessions, of a black eunuch.

      4. Who is caught masturbating, or is suspected of masturbating whether alone or with another woman.

      5. Who is impertinent, answers back or shows dumb insolence to a black eunuch.

      6. Tries to see another man.

      7. Allows her face to be seen by another man.

Next to the notice was another board on which were listed the harem numbers of all the women, grouped into their coloured teams.

      Opposite each woman's number were listed any golden stars that she might have earned from the black eunuchs for good behaviour during the past week and any black stars for any minor misconduct. These were totalled weekly by Malaka and every Friday, after the Prince had returned from midday prayers at the mosque, any woman had more black stars than red ones, received the difference in the form of strokes of the rattan cane.

      It was a simple system that kept the women constantly on their toes. Indeed the Prince could not help laughing as he saw how the women were constantly looking at the board and at the rattan cane, checking that they did not have more black stars than gold ones.

      Another recent innovation of the Prince's were the two well separated chains terminating in padded wrist manacles that now hung down in front of the podium. The chains could be raised or lowered.

      'In future,' he had also told Malaka, 'I want to see a girl, whom you are going to beat with the rattan cane, standing up on tiptoe with her arms outspread above her head. She should be fastened sideways on to the other assembled women so that they can see each stroke as it is applied to her bottom, and facing my lattice screen so that I can see her face as she is beaten and the way her breasts jump at each stroke.'

The Prince now saw Malaka stride into the patio. He was short  and squat but he made an impressive sight in his golden, widely cut, Turkish trousers and matching waistcoat which only partly covered his powerful torso. As always he was carrying his emblem of office: a silver tipped long whippy cane. He was scowling.

      He was followed by the three other young Team Overseers, the handles of their whips tucked under their arms. Gorka came down from the podium to join them. Each went and stood with a proprietorial air behind his team.

      Suddenly, with a loud crack, Malaka brought his cane down onto a cushion. The women sitting in the harem room all froze.

      'Punishment Parade!' he shouted in Arabic and English in his high pitched falsetto that seemed so incongruous coming from such a powerful looking and terrifying man.

      The women remained quite still, like well drilled marionettes, not daring to move.

      Then Makumo brought his cane down for a second time. Instantly the well trained women rose and chased by their whip cracking overseers, formed up into four, well separated, lines like soldiers on parade, with the tallest of each team on the right and shortest on the left.

      Discipline in his harem, the Prince was glad to see was as strict as ever.

      'Number Twelve, step forward,' ordered Malaka.

      The Prince watched gloatingly as Mizzi stepped forward. A young married European woman, formerly free and independent, was going to be thrashed by his black eunuchs. The thought that her pygmy boy overseer had stretched her backside for his easier use made her degradation and his feeling of power all the greater.

      He could feel, under his robe his manhood stir. It stirred even more at the thought that this lovely creature, who now so embellishing his harem, had no prospect of escaping, or of ever again seeing her beloved husband.

      Yes, he thought cruelly, it was very satisfying when a young white woman was incarcerated in his harem whilst still being in love with her dog of a Christian husband or lover. How he enjoyed making her submit to his degrading embraces - up her backside! It was an age old custom - and an highly stimulating one at that.

Looking terrified, Mizzi raised her hands and clasped them behind her neck. Her nervous state was highlighted by the way her full breasts were quivering under her green embroidered bolero - as was his crest, branded on her belly.

      'Prance to the Rattan Cane' ordered her Team Overseer, young Gorka.

      Prancing, with her knees raised high in the air and her hands still clasped behind her neck, Mizzi ran up to the cane.

      'Kiss it!' ordered Malaka.

      Mizzi stooped forward and placed a kiss on the shiny cane.

      Gorka now came forward and fastened her wrists to the two hanging manacles. He raised them both slightly. The girl was now standing on tip toe with her feet together and her arms held outstretched sideways above her head.

      There was an audible intake of breath from the paraded women as Gorka slipped Mizzi's harem trousers down baring her soft little bottom.

      There was a long pause and then there was another horrified hiss from the women as Malaka slowly took down the rattan cane. They watched spellbound as, taking it in his powerful hands, he bent it almost double and the let it spring back again.

'Confess!' he ordered.

      Mizzi knew what she would have to say.

      'I was ...unfaithful ... to my Master,' she stammered through her tears. She could hardly bring herself to go on. 'By ... masturbating.'  .

      'And?' insisted Malaka.

      'I let my Team Overseer down and my team ... and I deserve to be punished.'

      Malaka turned to the paraded women.

      'For this dog of a Christian infidel who was caught deceiving her Master,' he announced slowly in Arabic and then in English, 'the Master has ordered twelve strokes of the rattan cane.'

      There were horrified gasps from the women, and cries of: 'Twelve!'.

      'Silence!' shouted Malaka.

      He looked up the screen behind which the Master was watching, waiting for the little green light to come on. The Master, he knew, would not be in a hurry to switch it on - he would first enjoy watching the frightened faces of his women.

As, unseen, the Prince looked down at the scene below, he yet again reflected that, of course, it was not merely the sight of these lovely creatures that he found so satisfying, nor even the sexual pleasure he obtained from using them for his pleasure.

      No, what he really enjoyed was the feeling of power and of ownership, evidenced by his crest, prominently branded on their bellies. This feeling of power was particularly strong when it came to his white women, for they were well educated, and formerly free, used to having boy-friends, lovers, and even husbands - and, he suspected, vibrators.

      Now however, safely locked up in his harem, they were never allowed even to see another man and vibrators were strictly banned by his black eunuchs - except, of course, when used by themselves to arouse a reluctant woman, so that, despite herself, she was ready and eager for her repulsive Master.

      Equally enjoyable was the sight of these arrogant stuck-up young white women, used to regarding black men, and indeed even Arabs, with scorn, now being subjected to the constant and humiliating intimate supervision, and fearsome discipline of Malaka, and his young black eunuch assistants.

      Oh, how deliciously humiliated they were, he knew, at the degrading ways in which their young overseers trained them to please their Master - especially, following his  grandfather's dictum, having their rear orifices stretched for his manhood.

      Equally humiliating for them was the way these mere boys also checked the state of their monthly cycles, their wastes and the sensitivity of their nipples and beauty lips - noting them all down daily and reporting them to Malaka for his records. Malaka made sure he knew the personal and intimate characteristics of every women in the harem.

      Praise be to Allah, thought the Prince, that the poverty and constant civil wars of Africa ensured a continuing supply of young black eunuchs, neatly gelded by Arab doctors with no more fuss than the gelding of a colt.

      The Prince had no qualms about using them - they certainly enjoyed a much better life, running a rich Arab's harem and living in luxury, than they would have had back in a primitive village. Moreover, they really enjoyed controlling women, particularly white ones, and it was interesting how the women had a natural fear of them.

      Furthermore, the Prince reflected, he also enjoyed seeing sophisticated white women being kept incarcerated in his harem with other beautiful, but relatively uneducated, coloured girls.

The Prince rang a little bell by his chair. Rosebud, his young Italian, white eunuch, valet entered the balcony. The Prince pointed to a little cupboard. The boy unlocked the door and opened it.

      Out crawled a beautiful white woman: the only woman excused from attending the Punishment Parade. Her shiny bald head denoted that she was from Yellow Team. She was chained by neck to a ring at the side of the cupboard.

      Rosebud unfastened her lead and holding it in his hand, drove her forward, As she crawled across the balcony to his feet he noticed with a smiled that alongside the crest and the harem number, tattooed onto her smooth cranium, were two small red stars - the sign of having successfully completed two enforced maternities.

      Two maternities, the Prince thought, and thanks to Malaka's courses of fertility pills, four little mulatto children were now being raised as indentured servants to labour on his estates.

      The woman, the Prince remembered, was Ingrid. Her husband, a Scandinavian businessman, had been caught out defrauding the Government of the Prince's state. The punishment for this was death by beheading. However the Prince had agreed to overlook the offence and to allow the terrified man to leave the country - but one condition: that he left behind his beautiful wife, Ingrid, who would enter his harem, as an indentured servant. She would never see her husband again.

      Like a well trained dog, with her lead still held by Rosebud, the woman silently put her head under her Master's robes and applied her tongue - her task to provide pleasure as he watched Mizzi being flogged.

      Feeling Ingrid's tongue, the Prince now pressed the switch that lit up the green light - the signal for the punishment to proceed.

'In the name of Allah , the kind, the merciful,' intoned Malaka reverently in Arabic. ' ... One!'

      Then he took careful aim. There was a sudden crack, a cry of pain and gasps of horror from the assembled women. A thin red line appeared across Mizzi's bare little bottom.

      Malaka stood back to allow the pain to subside. A Punishment Parade, he knew, should be drawn out if it was to have  the full effect on both culprit and on the watching women.

      Half a minute later, Malaka again intoned: 'In the name  of Allah,  the kind, the merciful ... Two!'

      Again he took careful aim. Again there was a crack, a piercing cry and more horrified gasps.

      Another red line appeared half an inch below the first one. Malaka was an artist with the cane. He would achieve a perfect ladder effect on the girl's backside and thighs but, whilst inflicting great pain, there would be no permanent marks.

      The thrashing went on and on, with the same formal incantation before the application of each stroke and the weeping Mizzi being given time to recover from the pain of the last stroke before the next one was applied. The ladder of little red lines was getting nice and long.

      Never, Mizzi knew, would she ever forget this terrible drawn out thrashing. Not being able  to understand fully the counting of the strokes in Arabic, at first she tried to count the strokes herself. But the pain and the long pauses between each stroke made her confused. Had she now had ten strokes, or was it only eight? Vaguely she was aware that the muscular brute, Malaka, was not using all his strength - or he would have half killed her by now. 

      At last Malaka stood back, repeated the incantation, bowed towards the screen and replaced the rattan cane.

      But the punishment was not over. She was now to be circumcised in front of the other women.

Malaka now slightly lowered the manacles holding the girl's arms outstretched, allowing Gorka to chain her ankles wide apart.

      Watched by the scared women, Nadu, the harem black eunuch male nurse, entered the room . In his hand he was holding a tray of shiny surgical instruments. He sat down on a stood in front of Mizzi's hairless and already well drawn apart beauty lips.

      Using clips to hold her beauty lips even wider apart, young Gorka now began to massage Mizzi's beauty bud, tickling and arousing it and drawing it forward. Despite herself, and the shame and pain of her thrashing, Mizzi began to moan with pleasure.

      When her clitoris was nicely swollen and presenting itself properly, Nadu reached forward and rubbed a freezing liquid over it. The he picked up a sharp little scalpel, shaped like a small pair of clippers. Gorka held a little steel bowl under it. The watching women all held their breath.

      With a deft movement, the experienced Nadu let the clippers slide down over the end of the now swollen beauty bud. Then he squeezed the clippers, instantly snipping off the sensitive tip of the little bud.

      Mizzi gave a sudden scream. Immediately Nadu  applied a special ointment to the scar. Only a few drops of blood had fallen into the bowl.

      Mizzi was carried away to the Green Team dormitory. The horrified teams of watching women were dismissed.

9 - A POSSIBLE PREY?

Penelope was having another lazy day, just enjoying the sun and the hotel swimming pool.

      Once again, she felt so glad that she had come here out of season - there seemed virtually no tourists. Although the hotel was small it was comfortable and discreet - just what she had been looking for. All she wanted now was a little holiday romance!

      The Moroccan hotel manager joined her for a drink. He seemed very charming and after a couple of glasses of champagne she found herself confiding in him. He seemed very surprised when she told him she was all alone and had just broken off her engagement.

      'Alone!' he exclaimed. 'A beautiful young lady like you, alone!'

      Penelope blushed. Flattery got you everywhere with her, she knew.

      His eyes lit up when she told him that she was actress. They lit up even more as she told him about her embarrassing disappointment over the Australian role, about breaking off her affair with Charles, about her breaking sudden decision to get away from it  all by coming here and how no one knew where she was.

      'Well,' he said sympathetically, 'we must try and cheer you up and make your stay in Tangier a happy one.'

      He rubbed his hands in a strange way and said that he would make sure that she met some interesting people, so that she saw more of the country during her stay.

      'How very kind of you,' she enthused. ' I should like that very much, I'm feeling a little lonely.'

      The Manager said something to himself under his breath and then, smiling, excused himself.

She heard him making a long telephone call on his portable phone. He seemed to bespeaking very guardedly in Arabic, and so she could not understand what he was saying. But she thought he mentioned her name several times. She wondered why. She wasn't interested in meeting any Arabs!

      Then he suddenly switched to French. From what she could make out from her schoolgirl French, he seemed to have received some rather exciting news.

      'Well,' she thought she heard him say, 'what a coincidence! Yes she might well fit the requirement - especially if she looks like the other one. A real matched pair! However, you'd better keep them apart for the time being - until the buyer shows definite interest ... Yes, I'll make the usual arrangements here ... And remember I shall want my usual ten per cent introductory commission - so good luck!'

      What on earth could he be talking about, she wondered. Some boring deal about a buyer and a ten per cent commission. But who was the "she" who might fit some requirement or other? Presumably a Arab mare. She had seen how proud they all were of their breed of Arab horses. But what did he mean about a matched pair? A pair of similar Arab horses?

      When the manager came back, she saw that he was smiling happily.

She asked him about the local way of life. He told her how several of the older and very rich Sheiks and Princes from the oil states in Arabia had built themselves luxurious palaces here, especially since all the fighting and terrorism had wrecked their former homes in Beirut. They felt there was more stability here and yet being in an Arab country they felt more at home and more welcome that in, say, Spain or France.

      They would, he added with a smile, be left in peace to enjoy the delights of their harems, with no awkward questions being asked by the authorities.

       'Harems!' gasped Penelope. So rich men still do have harems. How exciting, she thought. But when she tried to ask him more about them he looked at her in a strange way and changed the subject. It was as if the subject was taboo.

      Being in a harem, she supposed, would be rather like being in a private brothel - a high class brothel serving one man only. She could see that being the helpless slave of a handsome young Sheik might be rather exciting.

       But the  Manager had talked about older men. She had always been attracted to older men. They seemed more sure of themselves, more authoritarian , more dominating ... Perhaps, she thought, that was what was wrong with her affair with Charles. She should marry an older man whom she could look up to.

      But it must, she reflected, be awful to be in the harem of a gross and repulsive older man. A girl might have to please him, no matter how repellent she might find him. Ugh! She could never do that!

PART III

THE CRUEL PRINCE AND AN UNSUSPECTING QUARRY

10 - THE PRINCE INSPECTS HIS HAREM

Whilst Penelope had been travelling to Tangier, the Prince had been travelling in the opposite direction.

Whilst she had been savoring the new delights of Tangier, the Prince, accompanied by his young white eunuch valet, Rosebud, had been away in London and Zurich for a few days to check up on his investments - for, thanks to oil, he was a very rich man.

      Indeed he found his investments almost as absorbing as his women.

      Listening to his serious minded advisers, bankers and brokers, he had been unable to stop himself from chuckling at the thought of how shocked they would be if they knew how much of the money, that they so assiduously made for him, was spent.

      They knew, of course, that like many of his wealthy Arab friends, he spent large sums on his palace, his horses, and his falcons, but had no idea that much of it went also went on his collection of beautiful European, as well as Arab, concubines.

      Indeed, as always during his visits to Europe, the Prince had been struck with the absurdity of the Western Christian culture with its emphasis on the marriage of one man and one woman; on chivalry towards women; on companionship in marriage; on a woman having to give her consent to sex; and now on the so-called equality of the sexes.

      How much more sensible and practical was his own culture which believed that women existed for the greater pleasure of men and the more of them you could afford to keep the better.

      Moreover as women were naturally inferior to men, as he had always been taught, they should be ruled by them and kept subservient to them. The idea of a man having to ask a woman for sex was equally absurd. In his world a man simply takes a woman he owns, or keeps in his household, whenever he wants to - and, if necessary, by force.

      Similarly, as the owner of a harem of beautiful women, he knew that many women were driven by their instincts to want to please and serve a man. They got great pleasure from doing so. There was no need, he considered, for them to be allowed any more pleasure. Only in the West had they been brainwashed into demanding the same sexual relief as their lovers and husbands.

      No, he felt, women should only very occasionally be allowed sexual relief. The more frustrated they were kept, the more anxious they were to pleasure their Master - and this was as it should be.

      And, as for a woman being a companion to a man, the very idea was absurd. The companions of men were men. Men talked about politics and philosophy, and about their favourite horses, camels and hunting falcons, over cups of Turkish coffee, with men - not women. Indeed one of the pleasures of living in North Africa was the company of other well educated Moslem men.

      Indeed, nothing better exemplified the status of women than the tradition, in the Bedouin tribes from which his family had sprung, that men always rode the camels and horses whilst women, even wives, had walked - watched over by black eunuchs riding donkeys.

      His harem was not there to provide companionship. It was  there to provide him with pleasure, and to house his collection of women - a collection of which he was proud and the ownership of which gave him great satisfaction.

      Indeed, he did not use his women merely to satisfy his sensuous needs. Almost as satisfying was simply watching his collection of women, unseen, as they were controlled, disciplined and punished by his black eunuchs, and especially the white ones with their unwanted curved bellies and humiliatingly restraining breeding belts.

      Even when he was busy on other matters, the thought of what was going on in his harem could be highly arousing.

      His wives, and their sons, however, he kept separately.

Nor could the Prince understand the sneering criticism in the West about older men having much younger wives or mistresses. For him this was the most natural thing in the world. Indeed, until recently, his ancestors would have been regular purchasers in the local slave market - even in their ripe old age.

      Their chief black eunuchs would also have been regularly invited to come and inspect a slave dealer's new stock of fresh slave girls, especially if it included any white women.

      Equally, he did not understand the Western concept of love-making being a mutually satisfying experience with both the man and the girl climaxing. He, on the contrary, enjoyed simply  taking his pleasure from a woman. The idea that a man should have to bother to bring the girl to a climax was absurd.

      Indeed, he insisted that unless the man gave the girl his express permission to climax, it was an affront to his manhood for her to do so. Women had been put into the world, the Prophet had taught, for the pleasure of men - not to have pleasure themselves.

      Moreover, the fact was, as his grandfather used to say: "The more your black eunuchs keep your women frustrated, the more eager they will be to give you pleasure."

      As for the Western Press remonstrating about white women being locked up, in this day and age, in a rich Arab's harem, he would point out that Arabs have been subjected to a constant barrage of sexually orientated Western propaganda, preaching the desirability of white women.

       Hollywood films firmly established that white woman were the epitome of female beauty and seductiveness. Advertisements for Western goods shamefully used drawings or photographs of half naked white women to sell almost anything.

      Was it therefore surprising, therefore, that the acquisition of a bevy of beautiful and helpless young European women featured so large in the fantasies of most Arab males?

      But the Prince, of course, had the wealth to make such fantasies come true!

Moving from Arabia and from his war-torn villa in Beirut to the stability of this country had been a great success. Amongst the local Caids and Sherrifs, he had found congenial new friends, with the same traditional ideas about Islam as himself - and about women. It was moreover a country whose regime understood the needs of rich Moslem gentleman and turned a blind eye to any excesses.

      In the Arab world a man never discusses his women with other men, but it was understood that, like many other Moors and Arabs, he would discreetly maintain a harem of both Arab and European women - a harem which would require both strict discipline and a high degree of security to prevent the women from escaping.

      Provided, therefore, there was no scandal, no questions were asked as to what happened behind the high walls of his white painted palace and, in particular behind the locked doors and iron barred windows of the harem wing.

      Here, without bothering him, the Prince's experienced chief black eunuch, Malaka, and his young assistant eunuchs, could be largely left alone to impose the strict discipline, on the women in their charge, that was so necessary in a well run harem, particularly one that contained European women.

As soon the Prince returned, he entered his sumptuous and well guarded palace. He made his way to his private apartments next to the harem, where Malaka gave him a report on his women.

       Red Team, he reported, were providing the bathroom girls, Blue Team were still available for palanquin duty and Yellow Team were "resting". 

      It was Malaka who had introduced the concept of using pills to bring on or delay when the women in the various teams came into season and so synchronise each team. In this way all the women of one particular team could be used for a particular duty, or all rested together, locked up in their own dormitory under the supervision of their Team Overseer.

       Previously, several members of each team, at one time, were always out of action in the various team dormitories - something which made it difficult to achieve proper constant supervision of the women by the black eunuchs.

      Now, instead, each team as a whole came into season together.

      Feeling hot and dusty the Prince entered his tiled bathroom.

      Several naked women were chained by the neck to various parts of the large room. Their evidently enhanced breasts made an erotic sight. This was the sign of the Red Team, whose turn it was to be on Bathroom Duty for a whole week.

      Watching them unobtrusively from a corner of the room stood their Team Overseer, Rafta. He smiled as he reported to the Prince. His team were ready.

      The Prince went towards two of the chained girls. They were pretty Siamese girls and each was holding a glass jar. They fell to their knees before their repulsive Master, and with charming little chuckles their slim little bodies both disappeared ender his robe. Malaka liked to train his Siamese girls to provide this service.

He felt his manhood being gently sucked by one girl, and then the other, to start the flow. Then he felt it being quickly diverted into one of the jars. He stood there his legs apart under his robe, his hands on his hips. The two girls would know that woebetide them if a spot of his liquid waste touched his robe and also that they would have to lick up any that fell to the tiled floor.

      His flow ceased and again he felt two soft little tongues -  this time cleaning him. Yes, using his Siamese girls for this  duty was an excellent idea.

      Another girl, a white one this time, was chained kneeling by he  side of a Turkish style toilet set in the floor. Silently she held up a silver bowl half filled with rose-water - in case he wished to pass other wastes.

      This much more humiliating service was one that the Prince enjoyed imposing, like the maternities required from each Team Overseer, on his Christian concubines. It seemed to sum up his desire to degrade , and yet enjoy, them.

      But on this occasion he shook his head. The young European woman looked almost disappointed. It might not be a very pleasant duty, but it provided a good chance of catching the Prince's eye.

      Two Arab girls now helped him undress, whilst an Indian one ran a shower. The Prince laughed as he saw them all eyeing his large manhood. Whist their overseer watched carefully, they then ran the shower all his gross body, soaping him gently and then drying and dressing him again.

      The Prince then snapped his fingers towards another white girl who was silently kneeling on a trolley. He recognised her as the Christian girl who had won the previous Belly Championship. Little drops of white were glistening on her prominent nipples and blue veins showed on the breasts themselves. The girl was now Red Team's current milk maid.

      Rafta wheeled the trolley over to where the Prince as now sitting. He was again smiling proudly - for he had worked hard to keep the girl in milk and with a good flow. Moreover, so that her breasts would be ready for the Master's return, he had not allowed her to be milked since the previous day.

      The Prince reached forward and took a swollen nipple into his mouth.

      'Let down your milk!' said Rafta to the girl, giving her a warning tap with his dogwhip.

      As he sucked, the Prince felt the warm, sweet and refreshing milk ease into his mouth. His grandfather used to say that the milk of a white woman was exceptionally sweet and made a fine aphrodisiac too - though he himself thought that it was very nearness of a soft engorged white breast that achieved that rather than the milk!

      Rafta turned the trolley so that the Prince could use the other breast.

      Finally the Prince rose to his feet, refreshed. It was time to inspect his other concubines. He looked round the bathroom and at the beautiful and submissive women all keeping their eyes dutifully lowered as, out of the corner of their eyes, they watched their loathsome Master - and both his manhood and their overseer's little whip.

      The Prince laughed aloud at the cruel thought that, as well European ones, none of the others had either entered his harem  voluntarily and none remained in it willingly. It was not only his European women whom he enjoyed keeping in his harem and subjecting to the discipline of his black eunuchs ...

Entering his viewing balcony he looked down into the main harem room. With the Yellow Team "resting", the Red Team on Bathroom Duty and the Blue and Green teams at morning exercise, the room was empty. Once again his eye was taken by the rattan cane hanging prominently from the central podium - the sign of his domination.

      The Prince swivelled his comfortable chair and turned it towards to the side of his viewing balcony from where he could look down into the outside patio.

      In the center of the patio was a heart shaped pool - again with a fountain playing in the center. Surrounding the pool were tiles and more cushions.

      The patio was carefully shaded from the sun to prevent the women from  acquiring a tan. What was the point, the Prince reckoned, of going to the trouble to acquire and keep white women if they were then allowed to become tanned by the sun. White women must remain white, was his firm rule.

      Beyond the pool was the pretty harem garden with beds of brightly coloured flowers between paved shaded paths which  zig-zagged their way around the small garden. Surrounding it were high walls up which mauve and orange bougainvillaeas and oleanders were growing. The walls were too high and smooth to be climbable, but, as a further precaution against escape or rescue, on the top were curved sharp iron spikes and an electric fence. No woman had ever escaped from his harem!

      At certain stipulated times, the individual young black eunuch overseers, each responsible to Malaka for the state of training and fitness of their team, would take their teams out to the patio to play or to be exercised.

      The Prince saw that Nadu, the black eunuch who, in view of his experience, had special overall charge for all the reluctant current young white mothers-to-be, had several of them, from different teams, all playing in the shallow end of the swimming pool. They were naked with their swollen bellies thrusting out prominently above their shiny chain mail breeding belts.

      They were throwing a large heavy rubber ball to each other over a net. The Prince nodded approvingly. Keeping the belly and breast muscles firm and strong was a key part of the exercise programme of the girls reluctantly Expecting a Happy Event, as the eunuchs euphemistically called it.

      Nadu was watching them carefully from the side of the pool, a long carriage whip in his hand, ready to correct any woman not exercising her belly properly. Like Malaka, he was a firm believer that mothers-to-be who were kept well exercised right up to when they foaled, rarely had any problems.

      For the watching Prince, of course, it was also an exercise that showed off the now amusingly stretched brands on the women's swollen bellies, just above their flexible breeding belts.

      One woman, he saw, had a strange animal-look with her shaved head and large brass nose ring - clearly a member of the strict Yoka's Yellow Team. Two others were very alike were had the gold nipple rings and bells and the prominent clitoris rings that marked them as part of the Burka's Blue Team.

      He picked up  a pair of binoculars and read the Arabic numbers branded on their bellies: 20A and 20B - his prize Dutch mother and daughter.

      The Prince could feel his manhood stir at this erotic sight and at the thought that they were both carrying the twin progeny of the same black Dinka guard

A grinning eunuch boy, with his dogwhip tucked under his arm like a drill sergeant, was watching a half a dozen naked women as, laughing and giggling they, splashed innocently in the shallow pool, or ran in and out of the fountain.

      They all had gold nipple rings from which little bells tinkled happily. Between their beauty lip glistened their infibulation rings. These, of course, were the signs of his Blue Team. Another team, evidently the Green one, was being drilled in the garden by Gorka. To his falsetto words of command, the women were marching and counter-marching, wheeling and about-turning, marking time and running on the spot. Gorka was a firm believer that a well drilled team made an obedient one, ready to obey without thinking any command that their Master might give them.

      As he watched, he saw the boy halt his team and call out to one of them.  Nervously she marched smartly up to him and saluted. It must be humiliating, the Prince thought with a smile, for a woman to have salute and obey such a young boy - and a black one at that.

      The black eunuch boy said something to her and blushing she bent over in front of him. The boy took his dogwhip from under his arm. Then raising it in the air, he brought it down three times across the girl's backside, before telling her to march back and rejoin her silently watching companions.

      The young Team Overseers had the authority to give a woman three strokes of their dogwhip to punish minor transgressions of the harem rules, such as laziness, failure to look attractive, disobedience, and, of course, the slightest sign of impertinence towards themselves.

      The dogwhips might look relatively harmless but wielded on the bare buttocks of a woman, or on her hands, could, the women had all learned to their cost, really sting. Certainly they ensured that the women eagerly obeyed every order given to them by their young overseers, no matter how humiliating.

      Even more frightening for the women was that the eunuch boys could always report them to Malaka for punishment by him with the even more feared rattan caned - and there was no point disputing what the boy said, for Malaka always took the side of his assistant whether he was right or not.

      There was no doubt that the combination of the rattan cane and the dog whips ensured a very high level of discipline in the harem. It was one that depended on fear of corporal punishment - much to the horror and continuing sheer disbelief of the European women.

The Prince now saw that the Blue Team were being organised by their small overseer, Burka, to play like little girls with skipping ropes. He had tucked his dogwhip into the sash round his waist and had pulled out his short handled whip. The women were calling out girlish rhymes as they nervously eyed the long black leather thong that their overseer was now running through his hands, ready for instant application to the backside of any reluctant girl.

      The sight of grown women being made, by their black eunuch supervisors, to play like little children never failed to excite the Prince. Moreover these childish games, like the strict forbidding of masturbation, were deliberately intended to conflict, constantly and frustratingly, with the highly sensuous, but strictly controlled, atmosphere of the harem.

      The harem regime, of course, was one that had been cunningly designed, over many centuries, to make the frustrated women in the harem long passionately for the arms of their Master. No matter how repulsive and cruel he might be, and no matter how much they might hate and fear him, he was nevertheless the only man they ever saw, heard or touched.

      Indeed, it amused him to see the effect of the frustrating regime of the harem, and its sensuous atmosphere of jealous women dedicated to providing sexual pleasure for one man. Even a newly incarcerated white woman, still furious at being kept locked up in his harem, would soon learn to glance, coquettishly, up the balcony in case her Master might be watching her.

The Prince smiled as he looked again at the bellies of the women who had been exercised by the experienced Nadu and at their shiny chain mail breeding belts.

      They were held tightly over the beauty lips by two light chains attached to the upper corners of the belt and another attached to the lower end. The two upper chains went round her hips and the lower one went up between the buttocks. They met in the small of the back where they were held taut by a small padlock, the key to which was held by the woman's Team Overseer.

      The women's liquid wastes could, of course, pass through the chain mail but the women were quite unable to get at the little progeny they were being forced to carry.

       For more solid wastes, the boy overseer could either temporarily remove the belt whilst the woman performed under his  supervision, or he could teach her to use one hand to pull the chain aside sufficiently to allow the passage of her wastes - but woebetide her if she ever allowed the chain to be dirtied.

The Prince glanced back into the still empty harem room with its large cushions and little tables. Many people imagined that the women of a harem just lay around waiting to be chosen by their Master. The reality, he laughed to himself, was very different, certainly in his harem. The women were constantly kept on their toes: Bathroom Duty, Palanquin Duty, Drills and Exercises, all kept them busy, sleek and fit - even when Expecting a Happy Event!

      He wondered how Pierre was getting on meeting his latest order for another Matched Pair. Doubtless it would take him some time to find a pair that could quietly disappear without trace!

11  PENELOPE TAKES THE BAIT

Penelope was delighted when the hotel manager invited her to join his party for dinner that night in a private room.

      'I think you'll enjoy meeting a young French friend of mine, Pierre, ' he  told her. 'He's very good looking - and know the country well. Make friends with him and you'll see the real Morocco!'

      A handsome young Frenchman! And one who knows the real Morocco - what ever that meant! This would make coming here really exciting!

      That evening Penelope put on her best face and her sexiest dress. Glancing in the mirror before going downstairs she decided that she was really looking gorgeous.

      The manager greeted her courteously and immediately introduced her Pierre. 'I've put you next to him at dinner,' whispered the manager.

      'What a lovely dress,' Pierre complimented her, as he kissed her hand.

      Penelope blushed. What a handsome and charming young man! It was a short, off the shoulder little black dress that, she knew, showed off her figure and long legs to perfection.

      Looking at her, Pierre seemed rather taken aback.

      'Excuse me asking,' he said, 'but have you by any chance got a ...twin sister ... or a French cousin ... here in Tangier?

      'No!' laughed Penelope. I haven't got any sisters, twins or not, nor any French cousins, and I don't think I know anyone here in Tangier.'

      'Why do you ask?'

      'Oh, I just wondered,' he replied. Then I heard him murmur, as if to himself. 'The likeness is remarkable. It's a pity they're not sisters, but even so, a matched pair ...'

      'Even so, what do you ... ?

      'Oh, nothing,' he replied.

      'Are you planning,' she asked with a smile, 'to introduce me to my ... twin?'

      He smiled.

      'Oh, I'm sure you'll both meet before long!' he replied enigmatically.

      'Well, I hope she's pretty.'

      'Yes very,' said Pierre, adding with a laugh, 'That's why I thought she might be a relation of yours!'

      'Flattery will get you everywhere with me,' she laughed. She knew it was true.

      Then as if wishing to change the subject, he said: 'But forget about that, I'm much more interested in knowing about you. Are you planning to stay here for a little time?'

      'Oh, I don't know, a month or two - it rather depends.'

      'Then, perhaps you'd let me show you round a little,' smiled Pierre. In fact, he had of course been already briefed by the hotel manager that she was alone out here, after splitting up with her young fiance. He started to describe what there was to see in and around Tangier.

      'You make it all sound fascinating,' Penelope said enthusiastically, thinking what a delightful guide Pierre would make. Moreover, he spoke excellent English - and with a delightful French accent. Her holiday here was certainly getting off to a good start

      Just then a photographer came in and started to take photographs of the party. Pierre insisted that he take several of himself and Penelope and then of her alone. He even persuaded her to be photographed sitting up at the bar on a stool. It was a pose that would, she knew, show off her legs to perfection.

      At dinner, she found herself at first talking to the neighbour on her other side from Pierre. He said he was an Italian architect and was kept busy designing new palaces, or modernising old ones, for rich Middle Eastern Sheiks.

      'That must be interesting work,' Penelope said politely.

      'Yes, it is,' replied the architect, 'though they are very demanding as clients - particularly when it comes to the harem quarters.'

      'Harems!' Penelope exclaimed.

      'Oh, yes,' her neighbour laughed, 'many rich Arabs, including those regarded as very religious are reverting to the old custom of keeping a harem of young women. I can't complain - designing the harem quarters makes all the more work for me!'

      'But how do these men satisfy so many women?' asked Penelope with a laugh.

      'That's not the point,' replied the architect earnestly. 'It's a question of pride of ownership. They enjoy collecting and owning beautiful women - just as a rich man in the West might enjoy collecting and owning Old Masters or a stable of race horses.'

      'Oh!' Penelope gasped. To be owned as part of a collection of beautiful women! How awful!

      'You must remember,' added the architect, 'that thanks to oil, many Arab Princes, Sheiks or business men are extraordinarily rich. Not only do many have huge incomes, but they have also acquired large fortunes from lucrative business deals. They now have the money to indulge their personal desires - and a luxurious palace with a harem with a couple of dozen beautiful young women at their beck and call is pretty high on their list of desirable things to purchase and own.

      Penelope gasped again. Purchase and own! To be bought and owned by a rich and powerful Arab Prince! To be at his beck and call! How quite ghastly!

      'Especially,' added the architect, 'if some of them are European women.'

      'European women!' cried Penelope. 'Locked  up in a harem! You can't be serious. They'd run away!'

      The architect laughed. 'My dear young lady, there's no escape from a modern harem - anyway not from one designed by me!'

      'Oh!' exclaimed Penelope.

      Before she could ask what he meant, Pierre turned to her. He had now finished his conversation with the lady on his right and evidently with some relief turned again to Penelope, whilst the architect turned to speak to the lady on his left.

      'You mustn't believe all that my architect friend tells you about palaces and harems,' he said.

'Oh, don't worry, I didn't,' laughed Penelope. 'Not in this day and age!'

      'Exactly,' said Pierre, evidently relieved. 'Now how about letting me take you out to dinner tomorrow - we might go onto a local night club. It'll be fun!'

      'Oh yes,' cried Penelope. 'I think I'd like that very much.' She looked  again at the handsome young Frenchman. 'Very much indeed!'

12 - THE  PRINCE IMPRESSES THE IMANS WITH HIS DEVOUTNESS

Three fundamentalist clerics, Imans , had  asked to see the Prince.

       One had come all the way from his own country, having been sent by the Ulama, the body of religious scholars, there. The other two had been sent by the local Ulama.

       All wanted to be sure that the Prince supported the Islamic fundamentalist movement that had swept through the Moslem world in recent years.

      They regarded with horror what they regarded as the unbridled immorality of Western women with their brazen and immodest public behaviour, their superior ways and provocative dress and, even worse, their use of vibrators.

      Women, they taught, should stay indoors, never go out alone, never drive cars, never travel without the written permission of their husbands, masters or fathers, never be alone with a man who is not a close relative, and never work in public places. Their education should be strictly limited.

      "Allah created women for the enjoyment of men and the continuation of the race," ran the ancient texts. 'Go ye and enjoy them, for copulation is a gift to men from Allah.'

      The texts said nothing about allowing women to enjoy sex as well and the Imans strongly disapproved of it.

      As for harems, another text enjoined: "Keep as many as many slavegirls as ye can afford and if they do not serve you willingly, then have chastised by your servants, but do not let them out of your house to tempt other men."

      A special religious police, the Muttawin, operating under the control of the Imans, now enforced the old Shariah law. The veil was re-imposed. Women were not allowed to flaunt their bodies in the provocative fashions of the West but must hide them behind loose tops and trousers or loose kaftans. The education of girls was restricted. Contact between the sexes outside the home was forbidden and indeed women found out alone risked a flogging.

      The Imans had no objection to rich men re-establishing the old harem system. On the contrary they encouraged it -  provided there was no lesbianism and the women were under strict and continuous supervision - something that modern electronics made easier. Nor did they object to the harems containing European concubines, provided they, too, were kept under strict control.

      It was, thus, clearly in the Prince's interests to keep in with the fundamentalist Mullahs here in his adopted country and for them to be content about what went on behind the high walls of his palace.

      There was a discreet knock on the door. Malaka entered.

      'Your Highness,' he said, 'the delegation of Imans have arrived.'

      'Show them in,' ordered the Prince.

      Three clerics, clad in black entered. The Prince greeted them warmly. Over coffee they explained that they had been sent by the Ulama, the local body of religious scholars, to enquire into his attitude towards the Western women that he was rumoured to keep in his harem.

      Clearly they were concerned lest these women, used to the shocking freedom of Western women, might form a hotbed of feminine revolt against the strict teachings of the fundamentalists regarding the treatment and control of women.

       'Women are naturally licentious and promiscuous,' explained one of the clerics, 'and should be kept in the home or harem, away from the sight of other men.'

      'My sentiments entirely,' agreed the Prince with genuine fervour.

      The Imans were clearly delighted when Malaka described how he prevented the Prince's women, once in the harem, from leaving it, from seeing other men, from having any knowledge of what was going on in the outside world, the man's world, and also how the European women were kept illiterate in Arabic.

      Malaka then looked enquiringly at the Prince who nodded approvingly. He had no objection to his women's bodies being seen by these clerics - provided, of course, their faces were not seen close up and provided the women could not see them.

      Malaka pulled the curtain over the screen, displaying to the clerics a scene of girlish innocence. A dozen collared women, were playing naked in the pool, laughing and splashing as they threw a large rubber ball to each other - under the eye of a watching black eunuch .

      'Ah, yes,' quoted one of the clerics, "The bodies of mature women, kept with minds of children."'

      Malaka pointed to the swollen bellies of two blond women. They were the Dutch matched pair, the mother and daughter.

      'A woman's natural state!' said one of the Imans approvingly.

      'And doubtlessly imposed on these infidels, to produce good Moslems?'

      The Prince nodded. 'An infidel mother and daughter,' he explained.

      There were exclamations of astonishment from the Imans. 'And are they both carrying your child?' one of them asked.

      'Oh no,' replied the Prince in horror, 'the mothers of my children, my wives, are all true descendents of our Holy Prophet, may he enjoy Paradise for ever.'

      He paused for effect. 'I am sure, ' he continued, 'that such eminent clerics as yourselves are only too well aware that it is written: "Take revenge on the hated Christian infidels by using captured Christian women to breed good black Moslem servants for the greater glory of Allah." ... This is a precept that in my humble way I try to follow.'

      There was a long pause whilst the clerics looked at him opened mouthed with admiration.

      'My son,'  the oldest cleric finally said, 'you are an example to us all.'

       Remembering the dramatic effect that displaying these two women had had on his young cousins, the Prince picked up the house pone, and dialled a number. Briefly, he gave certain orders. He wanted to be sure that these influential clerics were properly impressed with his apparent devoutness.

      At the same time Malaka drew the curtains across the grille that looked down into the harem.

      Tactfully, the clerics now enquired about masturbating and lesbianism, and were greatly reassured to hear from Malaka of the steps he took to stamp on any such scandalous behaviour amongst the women in his charge, whether they were Arab or Western.

      'And how about the imposition of the state of Salat on these potentially licentious creatures?' asked one of the Imans.

      'Yes,' said the Prince with a smile, 'Let me assure you that I fully support your efforts to re-impose Salat.'

      Salat, of course, requires as a minimum the removal of the sensitive tip of a woman's clitoris to control what the Mullahs regard as the natural licentiousness of women. By greatly reducing a woman's pleasure, it reduced lesbianism and masturbation - and adultery. It also had the effect of making a woman more submissive and to concentrate more on giving, rather than receiving, pleasure.

      Traditionally in Africa, female circumcision was imposed on all female slaves whether they were in the harem or employed on manual work such as cotton picking or carpet making - they did not then waste time mooning over boys, and instead got on with their work.

      Some Masters had even taken the line that since the status of a slavegirl is that of a domestic animal, and as animals do not have clitorises, it was morally wrong to allow a slave girl to keep hers.

      Even in the present day, Filipino or Indian girls going to Arabia as servants to make, as they thought, their fortunes risked losing not only their freedom but their clitorises as well.

      Similarly even an unsuspecting European girl entering a

respectable Arab household as a governess, nurse or private air hostess, risked being called in for a so-called medical inspection. Then anaesthetised by a so-called preventative injection she finds, on waking up, that the tip of her clitoris had been neatly removed to ensure that she was not distracted from her work.

      The Imans, of course, encouraged this, saying that putting immoral infidel women, with their uncontrolled passions, into a state of Salat would prevent them from leading innocent Arab men astray.

      The full state of Salat, as traditionally carried out in many African countries, required the trimming of the sensitive outer lips as well. Indeed, the lips were then allowed to heal together, leaving only a small orifice for the passing of liquids and for a man's pleasure. Where once had been the woman's beauty lips was now just a long thin scar.

       The scar is, of course, cut open to allow childbirth and then allowed to heal together again, so that neither the mental nor physical pleasure of her husband or Master is spoilt.

      Using modern surgical techniques, the full operation could now be carried out quite satisfactorily even on grown women.

      However the Prince and Malaka had agreed that since the black eunuchs ensured that all the women were anyway kept in a frustrated form of Salat, circumcision should only be used as a punishment in the harem. Moreover they agreed that even in such cases just the partial version was needed.

The Prince clapped his hands and immediately little Gorka and Rafta each led in a figure hidden in an all-enveloping black Burka, or shroud. As  usual in the presence of the Prince each was on a lead, held by her young overseer.

      The young woman held by Gorka was, of course, Mizzi, and the one held by Gorka was her fellow Austrian, Maria.

      The Prince laughed to himself as he remembered how Maria had volunteered to go and work on famine relief in a remote and lawless part of Africa before going to University. There she had been abducted by tribesmen and sold to a modern slave dealer. Knowing the preferences of the local Arab dignitaries, he had the tip of the girl's clitoris removed in order to enhance her price.

      In fact he had sold her to the Prince whilst he was on a tour of inspection on behalf of his parent country which had offered considerable financial aid to this much poorer one. He had used her several times in the dealer's house to relieve his tension and then, sedated and carefully boxed up, he had sent her back to his harem to start her training and await his return.

      He had found her unusually submissive and eager to please. She made an exciting change from his other women - and variety was at the very core of the harem system!

      He had been tempted to have more of his white girls similarly circumcised, but having spent a little time in Europe and having learned to appreciate European women, he had decided that he preferred a woman with a bit of spirit. But he wasn't going to admit that to the Imans.

Both women were now made to stand up, hesitatingly, on a little stools.

      'You will understand that these women have been blindfolded and gagged under their shroud,' explained Malaka. 'We do not allow His Highness's women to see or talk to other men.'

      The Imans nodded approvingly. The Prince certainly had the right ideas - and the money to impose them! He was an example to the community.

      'Position for Inspection' ordered Malaka, giving both women, through their shrouds, a sharp tap on the buttocks. Obediently both women raised their hands and clasped them behind their necks. Then under their robes, they parted their legs, bent their knees and thrust out their bellies.'

      The Imans watched approvingly at this display of disciplined womanhood.

      Their approval was even greater when the black eunuch boys, one by one, parted the front of each woman's robe to disclose on her thrust-out naked belly the branded crest of the Prince and above it her harem number, The jet black hands of the eunuch boys contrasted strikingly with the whiteness of the women's exposed bellies.

      'And are these both Christian woman?' asked another of the Mullahs in surprise.

      'Indeed they are,' replied the Prince proudly. 'Both formerly free women of the West.

      He paused.

      'Just two of my European concubines' he added nonchalantly. 'I will not bore you with the sight of more of them.'

      The Imans exchanged more looks of approval.

      They approved even more when the two boys, one by one, parted the beauty lips of the women, to disclose the little scars where the beauty buds should have been.

      'Salat!' admiringly cried first one, and then the other two Imans, as they peered more closely. One reached forward to make sure. There was a whimper from behind the shroud.

      'And this one was only recently done,' exclaimed one of the younger clerics authoritatively. 'His Highness certainly imposes the state of Salat even on his European women!'

      The women's burkas were now closed again and silently they were led out of the room by their young overseers.

      However, summoned  by the prince's telephone call, Burka now appeared leading two more shrouded figures. Burka helped them to mount up on the stools.

      The Imans looked at each other in surprise. Now what was this evidently very devout Prince going to show them?

      'I thought,' said the Prince, 'that perhaps you would you like to see something else for yourselves.'

      Then on a signal from the Prince, he and Malaka parted the tops of the robes of the two women, displaying their full and very white breasts. But whereas on one set of breasts were the pronounced nipples of a mature young woman, the nipples of the other were the almost virginal little pink nipples of a much younger girl,

      There were gasps of astonishment and admiration from the clerics as Malaka explained: 'His Highnesses's prize matched pair - a European mother and daughter.'

      There were even more gasps, this time of  approval, as Malaka and Burka then parted the robes lower down, this time  displaying, almost level with the Imans' eyes, two identically and sharply curved white bellies.

      'Both mother and daughter are being made to carry good future Moslem twins,' Malaka again explained. Then he paused. 'And both were mated on the same day with the same one of His Highness's Dinka Black Guards!'

      Then the Prince pointed down to their tight gleaming chain mesh breeding belts immediately below their fascinatingly stretched brands of his crest.

      'To prevent these Christian dogs from interfering with what has been ordained for them - and for the greater glory of Allah!'

      The impressed clerics looked at each and nodded. Then the oldest one put his arm around the big Prince's shoulders and embraced him.

      'We have seen enough, Brother,' he said. 'You are indeed a True Believer, a true follower of our Islamic revival. I shall report back to our Ulama that there can be no doubt about your piety, and this will also be known in the bazaars. There will be no interference with what goes on behind the walls of your palace.'

      'You are too kid,' murmured the fat, cruel and repulsive-looking Prince.

13 - SOME INTERESTING PHOTOGRAPHS OF PENELOPE AND A VIDEO

The following evening Pierre took Penelope to a crowded night club. It was decorated like something out of the Arabian Nights. There several belly dancers and Pierre held Penelope's hand, as she watched the sensuous display.

      Later they danced together and he held her very tight. She found it all very exciting and arousing. It had been such a long time since she had gone out with a good looking man.

      Pierre, she thought, certainly knew his way round these parts. She couldn't quite make out what he did for a living -but he seemed to visit the palaces of wealthy Sheiks and Princes fairly often.

      'If you like, I might be able to take you with on a short visit that I'm expecting to have to make shortly to the palace of a rich Arab Prince out in the desert.'

      'Oh that would be exciting!' cried Penelope. 'An Arab Prince!'

      'Well, I won't promise anything yet!' laughed Pierre.

      'But would it be safe?' Penelope asked. 'I mean might he not lock me up in his harem?'

      'Oh I don't think he has one!' Pierre lied convincingly. 'Anyway you'll be safe with me!'

      After they had shared a bottle of champagne and Penelope was feeling more and more relaxed, Pierre insisted on her being photographed yet again. He even persuaded her, as a joke, to lean forward to show off her cleavage. He said he wanted to have the photographs as a reminder of a wonderful evening with a very beautiful and entrancing woman.

      'Well, flattery will get you everywhere with me,' laughed Penelope, all her inhibitions now lost, 'lets have some really sexy photographs!.

Later, going back in the taxi, Pierre kissed her passionately and cupped her breasts. Penelope was very excited. She could feel herself becoming more and more aroused.

      Arriving at the hotel, he told her that he had arranged with their mutual friend, the Manager, for her to be put into a better room with a larger bathroom. All her things had apparently been moved whilst they were having diner. He certainly gets things done fast, she thought, rather admiringly

      She assumed that he was going to follow her up to her new luxury double room. Feeling as she did, she certainly would not have objected. But in fact he simply kissed her hand, saying that he would join her for a swim the next day.

      'That'll be lovely!' she said.

      'But on condition, you're wearing your prettiest swimming costume,' he said earnestly.

      Penelope felt madly disappointed. But, she told herself, perhaps he did not want to rush things or appear too eager. Then as he turned away he said strangely: 'Be careful to take off your dress carefully and have a shower before you go to bed.'

      What an odd thing to say, Penelope thought. She saw that on the way out, Pierre paused and said something to the reception clerk who looked at her and nodded. Was he telling him to look after her or that he would pay for the better room? She wasn't sure that she approved of that.

The new room, Penelope decided, was so lovely that she immediately put aside any quibbles. She could see all the bay from the balcony and the bathroom was spacious. It was all more like a film set than a hotel room and the lights were quite extraordinarily bright - almost like a television studio. She tried to turn some of them off, but you either had to have them all on or all off. Typical Arab electrics, she thought.

      There was a huge mirror along one side of the wall of the bedroom and another in the bathroom. Curiously there was no bath, just a shower set in the middle of the room with no curtains surrounding it.

      Idly, she pretended she was undressing in front of Pierre and amused herself doing a sort of strip tease in front of the huge mirror. It made her feel even more sexy and disappointed that Pierre had not come up, too. Perhaps he was planning to do so tomorrow!

      For a moment she thought that she could see a light coming from beyond the mirror, but this was obviously impossible and must be just a reflection of the bright lights in the bedroom. Alice through the looking glass was only a fairy story, she told herself with a laugh.

      She then had a shower in the magnificent and, again, well lit bathroom.  She was still feeling very aroused and the luxury of this suite made her feel all the more frustrated at the way Pierre had gone off. So in the shower, once again glancing at the large mirror, she just could not help squeezing her nipples and then putting her hands down to her beauty bud.

      As she played with herself, she laughed at the thought of what Pierre would think, if he if knew what this apparently cold English girl was doing. Men just never seemed to realise the depth of a girl's secret longings - or at least European men did not. Perhaps these inscrutable stern looking Arab men did. Perhaps, she told herself, as she reached a series of lovely climaxes, that was why they kept their women under such strict supervision.

      Penelope now put on a lovely satin nightdress and got into the huge bed. She remembered what Pierre had said about wearing her prettiest swimming costume. She'd certainly do that! Perhaps Pierre would join her in it the next day for a romantic siesta in the warm afternoon. What a wicked woman she was to have such thoughts. And she a respectable girl! Almost a married woman!

In fact Pierre turned up early the next morning. Penelope was delighted to see him, but was still a little sleepy after her naughtiness in the shower the night before.

      He really is charming, she thought: well dressed, smiling and making her laugh as he handed her a large bunch of flowers. What more could a girl look for? Any way in a holiday lover.

      A holiday lover! Poor Pierre, she told herself, how hurt he'd be if he knew what she was thinking: to use him to get her own back on Charles and to make him so jealous that he'd come back to her. A real Latin lover she could boast about to her friends when she returned to London. That would soon get back to Charles - and he'd come running!

      Yes, she thought, as again she showered whilst he waited for her to join him for breakfast in the warm morning sun on the balcony, Ill even ask him to come and stay and I'll introduce him to my girl friends. She would tell them all about their passionate and romantic affair in North Africa. Charles will make a terrible scene and then we'll make it up. She  would tearfully renounce poor Pierre on condition that Charles got a job. Then she and Charles would live happily ever after. She'd even start a family!

      She laughed as she thought what a scheming little creature she was. She had worked it all out - and poor old Pierre hasn't a clue! But meanwhile she would enjoy herself with him.

      Indeed, looking at him across the breakfast table as she nibbled a delicious croissant, she could not help thinking what a very good looking young man he was. And so interesting . And so attentive - he made a girl feel like the Queen of Sheba!

For two whole hours they swam, drank and flirted by the pool. Pierre had a polaroid camera and they had great fun taking instant pictures of each other. Some of the pictures that Pierre took of her in her swim suit were, she realised with an excited chuckle, getting really rather naughty - for the pool was conveniently deserted.

      Penelope had been wearing her lovely one piece swimming costume - one which was cut shockingly high on the thigh. It showed off, she knew, her body and her slim legs wonderfully. Then Pierre asked her if she had a bikini and so, rather embarrassed, she changed into her scandalously brief new bikini and posed provocatively for his camera as if she were a model.

      They looked at the polaroid photographs and he made her pose one way and then another. He certainly seemed to know a surprising lot about fashion photography, Penelope thought. She still did not know what he did for a living, except he travelled a lot and met lots of girls. Perhaps he was a well known photographer?

      Posing for him like this made Penelope feel rather excited, especially when she thought of the lovely siesta together, in her glamorous new bedroom, that all this must be leading up to.

      Pierre took more photographs of her lying on her tummy and diving into the pool. Then he put a huge towel round her shoulders and kissed her. He put his hand on her breasts under the towel. It was very exciting. Whispering, he dared her to let him photograph her topless, holding the towel round her shoulders, to hide her breasts from the sight of anyone who might be looking.

      It was a dare that Penelope could not refuse, especially when he started he say that, of course, if she were flat chested or pendulous ... Penelope had always been proud of her firm breasts and was furious at his teasing. So ripping off the top of her bikini, and throwing away the towel, she stuck out her chest and dared him, in turn, to take some polaroid photographs.

      She had to admit that the results made her look smashing. He certainly knew how to bring out the best in a girl!

      All this made her feel even more amorous and she suggested that they might continue to photographic session in her room. But again to her great disappointment, he jumped up, looked at his watch, picked up all the photographs, and said he must dash. He promised to ring the next day.

      Poor Penelope was left feeling highly frustrated. No lovely relaxing siesta with Pierre! He did say he would give her a ring that evening, but even so!

      Of course the inevitable happened. She just had to relieve her pent-up feelings again, lying naked on the big soft bed all alone instead of with Pierre. It was almost as if he knew that this would be the result of rushing off like that.

      She could not help glancing towards the big mirror as she played with herself, thinking how much more exciting it would have been with Pierre. The strange thing was that she was thinking of him so much, that she even fancied she heard his voice coming from the next room, beyond the mirror. He seemed to be encouraging her to greater efforts.

      What tricks the brain can play on one, she thought. What on earth would Pierre be doing in the next door room when he could have been in hers!

14 - THE PROBLEM OF CULLING - AND A NOVEL SOLUTION

The risk, the Prince knew well, of a girl escaping from a modern harem like his, and from the custody of his black eunuchs, was not a serious problem. However, what was a problem, especially for the owner of a harem containing European women, was what to do with a white woman he wanted to cull from his harem to make way for new blood.

      This was, the Prince well knew, regarded in his harem as a dreaded mystery.

      There were rumours that he would eventually let them return home, to their husbands, families or boy friends. But this was nonsense, for inevitably they would tell their story to the Press and so cause a great scandal - not only for him personally and for the rest of the Ruling Family of his own country, but also for the country that had allowed him to set up his new palace and harem.

      The story that was most widely accepted in the harem, and which Malaka let them think was true, was that he had an arrangement with a particular brothel, deep in the desert, that served the passing trade. They women thought that he sent them  there, knowing that the chances of them ever escaping back to civilisation were remote.

      It was true that he had, at one time, thought of such as solution but he had dismissed it as too risky. A woman might well use her charms to persuade a client to help her escape or to offer to buy her so that she could later escape back into what she would regard as the free world.

      Traditionally, of course, a rich man presented his surplus women to his faithful retainers, or to other visiting Arab dignitaries. But these days, the Prince complained, one had to so careful about ensuring that the delighted recipient of a well trained white woman had, himself, adequate security arrangements for keeping her safely locked up.

      It used to be possible, of course, to sell a girl back to the dealer who originally sold her, but old fashioned slave dealers, dealing in white women in large numbers, were a rare breed these days.

      It was also true that certain local high class brothels, specialising in European women, did use modern electronic collars to prevent them escaping but, even so, one could never be sure.

Faced with this problem, some Ruling Families had set up a discreet establishment where their surplus white women could an entertain Arab and other Eastern guests with the sight of Western women trained to perform for their enjoyment.

      These establishments could, as the Prince knew well, play an important role in business deals. It was amazing how much a Japanese or Chinese businessman will reduce his price after dancing with a manacled, but otherwise naked, European woman, whose vocal chords had been snipped to prevent her from talking.

      The life of a white woman in such an establishment, the Prince knew, was similar to that of a white woman in a well run harem such as his own one: constant supervision by black eunuchs; skimpy clothing; a viewing gallery; and the constant fear of the cane if they do not please the visitors. These establishments might well be keen to take on the odd surplus girl from a well disciplined private harem, but they could only cope with a limited number.

Recently, the Prince had found another small outlet for his surplus women.

       During his visits to Europe, he had been impressed, especially in Germany and France, with the intelligence  and strength of character of certain older, and usually wealthy, women who shared his taste for submissive and desirable younger women. Often they came from the world of literature or the arts.

      The fundamentalist Imans would, he knew, regard such women with shocked horror as godless lesbians. However, he himself had found the strict attitude of these Mistresses, towards their young women, as being very similar to his own attitude towards his  his young women. He had even found it interesting to exchange views with them regarding the proper training and custody of young women in their power.

      Some of these Mistresses had come to live in Morocco where like himself they could discreetly indulge their pleasures. Like him, they bought and restored former palaces and made them places of great beauty, for such women usually have very good taste.

      More to the point, finding that their new homes include separate, and well protected, harem quarters, they had brought over several of their little friends from Europe to keep locked up there as registered indentured servants - just as he, himself, had done.

      It even amused, these rich lesbian friends of his, to employ black eunuchs, as in his own harem, to supervise their girls, to prevent them from misbehaving with each other, and to stop them having any contact with men. Outwardly his new friends lived the life of a typical rich expatriate, but secretly they maintained a well guarded harem of young white women.

      The fact that these lesbians often like to enjoy controlling slightly older women, but still younger than themselves, had given him the idea of selling, onto them, one or two of his surplus ones, knowing that they would still be kept carefully locked up and under the mental and physical dominance of a strict woman.

      But even so, he felt that this was not a really safe solution.

The Prince was, of course, also very conscious of the fact that some of his friends and relations, also with unwilling European women in their harems, felt that he was being unnecessarily squeamish about the problem of disposing of white women so that they did not sell their story to the world press.

      If they could not find a suitable retainer who would take a woman off their hands, and ensure that she will not escape, then they simply tell their black eunuchs to put her down, like a favourite old horse, and to bury her in the desert.

      'No one will ever ride where I have ridden!' they boasted.

      But cruel and ruthless as he was, the Prince could not quite bring himself to adopt such a drastic solution to his problem.

Then a cousin of his, Sheik Ali, an astute businessman, had come up with a novel idea and had invited the Prince to help finance it - with cash and women.

      He had also asked the Prince to lend him Malaka but the Prince had refused. With forty, highly emotional, white, Arab and Asian women to control in the harem, and with several Happy Events from each team pending, Malaka was far too busy to be spared.

      However he had let Malaka go there for a month to set things up and he had made a substantial investment in this new enterprise. Moreover, he had also sent Sheik Ali a couple of his surplus white women.

      He had now just received his first dividend. This unexpected little windfall had made him decide to go and see his investment for himself - and at the same time also see how see for himself just what had happened to his former concubines.

>From the air, Sheik Ali's breeding establishment, deep in the desert of the Prince's native country in Arabia, looked like a typical battery farm for producing chickens, eggs or even pigs.  Surrounding the long animal houses were storage barns for feed, and several modern houses for the farm manager and his black assistants.

      An electrified fence surrounded the farm complex, but clearly the main deterrent to escape were the surrounding miles of waterless desert.

      The Turkish farm manager met the Prince on the airstrip and, on the way to the farm, explained how it was organised.

      'Your Highness,' he said obsequiously, 'we have based this breeding farm, or stud farm, as we prefer to call it, on the slave breeding farms that thrived in Turkey right up to the end of the First World War. They provided a steady stream of blue eyed blond boys and girls for the harems of the Turkish Beys and Pashas throughout the old Ottoman Empire. The demand was substantial and the farms paid very well.'

      He paused.

      'Similarly, we aim to provide a similar steady stream of beautiful little creatures, but for the for the adoption societies of the West. The demand is also substantial. The rise in the West of the number of single parent mothers who now keep their off-spring, has resulted in a shortage of white children available for adoption. So we can keep our prices high and we are making good profits.'

      'What a clever idea,' commented the Prince.

      'But,' the farm manager went on, 'whereas the old slave breeding farms were dependant on Circassian studs, whose progeny were often uncertain, we use artificial insemination and the deep frozen semen of proven studs sent to us from Scandinavia. And whereas twins used to be a rarity in the old farms, now, thanks to modern fertility pills, they are the norm.'

      'Moreover, whereas in the old farms, the progeny had to be raised to the age of about ten before they could be sent to the slave markets, here our agents in Europe send us daily FAXs, ordering newly born children whom we despatch to them by air. Our rearing cost are therefore much less.'

       'Furthermore, whereas the old breeding farms had to buy in their stock of carefully selected future mothers, ours are provided free of charge by harem owners, grateful for the culling service we provide.'

      'So your overheads are much lower?' said the Prince, impressed with the business acumen of cousin Ali.

      'Indeed, Your Highness,' replied the Manager.

The air conditioned car now arrived at the farm buildings. The heat outside was like a furnace. The farm manager slid back an air tight door in the long main building door. Inside it was cool again - and light and airy.

      'We like to keep our breeding pens air conditioned,' explained the manager.

      There was a pleasant smell, rather like that in a stables. Soft music was being relayed by loudspeakers. It was a romantic Viennese Waltz.

      On the side of a long passageway was a row of raised cages. Peering through the bars of each cage was a naked white woman.

      'These are our brood mares,' said the Manager proudly.

      The Prince was surprised to see that all the women's heads had been shaved and that a big brass ring hung down from each girl's nose. They gave the women a strangely inhuman look that reminded him of Yoka's Yellow Team back in his harem, except that their craniums were kept smooth and polished whilst these showed the stubble.  

      'We keep their heads shaved,' explained the Manager, 'partly for reasons of hygiene but also to help the women realise they are now just mute animals.'

      'Mute?' queried the Prince noticing that except for the music, there was a complete silence in the pens. 'You mean that all your mothers have been muted?'

      'Yes. It's kinder really. If they can't talk to each, they don't fret so much about what's happening to them. They just remain, at first, ignorant of why they are here, ignorant of being artificially inseminated, ignorant of being in whelp until they feel the progeny kicking away inside them, ignorant of when they are due to foal, ignorant that their foals will soon be taken away and sold, and, finally, ignorant that they will then be fertilised again.'

      'Not all that different from what goes on in my harem,' laughed the Prince cruelly, 'though we don't render them mute.'

      'Well, Your Highness, it's such a simple little operation, that it seemed silly not to do it. At first we just snipped the vocal cords but now we just give the woman on arrival a little immobilising injection through the neck.'

      'It also enable us to keep them ignorant of the fact that when their breeding days are finally over,  they'll be quietly taken out and put down. But, these days, we expect that won't be until they are well into their forties, by which time they will have dropped sufficient whelps to have earned their keep!'

      'Their nose rings also help them to accept that they now just animals, prize breeding stock - especially when they glance at the mirrors in their cages. This in turn makes them much easier for my staff to handle.'

      The cages were too low to allow a woman to stand. Instead, they had to crawl round them on all fours in the straw, under which the floors of each cage sloped down to a little central channel. In turn, as in many large stables, this emptied into a drain below which ran down the side of the passageway.

      Each cage was completely bare except for the straw covering the cement floor and for the mirror on the wall.

      The Manager pointed to the glass sides of the cages.

      'You can see, Your Highness, that the mares can see other pregnant mares, but can't touch them,' the Manager said proudly.

      'Yes, ' replied the Prince, 'I suppose otherwise the women would be tempted to form illicit lesbian relationships.'

      'Yes indeed, and this would detract,' explained the Manager, 'from each woman thinking of herself as purely as an animal whose natural maternal instincts are being mysteriously satisfied.'

      Fastened to these walls were automatic drinking troughs, like those in stables. On the floor of each cage and fastened to  front bars by a short chain was a flat, shiny metal, feeding bowl.

      'How many women do you have here?' asked the Prince.

      'Thirty one - all from the harems of Sheik Ali's friends and relations - like yourself, Your Excellency. Indeed, we were most grateful to you for the couple you sent us. But to meet the ever increasing demand, we plan to build our numbers up to over sixty mothers, with some two or three foals being delivered each week.'

      'Three a week!' exclaimed the Prince in admiration. 'Why we think we're doing well if we get that from each team in my harem every year!'

      The Prince now noticed that on the front of each cage was a blackboard on which was written the stud number of the woman - a number that was also tattooed on her right buttock.

      The board also showed her age; her date of entry into the breeding pens: the date of starting her course of fertility pills; the number of foals she was currently carrying, and the number she had successfully delivered; the date when she would be ready for insemination, or had been inseminated; her anticipated date of foaling; and any special feeding instructions.

      These boards being on the outside of the cage, the women themselves were not able to see what was said about them, even if they could read Arabic.

      It all seemed a highly efficient operation, thought the Prince. No wonder it was so profitable. And it provided such a useful service. Perhaps he had better buy some more shares!

      Just then a large black man dressed in breeches and well polished boots came down the passageway wheeling a trolley.

      'Because of the women are kept locked up in cages to which only I have the key, we don't have to bother about using expensive black eunuchs as grooms here,' explained the Manager.

      As if to prove his point the Negro called out in a very deep masculine voice: 'Numbers Twenty Seven to Thirty One! Attention!'

      He picked up off the trolley a long thin rod with two electrodes at the far end. The Prince recognised it as a cattle goad, capable of  giving a nasty shock. He saw that the groom's thumb was on the switch. Nervously eyeing the goad, the four women hurriedly came to the front of their cages, gripped the bars and pressed their flat little bellies against them.

      The black man looked at the four women in turn. 'Present backsides!' he suddenly ordered.

      There a rustling of straw as the women in the four cages, kneeling on all fours, all obediently turned and pressed their buttocks against the bars of their cages. Their beauty lips were now well displayed - for their daily douche.

      'These ones are all new arrivals, awaiting fertilisation - though they don't yet know it,' laughed the Manager. Then he added, in an undertone, 'Keep an eye on Number Twenty Nine - it'll be for real for her this time.'

      Fascinated, the Prince watched as the black groom loaded a douche with soapy water, and then parted Number Twenty Seven's proffered beauty lips.

      'Eyes on back wall!' he ordered.

      The woman then raised her head and look at the wall in front of her, keeping her backside pressed against the bars of her cage. The black man inserted the douche and squeezed the big rubber bulb of the douche, driving the mixture ran up inside her.

      Then it was the turn of Number Twenty Eight. She had the temerity to look round to see what was being done to her. The groom touched her bottom with the goad. The woman screamed and quickly turned her head back again to face the back wall of her cage.

      'As you can see,' laughed the Manager, 'the goad is a wonderful enforcer of discipline for caged women.'

      Then coming up to Number Twenty Nine the Negro checked the date on her board and that the woman's eyes were fixed on the back wall. Then he picked up a rather different looking douche. Opening a medical thermos flask he loaded this douche carefully

      'The semen is very expensive,' explained the Manager, 'so I don't want any being spilled. But I had this man is an expert. I sent him off to do a course in Artificial Insemination for dairy cows. The technique we use here is similar.'

      Then the black man turned again to the kneeling woman and inserted the specially loaded douche.

      'It nearly always takes the first time, provided the woman's overseer has got her date right,' the Manager went on, as the fertilising semen was delicately injected up inside the unsuspecting woman ...

The Prince now saw that another large black groom, similarly dressed in breeches and boots, started coming down the passageway with a feed trolley containing a bucket of steaming porridge. As he  passed each cage the woman would push her feeding bowl out, in the slit below the bars of her cage, onto the passageway.

      The groom would check the feeding instructions on the woman's board, and then ladle one or two dollops of the mixture into the shiny feeding bowl before kicking it back into the cage.

      The Prince noticed that a fingerless glove  was strapped on each woman's wrists, making it impossible for her to hold anything and making her hands into mere paws. Unable to use her hands to feed with, she had to lower her face into the bowl to eat - like an animal.

      He saw one woman turn away in disgust from the porridge in her bowl. Immediately the groom picked up a goad and thrust it through the bars of the cage. There was a little whimper from the muted woman and she quickly lowered her head and started to lap up the mixture noisily, whilst the black groom stood over her with a satisfied look on his face.

      'We get this particularly with younger women,' explained the Manager. 'They start feeling sick a few weeks after being inseminated and go off their food. But these cattle goads are excellent in teaching a girl that she must eat up properly and not leave anything in their bowls. We want them to produce fat healthy little foals!'

      The Prince saw that the women were eagerly licking their bowls clean, and polishing them with their tongues, so that the groom would see that they had indeed eaten up properly.

      'Those gloves ... ' he queried.

      'They're mainly intended to prevent a woman from trying to get at herself and harm the whelps she is carrying. But they also help to make her feel that she is now just an animal - a brood mare.

The Farm Manager led the way down the passageway.

      'Look!' he said, 'here's one of the women you sent us.'

      Seeing the Prince, the woman crawled eagerly to the front of her cage. With her shaven head and her swollen belly, the Prince scarcely recognised the pretty young Swiss girl he had become rather tired of nearly a year ago.

      She knelt up, gripping the bars of her cage. Unable to speak, she pointed pathetically to the stretched brand of his  crest on her belly and looked up at him pleadingly.

      'She's due to foal in only two week's time,' said he Manager looking at her board. 'We're not expecting any difficulties and so she'll probably be left to whelp naturally in her cage. We rarely have any problems with women who've been kept on all fours. She's carrying twins, but she doesn't know it, of course.'

      The Prince turned to look into the cage next door which held a Polish woman whom with some hesitation he had also agreed to spare. She had whelped a few months earlier and now had a fine pair of little blond whelps crawling after her in the cage.

      At a word of command from her Negro keeper, she lay on her side on the straw and allowed the little creatures to feed eagerly from her breasts. It was, he thought, just like watching a bitch feeding her puppies, and presumably that was what the Farm Manager wanted her to feel. He smiled as he saw his crest on her belly, too.

      She looked up at the Prince through the bars of her cage with a contented smile on her face, as if to say: 'Aren't I a clever girl!'

      It was interesting, the Prince thought, how treating these women as animals helped to bring out their natural maternal instincts. In his harem the woman had always made it clear that she loathed children, and yet, here she was, as proud of her litter as any real brood bitch.

      'We'll be taking her litter away from her tomorrow,' said the Farm Manager. 'We've jut had a FAX from our European Sales Manager wanting two more whelps and hers will met the order well. Although she doesn't know it, she's in whelp again and we find it best to take a litter away before a woman feels her next one kicking. There's a danger that she'll become so absorbed, or at first horrified, by her new litter that she'll neglect the old one.'

      The Prince turned back to the Swiss girl.

      'Has she been kept cooped up in this cage all the time' he asked.

      The Manager laughed. He called over her black overseer.

      'It's very important to keep them well exercised all the time they are in foal,' he said. 'Each woman spends two periods a day on the exerciser, right up to the day she foals.'

       He said something to the Negro who bent down and pulled a lever at the side of the girl's cage. A small barred gateway at the back of the opened. The Prince saw that it lead into a low barred crawl-way that ran along the back of the line of cages.

      The Negro gave an order. The Swiss crawled awkwardly out through the gateway and along the crawl-way..

      The Manager led the Prince to the end of the line of cages. There was a round sand covered arena. In the center of the arena was a post and attached to that were four arms which, driven by an electric motor, slowly revolved round it. Every two feet along each arm hung a collar and chain. It was, the Prince realised, very similar to the mechanical exercisers used to exercise horses in bad weather.

      The Swiss girl had now arrived at the end of the crawl-way. A barred gate prevented her from going any further. The Negro turned a switch on the wall. The rotating arms stopped. He opened the gateway and pointed with his cattle goad to one of the collars. Obediently the girl crawled up to it. He fastened the collar round her neck and stepped back to switch on the motor again.

      The exerciser started to rotate slowly round again, taking the crawling Swiss girl along with it. As she passed the Prince, she flashed him a look - this time of resentment.

      'We can exercise up to twenty women simultaneously with this machine,' the Manager boasted, 'and all quite safely. It keeps the women fit and helps them to drop their foals without any problems. By varying the position of each woman along the arm we can make her crawl slowly one day and fast the next. It's ideal for our purpose.'

Flying, in his private jet, back to his palace, the Prince reflected on what he had seen. Yes, he thought, he would instruct Malaka that all surplus white women were to go Cousin Ali's breeding farm.

      He laughed at the thought that one advantage of his cousin's farm was it would not be too late if he changed his mind about a girl and wanted her back in the harem again. The fact that she would now be mute wouldn't matter. Most women, he laughed, would be improved if they were rendered mute.

15 - PENELOPE'S POTENTIAL IS UNSUSPECTINGLY RECORDED

Pierre rang the next day as he had promised. Although Penelope was feeling rather angry with him, his husky voice and French accent charmed her into agreeing to have dinner with him.

      'But no more photos!' she insisted.

      'Don't worry, darling,' came the reply. 'I've got almost all that I need.'

      Need? What did he mean, she wondered.

      This time he took her out to watch some oriental dancing . including belly dancing.

      'You'll appreciate it's gracefulness and sensuousness,' he told her, 'especially as you told me you had been trained as a ballet dancer, before you grew too tall, and had done some dancing as an actress.'

      How funny that that he should have remembered that, she thought.

      He made her watch it all very carefully.

      'Imagine that it was you dancing, and that you were having to dance to attract the attention of a man - a busy and rather jaded man,' he said rather mysteriously.

      Fascinated, Penelope watched the erotic dance. It would, she thought, be very exciting to have to dance to a man like that, but she'd be far too shy!

      Nevertheless she was delighted when Pierre took her behind the little stage into the spacious dressing room of one of the dancers. The dancer was a gorgeous Arab girl with a figure rather like her own. She spoke only Arabic so she could not understand what the dancer and Pierre were saying, though she saw that the dancer was constantly turning to look at her.

      Suddenly Pierre turned to Penelope. 'Narina wants you to put on her costume so that she can show you how to dance in her way. I'll leave you both to it.'

      As soon as he had left, Narina gestured to Penelope to undress. She then dressed her in one of her own scanty dancing costumes. There was just a headdress of gauzy silk that fell to the floor, several necklaces and a big jewel that hung on her forehead. A wide sequined belt went round her lower tummy, leaving her navel and waist quite bare. And was all!

      Admittedly, she realised, the gauzy headdress partly hid her naked, swaying breasts, and admittedly a long tassel hung down from he front of the belt, partly hiding her intimacies. But they only served to make her feel all the more naked.

      Narina then put on a similar costume. She put on a tape of Arab music and began to dance. Penelope watched her entranced. She noticed as Narina swayed to the music that all her body hair had been removed - unlike her own. Her beauty lips were even painted the same bright crimson as her mouth and nipples. What might have seemed rather shocking back in England, somehow it seemed quite natural out here.

      Narina gestured to Penelope to come and join her and to follow her movements. Soon she began to get the hang of it.

      Then Narina made Penelope up in the same Eastern way as herself with painted eyelids, crimson lips and eyes heavily outlined in black kohl. With a little giggle she even painted the blushing Penelope's nipples the same bright crimson as her own. If it hadn't been for her body hair, Penelope thought with relief, she might even have painted her body lips like hers too!

      Narina now took her into what seemed to be a rehearsal room. It was brightly lit, almost like a television studio, and the walls were covered with mirrors. She started again and Penelope could see that she was pretending to arouse and excite a man, to tantalise him almost beyond endurance with little flashes of her swinging breasts and swaying body, half hidden behind the long silken gauze. There were also fascinating glimpses of her smooth little beauty lips behind the dangling tassel.

      It was an exciting sight for Penelope too and again she too joined in. Looking in the mirror she saw a pair of heavily painted and half naked Middle Eastern houris, dancing in a beautiful and very uninhibited way, their bellies wriggling enticingly, their breasts swaying, their eyes flashing, and their hands alternatively out-stretched or with their backs touching above their heads.

      Indeed, she too was dancing as if to excite a man. It was  an exciting feeling for her. She found she was becoming aroused with her own movements and thoughts. Looking at Narina's flushed face, she wondered whether she, too, was becoming aroused by the dance.

      As the tape finished Narina flung herself to the floor in a gesture of abject servility, her arms outstretched, the palms of her hands flat on the floor, her forehead touching it and her long hair flung forward, baring her little neck. She made Penelope practice it several times too.

      Penelope could see that it was a gesture of utter submission by a dancing girl to her Master. How exciting! Soon she, too, was doing it gracefully and humbly.

      Then Pierre burst in.

      Highly embarrassed, she put one hand over her breasts and another over her intimacies.

      'That was fine! You were great! I was watching from the camera room behind the mirror.'

      Penelope looked in horror at the mirror in front of which she had been displaying herself in such a wanton way, little realising that it was a two-way one.

      'You're a natural dancer,' Pierre went on, making her feel more and more proud. 'You've got wonderful rhythm and a wonderful body.'

      'And it'll put her price up!' she heard him mutter to himself.

      Put her price up! What did he mean, she wondered. Perhaps he meant her agent would be able to negotiate a better deal for her back in London if he could say she was also a trained oriental dancer!'

      'Do your dance again. Please!' he begged.' I'll be videoing again from next door like before, and you're getting better and better.'

      'You mean you've been videoing me - in this costume?' Penelope cried.

      'Of course, darling, and you were wonderful - and you'll be able to take back to London to show your friends.'

      And something to make Charles more jealous than ever, she thought. Hesitantly she nodded her agreement. Pierre sounded so persuasive and anyway, apparently, he'd already videoed her practising. So he might just as well take a better one. And anyway there would be no harm as she probably wouldn't ever show it to anyone.

      'Don't forget that the camera will be on you,' he explained, 'but you follow Narina - just as before.'

      Before she could say anything he had rushed out and the music started again.

The dance had to be repeated three times, before Pierre was satisfied.

      'Wonderful!' he said, 'You looked wonderful - wonderful!'

      Penelope blushed at all this praise.

      'You did just what I wanted. He'll be delighted.'

      Penelope did not understand who the "he" was supposed to be. Charles? Perhaps it was just a French expression.

      Then she changed back into her dress and Pierre drove her back to the hotel. She was still very excited and aroused fro the dancing and became even more so when he stopped the car and started to kiss her passionately. What a man, she thought! Perhaps she should simply leave Charles to get on with his life and go off with Pierre?

      But at their arrival at the hotel, he again just formally kissed her hand in the foyer and said goodnight, leaving her frustrated and disappointed. Again! Perhaps, she wondered, he is too much of a gentleman. Perhaps she should be more forward. If only he would take her out into the desert and rape her!

      Next morning, Pierre said he was very busy putting together a brochure for a client. He hoped to join her for a drink, but wouldn't say when. Was he, she asked herself, trying to stop her from going out and meeting someone else? How exciting! So he does find me attractive!

      But what did mean by "putting together a brochure"? A brochure about what - or who? She wondered just what his business was and who was his mysterious "client".

      But, anyway, it didn't seem to have much to do with her. He'd hardly be likely to win a serious business contract  by showing the client pictures of herself topless, or showing him a video of her dancing half naked. Or perhaps he might!

      What a deliciously naughty idea!

PART IV

THE TRAP IS SET

16 - THE PRINCE SEES A BROCHURE

It was shortly after Penelope's exciting evening learning oriental dancing.

      Malaka, salaamed humbly to his Master. He was in what was for that stolid and grim person, a state of considerable excitement.

      'Your Highness,' he began in fluent Arabic. 'News from Pierre! Already! A special courier has arrived bringing a detailed brochure regarding Your Highness's order for a matched pair of girls.'

      'What?' exclaimed the Prince, his cruel eyes glistening. 'That was quick!'

      'Yes, it seems he has already found two young women,' Malaka went on, 'one French, a Madame Chantalle de Mieury, and an English actress called Penelope Lyndsey-Baker. They are staying at different hotels in Tangier.'

      'Well they've both got good sounding names,' said the Prince with a sinister laugh. 'I like a bit of class in my harem. And if one's a married woman and the other an actress, then it'll be all the more interesting.

      'Yes, Your Highness, and they're at present unaware of each other. Apparently the two hotel managers act as talent spotters for Pierre and had separately reported them to him as being of potential interest.'

      'But are they a matched pair?' queried the Prince

      'Yes indeed! The photographs he has sent me show them to be remarkably alike. And both are on holiday alone with no one knowing where they are!'

      'Better and better,' commented the Prince. 'But why?'

      'Oh, Your Highness! It's really quite disgraceful the way in the West that women are allowed to decide things for themselves. Their independence is a scandal. It seems that the French girl has left her young husband for a trial separation and the English girl has broken of her engagement to her fiance. Both came to Tangier secretly without telling anyone, in order to get away from it all.'

      'Well,' laughed the Prince cruelly, 'giving women such independence has certainly given us an opportunity!'

      'Indeed, Your Highness, and Pierre reports that both are still blissfully unaware that they may be joint candidates to be incarcerated in Your Highness's harem - with no one knowing where they are! But, Your Highness, apparently both are beginning to wonder if they have done the right thing. The young French lady is beginning to pine for her husband, and the English actress is thinking that perhaps her fiance wasn't such a bad catch, after all.'

      Malaka paused.

      'Apparently,' he went on, 'Pierre has managed to get both women emotionally interested in him - without of course any sexual intercourse. But nevertheless he advises that an early decision is necessary if we are to ensnare this pair before they decide to return to their native shores.'

      'Um!' grunted the Prince. He did not like being rushed into decisions. 'What's he asking for them?'

      Malaka mentioned a very high price - almost as high as what he had charged for the Dutch mother and daughter.

      'This brochure,' said Malaka, 'gives details of them both. They had a similar upbringing as the only children of respectable families - one in France and one England. Both have lost their parents. Both had trained for the stage. Both are, Pierre reports, naturally vivacious and yet also submissive. Both are pretty, tall, blondes with good figures. Both are fit and healthy and breeding from them, Pierre adds, should not be a problem. Neither have had had a child'.

      The Prince was immediately interested. Not only were both the women alike but they were also fit and well. They also still half in love: the French girl with her young husband and the English girl with her fiance. This sounded just what he wanted. He liked to ensnare girls still in love with a younger man. It made their subsequent captivity in his harem so much more devastating for them!

      Similarly he was pleased that they had not yet had any children, which was something that he preferred. It was, he used to say, so much more interesting to breed from a filly, ignorant of the pangs of an enforced motherhood, than from an experienced brood mare.

      'Photographs?' he asked.

      Malaka handed him some coloured ones. They showed two remarkably similar young women. In some they were dressed up to the nines as for a dinner party, others in various swimming costumes in their hotel pools and some even topless showing off their firm, full, breasts.

      They seemed, the Prince thought, a delightful pair, tall and slim, blondes with blue eyes, all of which, like most Arabs, was what he preferred in a European woman. Their hair would look better, of course, when all the curls have been taken out and it was brushed to hang, like a child's, straight down their backs or over their shoulders.

       They both had an intelligent look that would make it the more piquant when they are forced to assume the intellectual level of a little girl. Each of them also has a sweet little mouth - almost crying out to receive his manhood.

      He looked more closely at the photographs. Yes, they both had determined little chins, which contrasted with their soft appealing eyes. Doubtless they will occasionally mix a little obstinacy with their natural submissiveness - enough to make them candidates for the rattan cane!

      In the West, he reflected, the idea of thrashing a woman is quite unacceptable, but not here in the Arab world. Here women expect to be beaten and the thrashing of captured Christian girls was a pleasure that rich Arabs have enjoyed for centuries. A little recalcitrance was therefore to be welcomed.

      The photographs also showed that they both had nice figures with good legs and well developed breasts that seemed to be crying out to be made to fulfil their natural function. He smiled as he saw that their bikinis showed off their slightly pouting bellies that also seemed to crying out to be made to carry his chosen progeny. And their little bottoms ... yes, he could imagine them, horrified, being made to proffer them to him.

      'Very promising, Malaka,' the Prince said as he handed back the brochure . 'But, as you know, I don't like going too firm about a girl until I have seen her absolutely naked.'

      Malaka smiled. He had a video tape in his hand. He put it on the player.

      It showed, first the French girl and then the English girl separately taking off their evening dresses. Then it showed each of them taking a shower in a hotel bathroom. It then showed each of the little minxes playing with themselves in the shower. It did not take either of them long to reach her climax.

      The Prince laughed at the thought that this video would have really confirmed the Mullahs contemptuous belief in the natural licentiousness of women, especially Western ones. He himself, however, liked a girl to be passionate and sensuous, which is why he only had a few of them cut to enforce Salat.

      The Prince had already pretty well made up his mind that he wanted these girls in his harem and wanted them quickly. Then to his astonishment the video showed each of the girls separately repeating, as she lay on her bed, the performance she had given in the shower, but this time each was using a vibrator.

      Malaka showed his shocked disapproval with a quick intake of breath. But the Prince found it made the thought of keeping them frustrated in his harem all the more stimulating.

      Clearly neither of the girls had any idea that she was being observed - never mind filmed. It was like watching a pair of innocent fawns. How Pierre had been so brilliantly clever as to catch them both at it, not once but twice, was a matter for admiration.

      Malaka now put on a second video. This showed each girl dressed and made up as an Arab dancing girl and, again separately, putting on display that may have been a little amateurish, but which showed off their natural training as dancers - a training that could well be perfected here in the harem.

      The video also showed them coquettishly flaunting their painted nipples. Only a brief glimpse of the hair over their body lips spoilt the scene - and that was something that Burka, their future overseer, would soon have off!

      Again the Prince silently murmured his congratulations to Pierre for having achieved such a display. No wonder he was charging so much. His overheads must have been considerable.

The Prince looked at Malaka. For someone who was usually extremely phlegmatic about white women, he was surprisingly enthusiastic about these two.

      The Prince had made it a firm rule never to go in person to see a possible recruit for his harem, unless she was already in the close custody of a dealer - which was clearly not the case here. In this way he avoided ever being associated with any hue and cry that might arise, following a girl's disappearance.

      Pierre knew this and once the young women's purchase had been finally approved, would be expecting to bring them to his palace, in conditions of complete secrecy.

      'Right,' said the Prince decisively, 'take my plane tomorrow and go and inspect the girls for yourself. Decide if they measure up, in the flesh, to what we saw in the photographs and on the videos. If they do then arrange with Pierre to bring them here separately, one by one, on my plane - after which I will pay him for them, cash on delivery.

      'Oh,' he added, 'just check that he's going to do it in such a way that no one will ever be able to trace them to my palace or to my plane.

17 - PENELOPE IS THRILLED

A few days after so mysteriously saying that he "had to go and prepare a brochure for a client", Pierre came round to Penelope's hotel in a state of great excitement.

      During the last few days she had only seen him on and off. One moment he was monopolising her completely, as if jealous lest she went out with anyone else, or decided to go back to London. Then, the next moment he seemed madly tied up. She began to wonder whether he was dating another girl. Surely not that so-called double of hers?

      Now, however, all was becoming clear. Or was it?

      'Oh, darling,' he cried in his sexy French accent as he kissed her warmly, if not, perhaps, passionately, 'You're going to make my fortune for me!'

      'What?' cried Penelope.

      'And yours, too, of course,' he added. In her astonishment, Penelope did not notice that this was said a little bit rather as an after-thought and with slightly less conviction.

      He had not, he told her, been able to tell her before but he had sent her photos - not the topless one Penelope hoped - to a very rich client of his, a wealthy and powerful financier, a successful and ruthless entrepreneur.

      He was looking for an attractive, well spoken, English actress to play the role of a young English visitor in a big tourist promotion he was financing. It would include a series of linked short TV films and a photographic advertisement campaign featuring the English girl in different local settings.

      He said his rich client was very interested in her photographs and acting background. He was even sending one of his top executives, his right hand man, to come and see her in person. He himself was a friend of this top executive and had done several business deals with him and his wealthy employer.

      'My client relies very much on his top executive's judgement - especially when it comes to women,' Pierre laughed mysteriously.

      Then he went on to explain that if they chose her, then she would be on TV all over Europe and her photographs would be in every glossy magazine. She would then be in demand by every film producer and advertising agency in England. Quite apart from what she'd earn immediately, her future would be assured. It was a wonderful opportunity for her - and for him, as her agent, the man whom had found her!

      'Goodness!' cried Penelope enthusiastically. 'How exciting! And I'll so be grateful to you, darling, for ever! My new agent! My old one was hopeless! But what do I have to do to get the job?'

      'Just be you own natural sweet self,' he answered looking her up and down with a mysterious look. 'I was not supposed to tell you, for he wants to see you unaware that that you were being auditioned for a part.'

      'Oh!' exclaimed Penelope. 'How intriguing!'

      'Indeed!' laughed Pierre. '

      'Now listen,' he went on. 'This top executive of theirs is arriving tomorrow. He'll be coming to this hotel at noon and will expect to find you wandering around the pool and swimming - just as you will in the tourist promotion.'

      'Oh I see,' cried Penelope. 'So I'll have time to have my hair and nails done and get a good night's sleep.'

      'Exactly! And  wear your prettiest bikini - the one you were wearing when I took all those photographs.'

      'A bikini' queried Penelope. 'Surely I should wear something more ... '

      'No!' interrupted Pierre. 'Wear your bikini!'

      'Alright, if you say so,' laughed Penelope not wanting to have a row.

      'Good,' said Pierre. 'But, darling, don't arrive too early. Wait in your room until half past twelve and then just saunter down to the pool as if you had come like a typical tourist for a pre-lunch swim. Walk round the pool several times. Pretend that you are modeling the bikini. Head in the air and wear high heel shoes! Don't pay any attention to me or my friend until I give you a wave and then come over and join us for a few minutes. Put on your pretties smile and look as entrancing as possible.

      'Of course,' laughed Penelope happily.

      'Then after a few minutes make an excuse and dive into the pool. Swim up and down a couple of times, before getting out and drying yourself. Be natural. Let him see you as you would act the part of an English girl in the advertisements. That'll get you the role!'

      'Yes, I see,' Penelope answered. Perhaps she was being a little naive, but it did all sound a wonderful opportunity - if she could only bring it off. A major role! No more financial worries! A new life style! What a treasure he was! She kissed him gratefully.

      'Oh one thing, don't be put off by my friend's appearance,' said Pierre. 'Just remember that the man he represents is very rich indeed. He doesn't mind what he pays provided he gets the right person for the role he has in mind.'

      Gosh! thought Penelope. 'But what do I say to his representative?'

      'Just answer his questions and do as he says. Treat him with great respect. Call him Sir. Don't sit down until he invites you to do so. Remember that he's used to treating women in the Moorish way, as inferior beings - even if she is really an adorable young Englishwoman!'

      He kissed Penelope's hand and grinned. Oh, she thought, how I adore him, too!

      'Now I must dash off and make all the arrangements. Remember half past twelve! Don't be late. It's an insult here for a man to be kept waiting by a woman - and, although he's an employee, he's an important man, used to being fawned on by women, including European ones!'

      He turned at the door, saying: 'Oh, and don't say anything at this stage to any one about this project, or the whole thing may be cancelled as far as you're concerned. They're very secretive. So remember, not a word at this stage to anyone - neither here nor back in England.'

      Penelope wanted to ask so many questions. Just who is this mysterious top executive. Why should Pierre warn her about his appearance? And who was the even more mysterious and wealthy financier behind him? And why did it all have to be so secret?

      But Pierre put his finger to his lips and turned and rushed off.

      How exciting it all was, she thought.

18 - AN UNSUSPECTING PENELOPE IS INSPECTED FOR A NEW ROLE

Next Morning Penelope made sure that she was looking her best for her audition with Pierre's mysterious. but important, friend.

      She looked in the mirror and saw a tall girl with long blond hair, blue eyes, a pretty face, and a good figure that was, perhaps, rather spoilt in European eyes by an over generous bust.

      All night, she had been turning over and over in her mind the what Pierre had told her. She had come out to Tangier, she told herself, to get away from her upset at breaking off her engagement and to make a new start. A  new start! Well if this introduction of Pierre's comes off, it would more than that. A whole new world looked like opening up for her.

      No wonder, she was feeling so nervous at the thought of meeting the right hand man of Pierre's rich financier client. Normally she was not the least awed by men. On the contrary, back in England, she could usually twist them round her little finger. But here, these grave faced Arabs and Moors seem different. They look at her as if they knew her most secret thoughts and desires. And Pierre had told her that many wealthy Arabs still keep harems, perhaps containing European women! What did they think of her? It was all wildly intriguing.

      But presumably this mysterious financier was just a boring old rich European or American.

Not only had she spent hours making sure that she was looking my best, but also had been reading about North Africa, so that she could talk intelligently about the tourist project. She had been fascinated to read about the castles or Kasbahs of the Caids. How exciting it would be to be taken off to one of them!

      She had even been reading about the famous Pasha of Marrakesh, who used to have agents in the railway stations in Tangier and Casablanca to look out for any attractive European woman travelling alone to Marrakesh. She would then be met by a friendly guide who would "specially arrange" for her to visit the Pasha's palace. If the Pasha was taken by her looks he would suddenly appear and invite her to dinner and then ...

      As Penelope read, she could feel herself getting more and more moist and excited. Goodness! Would she be invited to dinner, too, by a tall, dark and handsome Pasha and then ...  What a thrilling idea!

It was exactly half past twelve, when with some trepidation, she nonchalantly waltzed down the steps that led down into the deserted hotel garden that surrounded the big swimming pool.

      She was wearing a blue cut-away Bikini that set off my long blond hair. A bathrobe was thrown loosely over her shoulders. She knew that her high heel sandals made her walk with an attractive swaying motion.

      She noticed that Pierre was sitting, half hidden behind a screen, on the far side of the pool with a fat man in a strange looking red robe. She saw with a start that he was black. Goodness!

      They were evidently deep in conversation and the black man was pointing to a young blonde woman, also wearing a Bikini, who was disappearing into the changing rooms.

      She looked, Penelope thought, rather like herself. Was she the woman who had made Pierre ask if she had a twin out here in Tangier? How odd !

      Goodness, had she just been auditioned for the part, too? Well, if so, Penelope decided, she'd pull out all the stops to make herself look as attractive as possible. She certainly didn't want to lose this wonderful opportunity to some other chit of a girl!

      Yes, she said to herself, throwing off her bathrobe and starting to saunter round the pool in a provocative way, if the  black man was Pierre's client's top executive and liked to goggle at girls in Bikinis, then she'd really give him something to stare at!

      Moments later she saw Pierre pointing to her. He waved to her to come and join them.

      The sumptuousness of the black man's dress made her feel embarrassed in her frivolous little Bikini. Perhaps she should have worn a dress? But Pierre had repeatedly specified a Bikini. She wondered why.

      Neither Pierre nor the black man got up as she approached, and she remembered that in Arab society men do not stand up for a woman.

      'Malaka Effendi,' said Pierre, with a little respectful bow of his head towards the black man. Effendi! Surely, Penelope thought, very impressed, that was an Arab title of some sort - an outward sign of a man's authority.

      'Effendi,' said Pierre, 'this is the young Englishwoman I mentioned.'

      For a moment Penelope was angry that Pierre had not bothered to introduce her properly. It was as if her name was of no concern to this important man. Then she remembered how Pierre had said that the relationship between the sexes was very different out here. It certainly was!

      But standing there in just her little Bikini, she felt too over-awed to protest. She glanced nervously up at the man whom Pierre had addressed Effendi.

      As an actress, Penelope was used to working with black men and was certainly no racist. But this man brought out all her primeval fears of black men, for he was a short, fat, powerful, ugly, brute of a man, terrifying and repulsive.

      Penelope had the impression he could have picked her up with one hand, and just broken her neck or effortless carried her, struggling helplessly, under his arm. His head was completely bald and shiny. Perhaps, she thought, he kept it shaven to heighten the brutal effect. But who was it supposed to terrify?

      What on earth use, she wondered, did the mysterious financier make of this awful and ignorant looking creature?

      His eyes were beady and bloodshot. There were large rings on his fingers. There were tribal scars on his cheeks and his lips were very thick. He just looked at her blankly as she stood there awkwardly in front of him. Surely, thought Penelope, he can't be used to seeing half naked, young, white young women standing nervously in front of him? He made her feel like a little girl again and her air of sophisticated nonchalance evaporated.

      Remembering how important Pierre had said he was, she smiled at him, but his face remained inscrutable. He began to look her up and down, taking in every little curve, every little asset and defect in her body, making her feel even more naked in her brief bikini.

      He seemed to be assessing her like a horse dealer might judge a horse paraded for his inspection. Somehow she felt that he was used similarly to assessing beautiful women  and that she was merely one more. She felt herself blushing with embarrassment.

      She jumped as he suddenly reached out to touch her arm, as if to feel the softness of her skin. Frightened, she backed away,  away, cringing, her arms crossed over her breasts as if hiding her nakedness.

      'Don't be scared,' said Pierre reassuringly. 'Remember Malaka is an old friend of mine and we have done business together for some years. He admires you greatly. He thinks you are very pretty and that you are probably just what they are looking for - and just think of all that money!'

      Penelope smiled and relaxed. What a nice man Pierre is, she thought. The black man beckoned her forward and took her hand. Then with his other hand he started to stroke her arm, as if he were stroking a pet dog. She just stood there, mesmerised by his glittering eyes.

      Then he gestured to her to turn round, so that her back and her soft little bottom were facing him.

      'Put your hands behind your neck,' murmured Pierre. 'And keep quite still.'

      She did so. She realised that she must be a very provocative sight. Thank Heavens there was no one else in the deserted garden! She felt the Negro's hand , his jet black hand with those strange mauve palms, and those big rings in his fingers, slide slowly down her  back. She gave a start. It was a strange feeling to be touched by another man, in the presence of the man she half regarded as her lover. The hands paused on her waist and then went on down over her quivering bottom to her thigh. Little did  she then think what an important role her bottom would soon be playing in her life.

      She heard the Negro say something in Arabic to Pierre. His voice seemed surprisingly high pitched for such a huge brute man of a man - almost falsetto. She would have been appalled if she had understood what he was asking: "Is she a virgin here?'

      'Oh yes, I'm sure she is. English women are very prudish,' replied Pierre also in Arabic.

      'Excellent,' murmured the Negro, again stroking her bottom. 'His Highness particularly likes using a Christian girl there. It is an old tradition.'

      He laughed cruelly.

      What can they be talking about, thought Penelope, as, with her hands still clasped behind her neck, she faced away from the horrible laughing Negro.

      'He's only admiring you,' came Pierre's soft calm, reassuring, voice.

      Again Penelope relaxed, she thought of the major role for which she was being considered. But even so, she was glad that no one could see them.

      Again she heard the Negro's high pitched voice, speaking Arabic which she did not understand.

      'Now part your legs,' came Pierre's quiet calm voice. As if hypnotised, she found herself obeying. Again she heard the Negro say something.

      'Now touch your toes, 'said Pierre softly.

      Again she obeyed. Slowly she  realised the extent to which she was displaying herself. She shuddered as she felt the black hands slide down between her legs. She heard the Negro say something. She heard Pierre laugh and reply in Arabic. She felt herself blushing again. Another second and she would have run off sobbing with shame.

      'Very good,' whispered Pierre in that same hypnotic voice. 'Now turn round ... That's it - head up and hands behind you neck again.'

      Penelope looked straight ahead. She tried to forget here she was. Again came a discussion in Arabic.

      'Legs apart, darling. That's it, Now bend your knees. More! That's very good!'

      She saw the black man gesture towards her flat little tummy, that was so well set off by the bikini, and whispered something in Arabic into Pierre's ear. Pierre nodded and smiled. Penelope felt so embarrassed. Again she felt very naked in her little Bikini. She felt like a slave girl being displayed in an oriental slave market.

      'Yes,' she vaguely heard the Negro say to Pierre with a laugh and speaking for once in broken English. 'They will make good Matched Pair for Master, especially when bellies swell nicely together.'

      Penelope did not understand what he was taking about. What matched pair? What Master? And why should their bellies swell?

      Then the Negro pointed to a cushion at his feet. Gratefully she knelt down, looking up at him. He patted her head as if she were a child or a pet dog.

      He turned to Pierre again said something in Arabic.

      'My friend is asking what your plans are,' said Pierre smiling. 'He asks when you must go back to England. I've already told him you are no hurry.'

      'That's right. I can stay here as long a I like - until my money runs out! No one knows I am here and I have nothing really important to rush back to. So I'm available for this exciting role.'

      The  Negro exchanged a meaningful look with Pierre. For the first time she saw him smile.

      'So, my child ... You available now ... That good,' he said in a jerky and strongly accentuated English. 'Very good, little girl, very good!'

      Penelope smiled up at him, for Pierre had said he was so important, but inwardly she was boiling with anger. How dare he, an ignorant black man, talk to her, a grown up woman, in such a patronising way, as if were a stupid child. She had to remind herself what Pierre about him being used to treating women as inferior beings and that he was the right hand man of a very rich wealthy financier. Moreover he had come Tangier specially to see her - and, perhaps, that other girl!

      Well, if this strange black man's wealthy employer was looking for an English actress for his tourist project and was apparently willing to pay her handsomely, then here she was!

      'When would you want me to start filming?' she asked, hoping to start an intelligent conversation.

      'Sir!' whispered Pierre.

      She remembered what Pierre had said about calling this man Sir. But to do so to this ugly brute was almost too much. Then she remembered what Pierre had said about a contract that would assure her financial security.

      'When would you want me to start filming, Sir?'

      'Filming!'

      The Negro seemed to find this very funny. He laughed and slapped Pierre on the back, again making a remark in Arabic.

      'All ... in good time,' he replied mysteriously. Then he changed the subject. 'You have boy friend? You get married?'

      'I did have, Sir. I thought that by coming out here I would make him miss me and we could then get together again.'

      'Ah ... so you still love him?'

      'Yes,' Penelope found herself murmuring. 'Oh yes!'

      'That very good too,' the Negro laughed. 'Make little lady much more interesting ... if  still in love ... with boy friend.'

      Again Penelope did not understand what he meant. What was more interesting?  And for whom? This time Pierre laughed too. How strange, Penelope thought. She had expected him to be angry. Why, after all, was she flirting with him if she was still in love with Charles?

      Rudely ignoring her, the Negro started a long conversation with Pierre in Arabic, leaving Penelope once again fuming. Here she  was, ready to have an intelligent discussion about promoting tourism and, instead the odious Negro was treating her is she was just a silly child.

      She remembered what Pierre had said about not staying too long, and smiling her prettiest smile, she got up off her knees, kicked off her sandals, and running to the pool, dived in. She must, she knew, have looked a most attractive sight.

      As she up and down, I could not help glancing at the black man who was now pointing at her and talking to a smiling Pierre. Evidently she must have  considerable impact!

      Remembering Pierre's instructions she climbed out of the pool and walked along the side towards the diving board. She saw that the black man 's eyes were fixed on her swaying little bottom. She made, she knew, a lovely little with her flimsy wet costume clinging to her body. She raised herself up on her toes and prepared to dive again.

      When she surfaced she saw that Pierre too was alternatively pointing at her and in the direction in which the other girl had  disappeared. They were both shaking their fingers at each other, as if bargaining about something. Was Pierre negotiating a bigger salary for her and emphasising her superiority over the other girl?

      She climbed out of the pool and walked round it to her bathrobe. She started to dry herself, tossing her hair back in a sophisticated way.

      It was a sight that seemed to decide matters, for suddenly she saw the terrifying Negro slap his thigh and reach forward to shake hands with Pierre as if coming to an agreement. Then this sinister black man rose and left.

Pierre now waved to her to come back again, smiling broadly.

      'We've pulled it off,' he laughed happily. 'My friend is definitely going to recommend you for the part!'

      'Oh how exciting!' cried Penelope, clapping her hand with delight. 'When do we start?'

      'Pretty soon, I've just got to check the legal side this afternoon before my friend leaves. As your agent I must check that that everything is in order. Then the day after tomorrow we'll fly together in my rich client's private jet to his palace so that you can meet him and sign the contract - and then we'll spend the weekend there together celebrating in his lovely guest house. You'll love it there - it's so romantic, darling!'

      'Oh, how lovely,' exclaimed Penelope. Staying in a real palace! And a weekend alone with the handsome Pierre! 'And will I be returning to this hotel?' she asked.

      'Oh, no!' laughed Pierre. 'You'll be on location filming around the country. So you must check out of the hotel, the day after tomorrow.'

      'The day after tomorrow?' queried Penelope. Goodness! Things were moving!

      'Yes, I'm tied up tomorrow or we'd go there then. But never mind, what's a day! Just think what fun we'll have together. A secret weekend alone in a fabulous palace!

      'Secret?' queried Penelope.

      'Well, I don't want to compromise you, darling, and, as I said yesterday, it's essential that we keep your involvement in the project a strict secret for the time being. If one word leaks out to our entrepreneur's political or financial rivals, then he might well have to abandon the whole project. So, in your own interests, not a word to anyone - and we mustn't be seen going off together either. And it's important you tell the hotel staff that you've decided to spend the rest of your holiday in Spain.

      'Goodness!' cried an excited and thrilled Penelope.

      'Just pack up all your belongings and the morning the after tomorrow put on your smartest travelling suit - ready for meeting our financier! I'll suit I'll send a special taxi to pick up you and your luggage and take you to the airport. Then no one will link your departure with me.'

      'But where will I meet you?'

      'Impatiently waiting for you on the plane, darling! You see, instead of going to the terminal, the taxi will secretly take you straight to the private jet in which we're both going to fly off together. Oh! And another thing. In the taxi there'll be an Arab woman's all enveloping black shroud for you to put on over your suit, so that no one will guess that you're a European woman.'

      'More secrecy!' laughed Penelope, thrilled.

      'Yes, of course, darling!' Pierre replied blandly, giving her a reassuring kiss, 'so no one will see me embarking with a strange woman! And now go and fetch your passport and your airline ticket, so that I can arrange for it to be officially altered to include the flight across the Straits of Gibraltar to Spain - and then with an open ticket onto London for later.'

      'But what happens when I do want to fly back to London?'

      'Oh don't worry, darling, our rich financier will replace your ticket only too happily - and First Class! So off you go and fetch them and meanwhile I'll order a bottle of Champagne to celebrate your success!

      As she ran happily off to her room to get her tickets and passport, Penelope could not help thinking how much she would rather have celebrated it all with Pierre in her bedroom! But what a brilliantly clever young man he was! No wonder he brings off these secret deals!

      Yet, she thought, it was such a pity that he took endless trouble on her behalf and yet always avoided going to bed with her. Ah well, she thought, it be different when were staying in the romantic palace and can relax together! Then I'll seduce him!

      She was so excited that she scarcely realised that she still did not know the name of the mysterious financier entrepreneur was, or where his palace was. Perhaps he was a wealthy South American or German recluse who liked to hide himself away in darkest Africa!

19 - THE PRINCE PREPARES TO RECEIVE HIS NEW MATCHED PAIR

      The Prince was speaking by long distance telephone to Malaka in Tangier.

      'Both items of merchandise, Your Highness,' reported Malaka guarded, 'are of the highest quality and very suitable for your collection.

      'Excellent!' murmured the Prince. He was licking his lips in cruel anticipation. The thought of two new and unsuspecting young women in his harem tickled even his jaded palate. Having them broken in would be as exciting as having a new Arab filly to ride.

      Yes, he laughed to himself, just as it's a bit of shock to a young filly when she first feels a man astride her back, it'll be an even greater one when these two young women first experience being ridden in his favourite way for European women - from behind, up their well prepared and well greased rear orifices !

      'I've arranged with the pilot,' Malaka was going on, 'that the French piece will be flown to your palace tomorrow, together with myself and it's custodian. Then after it has been installed in the palace, the plane will return here with the custodian ready to bring the English piece the following day. In this way the merchandise will be kept separated until ready for ... display together,' added Malaka with a sinister laugh.

      'Good, but how about the pilot and any ground crew ... ?' queried the Price, anxious lest any suspicions might be aroused.

      'Both pieces, Your Excellency,' Malaka assured the Prince, 'will be disguised as local produce before taken to the plane, so that not even the pilot will be know of the real origin, or value, of the merchandise.'

      'Good,' said the Prince. From the all important security point of view everything seemed very satisfactory. He had briefed Malaka to make certain that Pierre had booked both women to fly to Spain and that two other veiled women, using their passports, took their place.

      In this way, they would both have officially left Tangier. Any search for them, when they were finally reported as missing, would be in Spain rather here in North Africa. Meanwhile they would, of course, be safely locked up in his harem as his branded concubines - and registered with the police under false names as his indentured servants!

      Originally he had thought about having the two young women drugged on the plane as Pierre brought each them unsuspectingly to his palace on successive days. Each would be thinking they were going to be the star of his tourist films and advertisement and each, half in love with Pierre, would be thinking of the romantic naughty weekend she was going to spend with him in the palace - after signing her lucrative contract.

      They could be given drugged little Turkish pastries of the sort that young women can never resist - and both wake up to find themselves in his harem with no sign of Pierre, no idea where they were - and no idea, indeed, who their Master was.

      They were, of course, destined for young Burka's Blue Team with their ringed nipples and beauty buds keeping them almost permanently aroused. It would be very amusing to have these delightful creatures held on a short chain under his bedclothes and pleasuring him - once they had been trained to do so by their young overseer.

      The slightest slackening off and, on a signal from him, young Burka would lift the bottom of the bedclothes and apply his dogwhip to their backsides, driving them on to greater efforts. They would be familiar with their Master's manhood, long before they ever saw his face!

      Moreover, blindfolded, they would still not have seen him as he enjoyed the exhilaration, and feeling of power, that came from riding them from behind.

Finally, however, the Prince had decided, it would be even more amusing to give them the drugged Turkish pastries after Pierre had introduced him to them, on separate days, at his palace.

      Anxious to impress him and get the contract they would be on their best behaviour, ready to impress him with their sophistication and would be dressed in their smartest European clothes. The contrast with their future fate could not be more marked. Indeed, expecting to find a European or American recluse financier, they would be shocked to meet a sinister and anonymous Arab one.

      It would amuse him to play cat and mouse with them, complementing them on their beauty and congratulating them on having been selected to play such an important role in his project.

       Yes, he laughed, he would have a prolonged and civilised talk to each of them about Europe and about his bogus project. He might even tease them about what nonsense it was, in these days of liberated Western women, to imagine that modern Middle Eastern men, like himself, kept a harem of helpless European women!

      In no time they would have willingly signed what they imagined to be the contracts, in Arabic, that Pierre would have told them about, but which in reality were their Articles of Indenture, putting themselves utterly, and quite legally, in the power of an unknown Arab Prince.

      As each girl, in turn chatted away, toasting in forbidden Champagne to the success of her new career, she would never guess that what fate really lay in store for her. Little would she know that she was already his property, his indentured servant, and effectively his slave.

      Nor would she ever guess that she was destined, like the other girl in this new Matched Pair, to be mated with one his Dinka guards or perhaps secretly fertilised with the semen of a pygmy stallion.

      Nor that later, their bellies prettily swollen, they would take over, when the Dutch mother and daughter delivered their progeny, as the matched pair of two front Leaders - when it was the turn of Blue Team to carry his palanquin.

      He laughed cruelly at the thought of how the two new women, idly talking to himself and Pierre, would unsuspectingly find it impossible to resist some of his little drugged Turkish cakes. They would then awake, not in his comfortable guest house with Pierre, but alone in his harem, chained to their new companion in servitude.

      How he would enjoy watching, on his television screen, their appalled faces when they recognised the stern looking portraits of himself that dominated the harem. The shock of finding themselves in his harem, would drawn out as they desperately tried to persuade the black eunuchs that there must be some mistake and that were the Master's guests not his newly acquired concubines.

      They would feel that if only those awful black eunuchs would let them talk to him, the mistake would be corrected and they would be released - to start filming.

      All this would make their performance on the short chain, under his bedclothes, even more piquant. It would similarly be even more stimulating when riding them, bitted, bridled and gagged, from behind.

20 - THE TRAP CLOSES - AN UNSUSPECTING GUEST

Everything, Penelope was delighted to find, was going like clock work.

      The hotel staff, apparently taken in by her story of leaving for Spain, gave her tips and advice about where to go and what to see. Pierre's special taxi turned up on time and took her to the airport.

      There neatly folded on the back seat of the taxi was a  black shroud-like burka for her to put on over her smart travelling suit. It completely hid her with just a little piece of gauze over her eyes, for her to peer through - just like, she thought with a little shiver, the ones she had seen local women wearing.

      Peeking with difficulty through the gauze, she made out that they were driving up to an executive jet parked on a remote part of the airport. On the nose of the plane was painted a crest of two green scimitars within a black circle.

      The driver lead her up the steps of the small aircraft. Inside, waiting for her, was Pierre. They fell into each other's arms. But Pierre said she must keep the shroud on, to ensure secrecy, until she was in the financier's palace.

      As if put off by her shroud, Pierre strangely kept to himself during the flight. There were curtains over the windows and she could see little of where they were going, though they seemed to flying over mountainous country for much of the time.

      Finally the plane landed on a small airstrip. Waiting for them were two large cars and a jeep full of armed guards. The second car had blackened windows so that no one could see into it. Standing by it was a small black boy dressed in smart baggy red Turkish pantaloons and a turban with a blue stripe.

      Pierre checked that her shroud hid her completely and then pointed to the car with darkened windows.

      'You must go in that car, darling. We must not be seen together,' he explained mysteriously. 'But don't worry, that boy will look after you and I'll be waiting for you in the palace.'

      Before she could say anything from under her shroud, he had left the plane and was walking over to the first car. The little Negro boy came and took her by the hand.

      'Come!' he ordered, and silently led her to the second car. He seemed surprisingly self assured for such a young boy.

      He opened the rear door of the car and got into it, beckoning her to follow. Not much of "Ladies First" around here, Penelope thought. To her surprise she saw that the windows were also opaque from the inside. Not only could no one see into the car but once inside it, no one could see out. There was even an opaque window between the back of the car and the driver.

      The little boy, who seemed to be very much in charge, locked the car door with a special key and knocked on the opaque driver's partition. He gave an order in Arabic in his high pitched boyish voice. Penelope felt the car moved off. She turned to her companion and smiled. But the boy just looked grim. His skin was as black as that of the strangely frightening man who had inspected her at the hotel pool. It seemed strange to send such a young boy to escort her.

      She tried to talk to the boy, but he merely shook his finger. Obviously his English was limited.

      The  journey seemed to last about half an hour. From the way the car was swaying they seemed to be going along a mountain or coastal road though, of course, she could not see nothing. It was all rather bizarre.

      Suddenly the car stopped. She heard Arab voices. She heard their driver reply. She heard the other men laugh. She heard a clatter as if rifles or machine guns were being lowered onto the road. Then she heard a squeaking noise as if a large door or gate was being opened. The car went on but almost immediately stopped again. There was clanking noise behind them as if the gate had been closed and then another noise ahead of them, as if a second gate was being opened.

      From the scrunching noise of the tyres as they moved again, she presumed that they were now on a driveway. Were they, she wondered, crossing a park that surrounded the palace?

      Suddenly the car stopped . The black boy unlocked the door and got out, beckoning her to follow. She could not make out much through her burka, but  had the impression of a huge white building and of a spacious park surrounded by a very high wall.

      The boy grabbed her hand and hustled her into the palace through a side door. He led her down a corridor. She had vague glimpses of marble floors, of beautiful patios, of fountains and of windows covered in arabesque stone tracery and wrought iron bars. They passed Negro servants and armed guards, dressed in brightly coloured robes, emblazoned across the chest with the same crest, of two green scimitars surrounded by a black circle, that she had seen on the plane.

      They went up a marble staircase and into a room - and there waiting for her was Pierre. Standing alongside him was a sinister looking Arab. He was large and gross, with a beard and dark glasses. His fat face matched his bulging stomach. He was dressed in an immaculate white Arab robe and headdress, with a gold edged thin black cloak and golden head cords.

      Goodness, she thought, so this is the mysterious financier, who was going to employ her. How strange of Pierre not to have told her that he was an Arab. However, at least Pierre knew him and had done business with before. But she glad she would not be seeing much of him in future, once she had signed the contract and filming started.

      The little black boy made an Eastern salaam to this man and indicated Penelope, standing there silently, still hidden under the ugly black Burka and feeling rather nervous and foolish.

      'Child,' came the deep voice of the Arab, speaking in strongly accented English, 'take off your burka.'

      He said something to a white youth dressed like a ballet dancer in a frilly shirt and tights. He ran forward and, with the young black boy helped Penelope to take off the dreadful shroud.

      As she struggled to get it off, she heard Pierre's voice. 'Your Highness, this is Miss Penelope Lyndsey-Baker, the English actress I have recommended to you for your  ... project.'

      So the awful Arab was a Prince, she thought. She was going to be  working for a real live Prince! What a pity he seemed so unattractive.

      At last she managed to see the Prince properly. Her heart sank. He was, she thought, the most fearsome and intimidating man she had ever come across. She had never seen such a repulsive looking man, nor one with such a self assured and arrogant air. She remembered that Pierre had said he was immensely rich and powerful. The air of authority that seemed to surround him was overwhelming.

      Thank Heavens, she thought, she was still a free and independent young woman and that Pierre was here, too. She would not like to be in the power of this Prince.

      He was indeed a big man in every sense of the word. Penelope was a tall girl, but he seemed to tower over her. He looked about 45 or 50 with a large paunch, a grey speckled and pointed small beard, a hook nose and, when he took off his sun glasses, cruel and piercing black eyes. He certainly looked every inch an Arabian Prince. He seemed to approve of her and was smiling to himself slightly, as if playing a game.

      He took her hand and kissed it.

      'You are a ... very beautiful woman, ' he  said slowly and deliberately in English. 'Welcome as an honoured guest in my humble home.'

      Goodness, thought Penelope overwhelmed by flattery from such a man. An honoured guest! Perhaps she had misjudged him at first. Despite his rather frightening appearance he seemed to be quite a civilised man.

      'I have had ... ' he said, speaking slowly in that deep voice, as he looked her up and down, 'good ... reports about you ...my child.'

      Penelope suddenly felt very shy and subdued in his presence. Reports from who, she wondered. Presumably from Pierre - and, of course, from that awful Negro he had apparently sent to look at her. He, too, had called her Child. How humiliating!

      'But, you are ... even more beautiful ... in the flesh!' he said.

      Penelope blushed. How she hated being flattered by such a repulsive looking man.

      But what did h mean by "more beautiful in the flesh"? Had he seen a photograph of her - perhaps, she thought with a start, one of those that Pierre has so strangely insisted on taking of her?

      My God, she thought, had he seen those ones of her topless or in that flimsy dancing girl costume? She found herself blushing. Goodness was that why Pierre had taken them - to send them to this Prince? Oh how embarrassing. But why?

      'Thank you, Your Highness,' she said demurely. lowering her eyes.

      The Prince turned to Pierre. 'You have done very well ...  finding this pair.'

      What pair, Penelope wondered. Then her thoughts were interrupted by the white youth offering her a gin and tonic. Gin and tonic? In an Moslem palace? Well!

      Startled, she noticed that the youth's eyes were made up like a  girl's. His skin was his skin was strangely soft and his voice was high pitched. Goodness, she thought, did the Prince like boys? She had heard that many Arab men did.

      Eagerly she took the drink and downed it far too quickly - and then another one. They made her feel relaxed. She was not know , of course, but they were to be the last alcoholic drinks she would have for a very long time indeed.

      Then the Prince started to ask me about her life in England. He seemed genuinely interested in learning all about her. How strange he was so interested in her if he was only the project's financier.

      Her tongue loosened by the gin, she found herself hiding her feeling of repulsion by telling him about her education at an expensive girl's school, about her dead parents and about Charles. It didn't matter, she told herself, she would not be seeing much more of this awful man.

      She noticed that he seemed particularly interested when she told him about Charles and about how was missing him and regretting breaking off their engagement.

      'I see you are still wearing his engagement ring. Perhaps you are still in love with your young man,' he said mysteriously. 'It will make ... your stay here all the more interesting.' He turned to the young black boy. 'Will it not Burka?'

      The boy grinned and nodded.

      Why, Penelope wondered, should still being in love with her former lover make her short stay here more interesting? And anyway what on earth has her private life got to do with this young black boy, she thought angrily. She was about to protest when the Prince turned and spoke in Arabic to Pierre. They both laughed.

      She was sure they were laughing about her. How rude, she thought. But she was too over-awed to say anything, even when she thought she heard the Prince say to the boy in English something about "quickly getting her well trained". Well trained? By this black boy? She was a trained actress! She did not need any further training to act her part in this advertising project! And certainly not from a mere ignorant Negro boy.

      Pierre gestured to her to take off the jacket of her thin silk suit and then led her over to the window to show her the view. It was magnificent: wild mountains and in the distance the sea. She wondered where they were.

      She saw the Prince looking at her closely and suddenly realised that in her silk skirt and blouse, with the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the horrible Prince must be able to see everything. She blushed again and put her arm over her body, like a naked girl, surprised by a man.

      Had Pierre taken her to the window deliberately, she  wondered, or had the Prince asked him to do so? Anyway the Prince again seemed very pleased and clapped Pierre on the  back.

      Then Pierre pointed to a document lying on the  table.

      'Sign the contract,' he whispered. 'It's in Arabic, but I've checked it and the terms are what I told you.'

      Hesitantly she picked up a pen.

      'Hurry up and sign it,' whispered Pierre, 'before he changes his mind.'

      Hastily she did so. She noticed a line of Arabic numerals that had been inserted into a space in the writing. Idly she wondered what they could be.

      The Prince then, strangely, handed Pierre an envelope. Smiling they both shook hands as if concluding a deal.

      Still smiling, the Prince turned to her.

      'I think you will soon ... settle down here,' he said.

      Settle down here? Penelope was more confused than ever. Surely the filming would take place on the coast and in the main tourist centers. Perhaps he was just trying to put her at her ease.

      Then she noticed a portrait of an elderly Arab. He was riding a magnificent looking Arab horse which was pawing the sand. In one hand he held a rifle. In the background was an oasis. He too seemed to be extremely self-possessed and arrogant - rather like the Prince.

      'That, child, is one of my ancestors - a famous tribal leader in the days before oil made us rich. He was a magnificent man - and great collector of women.'

      'A collector of women!' cried Penelope, wondering in dismay if the Prince took after his ancestor. She was glad that Pierre was there.

      'Of course in this day and age, harems have all but disappeared,' laughed the Prince reassuringly. 'But in those days, when one tribe raided another, the leader would take the prettiest women back for his harem.'

      'Oh!' cried Penelope.

      'But my ancestor went further. When he captured an oasis and killed the men, he would have all the young women paraded in front of him, with their breasts bare. Then he would order the prettiest ones to crawl forward to lick the dirt off his horse's hoof as a sign of their subservience. Those he liked he would order them to turn over on their backs and raise their bellies - to be branded.'

      'Branded!' cried Penelope in sheer disbelief. 'branded on their tummies.'

      'Indeed, my dear, indeed,' laughed the Prince cruelly. 'Then, chained by the neck to his stirrup, they would have to run alongside his horse as he rode back to his encampment, her hands tied behind her back to prevent her from tearing at the fresh brand and spoiling it's beauty.'

      He stopped. Penelope was looked at the picture of the terrible old man sitting motionless on his horse. What a dreadful story. She turned and looked at the Prince. He looked just like his ancestor! She could feel the  hot moisture in her loins. To be branded! Like an animal! To belong to a strange older man. How awful!

      'But,' laughed the Prince, 'I'm not cruel like my ancestors!'

      There was a pause. She could not meet the Prince's eye. One moment he seemed almost civilised man - and the next a terrifying brute of a man. Thank Heavens she and Pierre would only be staying here for the weekend.

      The Prince now said something to the young boy who handed her a plate of the most delicious looking cakes and pastries.

      Oh, how delicious, thought Penelope. Nervously munching first one and then another, she wondered what to say to this awesome man.

      'Perhaps, Your Highness,' she began, her voice now becoming strangely slurred, 'if you do have a harem ... I could ... visit it?'

      Goodness, she thought, I've had too much to drink. How embarrassing.

      However, the Prince did not seem to notice.

      He laughed and, to her annoyance, Pierre joined in too. 'Visit my harem?' he said in his overbearing way, 'Oh you will! You most certainly will!'

      Suddenly Penelope felt drowsy, very drowsy.

      The room started to go round.

      Those drinks must have been very strong. Or was it something she had eaten? The cakes!

      She staggered.

      The white youth and the young black boy caught as she fell. Within seconds she was unconscious.

      'Put her in with the other one,' the Prince ordered the young black boy. He turned again to Pierre.

       'Yes, they'll make a fine matched pair - just what I ordered! You have done well and you can now take my plane back to Tangier. But before you leave I thought you might like to see how the last women you sent me are getting on!'

      'It would be an honour to see them,' replied Pierre with a laugh.

21 - PIERRE SEES HOW HIS PREVIOUS CAPTURES ARE COMING ALONG

A few minutes later, watched over by Malaka, two half naked crawling figures were led into the Prince's office by young Gorka.

       As always in the presence of the Prince they were held on a lead by their Team Overseer attached to their collars. Also, as always when approaching their august Lord and Master, they were crawling on all fours with their heads bowed - for it was a  harem rule that women must not look at their Master without permission.

      However, these women  were from the Blue Team and so were crawling in the distinctive way that their Team Overseer made them practice. Although their heads were down, their shoulders were raised, so that the little bells hanging from the rings on their nipples were clear of the floor. So, a pretty tinkling noise came from them as, driven on by their overseer, they crawled into the room

      They were led up to where the Prince was sitting. They could see, from under their lower heads, his raised Moorish style shoes. Conquering their distaste, both woman reached forward and began humbly to lick the soles.

      Each was then astonished to see, nearby, another pair of shoes - this time a man's European shoes. How awful that  another man was witnessing their debasement - and their half nudity. The fact that he was a European somehow made  it worse - unless, of course, it might  lead to their release from the harem. Their minds were racing as they knelt humbly licking their Master's shoes.

      Each was then astonished to hear the Prince, their Master, say in English, apparently to this other man, 'I thought you might like to see the use I have made of the other merchandise you recently supplied.'

      'Your Highness, is too kind,' came a voice with a distinctive French accent.

      Both women recognised the voice. Pierre! That swine of a young Frenchman who had tricked them into going into this awful harem. The man who had tricked them into becoming the helpless indentured servants of the Prince - his concubines whom he enjoyed also treating as human brood mares to be bred from, for his amusement.

      Both wanted to fling themselves onto him and tear his eyes out. But both felt a warning tug on her lead and a warning flick of their overseer's whip on her rump. Both remained kneeling subserviently at the feet of their Master, licking his shoes.

      The two women started as young Burka suddenly cracked his whip.

      'Position of Attention - Up!

      He cracked his whip again and, feeling highly embarrassed,  the two women jumped up. Obediently, they clasped heir hands behind their collared necks, and stood silently at Attention, their heels together and their eyes looking straight ahead, fixed on the wall above their Master.

      Their bare breasts quivered with their emotion making the bells, hanging from the rings through their pierced nipples, tinkle again in a quite delightful way.

      Pierre recognised the beautiful young mother and teenage daughter he had sold to the Prince nearly a year ago.

      'You see their registered numbers as my indentured servants tattooed on the back of their hands and engraved on their collars?' asked the Prince with a laugh.

      'Indeed, Your Highness,' replied Pierre. Even if the women somehow got out of the harem, they would soon be arrested and brought back here.

      Burka now proudly drew back the cutaway front of the two women's harem trousers, displaying their prettily swollen bellies.

      Pierre gasped as he saw the brands stretched unnaturally across the two women's bellies. Below them gleamed shiny metal breeding belts, locked round their hips. Both mother and daughter were identically and heavily pregnant! Knowing Arab ways, he knew that the father of the progeny of these mere indentured servants would not be the Prince himself.

      'Both mated on the same day to one of my Black Guards, a giant Dinka,' explained the Prince with a cruel laugh. 'A Thoroughbred brood mare and her filly, both in foal to the same Sire.'

      The Prince called the women over. He ran his hand over their bellies in the same proprietorial way that he had when showing them off to his cousins. A little flick of Burka's whip on their backsides warned both women to stand quite still and to keep their eyes fixed on the wall.

       Once again a feeling of power surged through the Prince as he remembered seeing the video secretly recorded by a hidden television camera of the weeping mother and daughter vainly tearing at their breeding belts as they felt their progeny starting to kick.

      'Yes, both carrying identical twins by one of my prize stallions,' he laughed proudly, whilst both the mother and the young girl blushed with shame. 'The new matched pair will soon be taking the place of these two in their team,' he added in a matter of fact tone of voice.

      Then Burka cracked his whip again.

      'On your hands and knees - grovel again in front of your Master!

      There was another crack of his whip and both women dropped back to the same humble position as before.

      Then they heard the noise of another woman being driven into the room, also crawling on her knees. But her progress across the floor was marked by a rather different tinkling sound - that of belled bracelets on her wrists.

      It was Mizzi. being brought in on a lead by the pygmy boy overseer of the rival Green Team, Gorka.

      Pierre recognised the young Viennese married woman he had tricked, whilst her husband was away on business, into coming away for a romantic and secret weekend in the Prince's palace - a weekend that for her had ended up in the harem.

      She, too, recognised Pierre's voice. She, too, was only stopped by her lead and by Gorka's whip from leaping at him like a wild dog. Her was the swine of a Frenchman who was responsible for her being here, lost to her adoring husband, and now, unbelievably, the plaything of a cruel and revolting Arab Master.

      Little Gorka cracked his whip.

      'Position for Inspection - Up!' he ordered and cracked his whip again.

      Mizzi jumped up alongside the now kneeling mother  and daughter. Her hands were now clasped behind her neck as had been theirs. Her eyes were similarly fixed on the wall and her  ankles were also touching. But, having been ordered to take up the position for Inspection rather than of Attention, her knees were bent and wide apart.

      Gorka came round just as Burka had done and slid back further the cutaway in the front of Mizzi's harem trousers. Proudly he parted her beauty lips and equally proudly displayed the little scar where previously had been her beauty bud.

      'I won't stand for a girl masturbating in my harem,' the Prince explained laconically. Then he looked at his wrist watch. 'My plane will be waiting. Once again many thanks for all your help.'

In the plane flying back to Tangier, Pierre took out the cheque for the agreed very large amount. It was for agreed amount for the safe delivery of Penelope and Chantalle. He congratulated himself on meeting the Prince's requirements. It had been a difficult task, well carried out.

      Then he thought of the other women he had previously delivered to the Prince and whom he had now seen again. He had never liked to think, or ask, about the fate of the unsuspecting white women he delivered into the hands of his rich Arab clients.

      Once he had handed them over and had been paid he would forget all about them. Now the swollen branded bellies of the very pretty Dutch young mother and her daughter and that of the circumcised young Mizzi had shown him just how cruel his clients could be.

      At the same time he was delighted with what he had seen, for clearly these branded women would never be freed by the Prince - the risk of scandal was too great. Even after he had tired of them, the Prince would ensure that they would never be free to tell their story to the Western Press - or to tell the Police about his role in their abduction.

      Moreover he had been delighted to see their collars engraved with the Prince's crest and name and their tattooed registered numbers as indentured servants. He had also noted the high walls surrounding the harem and the way the women had been kept on a lead by their young overseers. Clearly the Prince had made sure that escape from the harem or even from North Africa was impossible.

      He had always been careful that the unsuspecting women he handled never learned his real name, or where he really came from, so that they could not trace him if they ever got out of their harem. But even so, it was nice to know that they never would.

PART V

A TERRIFYING INITIATION TO HAREM LIFE

22 - PENELOPE'S AWAKENING

Penelope stirred in her half drugged sleep and slowly began to wake up.

      A faint light was coming in through a strangely barred window in what she presumed must be the Prince's guest house. It must, she  realised, be dawn. Dawn? Then she must have slept for over twelve hours. Goodness!

      How odd it all seemed. She remembered the journey to the Palace and meeting the very intimidating Prince. She remembered how Pierre had urged her sign her contract. She remembered drinking a couple of gin and tonics and being offered some rather delicious cakes - the nothing more.

      My God, she must have passed out! How awful! What must the Prince have thought of her!

      Then, vaguely, she remembered being half woken up the previous evening by voices. By male voices. She thought she had recognised the deep voice of the Prince and the falsetto one of the Negro who had so embarrassed her by the swimming pool. And, as if in a dream, she had an equally  vague impression of a man in a white coat like a doctor who raised her legs and examined her - intimately, as if she was lying on a gynaecological couch.

      She thought she heard him say: 'Yes I think they'll both be very suitable.'

       Suitable for what she had thought. Was the Prince having her medically examined before countersigning her contract to make the tourist films?

      Then, again as if in if in a dream, had come the Prince's slow deep voice, heavily accentuated. 'Yes, they're a beautifully matched pair. Just what I wanted. Tell Nadu to tattoo them. And, Burka! Make sure you start getting their monthly cycles properly synchronised.'

      'Yes Your Highness, of course,' had came the voice of the little black boy. What did a little boy like him, she remembered sleepily thinking, know about women's cycles?

      Had it all been a dream? And what a strange expression - a Matched Pair. She remembered it was one that the awful Negro had used to Pierre by the pool. And what was all that about tattooing? No one was going to tattoo her!'

Again she dozed off again and then finally awoke, feeling strangely refreshed.

      The first thing she saw, hanging from  the ceiling were two pairs of stirrups, like on gynaecological couch. With a start she remembered her dream of being intimately examined - apparently in the presence of the Prince. Good God, she thought, had it been more than a dream? She saw that she was indeed lying, covered by a sheet, on what seemed to be a double size gynaecological couch.

      She reached out and touched someone. Oh lovely! Here was Pierre - in her bed at last, she laughed. But what was he doing on gynaecological couch?

      But it was not Pierre that she touched, but the soft body of a woman!

      Startled she half sat up. The was a jingle of a chain. It came from the back of her neck. She put her hand up. She felt a metal collar and fastened to the back of it was a chain. Good God!

      She looked down. An attractive young woman was lying fast asleep on the couch alongside her. There was a shiny metal collar round her neck, too. It was flexible, being made of interlocking metal links like a much wider expensive wrist watch strap.

      She saw that a chain was also fastened to a ring at the back of the young woman's collar. It was the same chain as her own. They were chained together! Moreover, as the chain went through a ring at the head of the couch, they were both also chained to the couch!

      She saw that a pretty blue ribbon was fastened to the side of the girl's collar. She put her hand up to her own neck. She  felt a similar ribbon fastened to her collar, too.

      My God! thought Penelope. Who is this girl? Why are we chained together? And why the collars? And why the blue ribbons? Oh, where was Pierre?

      'Pierre! Pierre!' she cried out.

      But there was no reply from the empty bare room.

      She looked again at the sleeping woman to whom she was chained. She was a very pretty blond girl. Goodness! It was the girl she had seen at the hotel in Tangier, going off to the Pool changing rooms just as she had arrived. She was the girl whom, she had thought, looked rather like herself. She remembered she had wondered whether she was also being auditioned by the horrible Negro for the same tourist promotion project.

      She saw the girl was in a frilly nightdress with a crest of two green scimitars within a black circle embroidered on the right breast. She remembered seeing the same crest painted on the nose of the private jet in which she and Pierre had travelled here, an aircraft which presumably had belonged to the mysterious Prince. She had also seen the same crest emblazoned on the livery of the black servants.

      Shocked, she saw that on a flat plate on the front of the girl's collar was engraved the same crest and alongside it some Arabic numerals . Below the crest, prominently engraved on the front of the collar, and equally prominently embroidered in blue on her nightdress, was a larger Arabic numeral. She had learnt to recognise Arabic numerals when in Tangier and she saw that the number was 7.

      She looked down at herself. She was wearing an identical  nightdress, also with the same crest embroidered over her  right breast. But below it, in her case, was the Arabic numerals 14, also in blue. How all very odd.

      Suddenly she also noticed a black ring tattooed on the back of the girl's left hand. Inside the ring was tattooed a bright blue Arabic figure 7. There was also a line of Arabic numerals tattooed prominently across the back of the girl's right hand.

      She looked down at her own hands, and gasped. On the back of her left hand a black ring had been freshly tattooed and inside was a bright blue tattooed 14. She looked down at her right hand. Sure enough a long line of Arabic numerals had also been tattooed on the back of it.

      She remembered hearing in her dream the Prince ordering something about tattooing. My God, she thought, has young Miss Penelope Lyndsey-Baker disappeared? Was she now just some Arabic number? But why? And why the longer line of numbers. What were they for?

With a start she realised that someone must have undressed her and put her into this nightdress. Who? Surely not that awful little black boy? How embarrassing!

      She looked around the barely furnished room. It reminded her of the sick bay in her girl's school with a medicine cupboard and a table with metal trays containing surgical instruments. With a start she recognised some of them as being ones used for examining women.

      There was a window, prettily arched in the Arab style. She saw there were some prettily curved wraught iron bars beyond the windows - - but this bare room didn't measure up to the Pierre's talk of a luxurious Guest House..

      Was she still in the Prince's palace and not in the Guest House at all? And anyway where was this palace? She realised she had no idea. Having been driven to it in the car with those strange opaque windows, she did not even know whether it was in a town, or out in the countryside.

      Penelope looked around for her smart Gucci leather bag with her money, her cheque book, her credit cards, her pen, her ... It also held a secret and very private picture of a naked Charles. How embarrassing if that were to be seen by someone. And it also held her all important contraception pills. Oh Lord! Pierre, she  then remembered, still had her passport. But where was he?

      She  also saw that there was no sign of the clothes she had been wearing, nor of her jewelry, nor of her luggage. But Charles engagement ring was still on her finger. How odd!

      Again she wondered where she was.

      She tried to get out of bed, but, of course, being chained to the other girl stopped her.

      The sheet, however, had now dropped down and she saw that the girl's nightdress had slipped up her thighs. Rather surprised, she saw that all the girl's body hair had been removed - she had been completely depilated! It gave her a strange "little girl" look. She had heard that Arab women did this, but  this girl was European. Any way, at least she didn't go in for such shocking ideas!

      Then suddenly she felt a strange feeling between her legs. She reached down and pulled up her nightdress. She gasped. She, too, had been depilated!

      Wonderingly she ran her hand over her now smooth and hairless mound and beauty lips. They, too, looked almost childlike - rather beautiful really. She was not quite sure whether to be thrilled or ashamed.

      Meanwhile shaken by the jerks from the chain onto her collar, the other girl was stirring. Suddenly she opened her eyes. She looked up at Penelope in alarm and said something in French

      'So you're French!' cried Penelope. 'Do you speak English?'

      'Just a leetle, ' she replied in a delightful French accent. 'But who are you?'

      'I'm Penelope. What's your name?'

      'Chantalle.' She sat up in bed. There was rattle from the chain fastened to her collar.

      'Mon Dieu! I have been chained! So have you! We're chained together!'

      'Yes I know,' replied Penelope. 'But I don't understand why. I've also just woken up - to find myself here. How did you come to be here?'

      'I come to Tangier secretly,' whispered Chantalle, in her strong French accent. 'to get away from my husband. But no one knows! Then after a few days I begin to miss him! Maybe I love him after all! But the hotel manager, he very nice and sympathique. He introduce me to nice young Frenchman.'

      Penelope's felt her blood go cold. 'Was his name ... Pierre?' she asked nervously.

      'Why yes! Pierre! So you meet him, too? Oh!'

      'Yes, he got me a job as a the star in a big tourist project - a TV and magazine advertising project.'

      'But me too!' said the French girl. 'He said I was to be the star. He never mention you.'

      'Nor you to me,' cried Penelope angrily. 'The slimy toad!'

      'Then he introduce me to a horrible black man.'

      'And me! I saw you going off after your interview!'

      'Oh!' gasped  Chantalle. 'And then next day he take me in aircraft to sign contract.'

      Penelope remembered how Pierre had told her he was going to be busy the day after the audition - or rather the day after that humiliating inspection. He must have brought Chantalle to the Prince's palace the next day and then come back to bring her separately. In that way they wouldn't see each other and smell a rat - until they woke up chained together! But why?

      'Then I meet horrible and terrifying Prince, who is financing tourist project,' said Chantalle. 'I eat some little cakes and I wake up now, here!'

      'Me too,' said Penelope.

      'Oh,!' cried Chantalle. 'But why, if we are to work together on the film and advertisements are we chained together.'

      'Perhaps,' said Penelope slowly, 'perhaps the story of the tourist project was just ... all made up ... to trick us into coming here ... to get us into the power of the Prince.'

      'Oh, Mon Dieu!' cried Chantalle. 'But my husband ... he will get us out ... Oh, but he doesn't know where I am! It was all such a secret!'

      'Nor does my boy friend know where I am,' added Penelope in a horrified voice. 'No one knows where I am. Not even the hotel. Pierre made very sure of that.'

      'And I thought that at last I was going to have a romantic ... how you say it? ... naughty weekend with Pierre.'

      'Me too,' murmured Penelope. 'He tricked us both into coming here.'

      'Yes, into coming to the Prince's palace. But I did not like at all. He is revolting - and looks so cruel.

      'Yes,' agreed Penelope. 'Frightening!'

      'Look!' said Chantalle pointing to a portrait hanging on the  wall facing them. It was of a stern looking man in Arab dress. The Prince!

      Penelope found she could hardly take her eyes off it. Did it mean that she was still in his palace? As a prisoner? In his harem? Oh, no!

Just then the curtain into the Blue Team's gynaecological inspection room, for that is what it was, was pulled aside.

       Both women gasped - for there in the doorway stood the same Negro who had so embarrassingly inspected them by the swimming pool, back in Tangier.

      But there was change. Instead of a simple red robe, now he was gorgeously dressed in gold silken pantaloons, a golden sash, a gold embroidered waistcoat and a gold silken turban. And in his hand was a long whippy. silver tipped, cane.

      The two women cowed back on the bed, terrified.

      'So little birds now nicely caged for Master's delight,' he cried in broken English, and in a menacing tone. He swept into the room. He brought the cane down with a crack onto the couch - making the women jump. They clasped each other in fear.

      Behind the huge Negro was the diminutive figure of the small  black boy with a blue stripe in his turban. A short dogwhip was tucked into the broad sash round his  waist.

      But in his hand was a small short handled whip with a long black leather thong. He cracked it in the air. It may have been small, but the boy expertly made it crack like a revolver shot. The two women cowered back even more.

      'Raise hands to shoulders.' the boy ordered.

      Hesitantly both women did so. Quickly the boy fastened their wrists to straps wide apart at the head of the bed. They were now effectively fastened down on their backs.

      The boy now pulled back the sheets.

      'Legs up in the air!' he ordered, cracking his whip again. 'Both of you! Legs right up!'

      The women just looked at him, terrified. He brought his whip down across their tummies. Both young women screamed.

      'Legs up, I said!' cried the boy raising his whip again and bringing it down again across both the women's tummies.

      With a gasp of both pain and shame, the two women raised their legs.

      The boy now placed the women's ankles in the two pairs of stirrups hanging down over the couch. Just as in the dream, thought Penelope with a shiver. But this time, straps were fastened round her ankles holding them firmly  in place.

      With her ankles fastened in the stirrups and her wrists strapped to the top of the bed, Penelope found she was now held even more helplessly - as was, she saw, Chantalle. The two women exchanged a look of horror.

      'Get their nightdresses up,' said the black man.

      The boy put his hand under their half raised buttocks and pulled their nightdresses up to the necks, leaving their bodies bare. Both women were blushing with embarrassment at the thought of what they were displaying to this awful young boy - and to the dreadful fat black man now standing behind him.

      'I want their legs wider apart, Burka,' said the black man impatiently.

      The boy cracked his whip again. 'Legs wide apart!' he screamed. 'And keep them like that - or you get whip again.'

      The black man now reached forward. Penelope felt his hands on her beauty lips.

      'No!' she screamed, closing her knees.

      But the boy was ready for her. Three times his whip came down across her writhing body. With her wrists and ankles tied she could not protect herself with her hands, nor even roll over. 'Alright,' she gasped, 'I'll do it. I'll do it!'

      But the boy wasn't satisfied.

      'Woman! You call me, Sir!

      Again his whip came down. Again she screamed. 'Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir!'

      Oh the shame of she, a grown woman, having to call this mere boy, Sir. But in no time she was once again dutifully holding her knees well apart, exposing herself to the gaze of the fat black man.

      This time with the black boy's whip raised menacingly above her, she just bit her lips as the fat black man parted her sex lips as if searching for something. Not for a little show of blood, surely? Although she knew she was not yet due for a week or so, nevertheless she felt herself blushing. How awful that this ghastly Negro wanted to know her most private secrets

      She heard him say something to the boy in Arabic. Then she felt the boy's fingers there as well. The black man was started to feel up inside her. Again he was talking to the boy in Arabic. It was as if he was instructing the boy, inviting him to feel her too. Oh the  shame!

      It was, she thought, as if they were assessing her breeding possibilities. She remembered how the black man had knowingly cupped her belly back in Tangier. Oh my God!

      Then apparently satisfied, the fat black man began to stroke her clitoris, apparently pointing out it's degree of arousal to the boy. She could feel herself becoming more and more wet. The black man laughed - and so did the boy. Oh the shame!

      Then it was the turn of Chantalle.

      Penelope had to lie there, her still holding her knees apart, as the black man examined the French woman, apparently again giving the boy a running commentary in Arabic and occasionally inviting him  to feel for himself.

      Then she blushed as she saw that the boy was now holding two vases. With a shock she recognised their shape. She had seen them in women's wards in hospitals. But there they had been in the hands of sympathetic female nurses, not of a young Negro boy.

      Watched by the black man, the boy went over to a basin and turn on the tap. This, too, she recognised as an old hospital trick, but again one used by female nurses, not by an awful little boy with a whip, who should have been too young to know any thing about women's bodies.

       To her embarrassment, the noise of the running water from the tap was having its inevitable effect. She began to feel a familiar feeling. She tried to stop it, but it was no use.

      The boy was now looking down at the two women's tummies. He ran his hand expertly over their bladders. Then he  slid a sheet of rubber under their bottoms.

      Then he glanced  up at the ceiling and grinned. Penelope looked up and  saw that pointing down at the couch was a small lens. Horrified she recognised it as a, remotely controlled,  internal television cameras. She saw that it turning down towards her tummy. Who was controlling it and from where? Had the Prince been idly amusing himself buy watching their humiliation?

      The boy now held the two bottles against their beauty lips. With their arms and legs strapped there was nothing they could do to prevent him..

      Overcome with shame, Penelope closed her eyes and turned her head.

      'Head up!' came the boy's instant response. 'Look  at camera.'

      As if in response, the camera swung momentarily up towards her face. The  unseen watcher clearly wanted to see the expression of shame on her face.

      The loathsome little boy began to whistle. He was, she realised, encouraging them, just  as a groom whistles to encourage a reluctant horse to stale. Penelope felt she simply could not hold back any more.

      Suddenly the boy screamed: 'Wait! You both wait for my order! You both perform together to my order!'

      Oh no! Perform! They were women, not performing animals! But both women remembered how earlier this little boy had not hesitated to use his whip to enforce his orders.

      Both women, the boy saw, were biting their lips as they now strained to hold back. A lovely feeling of power shot through the boy.  He was imposing discipline on the women. He was going to make them perform together in a most servile way.

      'Ready?'

      Both women nodded desperately. The camera swung back to their bellies.

      'Wait for my order! Ready! Ready! ... Perform!'

      Oh the relief!

      Only her urgent need  had overcome the shame of obeying the young boy's order, whilst the fat man looked on smiling. She did not think she would ever be able to look either of them in the face again.

      Little did she know that never again would she be allowed to perform any of her natural functions in private. Not only would she and Chantalle, kept chained together, have to perform them together, but also always do so under the eye of their little Team Overseer.

      It was, like constant fear of the cane or whip, a humiliating and traditional way in which black eunuchs disciplined the women under their control ...

      Two minutes later it was all over. The boy emptied each vase into a glass jar with measurements up the side. He looked carefully and noted down the amounts. Then he removed the rubber sheet. It  had not been needed.

      Then he carefully dried each woman with cotton wool. The camera was still watching their bellies. He powdered them both just like a baby. Oh the ignominy, once again, of this being done by a mere boy! Moreover, the fact that their beauty lips were quite hairless, like those of baby, must have highlighted the comparison to whoever was watching on a remote monitoring screen.

23 - RINGED!

Penelope now heard the boy say something in English to the fat Negro. He seemed to be asking if the women could now be given the standard Blue Team treatment, as was used back in his own native village. What on earth, she wondered, was he talking about. What Blue Team? And what standard treatment? But mention of the boy's native village gave her a fright.

      She was given a even nastier fright when the boy proceeded  to gag both her and Chantalle with leather gags that went over their mouths and fitted tightly below  their chins. The gags were held in place by a strap that was fastened behind their necks.

      The young boy now also produced two black blindfolds. The two girls tried to cry out in fear as the blindfolds were firmly tied in place over their eyes. But, all that were heard from the women were little moans coming from beneath their gags.

      There were more little suppressed moans as each young woman felt her beauty lips being again parted and again their clitorises being tickled and aroused. Soon, there were more moans as each now prettily swollen clitoris was firmly bound with cotton thread, making it even more swollen and extended outwards between the beauty lips.

      Then it was the turn of the helpless women's nipples to be aroused and similarly bound with cotton threat. Penelope could feel her nipples were also now greatly extended. But why she asked herself, unable to move to touch them.

      She heard the fat man and the boy saying something about leaving them to get nicely swollen, and then she heard their footsteps going away.

Gagged, chained and blindfolded, Penelope just lay helpless on her back wondering what on earth was happening.

      Where was Pierre? What was being done to her and why? Where was she? But intimidating as the Prince had seemed, surely he would not allow women to be treated like this in his palace. Perhaps he did not know what was going on. Then she remembered the little television camera. Had the Prince been watching them? Had he been controlling the cameras? Oh my God! How shame-making!

      After a time, she heard footsteps coming into the room and several voices - high pitched voices. They seem to surround the couch and were laughing. It was as if several friends of the young boy had come to see what was going to happen, like students watching an operation.

      An operation! She heard a noise like a hospital trolley being wheeled across the room. As it was being brought up to the couch, she heard a rattling noise like surgical instruments on a metal tray. Oh my God!

       Penelope heard bottles being opened. There was a sudden smell of antiseptic  - like in an operating theatre or a doctor's surgery. She heard a liquid being poured and the distinctive high voice of the fat man, speaking in Arabic, as if he was describing what was happening to the others.

      She felt the shoulder straps of her nightdress being unfastened. She was lifted up and one by one her ankles were momentarily unstrapped from the stirrups to allow the nightdress to be drawn down over her legs.

      She was now stark naked - and, of course, with her ankles fastened in the stirrups and her wrists chained to the head of the couch, quite helpless.

      Penelope gasped as she then felt the breath of the fat man as he apparently bent over her naked body. She gasped again as he wiped a cloth, soaked in a strange freezing liquid, over her beauty lips. They seemed to lose feeling. She hardly felt it when he then parted her lips again and applied the cloth to her bound and swollen beauty bud. She felt her beauty lips being clipped back leaving her swollen and bound clitoris projecting and on display.

      Then there was noise as if a little lamp was being lit. She could feel the heat  of the flame. Something seemed to be being heated in the flame.

      She felt her swollen clitoris being pulled out. Then she felt a prick as if something sharp and hot had been gently pushed through the cotton thread binding her clitoris and was now touching it. She raised her head to see what horror was being done to her, but her blindfold prevented her from seeing anything. Then she screamed, under her gag, as, unknown to her, a red hot needle was expertly thrust right through her clitoris.

      It was held there momentarily and she then she could feel it being alternatively turned left and right. Then it was withdrawn. Penelope gasped with relief.

      Then to  her horror, she felt something else being pushed through. It seemed to be covered in some sort of creamy grease. She felt whatever it was being pulled to and fro.

      Next she felt a flame being brought right up to her beauty lips making her tremble with fear. She had the impression that the flame was being used to braze something together, brazed permanently. But what? And why?

      She heard laughter and high pitched voices. She felt the  cotton threads round her beauty bud being undone. She could feel some of the swelling subsiding, but now there was a strange feeling, as if her clitoris was being held permanently extended outwards - and permanently aroused.

      She felt something metallic between her outstretched legs. She felt hands admiringly touching something that seemed to be attached to her. There was  more laughter. What had they done to her? She moved slightly in her embarrassment and again felt the metal object. Oh my God! Oh the shame!

      Then it was the turn of her nipples.

      Again she felt a cloth soaked in a freezing liquid. Then she felt something sharp being pressed against one of her bound and extended nipples. Again she screamed under her gag as it was driven right through and  again turned left and right, and then withdrawn.

       Then once again something, else was pushed through this new hole. It too was moved to and fro, and was greased. Again she felt the heat of the flame as if something was being carefully brazed together.

      Then it was the turn of her other nipple.

      She felt the cotton threads around each swollen nipple being removed. As with her beauty bud, she felt some of the swelling subsiding, but there was a new feeling of it being held permanently erect.

      But this time there a difference. There was a weight on each breast and with every little quiver of her breasts she heard the tinkling of a little bell. Oh how awful! She longed to snatch off the blindfold to see what dreadful thing had been done to her but, with her hands still strapped to the top of the couch, there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do.

      Next she heard the sounds of what ever had been done to her, apparently also being done to Chantalle. It took a long time and she heard little muffled moans and more high pitched laughter.

Suddenly her blindfold was removed.

      Blinking in  the sudden light, she saw that the fat man and the boy were looking down at her, smiling, as if very proud of their work.

      She raised her head and looked down at herself, Her legs were still fastened to the stirrups. But, she saw, large sized, thin, golden rings had been inserted into her nipples! And to each ring a small bell was attached. Oh God!

      She looked down at her parted legs. From between her now hairless beauty lips hung another golden ring. It had been put through  her precious beauty bud and seemed to be making constantly aroused! She saw that it had been inserted so that it hung neatly parallel to, and between, her beauty lips and not awkwardly at right angles across them.

      She could not believe it. Why had this been done? And without her permission! She wanted to scream but was still gagged. Surely this could not be anything to do with the tourist project for which she had signed a contract?

      She looked at Chantalle, lying chained by her side with her legs raised, too. She saw similar rings and similar bells.

      The French woman's blindfold was now also removed and she too, looked down at herself with horror. From beneath her gag came a muffled scream of protest.

      Whilst the fat man looked on approvingly, the boy now rubbed a little antiseptic ointment onto each of the rings and gently slid them to and fro in their nipples and beauty buds.

      Then, apparently satisfied, they both left the room without a word.

      The two women, still gagged, and chained together by  he neck, their hands strapped to the top of the couch and their ankles to the raised stirrups, exchanged glances of horror.

24 - INITIAL DISCIPLINING.

Suddenly Penelope heard a bell ring. It was followed by girlish voices. A number of young women seemed to be rushing into an adjoining room, separated from the gynaecological inspection room by a curtain.

      She heard the crack of a whip and the voices fell silent. Moments later she heard a splashing noise.

      Then a curtain was drawn back and the little black boy again stepped into the room. He was again carrying his little whip. Behind came the short squat older black man. As usual, he was carrying his silver tipped cane and seemed to watching the boy as if supervising him.

      The boy cracked his whip as if trying to impress the older black man.

      'Me Burka!' he suddenly shouted in broken English. "Me your overseer. You now in my Blue Team. Me Blue Team overseer!"

      Both women looked completely blank. What did he mean?

      'You now in harem of His Highness. You worship His Highness. You indentured servants of His Highness - like slaves. You both signed indenture contracts. You stupid! You think signing film contract!'

      Penelope gave a gasp of horror. So it was true! She had been tricked. Tricked by Pierre. She heard Chantalle give a similar gasp. They had both been tricked by him.

      'Your names now Blue 7 and Blue 14. Christian names not allowed in harem of strict of strict Moslem like His Highness. You use Christian name, you get beaten for insulting Islam.'

      Penelope and Chantalle both gasped in horror.

      'And,' went on the awful little boy, 'you call and refer to His Highness as Master. Even Arab concubines not know his name.  Not your business. He just your Master.'

      Not to know the name of the ghastly man in who's harem she was! My God, thought Penelope. No wonder Pierre had been so secretive. She knew neither where she was, nor the name of her repulsive and terrifying captor. How awful!

The boy now respectfully pointed to the horrible fat man who had so humiliatingly examined Penelope in Tangier - and Chantalle, too.

      'This Malaka Effendi. He chief black eunuch to His Highness. He very important man. You always call him Mr Malaka, Sir.'

      To give more emphasis to his words the boy again cracked his whip, making Penelope shiver with fear. The Prince's chief black eunuch! This horrible strong little man was a eunuch! Was that why his voice was so strange? She had never come across a eunuch before. Surely they were supposed to be weak, despicable creatures? But there was nothing weak or despicable about this desperately frightening figure.

'Yes' he repeated, 'you always show great respect for Malaka Effendi - or you get cane! Just like you not show respect for me, Burka - and you get whip!'

      Again he cracked his whip to make his point to the cowering women.

      Was the boy also a eunuch, Penelope wondered, one of the chief black eunuch's assistants, in charge of some of the  Prince's women? How awful!

      Malaka then stepped forward, a frightening looking figure, his whip raised menacingly.

      'Yes,' he said with a sneer of contempt inn his high pitched voice, 'both you women already registered with police as indentured servants. Your police numbers already tattooed on back of right hand. You no longer fine English and French ladies. Now you just indentured servants in harem of His Highness. You just slaves now - numbered slaves of His Highness. His to do with, as he likes!'

      Slaves! Oh my God, thought Penelope.

      'You try run away,' went on Malaka with a grim laugh, 'you not get far. Your tattooed numbers on hand tell everyone you just escaped indentured servant. Big reward for recapture. You taken to police. Police bring you back here for punishment! And police watching at airports and seaports, too. So, you no escape - never! And anyway you not get over high harem wall!

      Malaka paused to let his words sink in to the horrified minds of the two young women. Then he raised his silver tipped whippy cane with it's prettily curved handle.

      'You make me angry, you not show respect to me at all times - and you get cane. And I also have special rattan cane for insolent women. Hurt even more than this one! Hurt even more than Team Overseer's whip!'

      Both women were gasping with horror behind their gags. By now they were terrified almost out of their wits.

      Malaka paused for a moment as if to make sure that his words were understood by the two cringing women.

      'You both now just concubines of His Highness. A rare Matched Pair!'

      Concubines! Women used for sexual gratification! It was a word, Penelope thought, that sounded even more final and terrible than indentured servants or slaves.

      And a rare Matched Pair! Again she remembered that was the expression she had heard Malaka use in Tangier.

Malaka then stepped back, as if having achieved his object of terrorising the two women, he was now happy to hand over to Burka again.

      'And now,' repeated Burka, 'you both belong my Blue Team here in harem. Blue Team best team in harem. My women best in harem. My whip make them so. They fear my whip. You not try hard to please me and to please his Highness - and you get whip from me, like rest of Blue Team. Like you get cane from Mr Malaka.'

      As if copying Malaka, he paused to let his words sink into the minds of the two increasingly horrified women.

      'Now time for you to learn to fear whip. I break you in - like cowboy break in wild horse. You already feel long whip now  you feel short whip - my lovely dogwhip.'

       Penelope watched fearfully as the boy carefully coiled up his whip, and thrust it into his sash, from which he slowly and almost lovingly  pulled out his little dogwhip. It was rather less than three feet long. Penelope could not take her eyes off it.

      Still holding the dogwhip, he now reached forward and unstrapped the ankles of first  Chantalle and then Penelope from the hanging stirrups. Gratefully they both lowered their ankles to the couch. Gratefully they modestly closed their raised knees. Now what, they wondered.

      Then suddenly he shouted: 'Raise bellies for dogwhip! Get them up!'

      He raised the dogwhip menacingly.

      'Up! Up!'

      Terrified, and with her wrist still chained to the head of the bed, Penelope strained to raise her tummy, taking her weight on her shoulders and pressing down on the couch with her feet. She saw that Chantalle was doing the same.

      'More! Get bellies higher!' screamed the boy they now knew as Burka.

      Desperately both women strained to raise their tummies yet higher. How quite awful, Penelope was thinking. How utterly humiliating! It was made even worse by this mere boy using the coarse word "belly", for her tummy.

      'That better! Now you hold bellies like that!'

      Like rabbits hypnotised by a stoat, both women kept quite still as he slowly raised his whip and then, expertly, brought it down across first Penelope's and then Chantalle's tummies.     Both women screamed behind their gags and doubled up to ease the pain.

'Bellies up again!' the boy shouted.

      Penelope saw that Malaka was nodding approvingly.

      'Higher! Or you get two extra strokes!'

      Again the two women  strained to raise their now aching tummies even higher.

      Oh my God, Penelope was thinking, these awful, terrifying and ignorant black eunuchs. The Prince may also be a frightening figure, but he was an educated and travelled man. Surely he would not approve of them treating white women like this? Then she remembered the television camera. Was he watching it all. The swine!

      Suddenly down came the whip across again - right across her tummy. Again she screamed behind her gag. Again she doubled up with the pain.  Seconds later it was Chantalle's turn again.

      Horrified Penelope heard Malaka speak to the boy eunuch.

      'One more!'

'Bellies up!' shouted the boy. 'Right up!'

      Again the dogwhip came down across each of their tummies.

      As they writhed in agony, both women were swearing to themselves that they would do anything, absolutely anything, that their boy overseer might order, rather than risk another stroke of his dogwhip across their tummies.

      'So now you know! You slaves! Me your overseer!' laughed Burka horribly. 'Now you do what I say. You broken-in, like wild horses? Well?'

      Both women nodded, terrified.

      'So, when I take off gags, you each call me, Sir? Well?

      Again both women nodded, their eyes on his still raised whip.

      He pointed at Chantalle with his whip. She cowered back in alarm.

      'You now just Number Seven. You understand? Here in harem you just Number Seven.'

      Terrified and yet appalled, Chantalle again nodded.

      Then he pointed at Penelope.

      'And you just Number Fourteen. Yes, just Number Fourteen.'

      Penelope did not think she had ever been so humiliated - or so frightened. And by a mere boy!

      Burka untied Chantalle's gag.

      'What your name?' he shouted.

      There was a brief pause. Burka raised his whip to bring it down again across her still exposed belly.

      'Number Seven! Mister Burka, Sir,' she screamed in English with her strong French accent. 'Number Seven, Sir!'

      Burka now unfastened Penelope's gag. He wrists were still tied to the head  of the bed.

      'And what you name, little girl?' this time, he asked mockingly.

      Momentarily enraged at being addressed like that by this boy, for a brief moment Penelope was about to scream out a protest; to demand her freedom;  to say that she was not merely Number Fourteen, but Miss Penelope Lyndsey-Baker, the daughter of the late Colonel Lyndsey-Baker of the British Army; that she  demanded to see the British Ambassador immediately; to curse Pierre as a treacherous swine and the Prince as an even greater one, that ...

      She opened her mouth. The words were about to pour out.

      Then, at the sight of Burka's raised whip she fell silent.

      'Well, English woman, what your name now?'

      'Number Fourteen, Mr Burka, Sir. Number Fourteen, Sir,' she sobbed.

       Yes, she realised, she had now been well and truly broken-in: broken in like a wild  horse; broken in by fear of a little boy's whip; broken in, apparently, for the Prince's use. Oh what a fool she had been, falling into Pierre's trap. And now no one, but no one knew she was in the Prince's harem!

'Good!' said Burka exchanging a look of victory with Malaka. 'Now time you join my other ladies! They also frightened of my whip. They also call me, Sir! They also know not talk without permission.'

      Again, he paused to let his words sink in.

      His other ladies? What other ladies, both women were thinking. The rest of the Blue Team?

      'Now when I untie hands, you clasp them behind neck - and you keep them there - or you feel whip, again.'

      Moments later the two women felt the chains on their wrists being unfastened. Their hands were now completely free. Oh the relief! But both women were too scared to even think of doing anything else but obey this awful little boy. Hastily, as they

still lay on their backs, they clasped their hands dutifully behind their necks.

      The boy overseer now bent over them again and fastened a lead onto the chain linking their collars. Then tucking his dogwhip back into his sash, he pulled out his long whip again. Penelope did not know which she found more frightening.

      'Now, you listen carefully. I not repeat. When I crack whip you both jump out of bed  and kneel down. You both crawl on all fours, side by  side, facing away from me. You not look round. You understand?'

      The whip cracked. With a little tinkling noise from the bells now hanging from their nipples, the two naked women jumped up from the bed and knelt down side by side on all fours. They felt the whip menacingly caress their naked bottoms. They did not dare to look round.

      'You keep shoulders up!' shouted Burka. 'You not let bells touch floor, or you get whip. I want hear bells tinkle - like cow bells.'

      Ashamed, Penelope could feel her breasts hanging down below her. But she could also now feel the extra weight of the rings and bells hanging from her nipples. As both women knelt there trembling, she could hear the bells responding to her quivering breasts.

      'Now,' came the boys voice from behind them, 'when whip crack again, you crawl forward.'

      There was a long pause. The boy was clearly, and very effectively, establishing his authority over the two women.

      Suddenly they heard the whip crack behind them.

      Immediately, like a pair of eager greyhounds on a leash the two women started to crawl forward. Again there came a little tinkling noise from their nipple bells.

      Penelope noticed what seemed to be a miniature internal television camera half hidden in the corner of the room. She saw that Chantalle had noticed it too. It seemed to be under someone's remote control for it followed them as they crawled forward. It was very embarrassing being watched by a television camera when you are crawling stark naked on your hands and knees.

      Who, Penelope wondered, was controlling it and watching them. The Prince himself? Had he been watching them as they had been disciplined and ringed? My God!

      Just then Penelope felt her collar being jerked back by their boy overseer, standing behind them. Then, with a flick of his whip, he drove them forward again, this time through the curtained doorway into the other room, the room from which they had heard girlish voices and a splashing noise.

25 - THE BLUE TEAM

Still crawling on all fours, both girls' heads brushed the separating curtain aside. They both then gasped.

      In front of them was a large tiled room in the center of which was a huge communal bath.

      But what had made the two girls gasp was the sight of nearly ten stark naked and beautiful women standing up in the bath, facing them. Some were clearly Arab or Asian, but, equally clearly, two were white European women.

       All, had a flexible shiny metal collar fastened round their necks, just their own ones. On the side of each collar was also engraved the Prince's crest and some Arabic numerals. A blue ribbon was fastened to one side of the collars - again, just like on Penelope and Chantalle's collars.

      The women's eyes were fixed on the wall in front of them. Their hands were dutifully clasped behind their collared necks, just as Chantalle and Penelope had to clasp theirs. And hanging from their nipples were large golden rings, just like own ones, with a bell hanging from each ring.

      But this was not all, for these  women's legs were parted and their knees bent. Penelope saw that their mounds and beauty lips were as smooth and hairless as her own. And jutting out between the lips was another golden ring - again just like herself.

      But even this was not all, for neatly and prominently branded on their naked bellies was the same green crest of two scimitars, surrounded by a vivid black circle, that Penelope had seen on the tail of the Prince's aircraft - and embroidered on the right breast of her and Chantalle's nightdresses.

      But even this was not all for above each woman's navel was another brand: a small black ring, and inside this were also branded one or two Arabic numerals - this time in bright blue - the colour of Burka's team. It was just like the mark tattooed on the back of her left hand!

      Horrified, Penelope wondered if she and Chantalle were going to be similarly branded. Oh how awful! She could not also help wondering how the three different colours of the brands had been achieved.

      But more to the point was how could she ever go back to Charles if the Prince had had his crest marked so prominently and permanently on her body? Indeed how could she ever even go back to England with such a mark, she thought with a shiver?

      Perhaps that was the whole idea. Perhaps all these women had husbands, boy friends and families to whom they now knew they could never return, now that they permanently bore the crest of the Prince. Again she shivered.

      Then Penelope's eye was caught by the two blond European women standing at the end of the line. They were chained together by the neck, just like herself and Chantalle!

      But their tummies! They were both prettily curved. Clearly they were both approaching the final stages of an apparently identical motherhood,

      They were strikingly alike and very beautiful. One seemed almost to be a vivacious looking teenager and the other, perhaps more resigned to her fate, seemed to be in her thirties. They were tied together by the neck, with a six foot chain, just  like herself and Chantalle.

      Penelope gasped again, for below their swollen bellies, a chain mail belt was fastened round their hips and down between their legs, completely covering their beauty lips.

      Were they, too, a Matched Pair? Like herself and Chantalle? She gave a little shiver of fear as she remembered, once again, what Malaka had said in Tangier about a Matched Pair and how he had added something about how the Master would be pleased when both bellies started to swell nicely together. She had not then understood what he had meant. But now ... My God!

Standing facing the line of women was another black boy, dressed like Burka, but with a green stripe in his turban instead of a blue one. He too was carrying a whip. He seemed even smaller than Burka. Could he be a pygmy boy, Penelope wondered.

      The little creature nodded to Burka and left the room, as if he had been simply keeping an eye on his colleague's women whilst Burka was dealing with Penelope and Chantalle.

      Penelope noticed that some of the girls were glancing down at her and Chantalle out of the corner of their eyes. They seemed to be smiling welcomingly. But none dared to say a word.

      She saw that several of the girls were also apparently flashing their eyes warningly towards a corner of the room. She saw another tiny television camera there swing from pointing at the bath to pointing directly at her and Chantalle. She saw the lens zoom out for a closer look. She could feel herself blushing.

      Burka pointed at the line of women with his whip and then at the large bath.  He gave an order in Arabic and then repeated it in English.

      'Down!' he said, cracking his whip.

      Instantly the line of women all sat down in the bath, their hands still gripped behind their necks, as if it was forbidden to put their hands down into the bath. Then they kept quite still and silent.

      Then the boy turned to Penelope and Chantalle.

      'You two! When I crack whip you both get into bath.'

      There was a long pause. Then suddenly the whip cracked.

      The two young women, still loosely chained  together by the neck, scuttled across the floor on their hands and knees to the bath.

      'Sit next to girls with big bellies!' the boy cried out.

      'But you don't understand ... ' began Chantalle, very daringly.

      'Yes, we are guests of the Prince ...' Penelope continued.

      'Silence!' screamed the boy, cracking his whip. 'Sit!' he ordered. 'Remember, you now just slaves in His Highness's harem - members of Blue Team. You obey me! You keep silence in bathroom - like my other girls,'

       Watched by the camera, both girls blushed and hesitantly climbed into the large bath. They sat down next to the similarly chained pregnant couple of women. The water was quite warm and came up to their chins. 

      Then the boy went across the room, unlocked a little cupboard and took something out. What was it, Penelope wondered, that had to be kept away  from the hands of the girls in the Blue Team. She saw that he was now carrying a large bar of soap. Soap? Why keep soap locked up?

      Suddenly she remembered how, at school she had found slippery soap to be very exciting in the bath. My God, she thought, these grown up women were being treated by this young boy like naughty schoolgirls!

      The boy now brought up a little stool and put it down by the side of the bath. He tucked his whip again into his sash and sat down on the stool. Then he pointed to one of the women and beckoned her forward.

      Penelope saw a very pretty girl, perhaps Siamese or Malayan, climb out of the bath and stand in front of the boy, with her hands again  clasped behind her neck. She parted her legs and bent her knees. The ring between her legs hung down prettily drawing her swollen clitoris forward.

      Then the boy began to soap the girl all over, kneading the lather into the girl's skin. He parted her beauty lips and rubbed the lather up inside her, before making her turn round and present her rear orifice to be cleaned as well. The girl kept her eyes on the wall but Penelope could see she was biting her lips as the boy washed her inside from behind with his finger.

      How awful, Penelope was thinking, for this to be done by a little black boy.

      She noticed the blue coloured Arabic numerals branded on her belly and recognised the figures 19.

       A moment later, the boy snapped his fingers. The Siamese girl resumed her place in the bath and allowed the water to slowly rinse the soap off her. She still did not dare to lower her hands from behind her neck.

      A beautiful Arab-looking woman  took her place. The number branded on her belly was 34. If this woman was number 34 and she herself was only number 14, and Chantalle only number 7, then there must have been a previous number 14 and a previous number 7. What had happened to them, she wondered anxiously.

Soon it was the turn of two European women who were chained together.

      As, chained together, they both stepped out of the  bath to be washed, Penelope saw that the seemed to be a strong family resemblance between them. My God, she thought, surely they could not be a mother and daughter! She saw that that their brand numbers were the same: 20. But each was followed by a different Arabic letter. My God!

      Might the dreadful Prince get a kick out of having a mother and daughter in his harem? But why were they pregnant? Surely not by the Prince? Might it just amuse him to have a mother and daughter mated? By the same sire? How awful!

      Were they a sort of Matched Pair - like Chantalle and herself? Were they, too, destined for the same fate? My God!

      She saw that both women had red lines on their bottoms. Weals! They had been whipped! These heavily pregnant women had been whipped on the bottom, just as, earlier on, she herself and Chantalle had been whipped on the belly - and presumably also by this awful young boy. How awful!

      She wondered what the two woman could have done to have earned a beating. She remembered how sensitive the boy was to being  treated with respect and called Sir. Had they perhaps forgotten?

      She saw the boy check that the chain mail belts fitted tightly over their beauty lips. Were they to prevent them from trying to get rid of the little creatures growing inside them? Goodness how cruel! How awful she thought to be made to carry an evidently unwanted child!.

      Then the boy ordered them to turn round and bend over. To her surprise she saw that a white rubber cord went up between the cheeks of each of their buttocks. One end was fastened to the end of the chain mail pouch between each of their legs and the other to padlocks in the small of their backs to which was attached the chains, round their hips, that held the chain mail pouch in place.

      Evidently, Penelope thought, they could always spend a penny through the chain mail links, but what about more solid wastes?

      'Present backsides!' she heard the boy order.

      Then she saw the two women stretch and pull the white rubber cords away from their rear orifices. How shame-making for them, she thought. The cords were, she saw, spotlessly clean. Did the two women have to strain to hold the cord to one side when they relieved themselves?

      Horrified, she saw that the boy was now washing up inside them as feeling the tightness.

      Apparently satisfied he ordered both women into the large bath. As they struggled, with their swollen tummies, to sit down, the younger of the  women, greatly daring, whispered to Penelope in a Dutch accent: 'Welcome to the harem! I'm Dolly and that's my mother, Martha. But you mustn't use our names,'

      So, they are a mother and daughter, thought Penelope. How quite dreadful. She was about to whisper back her own name when she saw that Burka was looking at her. She kept silent.

Then it was the turn of a dark eyed girl who looked almost European. Penelope saw that she had stretch marks on her tummy. Had she, too, recently been pregnant - like the mother and daughter? How awful!

      Penelope noticed that the girl's breasts seemed unusually large and swollen with several prominent blue veins showing. Goodness, she thought, was she in milk?  Had she been pregnant and then kept in milk? But why? For the  Prince? Oh no!

      Then she saw that the number branded in blue on the girl's belly was 11. But she was too young to be the first Number 11. What had happened to this girl's predecessor, too?

      But what really caught her eye was the sight of two red stars, branded next to the number 11. Was there a connection between this girl's stretch marks and her red stars?

      Might it, she wondered, indicate that the girl had successfully completed two pregnancies for the Prince in this terrible place. Would the tummies of the mother and daughter also later be similarly marked? How awful! Would, one day, her own tummy be so marked?

      She must, she told herself, get away from this harem. She must escape and publicly denounce it and the Prince - and Pierre. And rescue Martha and Dolly, and the other women. But how? How? Surely there must be a way?

       Then the sight of the chain linking her collar to Chantalle, of the little watching television camera, of the bars on the opaque window, and of the numbers tattooed on the back her hand, all made her made her remember Malaka's words: 'So, you no escape - never!'

      They were to be words that would soon be engraved on her heart.

Soon it was the turn of herself and Chantalle to step out of the bath and submit to being washed all over by their little black overseer.

      Oh, the embarrassment as the rings through her clitoris and nipples were carefully inspected, and as the boy carefully felt up inside her - first from the front and then from the rear.

      And to make it worse, all the time the little television camera was trained straight at her throughout!

26 - A TEAM OVERSEER MAKES HIS PLANS

Young Burka looked proudly at his team, now sitting silently in the bath again.

      The arrival of Numbers 7 and 14 had brought his team up to full strength again - indeed over strength in terms of Christian women, but of these was Lebanese. He went over his team again. He had two Arab belly dancers, two slender little Siamese dancing girls, a rather voluptuous Indian girl and a rather whiter skinned Moslem Pakistani girl, the Lebanese Christian girl, and, of course now two European Matched Pairs - and very beautiful!

      Of course, acquiring these too very expensive and valuable Matched Pairs for his team had meant his budget being specially topped up with a loan from the Master. But he would still have to pay interest on the loan.  Could he ever pay it back?

      Clearly, there would now be no further new acquisitions of white women for the Blue Team for a long time! But, he felt, this new pair would prove top be as fine an investment as the prize winning first pair.

      Just then the short squat figure of Malaka came into the team bathroom. At the sight of his silver tipped cane, several of the women, sitting quietly in the large bath, caught their breath. It reminded them horribly of the rattan cane that hung in the main harem room on the front of the podium.

      He looked at the women  sitting silently in the large bath and in particular at Penelope and Chantalle.

      'New women behaving properly?' he asked in Swahili, the lingua franca of the African villages from where the black eunuchs all came. It was the language the black eunuchs used amongst themselves, for not even the Arab girls could understand it properly, never mind the European ones.

      'Yes,' answered Burka cheerfully.

Indeed, he thought, they should soon be earning him extra tips  from the Prince. How the Prince would love it when, terrified of being punished by their young overseer's whip, this beautiful pair would humbly serve him, in his bed - and in his private Turkish style toilet and bath, and in carrying him in his palanquin - or licking him in it.

'I've made a date with the blacksmith from the stables to come and brand them both shortly,' said Malaka grimly. 'He's also got to put a Red Star onto one of the Yellow Team.'

      'Thank you,' replied Burka with a smile. The sooner they were branded, he less trouble they would be,

      'It'll be the usual full harem parade,' went Malaka, 'with His Highness present. I expect the two new women will be screaming their heads off. But you'd better make sure they've been properly washed out - we don't want them disgracing themselves in front of His Highness when they feel the branding iron. It'll be a good excuse to start House Training them!'

      'Good!' replied the boy. Humiliatingly controlling his Team's wastes was  an essential part of keeping them well disciplined. So, the sooner he started on these two new women, the better.

      'His Highness is likely to want to use these two for his pleasure as soon as they've been branded,' went on Malaka. 'And you know what means - for a Christian girl!'

      'Don't worry,' replied Burka, 'I've already started to stretch them.'

      'Good,' said Malaka. 'But after that he'll expect  them to be well trained. Remember that he also likes to degrade a pretty white woman by having her lick his backside.

      'Of course,' laughed Burka.

      'Like all our white women here, they're going to be horribly shocked at first - and you must be ready to use your whip to get them to comply with their Master's orders.'

      'They'll be keen, I promise you that,' laughed the boy, running the leash of his whip through his fingers.

      'Well, don't forget it won't only be in his bed or in the palanquin. They would also have to serve him in his Turkish toilet. That's something these white women really tend to revolt over.'

      'All the more excuse for using my whip,' laughed Burka. 'Oh don't worry, I won't forget.'

       What an old fusspot Malaka was, he was thinking. The Master would probably enjoy breaking in these women himself. Despite being so gross, he still sometimes liked to take a more active role.

      He thought of the various Blue Team techniques he had taught his reluctant girls to do and which had earned him substantial amounts in extra tips from the delighted Master. He remembered how he had trained Number 20A and 20 B, the Dutch mother and daughter, to give the Master great satisfaction in these ways, even when their bellies were showing well.

      The feel of the daughter's little tongue as he drove into the mother, or vice-versa, had never failed to arouse the Prince to the very heights of ecstasy - and to reward their overseer accordingly.

      It had been hard work using his whip to make the shocked and embarrassed white women eager to comply, and undoubtedly the same would apply to these two new white women ... But the rewards would make it all worth while ...

Malaka's voice woke him out of his reverie.

      'And,' Malaka was saying, 'don't forget that I shall soon expect them to be trained also to put on a proper performance together for the Prince's amusement - or, suitably masked, for his guests as well. They'll enjoy watching two well educated European women grovelling naked on a rug at their feet, with their collar chains held by you in one hand, while with the other you use your whip to drive them onto kissing and licking each other all over.'

      'And pulling them back if they look like climaxing!' laughed Burka.

      'Of course, ' said Malaka grimly. He was thinking back to young Mizzi being found masturbating and what had happened to her.

      'And,' he added, 'you'll have to be constantly be on your  guard here in the frustrating and sensuous atmosphere of the harem that they don't secretly try to repeat in private what they're made to do in front of His Highness.'

      He paused for a moment.

      'They'll definitely try to do it,' he addled, 'and so you'll have to watch them like a hawk. His Highness will be relying on you to stop any misbehaviour. You'll have to warn them that, if they were ever caught, then the punishment would be circumcision - as  well as a severe thrashing.'

      Burka nodded. Making women play frustrating lesbian games with each other for the amusement of the Prince or his guests, always increased the risk of forbidden lesbian activity in the harem - something that he and his fellow black eunuchs regarded with horror -  akin to adultery.

      'And,' the chief black eunuch again added, 'don't forget to teach them, above all, that they will not automatically be allowed to climax themselves, merely because their Master has used them to achieve a climax for himself. It's something that European concubines have to learn the hard way - with a good thrashing - if they ever try to come without the Master's express permission.'

      Again Burka nodded.

      Yes, he was thinking, their reward would normally just be the much coveted Silver Ribbon that a girl was allowed to tie to her collar as a sign that the Master had recently honoured her Team by climaxing in her mouth, in her hand or in her body. It was a sign that had to be removed as soon as two other girls could claim the same honour - for only two girls were allowed to wear the ribbon at a time.

      Of course, if the Master, in an uncharacteristic fit of indulgence, did allow a girl to climax in his presence. then she was allowed to preen around the harem with the Golden Ribbon tied to her collar. Not only did this again honour her team, but it also gave her the status of Reigning Favourite, giving her immunity to being whipped or caned, except for very serious offences.

      The Reigning Favourite could also order another woman to be given up to three strokes of the whip for impertinence - the same as a junior black eunuch.

      The other women in her Team would be proud her elevation to Reigning Favourite. But, being themselves still frustrated and longing for sexual relief, they would also be secretly jealous of her. What else was there to think about in the harem? But at least she would be unlikely to order a woman from her own Team to be whipped.

      The women in the other Teams, of course, could have no such confidence. In their case, jealousy would also be mixed with fear. How they would hate seeing a girl from another Team wearing the Golden Ribbon and lording it over them in the harem.

      But the reign of the Favourite was only temporary. It lasted only until the Master allowed another woman to climax in his bed. Then, the following morning a tearful ex-Favourite had to hand over the Golden Ribbon to her successor - fearful lest the new Favourite might immediately seek her revenge for any slights or whippings, by ordering her to be now whipped on the spot.

      Indeed, the beating of a hated dethroned Reigning Favourite had become normal - much to the delight of the Prince secretly watching the hand-over ceremony on his large monitoring screen. However, fear of being beaten at the end of her reign did serve to limit the number of punishments that a Reigning Favourite might order during her brief period in power.

Malaka pointed to the locked cupboard.

      'Show me,' he said, 'the two books you're starting for these new women.'

      Burka unlocked the cupboard. On the inside of the door were pinned the graphs showing the current twice daily temperatures of all the women in the Blue Team, together with the record of the passing of their wastes and of the regular enemas and douches that the Team Overseer had given to each girl.

      The graphs also showed the progress of the women's current monthly cycle and whether the were all in step. If not it was Burka's responsibility to give the laggard the right pills to ensure she came into season right on the date stipulated for the Blue Team by Malaka.

      The women were not, of course, allowed to see these - or any other information about their bodies and what was happening to them.

      On a shelf was a row of books - the secret medical and intimate records of all the women in the Blue Team. Two new-looking books were marked 7 and 14, and these Burka handed to Malaka.

      There was space in each book for filing graphs of monthly cycles and passing of wastes. Other pages were for recording offences and punishments. There were also spaces for photographs of her clitoris and nipples rings and of her future brands.

      Each book also recorded the dates on which she won the coveted Silver or Golden Ribbons - so that the exact number of times she had been allowed to climax since entering the harem was instantly available. This was a useful way for Malaka to prove to the Prince that he was being unduly kind to a particular woman.

      But, perhaps, even more importantly, there was special sections for recording when a girl was selected for forced fertilisation, by what method, and with what semen. It would also show the dates when her contraception pills were stopped and her course of high fertility pills was started.

      Other pages would show the date on which artificial fertilisation or real mating was carried out; whether Malaka's scan showed that conception had been achieved, if so whether it was multiple; her progress during her enforced pregnancy; when she was first told, or realised, what was happening to her; her anticipated date of delivery; whether any artificial delays were to be imposed; and finally the number and weight of her progeny and the date of her being additionally branded with a Red Star.

Malaka handed back the two still blank books for Number 7 and 14, and asked instead for those of Blue 20A and 20B, the Dutch mother and daughter.

As Malaka was checking these and deciding whether  to recommend delaying their Day of Deliverance, Burka was looking at the identically swollen bellies of the mother and daughter,

       He laughed to himself as he thought how he had won with them at the last six monthly competitive Parade of Christian Brood Mares in Foal, often simply called the Belly Competition.

      Here each Team Overseer would bring and display his best white belly. Only if he had a matched pair was he allowed to show two. And he had had the only Christian matched pair in the harem - and now had another!

      No wonder the other Team Overseers were so jealous, for the prize money was considerable. Competition between the Team Overseers was intense. But it was the Prince who awarded the prize to the overseer showing the human Brood Mare he judged to have the prettiest and most arousing belly.

      Some of the bellies each Team Overseers chose to display would only be showing a mere hint of pregnancy. Others would be showing well.

      He smiled as he remembered the routine: each Team Overseer in turn would lead in his entry for the competition, with the naked woman crawling past the Prince's chair. Then the women would be led back past him, this time prancing to show off their bellies. Next, they would be made to keel on a row of cushions in front of the Prince and each overseer, in turn, would order his entry to kneel up to show off her belly, and swelling breasts - with her hands clasped behind her neck to tighten the muscles.

      Finally Arab music would fill the room and the row of women would have to stand up on their cushions and belly dance, their swollen bellies cavorting in time to the sensuous music.

      Not until then would the Master announce the winner - the one he had found the most arousing.

      Burka had won the last competition a few months ago with his mother and daughter. But it was not  merely the similarly swelling bellies that had aroused the Prince, for they had been the first European matched pair in the harem - and what a mind blowing pair they were. A real live mother and daughter!

      Not surprisingly when they first arrived in the harem, he just could not wait for them to be mated, and then for their bellies to start showing, so that he could enter them in the next Belly Competitions.

Again Burka thought back to the last annual competition, only a month ago.

      Competition had been as fierce as ever.

      Rafta, the 18 year old overseer of the Red Team, had  been sure of winning with his beautiful dark eyed, blond, Spanish, former school teacher. The thought of  how  different her former life had been to her present fate as one of the Prince's brood mares had certainly been mentally arousing. Equally, physically arousing had been her voluptuous figure and her artificially enlarged, but still firm, breasts over her prettily and now very distended brand marks.

       There were rumours that he had persuaded Nadu and Malaka to allow him to have her foaling delayed so that he could enter her, knowing that her now hugely curved belly would certainly catch the Prince's eye.

      Another strong competitor had been Yoka, the overseer of the Yellow Team and his great rival, with his very tall Polish girl. With her shaved, shiny head and big brass nose ring, the sign of the Yellow Team, above her swollen belly, she too made a strangely erotic sight.

      Gorka, the young little pygmy overseer of the Green Team, had entered a lovely Italian girl with a beautifully curved belly.

      However, even all this strong competition had been swept aside at the first appearance in a Belly Competition of young Burka's mother and daughter. Nothing, the Prince had clearly felt, could beat the sheer mental excitement of forcing a mother and daughter into carrying the unwanted child of the same stud!

       How he had laughed when he saw the delightful way the girl had nervously held her mother's hand as she felt her progeny kicking inside her!

      To the anger of his rival Team Overseers, not only had Burka won the competition but had even been awarded a specially large extra prize, by the delighted Prince. More money!

But what would happen, Burka worried, after the mother and daughter had safely delivered their progeny and he had no white woman in his team in-foal? 

      The mother and daughter were due to foal just about at the time of the next competition. If Malaka and Nadu would agree to impose a delay, then surely the sight of their bellies would gain sweep aside the opposition.

      Then, of course, he would enter the other and daughter in the inter-team milking competition. Indeed, he had high hopes of the mother and daughter for these competitions for the milkmaid giving most milk. Although they did not know each was carrying twin giant Dinkas and nature would ensure that their milk glands grew to feed them.

       But could he trust his rival Team Overseers not to cheat by keeping a girl un-milked for a whole day before entering her in the competition?

      But what about the Belly Competition?

      He glanced at the flat bellies of 7 and 14.

      The Prince was clearly delighted with having acquired them - an unusual matched pair made up of an Englishwoman and a Frenchwoman. Doubtless, he would find the sight of their nicely swollen bellies equally erotic.

      But how long, he wondered, would the Prince want to keep their bellies flat before authorising their insemination or mating?

      'If you like,' said Malaka, as if guessing his young colleague's concerns, 'in order to get things moving, I'll suggest to the Prince that instead of having them secretly artificially fertilised, which had been his plan, he should make  the mating of this unusual couple form the highlight of a banquet for some of his friends.'

      'Oh, what a good idea,' agreed Burka. 'And instead of the usual Black Guards, how about using a couple of those visiting muscular Turkish wrestlers - after, with their bodies glistening with oil,  they had fought each other in a display of wrestling.'

      'Yes, indeed,' agreed Malaka. This young boy was coming up with some good ideas.

      'Or perhaps we could borrow two pygmy stallions from the breeding pens of his friend the Caid? I hear that they have proved to be highly fertile and the Caid might well be delighted to cross them with white women.'

      Both black eunuchs laughed cruelly.

Malaka held up a bottle of pills.

      'It's important.' he said, 'that you use these pills immediately to delay the two new women coming into season. The emotional shock of finding themselves in a harem often brings it on early. It's important that they come into season with the rest of your Blue Team in three weeks time.'

      Burka laughed. How shocked these two white women would be as they gradually discovered the full extent to which they were controlled by the Prince's black eunuchs.

      And,' went on Malaka, 'of course, you must put them on the standard harem course of contraceptive pills to prevent them from conceiving by mistake when the Prince takes them - something which I think will be happening before very long!'

      Burka laughed. Yes, he was looking forward, with Rosebud, to holding them down, still untrained, to be taken by the Prince. Their training as expert concubines could come later. The Prince always enjoyed taking a new girl, or matched pair, by force, the first time.

      Should he muzzle them, he wondered, for this first time? Which would the Prince find more arousing - their screams of protest or the sight of their muzzles? Perhaps he should have them muzzled initially and then whisperingly suggest that their muzzle be unfastened to allow their cries to be heard ...

      'And be ready,' Malaka was now saying,' to switch, without the girls realising what's happening, from the contraceptive pills to a course of the high power fertility ones. Don't forget that when the Prince decides to breed from them, he'll expect a multiple conception whether he's using the seed of his Black Guards, or your Turkish wrestlers or pygmies..

      Burka nodded. He remembered with a shiver the Prince's anger when one of the girls of his colleague, Rafta, in charge of the Red Team, had inadvertently only conceived a single child.

      'It's also time you started House Training these two new girls,' said Malaka, 'just as you would two new puppies. There's nothing so good for imposing discipline on these white women, who think they're so superior to us blacks, as controlling their natural functions! And remember we don't want any unpleasantness at the branding ceremony!

      Burka nodded and took out a little box of suppositories from the locked cupboard.

      Malaka pointed to the little television camera in the corner of the room. 'His Highness will be watching this!'

PART VI

TAKEN INTO THE HAREM

27 - HOUSE TRAINED!

Penelope was longing to speak to the other silent girls in the bath, her companions it seemed in the Blue Team. But like them the sight of Malaka cane, as well as now of Burka's dogwhip, kept her silent.

      Suddenly the boy black eunuch clapped his hands. The women all stood up and, keeping their hands clasped behind their neck, got out of the huge bath. Quickly they lined up in front of a row of identical brass bowls. Each bowl had a red line half way up on the inside, and was filled with scented rose-water up this line.

      'And you, two!' ordered the boy angrily and cracking his whip. 'Line up at the end!'

      Hastily Penelope and Chantalle joined the others. Penelope saw that the bowels were all numbered and the one in front of her was marked "14" - her harem number!

      The boy cracked and whip and gave an order in Arabic, repeating it in English.

      'Present buttocks'

      Penelope and Chantalle did not, at first, know just what to do. But they soon did as the boy, standing right behind them with his whip raised, barked out a series of humiliating orders.

      'Legs apart! ... Knees bend! ... Bend over! ... Tighter! ... Head up!'

      Penelope blushed as she followed the other women into bending over tightly, straining her neck back to keep her head up. But worse was to follow.

      'Raise buttocks! ... Look straight ahead! ... Now hold buttocks open with both hands! ... Wider apart! ... Wider!

      Oh. the shame! Penelope saw that Malaka was watching them, his cane still in his hand.

      Scared, Penelope found herself bending over like the rest of the women, looking straight ahead and with her hands holding the cheeks of her buttocks wide apart.

      She found herself swaying. She bent her knees more to keep her balance. Oh the humiliation of being made to take up this degrading position by a mere boy!

      Out of the corner of her eye she saw that the television camera was being remotely controlled to train slowly up and down the line of women. Oh how awful!

       She heard the black eunuch boy come behind them. He began to come slowly down the line behind her, doing something to each woman.

      Suddenly she felt his hands on her bottom. She felt her rear passage being greased. Oh no!

      'Hold cheeks apart!' came a warning. It was accompanied by a sharp warning tap of the dogwhip on her bottom

      Then she felt something being pushed up inside her, like a suppository - and by a boy! Oh the shame!

      She longed to look round to see what was being done to her, but seeing that the other women were keeping their eyes fixed on he wall in front of them, did not dare to do so.

      She heard the boy move onto Chantalle. She heard her gasp as the suppository was pushed up her too.

      'Up!' ordered the boy, coming round to the front of the line.

      The women jumped up and stood at silently at Attention, still looking straight ahead, and now again clasping their hands behind their necks. Clearly, thought Penelope, this was all a well practised routine. But what was it all about?

      But there was yet more to this routine, for while the suppositories were quietly doing their work, the boy now came down the line of women again, another box of pills in his hand - this time, although the women did not know it, they were contraceptive ones. As he passed each woman, she had to bend down and open her mouth so that the boy could reach up and pop in one of the pills. Then he stroked the woman's throat to make sure that she swallowed the pill.

      What, Penelope wondered anxiously, was this pill for? She longed to ask, to protest at being made to swallow a pill without knowing what it was. But, like her companions, she was too scared to do so. Having her throat stroked by the boy, to make sure that she, too, swallowed it, made her feel like an animal being dosed.

      Was it a contraceptive pill? Did the awful young boy keep all the women on the pill, she wondered.

There was now a long pause.

       The women remained silent as the boy now walked up and down behind them, watching with experienced eyes the alternating twitching of the women's buttocks and bellies. Occasionally he paused to reach round and feel a naked belly with an expert hand. He was determined to show Malaka that he kept his team sufficiently well disciplined to all perform together - even the two new arrivals.