Submitting to the Enemy: In the Prince's Harem ( by Fannie Tucker Page B
Authors: Fannie Tucker
Ads: Link
contempt. "My name is Omar," he said. "Some women find this interview stressful. Would you care for a cocktail before we begin?"
I demurred, and Omar nodded approvingly. I'd avoided the first of many traps. Prince Nazari wanted his women to blend in well with his native culture, and alcohol was forbidden.
What followed was a rapid-fire series of questions about my background and my motivations for seeking employment with the Prince. The questions about me were easy; I'd spent the last two weeks studying every aspect of the fictitious legend that the CIA had assembled for me - born in Miami to working-class parents, I had supposedly gone to NYU on a scholarship and followed that with an MBA from Colombia. The schools even had records under my assumed name - Isabel McPherson, and two professors would be willing to talk at length about their memories of me. The cover story was airtight.
Even my supposed motivations for pursuing a position under the Prince made sense. It would provide international experience and pay three times what Colombia's top graduates could expect to make.
Other questions were far more uncomfortable, not because I minded answering, but because I knew Cal was listening.
"Have you ever had anal sex?" Omar asked.
"No," I lied, pushing away the memory of Fierro Salas, the drug lord who had fucked me in the ass.
"Would you have anal sex if the Prince asked you to?"
"Whatever the Prince desires," I said.
Omar sat across from me and typed on an iPad , his face as expressionless as a master poker player. I resisted the urge to squirm as the questions grew more and more explicit.
Finally, Omar stood. "Come with me, Isabel."
I rose and followed him down a long hallway. To our right, I could see the countless lights of Lower Manhattan's skyscrapers. Even though I didn't like the city, I had to admit that the view was breathtaking. I tried not to gawk.
Omar pushed open a door at the end of the hallway. "Isabel, you have passed the preliminary interview. Next, you must impress the Prince himself. He is not here, but cameras in the ceiling and walls will send high-resolution video to his palace by satellite. You may use anything you find in the room to show the Prince that you are worthy of a place in his stable."
The corner of Omar's mouth turned up for an instant, as though he found this whole thing distasteful. "When the Prince has made his decision, the lights will grow bright. Get dressed and leave the room at once."
I nodded my head and cast my eyes toward the floor as I stepped past him. Omar stared at me a moment longer, then closed the door behind me.
Despite the floor-to-ceiling windows throughout the suite, this room was windowless. Low lighting cast deep shadows over a huge bed with black satin sheets. A shelf built into one wall held a vast array of sex toys ranging from double-pronged dildos to braided whips. A stripper pole gleamed in one corner near a high-end music system.
It was after three AM in Saudi Arabia. If Prince Nazari was watching, he was either an early riser or on the tail end of a night full of debauchery. I wondered how I could make an impression on a man accustomed to unrestrained hedonism, surrounded by women hand-picked to enable that lifestyle. What would get his attention at this late hour? What was the one thing he could never have?
Then it occurred to me. Innocence.
I went to the shelf and examined the toys there, pausing at a vaguely cone-shaped object that flared at the base. I picked up the butt plug and turned it over in my hands, frowning as though wondering what it was for.
Finally, I selected a modest vibrator and the butt plug, along with a small bottle of lubricant. I went to the bed and sat down on the end with my knees together and my back straight, the image of a proper young lady on a first date.
Several black orbs protruded from the ceiling and the walls; each one concealed a camera that
I demurred, and Omar nodded approvingly. I'd avoided the first of many traps. Prince Nazari wanted his women to blend in well with his native culture, and alcohol was forbidden.
What followed was a rapid-fire series of questions about my background and my motivations for seeking employment with the Prince. The questions about me were easy; I'd spent the last two weeks studying every aspect of the fictitious legend that the CIA had assembled for me - born in Miami to working-class parents, I had supposedly gone to NYU on a scholarship and followed that with an MBA from Colombia. The schools even had records under my assumed name - Isabel McPherson, and two professors would be willing to talk at length about their memories of me. The cover story was airtight.
Even my supposed motivations for pursuing a position under the Prince made sense. It would provide international experience and pay three times what Colombia's top graduates could expect to make.
Other questions were far more uncomfortable, not because I minded answering, but because I knew Cal was listening.
"Have you ever had anal sex?" Omar asked.
"No," I lied, pushing away the memory of Fierro Salas, the drug lord who had fucked me in the ass.
"Would you have anal sex if the Prince asked you to?"
"Whatever the Prince desires," I said.
Omar sat across from me and typed on an iPad , his face as expressionless as a master poker player. I resisted the urge to squirm as the questions grew more and more explicit.
Finally, Omar stood. "Come with me, Isabel."
I rose and followed him down a long hallway. To our right, I could see the countless lights of Lower Manhattan's skyscrapers. Even though I didn't like the city, I had to admit that the view was breathtaking. I tried not to gawk.
Omar pushed open a door at the end of the hallway. "Isabel, you have passed the preliminary interview. Next, you must impress the Prince himself. He is not here, but cameras in the ceiling and walls will send high-resolution video to his palace by satellite. You may use anything you find in the room to show the Prince that you are worthy of a place in his stable."
The corner of Omar's mouth turned up for an instant, as though he found this whole thing distasteful. "When the Prince has made his decision, the lights will grow bright. Get dressed and leave the room at once."
I nodded my head and cast my eyes toward the floor as I stepped past him. Omar stared at me a moment longer, then closed the door behind me.
Despite the floor-to-ceiling windows throughout the suite, this room was windowless. Low lighting cast deep shadows over a huge bed with black satin sheets. A shelf built into one wall held a vast array of sex toys ranging from double-pronged dildos to braided whips. A stripper pole gleamed in one corner near a high-end music system.
It was after three AM in Saudi Arabia. If Prince Nazari was watching, he was either an early riser or on the tail end of a night full of debauchery. I wondered how I could make an impression on a man accustomed to unrestrained hedonism, surrounded by women hand-picked to enable that lifestyle. What would get his attention at this late hour? What was the one thing he could never have?
Then it occurred to me. Innocence.
I went to the shelf and examined the toys there, pausing at a vaguely cone-shaped object that flared at the base. I picked up the butt plug and turned it over in my hands, frowning as though wondering what it was for.
Finally, I selected a modest vibrator and the butt plug, along with a small bottle of lubricant. I went to the bed and sat down on the end with my knees together and my back straight, the image of a proper young lady on a first date.
Several black orbs protruded from the ceiling and the walls; each one concealed a camera that
Similar Books
