The Three Domains: #12: The Routine of Harem Life

The Three Domains

Copyright © 2022, Dave Potter

Previous chapter: One (More) Night with the King

The Routine of Harem Life

That night I did not sleep as I had before. My arms were released from the awful reverse prayer training, and I was glad indeed when the blood rushed back, causing intense pins and needles as the feeling returned. But then, instead of being put to bed as before, manacles for attached to my wrists and ankles and from each of these a chain stretched to the four corners of the bed. After the stories and costumes of the day, my sex was on fire and I longed to touch it so much that it consumed my whole being but restrained so it was impossible. It was many hours before I eventually drifted off.

The following morning, rather than my original costume, no clothes were provided, and I understood that I would be spending the day – or at least the morning – in the First Domain. As such, my arms were secured behind me in the painful reverse prayer. In was still nowhere reaching the elegant configuration, but my grandmother did tell me that the distance between my elbows had noticeably shortened, and my hands were higher up my back. Not that I could tell of course.

After bathing and breakfast, I was led to grandmother in the sitting room who was dressed as usual. A manacle was fastened around my ankle, and this was attached to a chain which led to a post in the centre of the room. So, a true First Domain lady I was to be that morning!

Grandmother began telling her tales again. After the exciting episodes of the previous day, she now started talking about more mundane concerns, namely the day-to-day routine of harem life which began after that night of passionate lovemaking with the Sultan.

“Each day began the same. If I had slept with my Lord, then I would be led from his chamber, or if alone, I would be awoken and released from my bonds. I was taken to the hammam where my maid would bathe me thoroughly, before then toileting me and feeding me my breakfast, always small and healthy so as to keep my skin silky and blemish-free and my figure from going to fat.

“In the same vein, after breakfast, we were then taken to the gymnasium for our daily exercise session. Us Marigolds had our own gymnasium where we had to complete a proscribed routine. In order to do this, we were dressed in sportswear – a leotard or sports bra and shorts with trainers on our feet – and our reverse prayer released, padded gloves similar to those that a boxer wears being fitted over our hands. Our personal trainer, a short-haired and rather butch lady in her fifties would ensure that we were put through our paces, and she was most unforgiving. If we didn’t cycle or run fast enough, she would slap our bottoms hard which certainly did spur is on, although I think she did it because of the pleasure that she received from the act too, for she certainly enjoyed being intimate with her own sex and would regular fondle our bottoms or breasts as we exercised for her.

“Above the gymnasium was a great latticed screen through which the Sultan could observe us as we exercised. This was something that he liked to do regularly, finding the sight of lycra-clad female bodies in motion most alluring, and often he would get so aroused that he would unexpectedly stride into the room and take the girl who had excited him particularly whilst her sisters continued with their exercises. It was most exciting!

“And to be honest, after a few weeks, I started noticing the difference that the exercising was making to my body. Previously, I had never been a particularly active girl as our lifestyle prevented it in many respects, us being kept inside the house and away from unrelated males being the norm as it should be. But after exercising, my body felt different, tauter and harder I suppose. I could not touch myself to check first-hand, of course, my hands being continually restrained in one way or another, but during our Intimate Arts sessions, I felt the bodies of my Sisters with my cheeks and legs, and they too had a hardness about them quite unlike the soft flesh of our Lord.”

“What are Intimate Arts sessions, grandmother?” I asked, mystified as to why she would have been rubbing her cheeks or legs against the bodies of Ziazam and Talleen.”

“Oh, we shall be coming to the Intimate Arts very soon, my dear Sevan, very soon indeed. But please, do not interrupt my tale or I may feel the need to gag you, young lady!”

I smiled sheepishly for I knew that she was joking, but I did not interrupt further.

“Following our daily exercise, we were showered and then put in the First Domain where we would have chance to relax and chat whilst sitting chained in our Marigold Chamber. We always had lots to talk about as we were close. We might speak about the activities of the previous evening if one of us had had the honour of servicing our Lord, or perhaps some of the palace gossip, or maybe tales from our childhoods. What we never spoke about though, were current affairs and news items, for from the day that we entered the palace walls, we were never shown a newspaper or did we see a TV or computer.”

“Does that mean you were wholly ignorant of the goings on in the world then, grandmother?”

“Not wholly because on occasions, we were given the honour of entering the Third Domain and were taken to the Chamber.”

“The Chamber?”

“Yes, the Chamber, the most important room in the kingdom. It is a huge marble hall in the heart of the palace where the Sultan has his throne and where he addresses his honoured guests. Every Friday afternoon there was a public audience, and all the harem occupants were compelled to come as part of the demonstrations of the opulence and wealth of the country. But there were other occasions too, the presentation of a new ambassador for example, or a visiting foreign leader. And at every gathering one girl was chosen to be the Sultan’s confidant and companion, a visible representation to the watching world of the female aspect of his realm. This was an enormous honour and meant that she would kneel at his feet during the entire assembly whilst he perhaps would stroke her covered head or rest his hand on her and often, when the assembly was over, she would remain and relieve him of the tension that had built up during the session, him granting her the honour of removing her burqa and hood so she could use her mouth for the purpose.”

“Forgive me for interrupting, grandmother, but why would a concubine be afforded this great honour? Surely, that should fall to one of his queens?”

“Your question is an astute one, my little chicken, but queens have a different role to play and for them it would be physically impossible to fulfil that of Companion in the Chamber. However, I shall get onto queens later on.

“Returning to those Chamber sessions though, that was my only window onto the outside world for five years, and it wasn’t much of a window at that for, naturally, being blessed with the honour of the Third Domain, and in the presence of strange men, we were kept blinded for the entirety of the sessions and, covered with so many layers, our hearing was muffled and so much of the proceedings it was not possible to hear. At first, I got very little from them and slept through the majority of the proceedings – this was not uncommon amongst us concubines and Talleen and I often leant against one another for support, particularly after a busy night between the sheets, but as time passed, I slowly began to recognise certain voices, titles and names and to piece together what was happening so that I got a reasonable understanding of the affairs of state, something that was to come to the fore later, although I shall come to that in due course.”

“Were the visits to the Chamber the only time that you were honoured to enter the Third Domain, grandmother?”

“Not at all, Sevan. Indeed, we were accorded that honour quite often, particularly in the afternoons or evenings when the Sultan would decide to relax in the Shalimar Gardens. These were the pleasure grounds of the palace, a beautifully-landscaped area with flowers, fountains, shrubs and shady pagodas, all surround by high walls to keep the watching world out. They were named after the famous Shalimar Gardens of the Punjab where the Mughal emperors once played, but it is said that our version was far superior. Certainly, I doubt that the originals had so many exotic and rare plant species in them.

“But of course, they were technically outside, which meant wearing the full Third Domain regalia – something that we were honoured to do, naturally – and being led out to that beautiful place blinded and fully covered. However, once we were there, in his kindness, the Sultan’s grandfather who had commissioned the gardens, had provided pagodas specifically for concubines with screens to shield away the gaze of any strange males who might be accompanying the Sultan. So, we would be shepherded into these, the door locked, and our outer veil flipped back so that we could discern something of the beauty through our remaining layers and the screen. Of course, this was not so satisfying as seeing things unveiled – how many times did I dream then and indeed have I dreamt since of walking through those gardens naked, seeing, smelling and touching all. But of course, such thoughts are for dreams only; as women we are both a danger to men and they a danger to us and such actions would make a mockery of the perfection of the Three Domains. Even so, I did dream.”

I thought of my own hours spent in the Third Domain in my grandmother’s much humbler gardens and understood what she said. This did cause a question to arise though: “But grandmother, what of the heat caused by being covered so heavily under the blazing sun?”

“Well, the pagoda shielded us greatly, of course, and we had water to drink provided by the maids, but it is true that, in the afternoons, the heat could become almost intolerable and on several occasions I did pass out from it with my veiled head pressed upon the shoulder of my Sister. If that happened, I would be returned indoors, revived, and then sent back out again.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Shh, dear Sevan, how can it be terrible if it is the Three Domains? We must not criticise them! And besides, I wanted to return, to be with my darling Sisters in such a beautiful place, and when the sun set and music filled the air whilst the torches blazed and the fountains danced, one could truly imagine oneself to be in paradise itself.”

“And if the Sultan invited you to his bed afterwards, perhaps you were?!”

Grandmother laughed. “My darling, you are learning fast, you truly are!”

Next chapter: More Harem Life Routine

Sapphire’s Makeover

This story is a standalone Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.

You quickly put away your phone and tried to look innocent when they unexpectedly walked into the prayer room. Your heart also sank. You’d come to see this place as your private domain, your retreat from the strictures of the world. What’s more, you wondered what on earth they could want. They didn’t usually do things like this… en masse.

“Sapphire dear,” said MiL, her voice sweet and saccharine which did not bode well. “Missy and I have been having a chat…”

“A very long chat,” inserted Missy’s mother. What on earth was she chatting about you for?

“We want to help you, Sister,” added Missy with a smile.

‘But I neither want nor need any help, especially from you!’ you retort in your mind. But of course, you don’t say it out loud. You really do not wish to upset people.

“You sit in here, all day long, preparing classes, yes, but what else? Prayer is good, that I agree, but you have duties too,” says MiL.

“My daughter is tired; you need to pull your weight!” adds Missy Mum, M&M. You smile at that nickname which you just thought up. You’ll call her that from now on: M&M. She reminds you of an M&M actually; rather round and not as nice when you get to know her as she appears at first glance.

You are about to retort that you do pull your weight. You do your fair share of household duties and cooking, and then you also teach in the mosque.

“You are a wife Sapphire, yet you are acting like you are still a student in that university. Your duty now is to fulfil your husband, not to mooch around alone reading books. You have already failed in your main duty with regards to providing me with a grandson, but there are still other ways you can be a good wife.”

She stops there, letting the accusation linger in the air. You feel it’s unfair; after all, Missy has been banging away like a rabbit since she got here, and she’s not knocked up yet either. Maybe the problem is with the process does not lie with the women?

Once again, you stay silent.

As always you do not want to upset people.

Do not want to create a scene.

“And it is not your fault that Missy here is a better cook,” adds M&M. “You did not have the advantage of being taught how to cook full Punjabi menu that she did, but I have told her to instruct you. Of course, it is not the same as having me as your teacher, but it must suffice.”

“Hubby does so love my nihari!” Missy chips in.

“It is not the cooking that is the issue here,” snaps MiL, reasserting her control. “Persian and Arab cuisine is equal to Punjabi in every respect. Ok, so Sapphire is not the best at it – although her baba ganoush is passable – but she did not have me to instruct her. However, the problem lies deeper; it lies at the heart of any marriage: it is the marriage bed.”

You gulp. This thing more than any other you did not want to talk about. You like things as they are, being left alone to do your thing in your sanctuary. Your kinks, weird as they might be, give you that sexual outlet. And what you find on Twitter is far more imaginative and interesting that the mechanical rutting provided by legal means.

“It is clear than you do not like sex and perhaps fear it, Sapphire. Who knows, perhaps you even prefer your own gender, although I suspect you just have no sexual drive or imagination?”

Your mind casts back to your three hour conversation on Twitter last night and you suppress the urge to smile. She has no idea!

 “Whatever the case, it is unacceptable and you must change. A wife exists to serve her husband. Our own holy book says that she must not refuse his requests or else the angels themselves will be angry with her, yet you do just that, citing ridiculous excuses like tiredness or a headache. He should beat you for such insolence, but he is not man enough I fear.”

You smile inwardly again. You wouldn’t mind a beating actually, a firm paddling on the bottom for your many sins, and then being forced to wear a buttplug all night as an extra penance.

You stay silent and avert your gaze.

“However, if that were all it was, then it wouldn’t be a problem. No, our issues go deeper. Missy here has been talking to your husband. She has been asking him why he doesn’t invite his first wife to his bed more often.”

You are stunned! What?! The little bitch! How could she talk to him about such… personal things!

You long to leap over to her and claw her goody-goody two-shoes eyes out with your fingernails.

But instead, you stay silent.

You do not want to upset people.

You do not want to create a scene.

“He says that the problem is that he doesn’t feel any sexual attraction when around you. Of course, your own lack of enthusiasm in bed and complete absence of any sexual imagination are part of that, but they are not the whole. He says that something about you makes him wish not to be intimate.”

“I thought he was talking about those tiny breasts or broad waist of yours,” says Missy, picking up the thread. You are mortified that she feels she can talk about you, her co-wife, in this manner, but she seems to find it natural and ok. As do the two older women. “Or perhaps the fact that you do not shave your entire body often enough, but no, not entirely it seems (although he did confess that he loves my big breasts and tiny waist); he says that a few months ago he attended a lecture by an eminent Sheikh and, afterwards, they got talking and when he revealed his – and your – names and heritage, the Sheikh’s countenance changed. This Sheikh said that it is recorded in the history books that you are descended from Jews, a prisoner taken at the Battle of Khaybar to be more precise. Well, this revelation stunned our hubby; really shocked him, but he says that now, when he sees you with your pale skin and blue eyes, he can only think of evil Zionists who murder the people in Palestine, whereas with me, he is reminded of the pious people of Pakistan.”

You have Jewish heritage? Actually, that’s not a revelation really. Unlike these uneducated twerps, you’d read about what happened at Khaybar years before on the internet. In fact, you’d always felt an affinity with the poor unnamed Jewess who had been taken as war booty and forced to marry a man she never wanted.

You felt a connection.

“Well, this is serious as you can imagine,” starts MiL, who likes to control things. “As you know, I have long had issues with your appearance; that is why we bought those brown contact lenses as a solution to the problem of your blue eyes.”

The contact lenses. How you hate them! That was several years ago, when you were first married. MiL received comments from members of the women’s group in the masjid. “Sapphire doesn’t really fit in; those blue eyes are a distraction to men even with her niqab.” They’d held a family conference about them, referring to them as a problem’ My eyes are not a problem, they are who I am!’ you’d longed to scream then; you long to scream now. ‘They are beautiful, the part of me that I most adore! Other things about my appearance cause me shame, yes, but they do not! They are the reason for my name!’ Hubby had suggested niqabs with eyeveils, but MiL didn’t like it. “How can she teach the children in the madrassah when they can’t see her eyes?” So, the contacts were devised as a compromise. You have to wear them whenever you leave the house.

“And since Covid when you stopped wearing niqab and switched to a mask, it has got worse,” MiL continues. “I understand why and support you; your modesty is preserved, but more skin can be seen around the eyes and you are so pale that it is beginning to attract comments. You need to fit in Sapphire, not stand out. It creates a scene!”

‘But I am who I am? Why must I become someone or something that I am not just to fit in?’ you long to plead.

Instead, though, you stay silent. It would upset her.

“Anyway, we three have talked it over and devised a solution. I have made my son, your husband, agree to pay for it, and so today we are going out. Sapphire, you need a makeover; your skin needs darkening and those traits of Jewishness need erasing. Put on your mask and coat, we are leaving for the shopping centre.”

---

Stacey’s Beauty Emporium takes up two buildings on Market Street, one of Bradford’s main shopping thoroughfares. MiL is not entirely happy with frequenting what was obviously a gorah establishment. M&M assures her however, that many women in the Muslim community do use the establishment and that their reputation is good and there will be no comeback for going there. Besides, Pakistani establishments, for obvious reasons, do not provide tanning options, and so MiL relents, a gorah shop it must be.

However, when you enter through the doors, you’re all both surprised and pleased to be greeted by a dark-skinned lady with coal-black eyes and long raven hair. Perhaps this place does have an Asian element after all?

You are all are shown into a private consulting room where they could remove their masks safely. Then MiL explains her “problem”: her daughter does not please her husband and she stands out in the Asian community because she appears “abnormal”. She does not mention the Jewish element as one cannot be too careful of Zionist infiltration, even here in Bradford. But Sapphire must change, and they believe that some sort of tanning could be the solution?

“She needs to look more desi like my daughter,” adds M&M as a brief summary.

The desi shop assistant smiles pityingly at you and says she understands. Yes, tanning is an option, necessary even, but do they not all realise that so much more is available to help poor girls like Sapphire, and here at Chloe’s Beauty Emporium, all needs can be fulfilled.

You are concerned. Getting tanned, although rather ridiculous, is one thing, but you do not want to go further. What is also worrying is that, aside from some pitying looks, this woman is totally ignoring you, instead addressing all her comments to the other three. She has correctly guessed where the power lies. You wish to remind her that, actually, you are there and it is you they are talking about. But that would upset people.

You stay silent.

“We may perhaps explore these, but firstly this tanning; how is it done?” reasserts MiL

“Well madam, the most common approach is lying on a UV bed which essentially replicates the rays of the sun. This is effective though, it only lasts as long as a real-life tan say on a beach so it needs regular return visits, and there is a slight risk of cancer through the over exposure to UV rays.”

“Is there another option? It is not appropriate for Sapphire to be leaving the house alone and we may struggle to find to find sisters to accompany her on a regular basis.”

“Well, another popular option is what we call a spray tan. Sapphire here would go into something like a tent, and we would spray her with a tanning agent all over. This is much safer and lasts about a week to ten days, but you could then get your own tanning spray kit for home and essentially top up the patches there and then, when you have someone free to accompany her, she can return here for a full treatment. Plus, there is no risk of UV ray exposure.”

“Hmm… that sounds better, although not ideal. Are they the only two options?”

The assistant smiles. “Not at all, madam. Another option, are these tablets here. If your daughter-in-law was to take them every day in the morning, she could achieve a permanent, beautiful tan without the need for the sunbeds or spray.”

MiL takes the packet and turns them over in her hand. “How do such things work?” she asks. “It sounds dodgy.”

The Pakistani woman laughs. “Not dodgy at all, madam, and much safer than the sunbeds with the risk of over exposure to the UV rays. They are quite simple really; the active ingredient in these tanning pills is a food-colouring additive called canthaxanthin. When she ingests this colour additive, it releases pigment-changing compounds in her skin, and long-term use will make her skin turn darker.”

“She would appear properly brown like a real desi?” asks M&M

“Well, almost. While actual tanning in the sun causes melanin in your skin to darken, tanning pills work from the inside out, releasing the colour additives throughout your skin. So, the result ends up sometimes looking slightly more orange compared to the beautiful brown skin that a real desi woman such as yourself has.”

M&M smiles. You feel sick.

“The principle sounds good, but I would like to see the results before I buy them for her,” says MiL. Once again you are astonished at how you are being talked about, not consulted, as if you were a little girl with no agency of her own. You long to scream, ‘Excuse me, I am here you know!’ But that would cause a scene, upset people. You stay silent and demure, eyes downcast.

The woman laughs again. “Well, the results are before you! I also use this product!”

“But you are desi!” exclaims M&M.

“No, not at all. My name’s Stacey, Stacey Rashid. I’m the owner of this shop. My husband too likes the desi look, and before I met him, I was into tanning, and I dyed my hair black anyway. My look was actually what attracted him to me; naturally I’m a blonde with blue eyes! You should be thankful, Sapphire; at least you don’t need to dye your hair every week as well!”

“Mashallah!” your trio of oppressors exclaim.

You do not feel thankful in the slightest.

“We will take a full course, that is what she needs! Here, Sapphire, take the first one now!”

She thrusts the tablet that she has removed from the box into your hand. You look at it with fear. You don’t want to be turned into some sort of orange pseudo-Pakistani just to quell rumours and make you more like Missy for your husband. But how can you refuse? How can you tell them that you don’t care what he finds attractive or what society thinks you should look like? How can you tell them that you should not be medically altered to hide your heritage just because of his antisemitic attitudes.

But imagine the scene if you did! Imagine how upset they would all be! Silently, hating yourself, you take the glass of water that Stacey hands you and swallow the tablet.

“Excellent Sapphire,” she chirps, “but do be aware that these will take a couple of weeks to work.”

“Then she will undergo the spray treatment first as a temporary measure. Full body!” decreed MiL.

You have always had a fear – and indecent longing for – exposure. There, in the beauty salon, those fears materialise. Even though only women are present, being made to strip before a crowd is shame making and humiliating. You long to wrap the large fluffy white towel around you that Stacey has provided, but MiL snatches it away and they peruse your naked body as if it were a piece of meat on discount or a substandard sculpture in an art gallery.

“Hmm… I can see why your husband is not aroused,” says M&M to her daughter. “That is not a desi body.”

“Oh, I think she’s rather pretty,” retorts Missy in a voice that suggests she is just trying to be nice. “I wish my bum was a bit bigger.”

“Bigger bottom is one thing, but a desi woman also has proper breasts and a teeny tiny waist like yours, my princess.”

“It is true that I do have a nice waist,” she agrees. Hubby likes to hold me by it when we are together.”

“Shh! For shame! Not in this public place!”

“Oh, do not worry, madam,” says Stacey. “We hear everything in here. This is a female domain. And it is true that a man does like a tiny waist. Mine was when I was younger, but as we age it is harder, as Sapphire here can tell. However, I have a solution that might be of use. However, before we start with her spray tan, may I suggest that she gets herself properly smoothed first…?”

Her eyes indicate towards your excessive body hair which you are always embarrassed about. You have shaved where you need to, but to do the entire body is not practical.

“You should have shaved properly, Sapphire!” snaps MiL.

“Well, madam, I wasn’t necessarily thinking of shaving,” continues Stacey. “We do offer other options that are more effective and last longer. I personally would recommend the waxing.”

Waxing. Isn’t that where they apply a paste to you, then a sticky bandage of some sort and literally rip out the hair follicles at the root?!

“What is the price?”

“We do a package in which it is included with the other services.”

“It would be quicker to shave her.”

“Yes, but then in a week or so it would all need doing again, whereas waxing lasts four to six weeks on average.”

You long to ask, ‘But isn’t it painful? It sounds too painful! Don’t do that to me!’ but they wouldn’t listen. ‘A wife must make sacrifices for her husband!’ or ‘The pain of childbirth is far greater!’ are what they’d say. You stay silent.

“We could have a monthly appointment here!” squeals Missy, clapping her hands.

“Monthly appointments can be included in our annual package,” says Stacey. “It works out cheaper.”

“Wax her!” says MiL.

You and Missy lie side-by-side on the table, naked and exposed, whilst the older women look on intently. At first it is own embarrassing as Stacey and the Vietnamese girl working with her apply the paste and the patches, and when they set and you are given a cooling drink, it is almost pleasant. But then the removal begins…

Rrrrrrip! As the patch comes off, tearing out the countless hairs in the process.

“Aaaaahhhhhhhhhh!!!!! Stop, please stop!!!”

“Please, do not make a fuss, girl!” admonishes MiL.

Rrrrrrip! Another patch comes off.

“Ya Allaaaaaahhhhhh!!!!!”

“Sapphire, you are causing a scene! Look at Missy here, she is silent and demure.”

You look across at your sister in suffering. As her patch is ripped off her teeth clench and tears form in her eyes, but on her mouth, a smile plays. Astaghfirullah!!! Is she actually getting pleasure from this?!

Trying to take your mind away from things and not to cause the scene that would so upset MiL, you retreat to your night-time conversations with your Twitter “Master”, when he paddles you for your misdemeanours and you roar out in digital agony. You imagine that the patches are paddles and each one a wallop for your sin, your unworthiness, your weird kinks, your blasphemy, your lying double life.

And like Missy, a faint smile forms on your mouth too, even as the tears flow.

After the waxing your skin is red and angry, and Stacey says it is not suitable for the tanning. However, as you and Missy recover, she talks with the two older ladies and then returns to you.

“Whilst you recover from your waxing, we’ll do the other treatments,” she says. “Put this dressing gown on and come with me.”

Other treatments? What other treatments?

She leads you to another room where there is a chair a bit like the ones that dentists use. You are told to sit in it and, as always, you obey.

“Right, we’ll start with the eyebrows and then do the lips,” says Stacey.

Eyebrows? But your have been plucked into graceful arches already.

It seems though, that this is not enough. Pakistani girls have more prominent, thicker eyebrows and MiL is not happy with how often you attend to yours. The solution that they have decided upon is permanent tattooing. You’d thought that tattoos were haram but as usual, these restrictions only count when they suit. For beautification purposes, the aunties have no issues whatsoever.

The gun tickles as they apply it, a little painful, but after the agony of the waxing, it is fine. Your only complaint is that you are not allowed to see the finished result. Naturally though, this complaint is unvoiced.

You expect the tattoo gun to come out again for the lips, but instead a different needle is produced. As the Vietnamese girl silently injects you – and this is more painful – you feel your lips get puffier and puffier. As always, no explanation is offered, but towards the end the two older ladies are invited over.

“I am not sure,” says MiL.

“Oh, the swelling will subside a little and the shape will be beautiful.”

“It is a big improvement even with the swelling on those narrow, cold lips she had before. Desi girls have luscious ones that please their husbands immensely.”

“Hubby loves mine when I use them on him!” chips in Missy who has come over to look. “Sapphire, you look so pretty now! Hubby will love it!”

What had they done to your lips. You brought your fingers up to them and they feel puffy and obscene. You imagine that, if you tried to speak it would come out slurred and indistinct.

“After two more courses, they’ll be perfect, Sapphire!” declares Stacey. “We can do the second course during next month’s appointment. And, madam, have you given my Botox idea any thought?”

“Well, it depends on the cost of course,” says MiL, “but it does sound like it might be a solution that works. Her age is showing, and those wrinkles will not please my son. They are most likely one of the main reasons why he does not invite her to his bed anymore.”

“And the botox will eliminate them all!” declared Stacey.

“But surely there are side effects?”

“Well, there are, yes, as with every intervention. The Botox essentially kills the muscles in the face so that it becomes harder to grimace or make facial expressions. After many courses, the effect can become almost like a mask or a doll, but we are naturally not talking about such measures for beautiful young Sapphire here.”

“If she was so young and beautiful, we wouldn’t be talking about this at all,” snaps MiL. “However, she does grimace and scowl too much; I have talked to her about it on many occasions. Anything to cure that would be a good thing.”

“Then we can start the Botox next month as well!”

“That still doesn’t solve those tiny breasts and broad waist,” says M&M snarkily.

“And, as I said, I do have a temporary solution for those,” replies Stacey, “although I do suggest you look further into my suggestion about augmentation and liposuction. It is expensive, I know that, but I believe in Pakistan it can be done to a very high standard at a fraction of the cost. However, if you were to do it in the UK, then we do have a discount deal with our partners at K&B Cosmetic Surgeries in Manchester. Their work is the highest standard, as can be seen from my own breasts.”

She bounces her considerable and obviously unreal bosom in your face. It looks obscene and sluttish.

“And you are thinking about giving Sapphire something like that?” asks Missy, flaunting her own breasts.

“Well, personally, if you are going for the desi look, I’d go much bigger.”

“Desi girls have magnificent bosoms!” declares M&M.

“I kept mine smaller because I do a lot of sports and they’d get in the way.”

“Sapphire does not have time for sports. She needs to concentrate on her duties and a proper pair of tits would not hinder those. We will look into it.”

They want to enlarge your breasts! To actually physically change your body, make you a different shape. Inside you scream, ‘No! No! I am me! Love me for who I am! Don’t change me! Accept me as Allah created me, all you who are supposed to be so religious and pious! Stop your hypocrisy! Beauty is on the inside, not the out! Leave me be! Let me return to my prayer room and my Twitter friends, my writing and my solitude! Let me be Sapphire not some desi, Pakistani… thing!’

You cast your eyes to the floor and say nothing. It is not right to upset people.

You are taken through to the room where they apply the spray tan. Forced to expose your nakedness before them all, you are led to a kind of tent in which you must stand. Then the Vietnamese girl comes with the kit, a large gun-type thing, a bit like what they wash cars with at that Kurdish place on the Otley road. You feel like a car; the possession of a man, being made clean and fresh so that he may feel satisfied when he enters you. And also, so when neighbours and relatives see you – females only of course, in that regard a car has more rights and freedoms – you reflect his status and brilliance. Now you are an ageing Ford whilst Missy is a sparkling BMW. Yes, an antiquated Ford is what you are. You recall when you were young that there was a car called a Sapphire. Your male relatives used to point them out to you. They were nondescript and bland. Now this white Sapphire is being resprayed gold.

The process takes time and you have to turn around and expose your frontal nakedness to the room. You wish to curl up and die, you who is so modest, who never exposes more than an ankle even to your spouse. But there is no choice, not without a scene. As the silent Vietnamese girl works, Stacey explains. “The atomiser sprays a mist of the tanning solution over all the exposed skin. With no harmful UV exposure, it has been heralded as a safe alternative to traditional tanning, although some women have reported side effects, itching and allergies and the like.”

“We wives must suffer to be beautiful for our husband!” chirps in Missy which causes Mil and M&M to smile with pride.

“As you have chosen a rather darker shade than most, then you need to be aware of the short time period of effectiveness as the contrast with her natural skin tone is marked. Within a week or ten days, it will start to peel and show. Of course, when the tanning tablets start to do their work, then it won’t matter, but we will provide you with a home kit to touch Sapphire up in the meantime, although a full respray might be a good idea in a fortnight.”

The spray feels funny on your skin as it dries. Almost imperceptible yet there, nonetheless.

You stand there exposed, and they examine you. “Mashallah, she is getting there!” declares M&M.

“We still need to sort out those breasts and waist,” says MiL.

“Well then, here is my solution,” says Stacey. “Will you permit me to undress a moment before you, ladies?”

You note that she only asks them. You and your views are irrelevant. You stand there naked and tanned as they agree.

Stacey removes her top and the trio gasp and declare, “Mashallah!” You look on intrigued. She is wearing a most unusual item of underwear.  It is a white garment made of what looks like silk but somehow stiffened with rods and tied at the back. It reaches from her hipbones to just below her fake breasts and is laced at the rear. What is incredible is that it pulls in her middle to unnaturally small proportions, so that she has a silhouette not to dissimilar to Missy’s teenage hourglass.

“It is called a corset and women used to wear them here in the Victorian days. My waist is naturally thirty inches. Wearing this, I can take five off without trouble – that is what I am now for working – but for special occasions I lace it further, down to as small as twenty-two.”

“Ya Allah!”

“She must have one, just like that!” declared MiL.

“Of course, that does not address the insufficient bosom,” continues Stacey, casually indicating towards you. “For me, that is not a problem and, if Sapphire here has implants as I suggest, nor shall she, but in the meantime, we must do something else. Pham, can you bring a suitable bra please, you can guess her size.”

The Vietnamese girl nods and scuttles off.

“The corset does help, actually, as it pushes excess fat away from the waist and both onto the hips and up to the bosom. However, it is not enough. Here we are, thank you Pham. This bra here; it is padded as you can see, creating the illusion of sufficient breasts.”

You gasp. It is obscene. Wearing that your breasts will appear huge!

“It is not ideal, but it will do for now,” says MiL.

Pham approaches with the corset and fastens it around your waist. At first it is comfortable then, as she pulls on the laces, tight, like you are receiving a much-wanted hug from your Twitter “Master”. Then though, she continues to tug, and the laces draw in further. Your breathing feels restricted, and you start to panic. “Ya Allah!” you gasp but MiL tutts. How will you cope though, short of breath and restricted like this.

Still, she pulls, tighter and tighter, your head swimming a little now, your bosom heaving up and down lewdly. You cannot take anymore, you really can’t! You don’t want to make a scene; you want people to like you and be pleased with you, but truly, this is too much!

Just when you are about to cry out, she stops and ties them off. “Still a couple of inches gap,” declares Stacey, but as her body adjusts and settles, you’ll be able to close that within a month or so.

You stand there gasping and panting, breasts surging. Two more inches! How could you ever cope?!

“Of course, the corset is not comfortable, particularly at first, and many girls are tempted to loosen or remove it,” continues Stacey.

You grimace – which you can at least do for now – for she has read your mind.

“Here, put this belt around the stem and lock it here with this padlock in the small of her back.” You hear the click. “Who shall keep the key? You madam?”

MiL nods and accepts it. Your fate is sealed. You are literally imprisoned in your clothing!

“What about at night?” MiL.

“Keep it on. It helps with the reduction.”

You are to sleep like this! But how?

“Now the bra!”

Pham approaches and fastens the garment on you. Your breasts, already panting lewdly, are pushed up obscenely. You look down and see that a ridge has formed at the top of them. Why, they almost reach to your shoulders!

“Mashallah, what an improvement!” declared MiL.

“Almost desi,” adds M&M.

“You’re so pretty now, Sapphire!” squeaks Missy.

“Shall we get you dressed again?” suggests Stacey.

“No, not the old clothes,” says MiL. “They did not please her husband. The abayah and hijab, yes, they are necessary for modesty, but what she wore underneath was unacceptable. You will be wearing only shalwar kameez from now on, in accordance with your new look, Sapphire.”

M&M hands you a folded set of garments. There is a pair of panties which you gladly don to cover your shame, then a pair of baggy red stain trousers, gathered at the ankles that obscure that bum that your Twitter “Master” so adores and you do not. Then comes the kameez, a beautiful garment in cream adorned with printed red roses. With its high collar and long sleeves, it affords full coverage, but its form clings to the contours of your body.

“The image is complete!” declares M&M.

“Not quite!” warns Stacey. “You say that it is the Pakistani look that Sapphire so desires, but really, those piercing blue eyes, pretty as they are, sort of spoil it.”

“Do not fear,” says MiL. “She already has brown contacts at home for this problem.”

“Brown, you say? But is that enough. You Pakistani women are famous for being blessed with large, dark eyes. I believe that you should go further. Here, have these, as a gift from Stacey’s Beauty Emporium!”

She hands you a box. You open it and look at the pair of contact lenses inside. You already hate your brown lenses, what they represent, what they do to you. How they made you “normal” and everyday. These though, are a step beyond: two coal-black circles. You hate them immediately, long to throw them on the floor, but you do not. Never upset anyone Sapphire. Never make a scene!

With an act of reigned submission, you place each one carefully in your eyes.

“Mashallah!” the trio declare, clapping.

“Here, take a look at your new self, Sapphire!” says Stacey.

She leads you to a mirror and you stare at the image reflected back.

It is not you.

It is nothing like you.

You have been erased.

Where before stood a pale-skinned, blue-eyed Persian girl, now stands a Pakistani. But not just a Pakistani, a very stereotype of everything desi. You skin is not just brown, but excessively so, darker than Missy’s. You realise her plan now; she was jealous of your paleness. She needed it erased.

Your body silhouette is unreal. The kameez clings to the form but hides the artificial underpinnings that have created it. A miniscule waist that looks ready to snap at any moment supporting an obscene maternal bosom that rises and falls with each laboured breath as you struggle to bring air into your constricted lungs.

But it is your face that shocks you the most, for it is no longer yours. The bottom is dominated by enormous, puffing, pouty lips that seem designed for only one purpose, whilst above your eyes ridiculous, high arched brows of solid black ink make you appear continually surprised, mindless and dumb.

But it is those eyes themselves, formerly potent indicators of your hidden zest, wit, intelligence, and rebellion, now transformed into two empty voids, ebony pools of mindless submission.

Who is this person?

---

That night they style your hair, perfume and oil you and affix Pakistani jewellery through your nose piercing. It clinks against your dark brown skin as they take you to your husband’s bed for the first time in months.

He stares in rapture, unbelieving, aroused. He holds your constricted waist tightly as he takes you selfishly, only considering his own pleasure, not caring a mite for your own.

Why should he? Do you even exist anymore?

During his mindless ramming away you imagine yourself back in your prayer room, alone with that safety valve world that you desire, nay, need, so very much.

A world now denied for you know he will want his full marital rights with this new Sapphire.

---

The following morning, he calls the whole household together. M&M is not there; she is back in her own home, and that is one small mercy. But it is humiliating enough. He praises your new look and thanks his mother and his second wife for helping you to achieve it. Then, he goes further.

“You are right in what you said, Missy, about me not being attracted to Sapphire before because of what she represented, who she was. When I learnt of her having Jewish blood from the esteemed sheikh who came to visit, then it really affected me. I felt that I was living with an Israeli, one of those vile Zionist oppressors who rape Palestinian mothers and shoot worshippers at Al-Aqsa. Yes, it is true that I may well be tainted in this way also, but I don’t have to look at myself, do I? And the fact that we are cousins and grew up together. When I see you, I do see that childhood playmate and it is, well, strange. I never had that issue with my lovely second wife, but I was wrong to neglect you. Last night was a revelation; I finally managed to free myself of the Zionist thoughts for no Jew could look so desi as you now do. However, I do confess that I still had a momentary reminder of the childhood friend when I called out your name in ecstasy, and that bothered me. However, I have a solution.

In two months’ time, as a special treat for my second wife’s birthday, we shall be taking a trip to her family village in Kashmir. Whilst we are there, however, you, my wonderful first wife, will be going to Lahore with my mother, where you will undergo all the procedures that she discussed with me, so as to further transform you. Prior to then, I will symbolically divorce you by pronouncing talaq thrice, but then when you have been transformed and recovered, you and my mother will travel to Missy’s village where we will have a Pakistani wedding ceremony and so Islamically remarry – naturally, under UK law, nothing will have changed. I have already started the process by Deed Poll of changing your name from Sapphire – suitable for a Persian girl with blue eyes, but hardly apt for your new appearance – to Layla, for that means ‘night’, which is both the time we spend together, but also what I think of when I gaze into those new black eyes of yours. You will become my new second wife and finally, our doubts and marital hang-ups will be overcome, and we can live as one happy and pious family, inshallah with numerous sons.”

“Inshallah!” echo MiL and Missy as they smile with joy and hug you for your good fortune.

You merely stand there and try to take it all in. This is not the end, merely the beginning. They will not stop until that vivacious, rebellious, intelligent, and talented Sapphire is completely extinguished. You are to become his second desi wife. Beautiful in a way you hate, but always inferior to the first, for she is the real thing; you are merely a resprayed copy. In your place will exist Layla, a second wife, not the first. Weighed down by gargantuan breasts, her face frozen into a doll-mask by the Botox so she may not even express her opinions through expressions, her huge lips designed only for pleasuring the husband that she never asked for, her whole being committed to being pleasing for him and fitting in with the society around.

Those two blue flames forever extinguished by a pair of black voids.

Only one thing remains from before.

You stay silent. You cannot upset anyone.

You do not create a scene.

17/05/2022

Sapphire’s Journey

This story is a Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.

This story is the second instalment in Sapphire’s Saga which begins with Sapphire’s Coffee.

He in his wilderness could be as free and as mad as he liked; she had always been a prisoner, first her father’s, then her husband’s. a prisoner courted, loved and spoiled – but did that ease her fate?

– The Story of Layla and Majnun by Nizami

I’m at the station again today. Not the same station, but it doesn’t matter. Railway stations are special. They are places for travellers. They are places where strangers meet. Inshallah, such will happen today.

After our last meeting, we planned this one carefully. The permission for you to go to Leeds alone was a rare one, engineered by making your usual accomplice ill. We can’t do that again. It is a little unethical when all is said and done, but it could also draw attention. So today, you’ll have a chaperone, a gaoler, another obstacle to overcome.

Another bit of excitement to add to the mix!

The organisation of it all was complicated. The booking of the seats was what mattered. In the end, you booked your two tickets for the 14:50 Grand Central departure from Bradford Interchange and then sent me the seat reservations. Then I went down to the railway station, had a quiet word with my mate Nick who works there and ensured that I got the seat adjacent to yours and the spare one at the table as well. The price of that empty seat was a small price to pay for the chance of being near you, as too was the return ticket from Bradford to Stoke and the day off work.

I’d have paid twenty times the amount if it meant being with you.

Wrapped in her veil and protected by the growing darkness, Layla rushed to the garden, her soul flying ahead of her feet. She saw Majnun, but stopped before reaching the palm tree against which he was leaning. Her knees trembled and her feet seemed rooted in the earth beneath them. Only ten paces separated her from her beloved, but he was enveloped by a magic circle she must not break.

I get onto the station early, order myself a coffee and then sit and wait. At half past two, you arrive with your chaperone. As your two abayahs sashay across the concourse, I eye that unwelcome watchdog with interest. She is recognisable from the photograph that you sent. Pretty in her own way (although next to such a jewel, she merely fades into insignificance as a candle’s flame next to the sun’s glare), but her expression is hard, like life has not been easy for her and she must defend herself against the injustices she encounters. I imagine meeting her ten or fifteen years earlier, before those injustices had been piled upon her, a fresh-faced college student, innocent and open.

Hmm.

But in truth, I cannot dwell on her. Not when my soul walks by her side.

To look at she was like an Arabian moon, yet when it came to stealing hearts, she was a Persian page. Under the dark shadow of her hair, her face was a lamp, or rather a torch, with ravens weaving their wings around it

You look, as always, breath-taking. In addition to your loose black abayah, you’ve put on that shiny, satin-like black hijab that frames your face so perfectly, whilst the mask over your mouth merely draws attention to those bewitching eyes that have tormented my soul since the first moment that I saw them. Subhanallah!

The name of this miracle of creation was Layla. Does not ‘Layl’ mean ‘night’ in Arabic? And dark as the night was the colour of her hair.

Image belongs to “Sapphire” https://twitter.com/YaqutAzraq Used with permission

I watch your pale hand place the ticket into the barrier and then you are through, and gone, up the platform. I wait a moment, savour what I have witnessed, put my drained coffee into the bin and then, when there are only a few minutes before departure, I move. I too pass through that barrier from the fixed world into the transient and walk up the platform to Coach C.

As expected, you are both in position, you the willing, she the unwitting participants in our scheme. You have two window seats, are facing one another, hemmed in. As I walk towards you, I inhale the scent of your perfume, like a waft of paradise. I smile, and say, “I believe that is my seat, madam, pointing at the one next to you upon which your bag has been deterring other passengers. Your warder’s eyes widen: this could not be worse, an unmarried man next to a pious Muslimah! I can tell she wants to move, to sit next to you and allow me the entire seat opposite. But you have already smiled, moved your bag and I am seated beside you. The damage is done! Her scheme scuppered before it even began.

Majnun sighed deeply. Now Layla saw him, and they recognised in the mirror of each other’s face their own fear, their own pain and love. Neither stirred, only their eyes met, their voices caressed each other, softly exchanging plaintive sighs, which they were used to confide to the wind and to the night.

Layla was a lute, Majnun a viola.

I smile and get out my book. The only book that I could have brought for this trip. ‘The Story of Layla & Majnun’ by Nizami. What more suitable for a lovesick madman who is glimpsing his Lebanese Layla for the first time in months than an Oriental tale of forbidden, desperate, unrequited love? I hold it up as I read, and your chaperone clearly notes the title. With a beep of the doors and an announcement on the tannoy, we pull off at 14:50 precisely.

You are sitting in silence, so is she, staring out of the window. I finish my chapter, then put the book down and reach into my bag. I pull out a box emblazoned with an image of the Dome of the Rock. I note that she sees it but say nothing. I open the box, take one of the dates from inside and pop it into my mouth, sucking my finger clean afterwards. You notice.

Then, as if I had been so foolish and selfish before, I look up, notice my two travelling companions as if for the first time and turn the box around. “Would you like a date, madam?” I ask your Pakistani prison guard.

“Erm, no thanks, I…” she starts.

“Do you not like dates?” I enquire, innocently.

“Oh yes, I do, very much but, well…”

“These are Palestinian dates, madam, Palestinian medjoul dates, which are the very finest available. Please, take one. After all, ‘Has the story reached you of the honoured guests of Ibrahim? Behold, they entered his presence and said: “Peace!” He said: “Peace!” and thought: “They seem unusual people.” Then he turned quickly to his household, brought out a roasted fattened calf, and placed it before them.  He said: “Will you not eat?”’”

The combination of Qur’an and her favourite political cause is too much, not to mention the fact that you told me she positively adores eating dates. “Well, go on then, thanks.”

“And you too, madam?” I say, turning to you. You blush, nod your head and then take one, muttering quietly, “Thank you, sir,” in that delightful West Yorkshire lilt.

“Please, no sir here. My name is Adam,” I lie.

“You are Muslim… Adam?” asks your curious companion.

“Oh no,” I reply.

“Oh, I thought with you reciting the Qur’an like that…”

“I have lived for many years in the Middle East. I am a scholar of Oriental literature. This book, do you know it?” I lean over and hand her the Layla and Majnun tome.

And as I do, I press up against you.

Yes, it is I, who knocks at this door today! I have sold my life for love’s sake! Yes, it is I; may I always be love’s slave! They tell me: abandon love, that is the path to recovery – but I can gain strength only through love. If love dies, so shall I. My nature is love’s pupil; be my fate nothing if not love, and woe to the heart incapable of passion. I ask thee, my God, I beseech thee, in all the godliness of thy divine nature, and the perfection of thy kingdom: let my love grow stronger, let it endure, even if I perish. Let me drink from this well, let my eye never miss its light. If I am drunk with the wine of love, let me drink even more deeply.

The feel of the swell of your hips, those hips that have haunted my dreams ever since we first spoke, separated from my own only by two thin walls of material, is exquisite. Your warmth passes through, and I feel myself harden. I press closer, flesh pressing flesh.

‘They tell me: “Crush the desire for Layla in your heart!” But I implore thee, oh my God, let it grow even stronger. Take what is left of my life and add it to Layla’s. Let me never demand from her as much as a single hair, even if my pain reduces me to the width of one! Let her punish and castigate me: her wine alone shall fill my cup, and my name shall never appear without her seal. My life shall be sacrificed for her beauty, my blood shall be spilled freely for her, and though I burn for her painfully, like a candle, none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for love’s sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is!’

Waheeda doesn’t notice. She is looking at the book. “I know Layla and Majnun! It is really famous in Pakistan. They made a Bollywood film of it. Very tragic!”

“Very tragic indeed, Ms…?” I hang the question of the air, forcing her to answer.

“Waheeda, Adam. My name is Waheeda.”

“A delightful name. It means singular, with purpose if I am not mistaken. You are probably a very strong woman!”

She blushes with embarrassment and, as she does, I bring my left hand onto your thigh and stroke it. Your face burns and you wriggle with embarrassment, but she doesn’t notice.

“You really do know a lot about our culture, Adam.”

“Oh, I lived in the Middle East for years because of my work. That is why I buy these dates; they remind me of my time in Nablus. Here, take another?”

She does not refuse and, as she dives in, I squeeze your thigh with my hand and then withdraw it.

“Nablus?! You know Palestine?!”

“Of course, such a beautiful and tragic land! If Layla and Majnun were countries, then Majnun would be the Palestinian people lamenting over the beloved country, Layla, that he has lost!”

“Mashallah, what a beautiful image! You are a poet!”

I may or may not be a poet, but my loins are on fire. Your hand is stroking my leg and moving nearer to the crotch…

‘You are my salve for a hundred thousand wounds, yet you are also my sickness and the wine in my beaker which does not belong to me. You are my crown which does not adorn my brown. Yes, you are my treasure enjoyed by a stranger, while I am but the beggar bitten by the serpent which guards you.’

“But pray, forgive me, I am so rude. I am busy talking to you Waheeda and ignoring your companion here. Would you also like another date… erm…?”

“Sapphire,” you whisper, shy and demure. Your hand is off my thigh now and in the date box. You extract one delicately and then, with a practised motion, you lift your mask and slip it into your mouth, and, for a magical, fleeting moment of ecstasy, I see your rosebud lips and pearl-white teeth.

‘You, my garden of paradise! Nowhere can I find a key to open the gate. My heavenly bosquet, how inaccessible you remain! From your forest comes the tree of my being. This tree is yours, and if you cut it down a part of yourself will die. I am the earth which you tread. If you caress me, I am the spring which bids flowers grow for you. But if you beat me, I am the whirling dust which envelopes you.’

“Sapphire. Like the jewel, of course, yaqut azraq in Arabic, but also it can be taken to mean ‘pure’. So, we have a strong woman and a pure woman!” I announce, knowing full well that your mind is anything but at the moment.

Nor too your hand, for it is on my thigh again.

“Are you ladies familiar with Arabian culture then? Why, perhaps you both have Arabian heritage?”

The obviously desi Waheeda almost melts at this somewhat racist compliment. You’ve told me how much she wishes to be Palestinian and to be compared to one by a stranger. As she secures another date, I slip my hand along the seat and under your bottom, its warmth engorging me. Your own hand is now on top of my crotch. I am on fire.

“Oh no Adam, I am Pakistani, although there is a belief in our family that we are descended from the Qureshi on my father’s side. And we are Rajputs who, it is said, come from Central Asian soldiers who came across in the Mughal times, so it is not surprising that I am mistaken for Arab. Indeed, a lot of people think I am Iranian.”

“So, I talk with a real-life Layla then!” I exclaim and she blushes again whilst my real-life hand does what the real-life Majnun never had the opportunity to do and squeezes that delightful buttock cheek whilst your hand strokes me through the thin fabric of my trousers.

‘When, oh my rose-coloured ruby, when will you be freed from this millstone of a husband? Oh, moon who lights up my eyes, when will you escape from the jaws of this dragon? When will the bee take off and leave its honey to me? When will the mirror become free of rust? When will the door of the treasure-house open and the serpent which guards it die? When! When will the Mistress of the castle let me in?’

“But Sapphire here has Arab heritage, don’t you?” Waheeda continues.

“Is that true?” I ask, my eyes melding into yours.”

“My family is Lebanese,” you say softly, each syllable melting my soul.

“Fascinating! Such an intriguing and complex country!” I continue, before turning back to your gaoler. “But you must have an interest in Palestine I suspect, Waheeda?” I say, whilst I continue my exploration of your bottom.

She begins a monologue of national oppression by Zionist imperialists. I’ve heard it a hundred times before and even agree with bits of it, and so I know where to nod, smile and look sad.

And where to squeeze and stroke.

‘Oh, my love, with your breasts like jasmin! Loving you, my life fades, my lips wither, my eyes are full of tears. You cannot imagine how much I am “Majnun”. For you, I have lost myself.’

By the time we have passed Wakefield, the dates have all been finished and the politics of the Middle East set to rights. Waheeda smiles with a joy probably unseen since her wedding night and you smile inwardly at our unseen sin.

“Ladies, I say, shall I get us a coffee each?” I ask.

“Oh no, Adam, we are getting off at the next stop. Sapphire and I are going to a conference in Sheffield connected with our work in the mosque!”

“Oh, what a shame! It has been so lovely talking to you both and so heartening to hear about your compassion for the Palestinian people. But please, if you are going, accept these gifts from me as a token of my thanks for your friendship on this journey.”

I reach into my bag and pull out a copy of ‘My Father was a Freedom Fighter’ by Ramzy Baroud. I open it up and write:

To Waheeda,

A strong lady fighting for freedom!

All the best,

Adam

“Oh, you shouldn’t have, I…”

“It is my pleasure,” I reply, handing her the book. “However, we cannot leave Sapphire here unsatisfied now, can we? Unfortunately though, since I have no more books on Palestine, I shall have to give you this classic Arabian tale for a classic Arabian lady.”

You blush and lower your gaze whilst your hand continues its work. Trying to stifle the gasps, I write:

Layla,

The cypress tree replies to Jasmin.

Majnun

I hand you the book and you take it with your other hand. Waheeda notices nothing as she is engrossed in reading the blurb on the back of her book, so I wink and purse my lips and you wink back whilst my other hands strokes your most intimate area.

Whose heart would not be filled with longing at the sight of this girl? But young Qays felt even more. He drowned in the ocean of love before he knew that there was such a thing. He had already given his heart to Layla before he understood what he was giving away… And Layla? She fared no better. A fire had been lit in both – and each reflected the other.

The tannoy announces the impending approach of Doncaster. Our hands withdraw and I move out of my seat so as to allow you to depart. You stand and move into the gangway. Waheeda says her goodbyes and thanks me again for the book and you nod and whisper your gratitude. Then, as if about to leave, with the train slowing, you stop in your tracks, reach into your bag and turn around.

“It is wrong, Adam, that we have not given you a gift in return, so please, would you accept this as a token of my gratitude for your pleasant company on this journey?”

You hand me a small copy of the Qur’an and our fingers brush as I take it from you.

“With pleasure, Sapphire,” I say with a slight bow.

“I am sure you may learn much from it, Adam,” you say with confidence as you turn and walk down the gangway, your hips sashaying and your abayah flowing as you do. I watch entranced and then sit down in the window seat so that I may gaze at you on the platform.

The doors close and the train gathers speed. I yearn with longing as my eyes follow you and Waheeda descend the steps to the platform for your Sheffield train. When will we meet again, my Sapphire? When will those green eyes pierce my soul once more?

With nothing else to do, I open up the Qur’an that you have given me. It exudes your perfume and I drink it in greedily, knowing that you deliberately sprayed it for me. The gift of a Qur’an was not part of our plan; it was your own invention. And what a beautiful one!

I turn over the first leaf and gasp: handwritten is a message, a poem for me.

I Do

You think I don’t know how you yearn every day

To be with me, to hold, support me on my way

How you cry tears of hopelessness at this wall of silence

And rail with anger at my passivity, compliance

You think I don’t know but I do.

That you pray for me when you wake up every morning

And again, each night before to sleep withdrawing

That you implore Allah to protect me, keep me safe and well

To allow me to smile and fly, make heaven out of hell

You think I don’t know but I do.

That you write into the night impassioned letters of love

That you never will share save with God above

How the verses flow freely from your pen every hour

Poems of separation, despair, a soul being devoured

You think I don’t know but I do.

That you withdraw to the hills where you scream out my name

And wander lost like Majnun alone in your pain

That you weep in friends’ arms and seek succour in verse

And how each “Happily ever after” only makes it worse

You think I don’t know but I do.

How you pray that your words will be carried by the breeze

And float through my window, this heart to unfreeze

How you wait without hope in the long, lonely morn

For a message to appear, a new conversation to dawn

You think I don’t know but I do.

All these things I know, Majnun, and much else beside

Your Layla suffers too from fear, honour, shame and pride

She also longs to speak, but the risk is too much

So she makes Salat silently and dreams of your touch

You think I don’t know but I do.

And one day believe me, all shall be well

Sweet paradise shall replace what for you now is hell

We’ll meet in the garden, laugh, kiss and caress

But it needs to be in my time, not under duress

Your Sapphire vows this will come true.

I weep over the words as the train rattles onwards, knowing that as I read, you too are drinking in outpourings of love, the long missive of devotion that I have written, carefully disguised as the academic introduction to the most tragic and glorious love story in the world.

‘I know that you have not spared yourself, that you threw fire into your own harvest. You dedicated your heart to my service, and so became the target of slander. What matters it to you, what to me? We remain loyal to each other. If I only knew what you are feeling, how you look and what you are doing. With all my love I am with you, and you are, tell me – with whom? Like your happiness, I am separated from you, but even if remote from you, I remain your companion.’

Layla

Written Smallthorne, UK, 23/06/2022

Copyright © 2022, “Majnun”

Read the next instalment of Sapphire’s Saga in Sapphire’s Song.

The Three Domains: #11: One (More) Night with the King

The Three Domains

Copyright © 2022, Dave Potter

Previous chapter: Making a Friend

One (More) Night with the King

After Ziazam and Shushan left, I was taken to my bedroom and stripped of my Second Domain attire. Instead of my usual costume, following the discussions in our tete-a-tete with grandmother’s former harem Sister, it was decided that I would enter the First Domain, and, to my dismay, my reverse prayer training commence. So, I was stripped of all my clothing and my arms bent behind me. Naturally, they were nowhere near to being able to meet the rigorous demands of the position, but a start was made. Training cuffs in stainless steel were placed around my wrists and also just above my elbows. The wrist cuffs were linked by a short chain of around ten centimetres whilst the elbow cuffs had an adjustable cord between them. A stainless-steel collar was then fitted around my neck – an imposition perhaps, but a world better than the awful neck corset of the Second Domain – and a chain attached to a ring on the rear of that collar, the other end affixed to the centre of my wrist cuff chain. None of this was too discomforting even if it did render my arms virtually useless. Then, however, the real training begun. The collar chain, which was a good half a metre or so in length, was then shortened, wrenching my wrists upwards towards my neck. I cried out in pain, but when it had been shortened to around 40cm, it was clipped in place and the maid turned her veiled attentions to the elbow cord which was shortened by a couple of centimetres, drawing them together. The strain was immense but, as Shushan had promised, after a while the pain dulled somewhat, and the arms started to deaden. I was then led back out to grandmother.

I felt vulnerable and exposed as I sat there, naked, unable to cover my breasts or sex whilst she was clothed, but soon the feeling began to wear off and I started to become engrossed in her narrative which was all about the day that followed that night of group sex with the Sultan.

“After exercise, we were bathed as you would expect and then prepared for the First Domain. I was tired as I hadn’t slept well, being preoccupied with other things, and the yawns of my Sisters suggested they were the same. I sat next to Talleen on the sofa, and she leaned her head on my shoulder and I then leaned into her. Soon we fell into a light sleep and, when I awoke again, I found Ziazam’s head on my lap, she asleep also.

“I was not allowed to rest for long however, for some concerns had been raised the previous night and, as it was suspected that the Sultan might call be to his bed again that coming evening, we needed to work on them. First and foremost was my bottom which he had praised highly but been unable to enter. This had upset me at the time, but Ziazam assured me that it was normal: new harem concubines are naturally anal virgins and so their bottoms cannot accommodate the girth of a male member. They need training and so I was bent over the back of a chair whilst a maid removed my tiny little plug and replaced it with a slightly larger one. It really took some working and a lot of lubrication to get it in there. The maid would establish a rhythm, moving it in and out, eat thrust going slightly deeper than the last. If it hurt too much and I cried out with pain, she slowed it down, retreated slightly, but then began the assault again until, eventually, with a shlurp, it popped past my sphincter and was fully inserted. With that inside me – I thought of it as a monster at the time, although really it was still small – I felt so full and bloated. I hoped that it would prove enough, although, of course, I was wrong. Which reminds me, Sevan, are you currently plugged?”

“No grandmother, I didn’t know that I should be.”

“Of course, you should, all ladies are. How would you be able to… ahh, yes, we haven’t introduced that yet. Never mind, I shall get the maids to sort you out tomorrow. But I digress, so, I was plugged, feeling uncomfortably full down there but pleased that my failure to accommodate the Sultan could be rectified. Attentions were then turned to another form of congress. A maid fitted Ziazam with a rubber replica of a male member – sculpted from our Lord’s we were told, by a blind artist – and whilst she stood up, I had to kneel in front of her and take it in my mouth. As I did this, Talleen watched and critiqued my performance, suggesting that I lick here and suck there and admonishing me for jerky, overly strong actions. This continued for around an hour and I do confess that, having my face in darling Ziazam’s crotch – the same place that it had so joyfully occupied only the night before – smelling her fragrance and with an enormous faux tool filling my mouth, made me feel quite excited and I realised the importance of restraining one’s hands, for had they not been bound in that fashion, I am sure they would have strayed down to my own crotch which was, by this stage, moist and warm.”

Indeed, as grandmother spoke, I was continually reminded of a similar reaction in my own sex and my hands involuntarily pulled against their restraints.

“Following this, I was led to a carpet and lain on it (on my side, of course) and then Talleen lay next to me, and we worked on embracing this time, Ziazam now taking the role of teacher and critic. Finally, after close to an hour of passionate embrace which had caused my unreachable sex to feel like it was on fire, a maid came in with a message: The Sultan demands Zagiri’s presence in the Royal Pleasure Chamber at sunset. Just Zagiri, no others were mentioned. My heart was beating like a drum: this was to be my first time alone with him following my deflowerment; he desired me… but would I be able to satisfy? With those thoughts clouding my head, we had lunch and then I was led off to be beautified, leaving Ziazam and Talleen snoozing on one another’s bare shoulders.

“Preparing me for the Royal Pleasure Chamber took, as always, several hours. It was decided this time to have my hair loose, but not so wild as Talleen’s. Two cute braids were put in either side to frame my face with adorable, jewelled butterfly clips at the top. One maid continually combed and oiled my mane whilst the other busied herself with my make-up, perfuming and then oiling my body. Finally, after a light bite to eat, I was led by my collar chain to my destiny.

“The bedroom doors were opened for me, and I walked in, sashaying my hips as I had been taught. The Sultan was waiting for me, naked save for his jewellery. He beckoned me towards him and as I climbed onto the bed his tool hardened. He sat up, took me in his arms and then slowly impaled me. My love cavern, so long neglected, so long on fire as it begged for relief that I was unable to provide – for surely that is the real reason why we noble women bind our arms; it is not just about having maids to serve us! – almost exploded. His tool filled me completely and sent surges of heat pulsing through my entire being. There I was, alone with the greatest man in the kingdom, more god than human, and he wanted me, he was filling me, he had chosen me. I worked with him as much as I could. I longed to hold him, to squeeze him tight to me, but I was cruelly denied this. He however, held me firmly by the hips, his manly hands squeezing my cheeks, and we established a steady, sensual rhythm. I leaned in closer, and our lips met, sharing a passionate embrace that lasted and lasted and lasted. His hands moved up as we quickened, holding my waist, while my enhanced breasts squeezed against his chest, their tinkling bells muffled. Then he reached up further, to my own hands, entwining his fingers with my own. I used that tiny amount of brachial movement left to me to reciprocate, our fingers embracing just like our lips and our genitals as he groaned in ecstasy and erupted his sacred seed deep within me.

“As we calmed down, he pulled me close to him, our fingers still in their heavenly embrace as his tool grew limp in my cavern. “On only one occasion since have I felt so sublimely happy, but I shall leave that tale for another day my darling Sevan…”

Next chapter: The Routine of Harem Life

Sapphire’s Decision

This story is a standalone Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.

Part 1

The guard came down the carriage, checking the tickets of the passengers. He was bored. Sometimes the job was annoying, like when you got drunks who had something to say, or teenagers who were trying to skip paying. The 14:05 service from Bradford Interchange to Chester was never like that. Instead, it was bored pensioners, mums with babies, businesspeople on their way to a meeting. Quiet. Dull.

“Tickets please!”

The Asian lady in the face veil shows him her ticket. Except it isn’t a ticket. It’s a small card with some writing on.

Help me please, I have to leave Bradford. Contact the British Transport Police in Manchester and tell them to meet me there. I don’t have money for a ticket, but I’ll pay when I can. I cannot go back to Bradford, and I don’t feel safe in Yorkshire.

He tries to hide his surprise and nods.

“Fine madam,” he says, handing back the card.

Then he goes to the cab to call the police, all the time wondering what her story is.

---

You’re a mystery, Sapphire, make no mistake about it. You told no one, not even me, yet managed to plan it all out. Took the world by surprise.

As you always do.

The first I hear of it all is when I get a call on my mobile.

“Is that Mr. Majnun X?”

“Yes, it is. How may I help?”

“This is the British Transport Police. We need you to come to in Manchester. It’s on Piccadilly station, just next to Marks & Spencer’s on the concourse.”

The police! My heart plunges. What the hell do they want? And why the Transport Police, not the normal ones? I haven’t done anything wrong… have I? Apart from reading kinky stories on the train back from that meeting in Leeds last week. Perhaps someone had been looking over my shoulder and deemed it inappropriate. There was some pretty weird stuff in there. Sapphire does that to me; she takes my mind to strange places. I love it but, on reflection, perhaps the train from Leeds was not the best place…

“Am I in any kind of trouble?”

“Not at all, but we’re holding someone who requested to see you. They won’t see anyone else.”

“I’ll be there right away!”

I take the next departure from Stoke and am there within the hour. I ring the bell by the door and an officer opens it. I explain who I am and that I’ve been asked to come here. The guy shows me through to a meeting room and asks if I want a coffee. A minute later another officer arrives. She is female and called Sue. She looks very concerned and a tad judgemental.

“She says her name is Sapphire and she alerted the guard on a train from Bradford. Said she had to get away from there and asked to see us in Manchester. When she arrived here, she told us that she had no money and was escaping from an abusive relationship. She didn’t use those terms; she said it wasn’t that bad actually, that she could cope, but that she just wanted out. I told her that we can help, find her a women’s refuge and support, but she refused point blank. She gave us your name and number. That’s how we found you. She refuses to speak to anyone else. Do you know her?”

I tell Sue that I did. That Sapphire and I have been friends online for a year or more now. That we chat about creative writing and… other things. She looks slightly disappointed. “Sapphire is vulnerable and you taking advantage like that…”

I tell her that I did not take advantage, that I appreciated her situation and that I always checked on her safety. And since I am a little snarked, I also slip in that our chats were probably one of the factors why she had managed to make this decision. Sue softens and agrees.

“She wants you to take her home, but she’d really be better off in a women’s refuge with professional support and counselling.”

“I agree entirely, but it is her choice. Her whole life she’s been told what’s best for her and what to do. Is it right that we continue the trend?”

Sue nods. “Perhaps you’re right, but even so, keep her safe, don’t take advantage of her. She’s a lovely girl. When I spoke to her, we connected. She pulled my heart strings when I was in there. I shouldn’t say this to you, but I’m a mum myself and I couldn’t imagine my daughter going through that… it would break my heart.”

“Your daughter never will, Sue,” I reply.

She smiles. “We’ll bring her in then.”

You come into the room wearing your abayah, hijab and niqab. That surprises me. Had you dressed like that because of my weird kink. Later I learn it was not so at all. It had been necessity. That was a relief.

You don’t say anything but stared at me with those large, bewitching green eyes. Soulful, submissive, yet at the same time also impassioned and defiant. How long had I dreamt of seeing them in the flesh? I stare back, diving into their unfathomable depths.

You stay silent, merely stare.

“Hello Sapphire,” I said, struggling to think of what else to say.

You nod.

“Is this the Majnun that you asked me to contact?” asks Sue.

You nod again.

“Sue here says that you’d like me to take you with me,” I say. “Is that true?”

You nod again.

“Look Sapphire, I’m happy to do that, you know so, but really, don’t you think you’d be better letting Sue help you; get you into a refuge and sort things out with social services. You need to stay safe and…”

You shake your head repeatedly.

I look at Sue and she shrugs.

“Let’s go then,” I say.

Silently, submissively, you follow.

We haven’t said a word.

We haven’t even touched.

---

Luckily the train back from Piccadilly is quite empty. We go into the unreserved carriage and sit across from one another at a table. As we gather speed, I look at you. Those green orbs stare back. I long to touch, to embrace to caress, but feel that, somehow, it would be wrong.

It is not what you want.

“Are you going to speak?”

You shake your head.

“Why?”

Nothing. Only a stare, piercing and accusative.

“Because this is a public place?”

You nod.

Then I realise. “Because I am non-mahram?”

You nod again.

“Then we have a problem,” I reply.

You nod for a final time.

We spend the rest of the journey in silence, my eyes exploring every inch of the apparition sat opposite me.

---

At the station we go through the barriers, and I walk to my car in the parking area. You follow behind, submissively. I open the passenger door for you, but you shake your head. then I realise my mistake and open the back door. You get in.

As I drive home, I glance at you in the mirror. This is so weird, so fucked up. I’m sitting in my car with the girl of my dreams, this totally beyond reach, wonderful woman who has chosen of her own free volition, nay insisted, to come back with me to my place, yet she won’t even talk to me nor sit alongside me.

My mind is in turmoil, and I almost drive through a red light.

“My house,” I tell you. “I’m sorry, it’s small and, well… really untidy. I wasn’t expecting anyone. If I’d have known I’d have make it clean and perfect, but now it’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

You do not reply, but I think I see those eyes smile like it is funny.

---

I show you through the front door and clear a place on my sofa. You sit and I sit on the seat across, maintaining modesty as much as is possible when bringing a girl back home.

“I’m non-mahram. How do we solve that?” I ask.

Those eyes stare back, as if saying, you’re the boss, the Master here, you make the decision. Take control! You know how I like it to be!

Take control… but how? How can I…?

“We can’t marry though! Aside from the fact that you are married to someone else, even if that wasn’t the case, legally, it would take weeks to arrange an appointment and so on. Besides, I don’t know if it’s healthy that you jump into another permanent arrangement that…

Then I have a brainwave! That word ‘permanent’. Why does it have to be so? The Buddha teaches that all things are temporary after all.

“In some forms of Islam, perhaps not yours, I’m unsure, but in some forms, there’s a thing. It’s called Nikah Mut’ah, and it’s like a temporary marriage. For a fixed period of time agreed by both parties.”

You nod enthusiastically.

“But to arrange it, properly I mean… it would need some sort of imam and I’m not even Muslim and you’re already married and so, it’s a non-starter, sorry…”

Silence. That same piercing stare going straight into my soul.

“Are you saying, we just write our own?”

Another enthusiastic nod.

“But it would have no legal standing whatsoever. It would just be a piece of paper.”

You shrug as if to say, ‘Who cares?’

I examine you, trying to understand. You who is so submissive but who I can see is actually calling all the shots here.

“You need that paper, that permission, regardless of its legality?”

You nod.

I get it. We do things your way. I get out a pad and write. I suggest a timeframe and conditions. Through nods and shakes you assert your will submissively.

Soon, it is written:

CONTRACT OF NIKAH MUT’AH BETWEEN MAJNUN AND SAPPHIRE

DURATION OF THE CONTRACT IS TWO MONTHS, COMMENCING 24^TH MAY 2023, CULINATING 24^TH JULY 2023

MAJNUN DOES AGREE TO PROVIDE SHELTER AND FOOD FOR SAPPHIRE IN SAID PERIOD

SAPPHIRE DOES AGREE TO CONTACT WITH SOCIAL SERVICES

MAJNUN DOES AGREE TO ASSERT HIS WILL OVER SAPPHIRE WHERE SAFE

SAPPHIRE AGREES THAT SHE WILL NOT BE REFERRED TO AS WORTHLESS

MAJNUN AGREES TO RESPECT SAPPHIRE’S CHOSEN DRESSCODE AND NOT ENFORCE HIS OWN WEIRD FETISHES ON HER UNLESS SHE’S TOTALLY OKAY WITH IT

SAPPHIRE AGREES TO MAJNUN’S DEMAND THAT SHE DEDICATES THE MINIMUM OF AN HOUR A DAY TO HER CREATIVE WRITING ACTIVITIES

MAJNUN AGREES TO SUPPORT SAPPHIRE TO BEGIN HER NEW LIFE WITH REGARDS TO EDUCATION, EMPLOYMENT AND OTHER TRAINING

SAPPHIRE AGREES TO BE PRESENTED AS MAJNUN’S FRIEND OR GIRLFRIEND WITH FRIENDS, FAMILY, COLLEAGUES OR NEIGHBOURS IN RECOGNITION OF THE FACT THAT THEY WOULD CONSIDER THIS CONTRACT WEIRD AND OPPRESSIVE AND WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND

MAJNUN AGREES TO DICTATE WHICH FREEDOMS SAPPHIRE MAY ENJOY AS SHE DESIRES

SAPPHIRE AGREES TO DEDICATE TWO HOURS A DAY TO READING HOLY TEXTS

BOTH MAJNUN AND SAPPHIRE AGREE TO SHARE A BED BUT NOT TO FORCE THE OTHER INTO SEXUAL ACTIVITIES THAT THEY ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH AND DO NOT CONSENT TO

SIGNED 24/05/2023

Majnun                                                Sapphire

It is not ideal and could be written better, but it will have to do. I sign it and then pass it over. You take the pen and scribble you name before handing it back.

Then, you untie your niqab and for the first time I see your smile.

“Thank you, Master,” you say in a voice that could melt any iceberg.

---

We sit and talk. Although we can – and want – to do far more, we don’t. We haven’t even touched yet. You have removed your veil but keep on the headscarf. You tell me the tale and I drink in the soft tones of your West Yorkshire brogue as if being treated to a lullaby from Lister Park.

You’ve been saving up your pocket money, plus the small cash prize for the essay competition that you entered, and with it buy what you need. You put some clothes in a small bag and stash it away in the cleaning cupboard at the mosque. You attend Jummah prayers as normal but excuse yourself at the start of the sermon and go to the toilet. There you apply the make-up around your eyes, the brown contact lenses, and finally put on the gloves to conceal your pale hands and the niqab to keep you anonymous. Then you simply leave. Since you don’t usually dress that way, no one thinks it’s you and, a stranger seeing your eyes and the skin around them would assume you’re Pakistani.

“I feel so relieved that you didn’t wear that for me!” I declare.

You stare at me silently as if to say, ‘Will you please just shut up about that?!’ I blush and ask you to continue.

You’re surprised at how easy it is. You just walk out, cross the car park, heart pounding like a bass drum, sweating and mouth dry with adrenalin, down the road and hop on the 576 bus to the city centre. No one asks any questions or raises an eyebrow. After all, veiled Pakistani women are hardly a rare phenomenon in that part of Bradford. For the first time in your life, you’re glad that your husband’s sermons drone on and on. It gives you extra time, for no one will miss you until he’s finished.

You alight at the bus station and transfer to the railway. You’ve only enough cash left for a short journey, so you buy a single to Low Moor as that’s the cheapest on offer. You can save the other three pounds in case you need food later.

The next departure is the service to Chester via Manchester. You utter a silent prayer since it’s ideal! You wouldn’t have felt entirely safe in Leeds or Huddersfield; too many connections, but Manchester is far enough away and in the right direction. So, you get onboard, sit down and wait. Your heart still pounds ten to the dozen from the adrenalin, but you are calmer than half an hour earlier. You stare out of the window as the sun dances on the trees of Mytholmroyd and you feel more alive than you have since childhood.

Then the guard comes looking for tickets and your heart leaps. This is the litmus test: will your badly hatched plan succeed or fail. You hand him the card you so carefully cut to be the size of a ticket and wrote upon, playing with the words countless times before actually committing to them. As he examines it impassively your heart pounds with fear and despair. When he casually returns it with the words, ‘Fine madam’ you feel like leaping for joy.

Minutes later, you go to the toilet and remove the hateful make-up and contacts. You throw them, along with the ridiculous black gloves into the bin. You wonder about doing the same with the hateful niqab but stop yourself. You’re not totally there yet, Sapphire, you warn yourself. You keep it on, vowing that it will go when you are where you want to be.

Then you go back into the carriage and gaze at the beauty of creation through the glass.

---

That evening we order takeaway. I ask if you prefer Indian or Arabian, but you tell me neither. Perhaps you don’t want to be reminded of what they represent. I order Chinese and we laugh over sweet and sour chicken with fried rice before sitting down to watch something on the TV. I suggest a film, but you shake your head. No, not tonight. “You choose,” you say submissively.

“But I chose the idea of a film.”

“Watch a film then,” you reply sullenly, your lips submitting but your eyes in fierce rebellion. I gaze into them and try to understand.

Then I switch on the TV and connect to Pornhub. “I’d like to watch videos of a Master discipling his unworthy slave wife!” I announce.

“As you wish, Master,” you reply, those eyes ablaze.

We sit through an hour of spanking and sex, submission, and domination. We sit close together, and I feel your hips press against mine. Those hips that I have dreamt so long about, separated only from by two cruel walls of material. I press closer and feel the warmth of your body and watch your chest rise and fall as you drink in the depravation.

We go upstairs to bed, and you get changed in private in the bathroom. You come in wearing the outfit that you described to me in our chats. Although modest and unrevealing, I find the embroidery cute.

“What do you demand of me, Master?” you ask.

I look into those green orbs. I see a desire to submit but also a fear.

“I desire to lie beside me but not go further.”

You nod.

“You are not yet ready I sense,” I say.

You nod again. “I want to but…

“Shh!”

I pull the covers over you and your covered form presses against mine. My hand strays to that bottom that it has so long dreamt of caressing and gives it a squeeze. You nuzzle your face against my neck, and I stroke your hair and cheek. You face moves up to my own and, softly, they touch, then our lips touch briefly, before withdrawing and we drift into a wonderful sleep.

Part 2

I dream of falling asleep beside a goddess, like some unreal vision plaguing a lunatic hermit in the desert. And, in the morning, when I awaken, my bed is empty. So, it was but a dream! A cruel and heartless mirage. I sigh and wearily pull on my work clothes. I have a meeting today in Birmingham and fantasies of Sapphire will not excuse any non-attendance. I wash, brush my teeth, and then go downstairs to make some breakfast when the dream returns… but weirder.

My kitchen is spotless and within it is Sapphire clad in the grey sporty outfit and hijab that you wore in one particularly pleasant set of photos that you posted on Twitter.

“Good morning, Master!” you say. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

“Sapphire, what on earth are you doing?!” I am gobsmacked.

“Serving my husband and Master as a good Salafi wife should.”

My head is whirling around. This was not what…

“Look, Sapphire, I… I don’t expect this! I mean, you broke free from all that, being an unpaid slave and everything. I don’t…”

“The kitchen was an awful mess,” you counter.

I cannot argue with that.

“And passable baba ganoush does not make itself, but first I need a clean kitchen to work in.”

You are bend down to pick up a spoon that has fallen onto the floor and I get an amazing view of that perfect bottom. ‘Jesus, get your head straight!’ I scream to myself.

“Look, you’re… I mean, I appreciate it and all, but I don’t expect… women aren’t domestic appliances, I…”

You don’t seem to be listening to me. You stand up straight again and smile. “Did you enjoy that, Master?” ask with a smirk. “And you’ll need to go shopping. I’m short of some ingredients.”

“The shop is only across the road. Here, I have some money. Go whenever you want and…”

“Your Salafi wife cannot leave the house without her wali to protect her,” you say.

I make to argue but those green eyes warn me not to. What the fuck is this? Dominant submission or something? But then I see in those eyes the reason; whilst it remains a mystery to me, you have to do this in your way, at your pace.

“I have to go to work now, but I will return around three this afternoon. I will take you to the shop then, the supermarket, but you cannot go dressed so lewdly! You are a walking temptation and source of fitna. You must cover up appropriately!”

“Yes Master.”

“And before I return you must have called social services as the police advised.”

“Yes Master.”

“And clean the living room too. It is filthy!”

As you desire, Master.”

My cock is rock-hard as I eat my croissant and coffee and watch you hoovering the carpet all around me.

---

On the train I think of you as my Salafi wife maid, doing all my domestic chores. Maid fantasies are not my thing usually, but those sporty leggings and the total submission change that. I struggle to concentrate during my meeting with the Combined Authority and, on the way back, I go shopping for a certain special item.

When I get back, I receive another surprise. You are sitting on the sofa in the middle of an immaculately clean living room, wearing that same grey outfit and hijab. No surprises there. No, the surprise is that sitting across from you is my son with a mug of tea in his hand.

“Welcome home!” you say.

“Hi dad!” says T.

“I’ve been getting to know T here,” you say, like that is totally normal and fine. Which it isn’t. For starters, T doesn’t even drink tea.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” you say, “as I’ve got food to prepare.” You saunter into the kitchen with a wiggle of that butt and T turns to me.

‘Who – the – fuck – is – that?!’ he mouths at me.

Conscious that you can probably hear everything that we say, I grab him and go outside. “We’re going for a walk!” I call.

Outside, I start walking. “Dad, what the fuck?”

“Her name is Sapphire and she’s a friend of mine…” I begin.

“She is some steamin’ hot bussin’ on bussin’ babe more like!”

“…we are into creative writing together…”

“Yeah, and what else?”

“… and we are good friends and she’s had a bit of a tough time and so she’s come over to stay for a few weeks.”

“Oh, fuck off brov, she’s not some ‘friend’, she’s that girl you’ve been sexting for the past year or so!”

“Now then, wait a minute! First things first, I’m your dad, not your brov…”

“Whatever.”

“And second, how dare you accuse me and her of…”

“Dude, I’m fifteen and you have an easy-to-guess password. You met her on Twitter right, she’s the one in all of them photos wearing Covid masks. Now I know you’ve had that weird niqab thing going on for a while but…”

“What?! How dare you!”

“Dad, I’ve seen the albums, and read that Discord channel you’re on full of weird guys who are into purdah and a load of TG dudes who want to be Muslim wives. Hey, each to their own but the Covid mask thing is a new one on me.”

“Now then, I…”

“Oh no, wait a minute! Now I remember; you do have some niqab photos of her and she did used to wear it. Well, that sorts out why you got in touch…”

“It does not, I contacted her about writing and…”

“Hey dad, I don’t care, whatever. That arse, though, Jesus, that is one peng arse!”

“Listen, don’t talk about Sapphire’s bottom in that way, it’s quite rude!”

“Not as rude as some of the stuff you’ve said. But I get it. The only one round here with a body that bussin’ is Ayshuda, and to be honest, they’re pretty similar.”

Ayshuda used to work in his mum’s shop. She comes from Iran and upholds the stereotype of Persian women being amongst the most desirable on the planet.

“Sapphire’s part Persian, that’s why. They’re probably very distantly related.”

“Wow, peng! Cool that she’s here mind; I always wondered what she looked like it the flesh, whether those photos weren’t photoshopped to hell. And she has a well sexy voice too, like some sort of sultry Yorkshire angel. All that remains a mystery is why she wants to hang out with some old ginger dude, but maybe that’s her kink. Or one of them…”

“Listen son, your mum. You can’t…”

“Chill dad. If I tell her you’re bangin’ some bussin’ chick she’ll go all weird and jealous like she does whenever I say any girl is cute, ’cos in her mind she’s still the hottest of them all. No, I’ll just say you’ve got a friend staying and she’ll it’s some weird girl you met on Camino…”

“My Camino friends are not weird!”

“Dad, all your friends are weird, ’cos you are. She probably is too, but weird is the best type in my mind. Good luck to you, and I’d better be going. It’s cricket tonight. Don’t worry, I’ve got me bike; I’ll make me own way there.”

Back in the house, you have made tea. You come and sit down next to me, extremely closely, your bottom squeezing against mine. I enjoy it and put one arm around you whilst the other balances the mug.

“He’s a nice kid,” you say. “You should be proud, Master. Now, you did promise to take me to the shop as your Salafi wife cannot leave the house unaccompanied.”

I nod, this is your way, and when you’ve got a coat on, we leave.

---

I’m nervous in the shop. What if anyone I know comes in? I’m friends with a lot of people in the local Pakistani and Bangladeshi communities. Thankfully, this time we are fine and my visit with a hijab-wearing Persian princess goes unnoticed.

---

That evening, as we sit and watch a film (not porn this time, but some soppy Hollywood romance that grips you as if you’ve never seen anything like it before), I turn to you and hand you a bag.

“It is a present, Wife. I brought it for you today.”

Intrigued, you open it. It is a headband with a pair of devil horns like the ones in all your photographs on Twitter. You put them on, grimace, and then look at me quizzically.

“I only want to fuck you when Shaytan has possessed you, Sapphire. When the horns are on, I will. Otherwise, it is not happening.”

You nod with understanding and remove them. Then we snuggle up tight to watch the girl realise that she loves the boy.

We snuggle up in bed too, but you do not wear the horns and I struggle to sleep.

---

In the morning, you are up before me, cleaning away. The house has been transformed from a pigsty into a show home and we’ve only been married a couple of days. However, I am grave and angry with you.

“Wife, you disappointed me yesterday and let me down!” I admonish.

You look at me confused. “But Master, I spent all day preparing the house and food for your pleasure.”

“Wife, if that is what I wanted, I would have married a Martha, not a Mary. In our contract there were two clauses that I wish to remind you of.”

I get out the contract, lay it before you and point them out:

SAPPHIRE AGREES TO MAJNUN’S DEMAND THAT SHE DEDICATES THE MINIMUM OF AN HOUR A DAY TO HER CREATIVE WRITING ACTIVITIES

SAPPHIRE AGREES TO DEDICATE TWO HOURS A DAY TO READING HOLY TEXTS

You neglected both yesterday and so deserve a punishment.

“That is true Master.”

“Bend over!”

I smack your wonderful bottom twice, not hard, just enough to see the flesh quiver beneath the fabric of the grey sportswear that you’re wearing. It is mesmerising.

“Thank you, Master, but…”

“But…?”

“How can I study holy texts here? You have no Bukhari, al-Muslim or Tirmidhi.”

“You have read those tomes over and over enough already. No, you will learn this.”

I hand her a copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Bronte.

“By the time I return, I expect you to have read a hundred pages and done five hundred words of creative writing.”

“Yes Master.”

I leave the house.

---

When I return, you are sitting on the sofa engrossed in the novel. When I open the door, you look up and smile. “Master, welcome back! This book, it is wonderful! I cannot believe that all these years… Cathy, I feel like she is me as I was before! One part of her is wild and passionate on the moor, desperate for Heathcliff to dominate her; the other she conforms down in the valley, married to someone she doesn’t love, the life in Thrushcross Grange slowly suffocating her. I wrote this poem, look!”

She hands me the page. It is entitled, ‘I, Cathy’. It is powerful, a tidal wave of emotion crashed against the page. I am in awe.

“She even sounds like me,” you say in your broadest West Yorkshire accent. Before I realise, I am hugging you and you do not resist.

We do not watch a film that night. Instead, you are desperate to finish Cathy’s tragic tale. I sit and watch you, tracing my eyes over your curves and composing poem after poem in honour of this enigmatic muse who has landed on my lap.

We turn in when you have finished. We have established a routine. As you pray, I shower, then you shower afterwards. I hear the water flow and wish that I were those drops, splashing against your skin. Then it stops.

You come in wearing that black abayah with shiny hijab that you wore in the photos on Twitter. Your lips are painted brilliant red and your eyes sparkle with passion.

You are wearing the horns.

You jump on top of me like a woman possessed and grab at my clothes. I am rock hard and thrust into you. It does not last long, the pent-up passion of days lying next to the most desirable woman in the world, unable to have her, but you finish too, and then collapse, panting, sated. “Heathcliff!” you exclaim.

“Cathy!” I reply.

Part 3

It is the weekend and I decide that we need to go out. For so long now I have talked of wishing to show you the world that you’ve never known, I guess now is the time to do something about it. I tell you that we’ll be going on a trip as we lie in bed in the morning. You smile, take off your horns, and disappear into the other room.

You reappear dressed in your black abayah and hijab with the sparkling faux diamonds. It makes you look super-cute and a little naughty. We go out to the car, and you sit beside me. I set-off and you ask me where we are going. “Shh, wife!” I retort. “Your job is to obey, not to question!” I wink and you smile cheekily, squeezing my hand with yours and almost causing a crash.

We drive away from the city and up into the hills. This is the Peak District. You gaze out of the window in wonder at the passing scenery. It breaks my heart that you have lived all your life within a stone’s throw of such natural beauty and yet have experienced it far too little. I take the road to Leek and then turn off to Ashbourne. Then, after a few miles, I turn onto a tiny lane which twists and turns its way through hedge-bounded fields before the open moor comes into view. We cross a cattle grid, and a stunning vista spreads out on all sides. I stop and we get out. You stand there in the wind, abayah blowing, your cheeks buffeted. Then you take off your hijab and your long raven hair flows free, the wind turning it to chaos. You look like the Cathy you are on a wild and windy moor. I take your photograph and you do not object.

We stay there for some time.

Back in the car, you are about to replace your scarf, but I mention not yet. We drive down the hill, through a farmyard, and I stop by a building. It is the ruins of Throwley Old Hall, a gothic mansion that fell into disrepair centuries ago. Your emerald eyes are alive, and you get out of the car and race towards it, like Cathy re-embracing her Wuthering Heights. I watch you walk around the mysterious ruins, your abayah flapping in the wind. After some time, I follow.

I find you in the tower, sitting on a stone in the bottom room. You look up at me and smile, your eyes wild and alive. “All my life I have dreamt of being locked up in a Gothic dungeon!” you whisper.

“The door is not locked,” I reply, pointing to the ruined entranceway.

You ignore the comment, lost in your long-held fantasy.

“But why a dungeon?” I ask at length.

You do not reply, but instead reach into your pocket and pull out the devil horns which you affix to your head.

“Great evil is done in dungeons,” you whisper. “Back in mediaeval times, Crusading knights would rape pure defenceless Arab maidens after plundering their land.”

I say nothing but push you back against the wall and undo my trousers. Then I lift up that abayah to reveal those perfect legs.

And more. You are not wearing any panties and your slit is moist and ready. I climb atop you like a conquering Crusader and ram home. You gasp, your emerald eyes alive and on fire. You hold me and we ride, rough and wild, filled with the passion of centuries of oppression.

When finished, I briefly stroke your cheek, then turn and leave. I return to the car and wait. Minutes later you appear, your headscarf in place and your abayah keeping you modest. You say nothing as you get in and I drive off.

We continue on, down into the valley until the moorland morphs into lush greenery and the river tinkles by our feet. We’re in the pretty village of Ilam with its picture-postcard houses and smiling day-trippers. We park up and get out. Side-by-side, hand-in-hand, we walk into the National Trust estate. On the way, I make a detour for the ancient Saxon church. I make to enter but you pause at the door.

“If you’re not comfortable going in, I understand,” I say. “There should be no compulsion in religion.”

You stop and think for a moment, and then push open the door.

The interior of the church is ancient and dark. I make my way past the altar to the side-chapel where the plain stone tomb stands. “This is the burial place of my favourite saint,” I tell you. “When we were apart, I would come here and pray to him to protect you and bring us together.”

You nod and look at the tomb. The surface is strewn with bits of paper upon which pilgrims have written their prayers. You read them and then stop, pick one up and show it to me.

Lord, Keep Sapphire safe and well and make her days be happy and joyful. Give her the strength to become the person you truly wish her to be.

It is in my handwriting. You screw it up, lean into me and say, “No need for that one now; it has been answered.”

Then you kiss me on the cheek and, as your face presses against mine, I feel your tears.

I depart but you stay seated by that tomb for some time before emerging into the sunlight again.

We walk up, across the field of picnickers and playing children to the great Gothic edifice of Ilam Hall. You gasp at its beauty, and I tell you that they filmed ‘Jane Eyre’ there. “What?” you ask.

“It’s a book by the sister of the girl who wrote ‘Wuthering Heights’,” I tell you, before adding, “and it’s the next sacred text you’ll be studying. You squeeze my hand, and we walk up to the terraced garden. There we turn and survey the vista before us: the gardens, then the park and the church and the peak of Thorpe Cloud behind. You put your arms around me and whisper in my ear, “This is like a vision of Paradise.”

I hold you tight and say nothing for there is nothing more that can be said.

For occasionally Paradise can be a place on earth.

---

Our “married” life establishes a routine. Everyday you study a sacred text. After ‘Wuthering Heights’ it’s ‘Jane Eyre’, then ‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall’, and then after we’ve exhausted the Brontës, I move onto ‘Anna Karenina’, Shakespeare’s tragedies, and some of the great female authors like George Eliot and Virginia Wolff. You especially enjoy ‘Middlemarch’, and every evening, after we’ve had our tea, you read me what you have written. What first attracted me to you was your undoubted gift for creative writing, but even I hadn’t an inkling you are so talented. Sometimes it’s a story, other times an essay about some issue that enflames you, others it’s erotic and, occasionally a poem of such power and intensity that I am left breathless.

You tidy up as well, much that I chastise you for it, but here is the one area where you will not submit and obey. However, beyond the housework and study and writing, there are other activities you engage with. I do not ask about them for they are your private business, but we receive letters from social services and various government departments addressed to you c/o my address. You are doing what you need to, and I respect that but ask no further.

We go out too. You meet my friends and family; we have meals in restaurants or walks in the park. Every weekend we take another trip. The first is to Peveril Castle in the Peak District which we’d used for the setting of some of the scenes in the story we wrote together when we first started communicating. “Do you like it, Badriya?” I ask. You nod. Badriya was the name of the heroine, the girl whom you found you could identify with and who enabled us to bond.

But we go to other places as well. More castles of course, and some stately homes, but also empty beaches and wild mountains. Always places that can excite the imagination, temples of the soul. The only place we steer clear of is your hometown. Now is not the time.

And at night we enter another place, a darker place, you through your submissive attitude pushing me forward to do things that I would never dare to do otherwise.

One morning, around four, I awake. I don’t know why, but I listen to the sound of your breathing and then have an idea. You have fallen asleep still wearing those horns. Silently, I manoeuvre myself to the bottom of the bed and hitch up your night-time abayah. You murmur slightly as I pull down your panties and reveal that most sacred shrine. Then, I do what any true pilgrim must, I move forward to kiss the divine… and more. I breathe in your scent and pray with my tongue, exploring every aspect of your presence, offering my fullest devotion. Your breathing quickens as I locate your clitoris and use my tongue and lips to give it the devotion that it deserves. You stir and pant and I quicken. Your body tenses and I work more furtively still until you erupt in a sea on ecstasy. Then I silently lick it clean and dry and move my way back beside you. You sleepily put your arms around me, and we both drift off into dreamworld again.

---

One day I accidentally enter the back room when you are praying. You do not notice me as you are so engrossed in your devotions. I watch you from behind as you kneel and prostrate, turn from side to side and supplicate. It is an impossibly beautiful sight, both spiritually and erotically.

Spiritually to see such devotion, such submission. And erotically. When you bend the material stretches tight over your bottom and I can make out your panty-line; as you stand it loosens and flows, hiding the treasure hidden beneath.

I feel privileged indeed.

That night we make love with an intensity I have not experienced before.

Part 4

“Husband,” you say one morning, your soulful eyes suggesting that this is going to be fun. “Your Salafi wife is feeling sad and unsettled.”

“That is not acceptable,” I retort. “My wife must be happy and ready to serve both her husband and her Deen.”

“That is the problem. I feel too distant from my Deen.”

“You want me to take you to the mosque?”

Your eyes tell me clearly that you do not. I think for a moment and then look at them again.

“Wife, I have decided that we must go to Birmingham. They are too many kaffir here, whilst in parts of Birmingham the Deen is strong.”

Your face lights up.

“But I am not suitably dressed, husband, to walk among the believers.”

“No, not yet. But you are sufficiently clad for the journey. However, I demand that you pick an outfit suitable for an EXTREMELY pious area, where any express of your female awrah can cause terrible fitna.”

You modestly cast down your eyes and go upstairs.

We drive down to Handsworth and then stop at The Hawthorns Park and Ride. As I buy the tickets at the window, you head to the toilet to change. The figure that returns is unrecognisable, a cone of black material. A gloved hand sneaks out and hands me a bag containing some white material. I go to the gents and enter a cubicle. It’s an Islamic thobe and a cap. Wearing them, I’ll look like some hardcore ginger white revert.

And at the bottom of the bag, there are also some handcuffs.

I re-enter the public domain and find you waiting demurely by a wall. I come over to you, lift up your khimar and then fit the cuffs. Then, I flip down the outer layer of your niqab so that, presumably, you are almost blinded, and lead this non-person out towards the platforms.

You walk slowly so I assume there’s a hobble skirt on under there. The idea of you so controlled, so restrained and so unobtainable really turns me on, especially knowing that, essentially, you had asked for this.

We get on the train, me guiding you to a chair, and then I sit across from you so as better to enjoy the view.

Small Heath is Birmingham’s main Muslim area. It’s where they filmed Citizen Khan and Man Like Mobeen. It’s Salafi Central. As we alight from the train and I lead you up from the station to Coventry Road, the main drag, no one gives us a second look. We fit in. It is weird. I begin to understand how you felt when you lived back in Bradford; how you thought that was the only option.

On Coventry Road, I lead you. I steady you as we cross, know that your vision is minimal, and your stride is hobbled to a meagre 30cm. I feel dominant, in control, like a sultan or warrior. You are my property and I protect my precious pearl from all staring eyes… and herself.

We look in some of the shops, or at least, I do. You stand there dutiful and silent, head bowed and demure. Everyone greets me with and “Salaam aleikum brother!” You they ignore. They know you are haram, off-limits.

After we have strolled up the road about a quarter of a mile, I turn you around and retrace my steps. On the way up I saw what I needed; it is now time to enact my plan, my game.

Rayyan Restaurant. Authentic Lebanese, Arabian and Iranian Cuisine.

Almost as if it had been designed for you.

I guide you inside and we are greeted by a waiter. “Salaam aleikum,” I greet him. “My wife and I require a table but in a private area where she may unveil without revealing herself.”

“Certainly sir, let me show you to one of our family rooms which we provide for pious customers such as yourselves.”

The room is small, big enough for four. I seat you across the table from me and then order water and fruit juice. I then lift up the outer veil that you are unable to flip back yourself and hand you a menu. You can see just enough to read the choices. You are still gagged of course, so simply point to what you’d like with your black gloved hands. I repeat the choice and you nod. Then I flip the veils back down and we wait. The waiter returns and I order. Then, when he leaves, I begin the game. I lean over, lift up the veils slightly to get access to your gag and remove it. “Wife,” I say, “I have tension. It needs relieving!”

I imagine your eyes widening under those covers, your desire to scream, ‘In here?! What if someone walks in?!’ But you are my submissive Salafi wife. You get down on your knees, crawl under the table and lift my thobe.

The feel of your lips around my throbbing cock is exquisite. I lean back as you suck and lick, approaching the Gates of Jahan. But then, I order you to stop and return to your chair. You are confused but obey regardless.

“Wife, I am displeased. You are selfish!”

I feel your hidden quizzical looks.

“You think only of my pleasure but how can I be happy if I know that you are not excited yourself?”

I can feel you silently screaming but this risk-taking, this forced submission, makes me hot too!

“Nonetheless, I have a solution. Put this in!”

I hand you the object, unlocking your handcuffs as I do. It looks like a metal egg. It is clear where it goes. There is a button. You press it and an almost silent, faint vibration begins inside.

“I said put it in,” I repeat. You hitch up your black abayah and insert the egg, gasping as you do. Then you return the skirts to their proper place and I recuff your wrists. It cannot be removed until I say so. You are about to return to your place under the table when there is a knock. I replace your veils and shout “Enter!” The food arrives.

When it has all been brought before us, we are alone again. The egg inside you, coupled with the fact that others have been present, is causing you great excitement. The moment they leave, you crawl under the table again and start to suck. It is heavenly, a trip to Paradise itself. I erupt within you and the seed overflows, over your lips, onto your cheeks. I order you out from under the table then I go over to you, flip down your inner veil so the semen coats it and then I hitch your skirts, reach with my fingers, find that sensitive place and tease.

Your heightened breathing, gasping and pulsating eyes tell me when you have reached that which you deserve. I remove the egg and then lift your veil. You suck your own juices off the invader and then from my fingers. Then, I gesture that it is time to eat.

We finish our meal in silence, trying to process what has happened.

When completed we leave our private room and re-enter the crowded restaurant where the crowd is totally oblivious of what just went on only a screen away from them. You are hidden again, veils down, relying on me for support and guidance. I pay the bill and then, when finished, the cashier speaks to me:

“Brother, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but seeing someone like you who has reverted and so fully committed himself to the Deen, it is really inspirational.”

“No Brother, you are mistaken,” I tell him. “The inspiration here is all from my beloved wife, Sapphire. I am here today as I stand before you because of her. She guided me onto this path.”

“She is a revert too, Brother?”

“Yes, she is. Before she lived a lie, away from the light, not knowing her true self. Today she shines in her full glory.”

“Subhan Allah!” he exclaims as we walk to the door.

We take the train back to the Park and Ride, you, my Salafi wife, and I. Silent, savouring the experience. At the station, I guide you into the lift and then remove your handcuffs. You go into the ladies toilets and I enter the gents. I exit in my jeans and t-shirt, the Salafi replaced by a kaffir. Some time later, you also re-emerge. You wear your jeans that emphasise that wonderful bottom and your grey jumper. Your hair is wild and free. I say nothing but take you by the hand and we walk to the car as equals.

Our life continues.

Part 5

The weeks roll by, and we grow together. Sometimes I understand you; others you remain the enigma that you always were. I love you, yet I know too that you are your own person, free and independent. You have been dominated by others, men especially, for too long. For me to add to that would merely be cruel. But you are kind, you understand how I am thinking and, when you are feeling far-off, I’ll suddenly find your hand in mine and your cheek brushing against my own.

And I will look into those sparkling eyes and thank God.

Nonetheless, something changes in the air. I am reminded of the verse in the Ecclesiastes that says, ‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.’ As the Buddha teaches, all things are temporary, everything must pass.

And that includes our Nikah Mut’ah.

On that final evening of our marriage, you are nervous. We go out for a meal in the Afghani restaurant near the railway station and you hardly speak, instead staring into space as if focussed on something else. I understand. This is your way. Back home you take my hand and lead me upstairs. Whilst you pray, I shower and then enter the bedroom. I hear you get up and the shower being turned on again. Then it stops and silence reigns.

You enter the bedroom and I gasp. You appear before me as Allah made, that most precious of all his creations. Every curve, every bump, every spot, every dimple. I know that you are shy, that you have never done anything like this before. I know that you do not believe that the girl who stands before me now could launch a thousand ships, but it is true. I drink you in, intoxicated. I know what courage this has taken, what it signifies.

I divest myself of my own clothes and draw you towards me. Our bodies touch, then meld. Your warmth flows into me and your scent fills my nostrils. I enter you gently but firmly, my hands on your buttocks, yours on my chest. Our rhythm is slow and steady, savouring, not wanting the moment to end.

It is the most beautiful experience of my life.

As you come, you press your cheek against mine. It is wet with tears, and they mingle with my own. We climax together in perfect unity and then we lie there, holding each other tight, tears flowing.

Never let me go.

An indefinite amount of time later, you cuddle against me, you whisper in my ear, “Nikah Mut’ah, it is not a real thing you know.”

“In Shi’a Islam it is.”

“But I am Sunni.”

“No, my sweetest Sapphire. You are neither Sunni nor Shi’a, Muslim nor Christian. You are woman.”

You nuzzle my face and whisper back, “And you are man.”

“You’ve never told me,” I say to her.

“I love you, husband,” you whisper back.

“No, not that. You never told me what made you come to the decision to leave your old life. How many times over how many months have I asked you to? I thought you were in danger, was so worried for you and you assured me that you were safe, that everything was alright. You even cut me off when I went to the police that time. So, what changed your mind?”

You are silent, staring at the sky through the window like the creature of the night that is your true nature. Then, you speak:

“I was pregnant.”

“What?”

“Last month, I missed my period. I went to the GP, and he confirmed it. I was five weeks gone.”

“Oh my God, I’m… congratulations or… I dunno…”

“I hadn’t decided then. But there I wouldn’t have been given the choice. I couldn’t continue on as before, safe in my cocooned world with my nocturnal Twitter safety valve. There was more than me to consider.

“I was safe there. Always had been, always would be. Not happy, but safe. And it was familiar. But now there was another to consider. My daughter. Could I stand by and see my little girl get treated as I had been, channelled into such a path? No. And if it was a boy? Could I be proud as a mother when he is brought up to treat his women as I have been treated? No. I knew I needed to act.

“For months now I have been earning money, secretly. I write erotic stories for people, and they pay me. I don’t earn much, but it is the pocket money that I always yearned for. With the little I had saved up, I bought the three-layer niqab and bag, plus the train and bus tickets. For the sake of my unborn children, all of them, I left.”

“And us?”

You smile. “We are a beautiful dream. Something I never imagined could happen in reality.”

We kiss passionately and then fall asleep in one another’s arms.

---

In the morning when I awaken, the bed is empty. I arise to find you in the kitchen. You’re wearing a long black dress and your grey long-sleeved jumper, but your hair is uncovered. Your eyes sparkle with their emerald intensity, eyes that shall captivate me until the day I die. You look like your true self, a Sapphire between two worlds, part Muslim, Arabian, Persian, exotic. And part British, the girl-next-door. My heart aches with love.

Silently we pick up the marriage contract and rip it in two. Then, you grab your coat and bag and go out to the car. You sit in the front beside me, pretences of mahram and non-mahram a thing of the past. You’ve worked that out of your system.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” you reply, “but not to that house. I did as you said and have been talking to the social worker. They told my family that I’ve had a nervous breakdown, lost my mind, and ended up in a hospital in Manchester not knowing who I was. The therapist said it was caused by my immense unhappiness in that house and advised that if I return, I will be ill. Mother-in-Law was not impressed, but my husband is a kind man. He never wanted to make me sad and so he divorced me by pronouncing the talaq three times. He has his Missy; they will be fine. My parents have agreed to take me back and let me live as I want. None of them know about the pregnancy. They never will. Allah made his decision last week, and I was glad. I am not ready for that yet, but one day soon, inshallah, I hope. My social worker is accompanying me home. I will have daily contact with her and the police so nothing will happen. They have enrolled me at university in East Anglia in September.”

“East Anglia?!”

“It is the best in the country for creative writing. I am going to pursue the dream you told me to follow all that time ago. My grades at school were very good. I only went to Bradford University before because they wanted to keep an eye on me. They realise now that was wrong. Abu cried when I told him my pain.”

“And me?”

“They don’t know. They never will. That is our secret.”

I nod. It is for the best.

“When will I see you again?”

You shrug. “Perhaps a chance meeting in Bradford on a Saturday afternoon in the art gallery at Cartwright Hall. I may be standing by the large Egyptian painting in there wondering which of the Pharaoh’s slaves is me.”

“Or perhaps in a coffee shop in Norwich, where we brush fingers accidentally?”

“Inshallah.”

“Inshallah.”

You get out of the car, and I walk you to the platform. The train comes and I watch you get on, admiring the curves of that beautiful bottom and the swish of that ebony mane for the final time. The doors close and you wave, a pair of green eyes stare through the window at me as it slowly leaves the station. I wave back until you are gone and then I reflect upon what an incredible enigma you are and mouth a silent prayer to Our Lady of both thanks for the dream that we had lived and yearning that those eyes may pierce my soul again one day soon.

Written 18/05/2022-05/06/2022, Smallthorne, UK

Sapphire’s Coffee

This is the first Sapphire story I ever wrote and the first instalment in Sapphire’s Saga.

This story is a Sapphire story. If you like Sapphire and her stories, let her know here.

Lady Hodierna of Leeds

There lived a singer in France of old

By the tideless dolorous midland sea.

In a land of sand and ruin and gold

There shone one woman, and none but she.

And finding life for her love’s sake fail,

Being fain to see her, he bade set sail,

Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold,

And praised God, seeing; and so died he.

Died, praising God for his gift and grace:

For she bowed down to him weeping, and said

“Live”; and her tears were shed on his face

Or ever the life in his face was shed.

The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung

Once, and her close lips touched him and clung

Once, and grew one with his lips for a space;

And so drew back, and the man was dead.

I put down the book of poetry and looked out of the rain-specked window at the dull Northern sky. The 10:26 from Manchester Piccadilly was not overly busy and I was glad of it. I didn’t want to fall into conversations today, nor spend an hour penned in by a student from Salford, a businessman from Bingley and a human resources officer heading for Hull.

I wiped my eye. By what threads of fate had I chanced upon that poem about Jaufre Rudel, the famous French troubadour of the 12^th century? He, more than any other would have understood my trip today. He sang and praised love from afar, as he fixed his devotions on the unobtainable Lady Hodierna of Tripoli and passionately devoted himself to her despite never having seen her face nor heard her voice.

That lady from the distant Levantine coast who was wedded to another and was too pure to betray legal ties.

Jaufre Rudel who, nearing the end of his life, boarded a pilgrimage ship bound for Jerusalem, then fell ill as the ship was passing what is now Lebanon.

He who was carried ashore by his peers to the city of Tripoli – Trablus today – and whose lady came down from her ivory tower to see him. He who encountered her in the flesh that one time and then died in her arms.

What portents did this tend?

Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving at Leeds. If you are alighting here, mind the gap between the train and the platform edge and remember to bring all of your personal belongings with you. Thank you for travelling with TransPennine Express.

I am jolted out of my mediaeval reveries, back into this most cruel 21^st century.

I was here.

---

We met in that most modern of manners, online. It was innocent at first, discussions on politics, religion, a shared passion for the written word. But you touched me somewhere deep. Your personal story, trials and sufferings made my blood boil. The urge to be a White Knight rose, and I battled without total success to suppress it. The sane part of me argued that one cannot rescue, that the only one who can liberate themselves is themselves.

But the emotional side longed to hug you tight, to take you by the hand and whisk you away from those dreary terraces, dark satanic mills, endless restrictions placed by nameless, faceless identikit sheikhs who declare they know God’s will without ever having tried to listen to Him whisper.

Yet at the same time, a dark me lurked. A shadow of my being that both shames and enflames. A shameful shadow that heard of your restrictions and oppression and fantasised of doing the same, of dominating where I knew I should submit.

Thankfully, astonishingly, unbelievably, you understood.

We chatted late into the night, achieving an intimacy I had not known even with my wife during those far-off days of our marriage.

But that was all it was. All it ever could be. Walls of culture and faith, of society and legal bindings would keep us forever apart even though we lived so close. Alas, the 21^st century malaise! It would have been easier to be with someone from Lima, Lhasa, Luanda.

Or Lebanon.

There you sit in that photo, staring out of the window at a denied life, but an hour away, yet it could have been the world! Like Jaufre of yore, all I can do is worship from after, glimpses of heaven snatched in a secretly sent snap. Like an icon in the church, a clumsy attempt to reflect the divinity of the real.

Condemned to kneel in the Temple whilst the curtain remains closed, shielding the object of my devotions for eternity.

Or so I thought.

Until, out of the blue, you suggested it.

A meeting, by chance.

It is not possible.

In Bradford no, but somewhere else.

But where? Like Jaufre I would travel, to the ends of the earth if need be.

The ends of the earth, no. But Leeds, Leeds is possible.

I wanted to laugh. Leeds. Somewhere so dull, so familiar, so…

Then I realised, it had to be.

Twenty years earlier my trust in love was torn asunder in Leeds, my heart shattered into a thousand shards.

Where better to repair, rebuild, make new and whole once again?

---

I alight from the train and embrace the seething mass of humanity. For the fiftieth time that day, I check my watch. 11:15. Your train is due in precisely twelve minutes. Twelve minutes that feel like a whole year, a month for each tortuous sixty seconds. I stand on the overbridge and eagerly anticipate, wishing the 11:27 arrival from Bradford Interchange to rev its engines that little bit more, turn those wheels a modicum quicker. Speed on driver! Race on to the finish line, oh inadequate finish line that is Platform 8a!

But then I am filled with anguish, with doubt, with fear. Will I recognise her, her whose face I have never seen? How can one recognise that which is shrouded behind the Temple curtain?

No, my friend of over four decades, have faith. It will happen! Do not fear!

Yet still those excruciating lumps of doubt remain sat upon my stomach. I resist the urge to vomit them out in a desperate attempt to remove the unwanted intruder.

Lo! It arrives! The yellow-fronted Northern carriage. An unsuitable palanquin for our modern-day Queen of Sheba. I rush down to the platform ready for it to draw in.

The doors open and the masses flood out. Mothers with toddlers and pushchairs, pensioners on a dray trip to the shop, salespeople hoping to have a lucky day. All humanity is on view except… except.

My heart sinks. She has not come! The risk was too great, the excuses of a day’s shopping did not rinse. All is lost, it was never meant to be…

No, wait! Could it be? Can it truly be? No, I am not mistaken, surely not! Why, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It is here, it is my lady. It is…

Come with me from Lebanon, my bride, with me from Lebanon; look from the top of Amana, from the top of Senir and Hermon, from the lions’ dens, from the mountains of the leopards.

As instructed, I follow, at a distance. Demure and chaste, she sashays along in her vapoury coal-black gown. Loose and modest yet revealing hints of paradise. I know what lies beneath those ebony folds, that which shames her so much, but which causes quite the opposite emotions in me. That glorious celebration of femininity!

How beautiful are thy steps in sandals, O prince’s daughter! The roundings of thy thighs are like the links of a chain, the work of the hands of a skilled workman.

I imagine that I am the cloth modestly caressing those thighs!

Through the ticket barriers and out into the rainy world. She is wearing the same coat with a fur hood that she sports in those furtive photos. It is so elegant! I trust it keeps her safe and warm!

She crosses City Square and, twenty metres behind, her Jaufre does too. Still from afar. For now…

Down Park Row and then onto the Headrow. I am entranced by the regal swish of her abayah, like a Princess of Persia. It mesmerises like a Hindu mantra.

Haré Krishna, Haré Radha. Haré Sapphira.

Then she stops, turns left into a shop. A coffee shop. I forget the name, does it even matter? A minute later I enter too, trying not to betray my searching. I order something, a latte perhaps, or even just a tea. Does it matter? Of course, it does not. Nothing else matters.

The coffee shop is busy. All tables occupied. As she wanted. Then I see her, in a corner, alone. But there is a chair opposite, beautifully vacant.

“Excuse me madam, is this seat free?”

She looks up, as if this was not expected and then nods. Our eyes meet and fire rages.

I sit.

Thou art a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys.

She is wearing her black hijab and her niqab obscures her face. Only those two eyes shine out, eyes that could launch a thousand ships. My stomach churns. The niqab, that impenetrable barrier between us, but thin cloth yet too stout a wall to breach. The focus of my hatred and anger, for it keeps us apart and her vivacity oppressed, and yet… yet also all that I thank God for it. That salutary symbol of all that I adore. The restriction, the control, the dominance, and submission that enflames our discussions late into the night. I detest its oppression and yet I know she dons it for me.

A garden shut up is my sister, my bride; a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.

I no longer wear niqab, she laughs digitally. Not since Covid. A mask suffices these days; it is easier to remove and causes less stares.

I applaud her act of miniscule rebellion, an ineffectual pebble cast against the walls of misogyny. Yet my heart sinks at the choice. To replace something so powerful, something so symbolic with a mere medical device. Aesthetics degraded into sterility. Yet today she has tied it around her head, just for me. My heart races.

Yet my mind races with confusion. Why me, why has she graced one so unworthy? Is it merely because I was the only one; no other troubadour crossed her path, willing to take the risk, willing to share in her rebellion? Or is it something more. Does she really reciprocate my petitions? Do I cause her joy as she causes me?

Has she who could command any man, truly selected this unworthy pilgrim?

Thou art beautiful, O my love, as Tirzah, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners.

The blank veil reveals nothing; the holy of holies remains hidden.

She picks up her coffee cup with her black gloved hands. As the fingers grasp the handle, the material creases so as to follow the contours of the flesh. Her eyes are intent on her task, but she glances, almost imperceptibly, at me before returning to her duties.

I gasp inside. She does not wear gloves, yet today… it is another gift, another blessing a pilgrim come to her shrine!

I concentrate on my own drink but glance furtively. She raises the cup to her face and, oh-so-slightly, lifts the veil to bring it to her lips and, in a fleeting instance, I glimpse those two scarlet bows and precious pearls.

Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy mouth is comely; thy temples are like a pomegranate split open behind thy veil.

I know how she dreams of exposing herself. This is the closest that she can come. That knowledge coupled with her beauty… I cast my gaze downwards towards the unthinking cup.

She replaces the cup and takes out a book. The writing I do not understand, but the purpose I do. It allows me to glance without guilt. I drink hungrily in the sight of those two shining sapphires as they dart across the page.

When she reaches the end, again she glances, imperceptibly. Again, our eyes meet and I am sure, behind that veil, she smiles.

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thine eyes are as doves behind thy veil.

And then in an instant, I understand it. The need for the curtain between us. Years earlier, walking across the sunburnt plains of Spain, I realised that God is as female as he is male; that there is more succour and mercy in the smile of Mary, the laugh of Aphrodite, the darting glances of Radha and the playful jibes of Tara than in all the injunctions of the faceless, nameless male desert deities that banished her from the Ka’aba and the Temple.

Fourteen hundred years before, her images were smashed, and she went into hiding. But she never went away, not for an instant. Astarte is still with us, Isis still bathes by the pool at Byblos, Allat still roams the wastes of Arabia.

She sits before me now, rich with boons and unimaginable bounty.

My dove, my undefiled, is but one; she is the only one of her mother; she is the choice one of her that bore her. The daughters saw her, and called her happy; yea, the queens and the concubines, and they praised her.

But She is still divine, still a god, and the gods cannot live by the rules of men. When Moses met his creator on the slopes of Mount Sinai, he was not able to gaze directly upon him. Instead, he shielded behind a rock, for the glory would have killed him, just as it killed Jaufre on the shores of her ancestors.

That is why she needs the niqab.

I glance at that which I am allowed to see. A tiny rectangle of flesh around those two jewels. She is everything that she said, a cocktail of Arabia and Persia laced with a dash of Hebrew. All the ancient deities encapsulated in one veiled goddess.

Hail Mary, the Lord is with thee.

Blessed art thou amongst women!

She drains her cup and then glances at me. Our eyes meet for the final time and, as they do, I miss her actions. When I cast them down again, I see that a single glove has been removed. She glances fearfully, left and right and then, when sure of safety, commits her act of rebellion, lets that long-suppressed assertiveness take precedence.

The ungloved hand touches my own. For an unexpected second, our flesh meets, presses together, melds.

Then, she is gone.

Go forth, O ye daughter of Zion!

Only the glove remains.

---

I stand on the overbridge and watch the 12:43 to Bradford Forster Square draw out of platform 3. As it enters the station throat, the 12:44 to Scarborough passes it.

Two trains passing by on parallel tracks. When, if ever, shall they pass by one another again?

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

Written 16/05/22, Stoke-on-Trent to Leeds, UK

Sapphire’s Saga is continued in Sapphire’s Journey

The Three Domains: #10: Making a Friend

The Three Domains

Copyright © 2022, Dave Potter

Previous chapter: Life in the Second Domain

Making a Friend

The two former harem Sisters had been talking for a while, catching up on all the society gossip, when tea was brought out. I wondered how we were supposed to drink it, being securely gagged as we were, but to my surprise, the maids simply lifted our veils (although carefully, so not as to reveal anything that lay beneath them) and then removed a plug from the centre of each gag. They then attached a tube to the top of each teacup which they then affixed to the holes in our gags. Thus, we could suck away to our hearts’ contents without needing to remove our bondage.

Perhaps it was the disruption of the maids removing mine and Shushan’s gag plugs, but afterwards, grandmother mentioned to Ziazam that it must be awfully boring for us two youngsters having to listen to two oldies chatter for so long about people they did not know, and so perhaps should we not be allowed to start our own conversation. Ziazam enthusiastically agreed and so another screen was set up and our typepads reprogrammed to route to that one instead. Finally, our hands were released from our muffs and chained together instead, and I began my first conversation with Ziazam’s granddaughter.

Hello, nice to meet you. I’m glad that we can chat now.

Me too! Granny means well, but it can be awfully dull in the Second Domain sometimes when she is chattering away about Lord this and Lady that.

It’s my first time in Second Domain, but I’m fast-learning that you’re right.

You’ve not been here long, right?

Only a few days.

It’s getting on for a month for me… I think. To be honest, it’s hard to keep track of time at granny’s place cos she doesn’t have any clocks and every day is the same. I’m kept in the First Domain most of the time. What about you?

None of them really. I have a gown that I wear but she says it’s a mishmash. She has stated that I’ll be living in First Domain in the future though.

It’s not bad. Better than this I mean, although the reverse prayer thing is HARD!!! It’s really painful at first and then your arms deaden, and it gets better, but even so, you’re just so helpless all the time.

Although I haven’t tried it yet, I am kept restrained all the time. Would you believe that before I came here, I was never restrained at all?!

Me neither! Dad is really liberal, even by Shushi standards. I didn’t even veil unless I went outside in the city. We lived in the town of course, but we also have a place in a village near to Kars and there I would run around unveiled and unrestrained. It was marvellous and I do so miss it.

I miss my home life too. I mean, I’m grateful to my grandmother of course for inviting me to stay here with me and sharing her stories with me. I think she might be lonely and it’s amazing to hear about her exciting life but being so restrained all the time is annoying and I’ll be glad to go back to Gentanants Province.

Me too! But when will you be going back? Has she told you?

No, nothing. I guess that’s normal since I only just got here.

Yeah, but I’ve been here a month I think, and I haven’t a clue either and when I’ve asked, she hasn’t given me a straight answer.

Maybe she doesn’t want to think about you leaving. She might be lonely like my grandmother.

She probably is and we do have a wonderful bond. She’s such a great granny and so elegant. They don’t dress in First Domain with us because they’re ashamed of how they look these days now that they are so old, but my granny still looks amazing.

So does grandmother. She has really good bone structure.

Mind you, when they were in the harem, they didn’t look good they looked totally frigging AMAZING!!

Really? How do you know?

Granny has pictures. I’ll get her to show them to you. No wonder that old sultan fancied them both so much.

What about the other one, Talleen?

She’s on the photos as well. To be honest, she’s not quite so cute but she’s still a hottie. And her breasts. Like OMG, they were ginormous! Granny says she resented them, and I can see why; they must have been so heavy to carry about!

I’m glad I’m not going to be modified like that.

Oh, I dunno. Granny’s are a nice size, your gran’s too.

You’re right I suppose, but the thought of someone changing my body, ugh!

Well, you don’t need to worry about that; it’s not on the cards for us. The Sultan must be so old now that he can’t even get it up! My guess is that what they’re doing is tutoring us about all that kind of stuff so that we can make a good marriage match.

I wondered about that myself, although I don’t know if I’d like to marry a nobleman and live in the capital.

Me too; I’d hate it! Back in Shusha I’m in the school there – the same one that granny attended – and I love it. I want to pass all my exams and then study to be a doctor or a researcher in medicines.

I went to school too, but where I live, they only educate girls up to sixteen, so I stopped over a year ago. I’d love to restart as I did well.

You should come and live in Shusha!

Maybe I should!

Come and stay with me, it’d be fun!

We were going to chat more, but the maids came up, took our typepads away, unchained us and refastened the muffs. We then turned back to the older two ladies.

Well girls, began Ziazam, it seems that you’ve been getting to know one another. I’m pleased about that although less pleased with you making remarks about our Lord being so old as to not being able to get it up! Not befitting of a young lady at all.

I looked at Shushan even though I could see nothing of her. Neither of us had realised that they could read our conversation.

Naturally girls, your grandmothers have been following what you said. We use typepads rather than pencils and paper for primarily that reason, although it is usually a lady’s husband, father or master that checks up on her chatterings. Be aware of this in the future. Big Sister Ziazam and I are kind and forgiving; others may be less so.

On a different note, Little Sister Zagiri, I cannot believe that you haven’t shown Sevan here any of our photos yet!

I clean forgot!

Don’t worry, I have a couple saved here. Look girls, this is us Marigolds in the Third Domain. We’re in the palace gardens.

An image of three bulky and sumptuous yellow burqas flashed onto the screen.

I’m the one on the left, Big Sister Ziazam here is in the middle and Middle Sister Talleen is on the right.

And we wear yellow because that was the marigold colour, although on occasions different shades were allowed. Now, here we are in the Second Domain.

Another image flashed up. Again, it could have been anyone: three billowing yellow gowns with miniscule waists and veiled faces, jewels glittering against the yellow silk.

And finally, the First Domain. This is us in the Royal Pleasure Chamber. Our Lord took this photo himself at the start of a night of intense passion. What a night that was!

Indeed, Big Sister Ziazam, a night to remember!

Behind my gag, I gasped. Shushan had been right. Grandmother and Ziazam had been absolutely gorgeous. Ziazam had a look of sultry aloofness that seemed to both challenge and invite a man, her arched eyebrows framing two perfect pools of chocolate. Her breasts were pert and spherical, but not overpowering, whilst her skin was dusky and silky.

Grandmother was equally beautiful, but in a different fashion. Her face radiated kindness and devotion. She looked into your soul and soothed it. Her body was curvier than Ziazam’s and her breasts more obviously enhanced, bordering on what was sexy and obscene. Her hips flared out and hinted at that bottom which the Sultan had praised so highly.

And then there was Talleen, the earth goddess, with her wide, wide hips and long dark brown hair, wild and free, cascading down on either side of those unbelievably large and spherical breasts. How could she carry them? She looked like an invitation to sex with pouting, ample lips, no doubt enhanced by the palace surgeons.

But my shock was due to not of those factors. No, not at all. Instead, what so surprised me was just how similar the 18-year-old Zagiri looked to the 17-year-old me.

It was as if I had found my identical twin!

Next chapter: One (More) Night with the King