Concubines

The next day, the Sheik returned from his trip. He explained the plan he had to scam the government of the United States into supporting my owning a concubine. Of course, I readily agreed for the memory of Kamilah under me kept my blood simmering. I boarded his plane that night to take me home. I left a teary-eyed Kamilah with the promise I would return for her.

When I got home, there were phone calls from my parents, several friends, and six women. I called Nancy first, but she was out of town. I then called Estella who came over and spent the night.

I received daily reports from Mohammed or Nudara about the progress of negotiations between the Sheikdom and the United States concerning my insulting the Sheik. I hadn't, of course, but that was his scam. On the fourth day back, Mohammed told me the State Department wanted to interview Kamilah. We granted the interview, but Nudara, concealed by a burqat, would pretend to be Kamilah.

On the sixth day, Nudara called from the Sheikdom. She said, "The interview went very well, Mike, and there was a plus. A woman named Abigail Beavers represented your State Department. You need to meet her."

"Why?"

"She's beautiful and intelligent. Most importantly, she has the heart and soul of a concubine."

We talked a bit more before we disconnected. I thought about this woman I'd never met, and women in general and relationships, personal, family, and otherwise.

Mine was not a normal family, if normal means having a husband and wife who live together and raise their children. My grandfather, "Big Mike" Price, was married and divorced seven times. To Granddad, marriage was an estate and tax planning tool rather than a commitment. Each wife received part of his millions upon divorce, with her wealth ultimately going to the children she bore by him. Divorce didn't mean abandonment. Every wife had a house in Granddad's compound. Each night, all the wives and children ate dinner and spent the evening together at his mansion before returning to their own houses.

My father's home wasn't "normal" either. There was my father Patrick, my mother Elizabeth, and me, Aunt Maria, her two children by my father, Patricio and Eva, and Aunt Charlene. We children had the second floor. The four adults shared the master bedroom downstairs.

I never intended to have one wife forever and ever. Two women I dated suggested marriage and plainly stated I was welcome to play around. Another said she liked women as much as I did and offered a multitude of options. Something was missing with all of them. Now, things were starting to come into focus.

**

The State Department called the next morning. They wanted me in Washington and the FBI would provide an escort. As I hung up, there was a knock at my door. Two men in dark-blue suits flashed their badges, waited as I changed and packed, and took me to a private, unmarked plane. Once onboard, they gave me a cold sandwich, a bottle of soda, and an old magazine before ignoring me all the way to Washington. A limousine whisked us to the State Department Building.

My silent guards ushered me into a large office with a huge desk. A man and a woman sat opposite the desk silently waiting. A little man about forty with a combed-over pate marched from behind the desk and extended his hand. "I'm Cecil Potter Wainscot the fourth, Deputy Assistant Under Secretary for Middle Eastern Affairs," he said smoothly. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Price."

"I didn't have a choice, did I?" I replied neutrally.

He grinned. "You didn't. The President personally asked me to handle this situation to his satisfaction. This is Phillip Carnegie McReynolds the third, and Amanda Abigail Beavers," Wainscot said. McReynolds, a slightly taller, younger, paler version of Wainscot rose and pumped my hand twice as he gave me a tepid plastic smile.

Nudara was right. Miss Beavers was a beauty. I extended my hand to shake hers. When our fingers touched, electricity crackled. She jerked and her eyes widened.

"Miss Beavers," I said as I smiled at her.

"Mr. Price," she said with a soft sensuality.

"Please, have a seat," Wainscot said. I took the empty chair on the end, turned it slightly so I could keep Miss Beavers in sight, and sat. "Let me get right down to the problem, Mr. Price," Wainscot continued. "The Sheik offered you a gift and you refused, which is a great insult to any Arab. The Sheik and his country are vitally important to the economic and strategic interests of the United States. The President wants you to make the Sheik happy and he wants it now."

"I've talked with Prince Mohammed," I said.

"What did the Prince say?" Wainscot demanded.

"Exactly?"

"Exactly," he commanded.

"He said, 'Mike, you're being an ass. Take the girl and enjoy her.'" Amanda Abigail Beavers reddened and her hands trembled as she looked down and away.

"Those were the President's words, too," Wainscot said. He sat back in the large, overstuffed chair. "And I agree. You're being an ass, Mr. Price. You saved the Prince's life and his father wants to reward you. He wants to give you a woman and an allowance that will maintain you and her. Only an idiot would turn that down."

"Did it occur to you that slavery is illegal in the United States?" I asked.

"I know that," Wainscot replied testily. His fingers drummed his desk and he scowled into space.

Miss Beavers and I studied each other. Big, submissive, blue eyes behind oversized, round, black-framed glasses pleaded with me. Her hands twisted in her lap. Unknowingly, she was confirming what I had been told about her. In that instant, the game plan changed. I knew the Sheik wouldn't mind.

Wainscot's drumming stopped and he stared at me. "No one needs to know she's a slave," he said.

"True," I answered. "But, the gift of the woman is conditional. If I don't want to keep her, or if she causes problems, the Sheik will take her back, by force if need be. The women's groups would scream if they found out. Or, some overzealous do-gooder in the Attorney General's Department could raise an issue."

"The woman won't complain because she wants this. Doesn't she, Abigail?"

"Yes, Mr. Wainscot," she replied. "She understands the situation and its ramifications."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Abigail is fluent in Arabic. She had eight uninterrupted hours with the woman and returned only yesterday. What's her name?" Wainscot said.

"Kamilah," Miss Beavers said. "She speaks highly of you, Mr. Price. She wants to be your concubine."

"She may say she wants to be my concubine, but how do you know what's in her woman's heart?" I asked of Miss Amanda Abigail Beavers.

"I know, Mr. Price," she replied softly.

McReynolds missed her real meaning, but Wainscot didn't and neither did I. Miss Beavers flushed and her lower lip trembled. Her eyes, wide and soft and almost transparent, never left mine. From the corner of my eye, I could see Wainscot watching intently, his eyes flicking back and forth between us.

Wainscot was a pro and hid his feelings well. "What can we do to get this off dead center?" he asked.

"You tell me," I replied.

"We'll provide official protection for the Sheik and for you relative to your acquisition of the woman, and his reacquisition, if need be," Wainscot said. I didn't reply. "And appropriate documents to bring the woman here and keep her with you in whatever relationship you want. I'll even throw in a State Department plane to take you there to pick her up."

"May I make a suggestion?" Miss Beavers asked.

"Go ahead," Wainscot answered.

"I think if I'm assigned to Mr. Price, I can ease the transition and grease some wheels along the way."

"Carn, would you excuse us," Wainscot said. McReynolds left the room.

Wainscot dropped his professional veneer. A smooth, tough, and savvy man was underneath. "You want to be assigned to Mr. Price and receive your orders from him, don't you?" he asked.

Amanda Abigail Beavers straightened her back and folded her shaking hands in her lap. She was perched on the edge of the chair with her feet and knees primly together. She looked directly at me. "Yes, Mr. Wainscot," she said with unwavering assurance.

"Please excuse us," Wainscot said. After the door closed behind her, he said, "I wondered what turned her on. There were some signs it was submission, but when I tried taking her down that path, she rebelled and pulled up short."

"What can you tell me about her?"

"Professional and competent. Smart. Well educated. A fabulous body under those conservative clothes." Wainscot grinned lewdly. "And a good, but not great, fuck."

"Does she do that a lot?" I asked.

"Not as much as I want, but what woman does? She's picky, not what I'd call promiscuous, but she's no reluctant virgin either. I can name half-a-dozen guys she's done." His fingers did a rapid tattoo on the desk. "No anal sex. Her cocksucking is half-hearted. But she humps with the best of them." His fingers drummed again before he said, "I've always felt she was holding back, that there was a depth she didn't let any man touch."

"Maybe I can find it," I said.

"Too true." His fingers danced a quick staccato. "Well, good luck, not that you'll need it."

"Thanks," I said.

"You're welcome," he replied. He stood, came around the desk, and shook my hand. "State will deliver on my promises. It's up to you, Mr. Price, to make the Sheik happy. That will make the President happy and that makes me happy. Your gift and Miss Beavers should make you delirious with happiness."

I called the Sheik to inform him the arrangements were complete and Amanda Abigail Beavers would be coming with me. Miss Beavers was waiting for me in the outer office. I told her to pack and rejoin me here because we were leaving tonight. After she departed, I read her dossier Wainscot gave me.

Amanda Abigail Beavers was born and raised in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, the younger of two daughters of a prominent Philadelphia attorney and his wife, who had been a professional model. Her older sister, formerly a model specializing in lingerie, was the wife of a New York industrialist.

The dossier said Abigail was five nine, one hundred thirty-four pounds, and in excellent health with no identifying scars or tattoos. She did all the standard things in high school like cheerleading, tried modeling but didn't like it, and enjoyed skiing and dancing. She was twenty-four, which was my age. She graduated from The University of Pennsylvania with highest honors in Asian and Middle Eastern Studies with a double concentration in Modern Islamic Nations and Arabic.

Because she excelled at languages, The State Department schooled her in Arabic, Farsi, and Urdu before assigning her to the Middle Eastern Department as a translator. She had been there almost two years and worked directly for Wainscot. There was nothing negative in her files. Each evaluation and report glowed with comments on her intelligence, poise, competence, and dedication to duty.

I observed she was beautiful, with a heart shaped face, big blue eyes, and a slightly scooped nose of a perfect size for her face. Her skin was pale. Her shoulder length hair was light brown with a glimmering mixture of red-blonde highlights. Her lips were feminine and of medium thickness. She had narrow wrists and ankles, patrician hands and feet, and a stately elegance of class and breeding.

When she returned to the State Department office with suitcase in hand, she wore a knee-length, loose-fitting black skirt and a pink blouse with long, puffed sleeves. The blouse buttoned to her neck and had a pink bow under her chin, creating a package waiting to be unwrapped. The State Department limo whisked us to the State Department plane, which took us away.

Once airborne, we sat next to each other in the rear seats and talked at length. I learned about her family and her life, but not her sex life. Except for a tingling undercurrent of sexual tension, she was at ease with me, as if I was an old friend, but she called me "Mr. Price" even though I called her "Abby."

"You haven't asked any questions about me," I said.

"I know about you," she said.

"How?"

"When this problem arose, Cecil ordered me to investigate. I started with the FBI files on you. You've been under surveillance because of your friendship with Prince Mohammed. I re-interviewed some of your old girl friends. They were quite open with me. A government badge and sympathetic ear can have that effect. I learned a lot about you."

"Such as?"

"All the standards things - intelligence, sense of humor, what you like to eat or to do. We talked a lot about your sexual qualities and preferences."

"Such as?" I asked again.

"They all said you're a demanding lover, not cruel but strong and commanding like a sheik or medieval knight, and that you treat a woman well. All of them commented on your endowment," she said with a knowing grin. "One of the married ones said she was having an affair with you."

"Patricia or Nancy?" I asked.

She was surprised. "I didn't know about Patricia," she replied. "I guess our investigation wasn't as thorough as it should've been. Tell me about her."

"She likes a hard hand occasionally," I said.

She had been relaxed, her face soft, eyes twinkling, and hands animated. She visibly tightened and her eyes asked a thousand questions before she continued. "Ah, yes. A hard hand. Most of them said you could be a gentle lover, but somehow you knew when they wanted a hard hand, as you call it. Then you became a master in the dominance and submission sense. A master who demanded of them and gave them great pleasure." The smile disappeared. "Only one said she didn't miss you in her life. She said what you wanted from her scared her."

"That would be Carla Chambers," I interjected.

"Yes, it was. Why did you want to have her pierced and tattooed?"

"She was playing a game, a surrender game, but I wasn't playing a game. I wanted her actual surrender."

"Why?" she asked.

"It makes no difference. It's the way I am. Let me reverse the question. Why are you submissive?"

Her expression said she was deciding whether to tell the truth or turn the conversation in another direction. "It makes no difference," she whispered hoarsely.

"That's what this is about, isn't it?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"If I take you, Abby, I will have your surrender."

Abby took a long time before saying. "And if I don't surrender?"

"Our relationship will be over before it's begun. But you will." I cupped her left breast through her blouse. She froze, neither blinking nor breathing, as beads of sweat oozed out on her forehead. "Have you played dominance and submission games?" I asked.

"Yes," she gasped before sucking in a bushel of air.

"With how many men?"

"Two."

"But they didn't give you what you needed." A tiny shake of her head. "When you learned about me, you sought me out, hoping I was the one." One tiny nod of her head. I opened the button on her blouse nearest her waist. "In the games, submission is usually mild at first. Gradually, it grows."

With the second button undone, I slipped my hand in her blouse, pushed her bra above her breasts, and rolled her hard nipple between thumb and forefinger. She quivered and licked her lips. "There's a safeword to say if you want the games to stop. Did you have a safeword?"

She nodded. "Marigold," she whispered.

I slowly increased the pressure on her nipple until pain showed in her eyes. She made no move to grab my arm. "We won't be playing games. Your submission will be real." I released her and sat back. She didn't move.

"No safeword. No stopping or going back. Complete submission and unconditional surrender. Tomorrow this plane will return to Washington without Kamilah or me. You can return to Washington tomorrow, or you can stay with me and I will train you to be my concubine."

"What if I want to end it? I mean, end the submission but not the relationship?" she asked.

"They are one and the same."

"All right. What if I want to end the relationship?"

"You can end it now. Get back on this plane tomorrow and go home." She shook her head and blushed. "No, you don't want that. You want me to bring out the true submissive in you, don't you?"

She nodded and I commanded, "Speak!"

"Yes, Mr. Price. That's what I want."

"If you stay, I'll give you one more chance to end it. At the end of the summer. Not before. And if you stay then, it will be at my pleasure and only I can end it."

"I demand the right to terminate a relationship at any time." She was testing me.

"Not with me."

"Then I don't want it," she said defiantly.

"Liar. What you want is to be taken. Now. Grabbed by the hair and made to submit."

I grabbed her hair, yanked her to me, and kissed her hard. When my fingers touched her thigh, her legs opened instantly. She wore panties and thigh-high stockings. I slipped two fingers under the elastic and thrust them deep into her throbbing pussy as my thumb raked her clitoris.

"Come for me, girl," I demanded. Miss Beavers orgasmed on my hand. "Do it again and don't fight it this time. Let it go," I commanded. Mouth agape, lips wet, eyes diffused, her face contorted as she dug her nails into my arm. She screamed against my hand covering her mouth and went limp.

I stuck the fingers that had been in her pussy in her mouth. "Suck them clean," I said, and she sucked like a baby at its mother's breast. "You didn't let go, but I think I can teach you if you stay." I kissed her and stood up.

"Wait," she said, grabbing my arm.

"Think, Abby." I unwrapped her fingers from around my wrist. "I want your answer when we land," I said. I sat down two rows further up and on the other side, covered myself with a blanket, and went to sleep.

She awakened me about a half-hour before landing. She'd been crying and looked distraught. "I'm frightened, very frightened," she said.

"Of what?" I asked.

"Of submitting to you." She sat down by me and I held her hand. Her grip was fierce. "One of your girlfriends said she fully submitted but you rejected her."

I knew who she meant, but I didn't say. "Do you know why?" I asked.

"I can guess."

"Then guess."

"Chemistry. A woman can meet many men, even if they're all special men, without clicking with any of them. She might go to bed with some of them. She might even let them bind and whip her, or share her with their friends, but something will be missing. When she finds the one for her, everything clicks. Think of a safe with a combination containing ten numbers, or fifteen or twenty, to complete the combination and open the door. As each number is tried, the lock clicks and the tumblers fall. Most relationships reach a point where there is no click. But with the man for her, all the combinations click and the door opens. It's the same for men. I suspect she didn't make all your tumblers fall."

"That's an excellent analogy," I said. "I hadn't thought of it in that way, but it's true."

"I didn't ask to be assigned to you because I'm a good little bureaucrat, or a bimbo wanting a quick lay, or a gold-digger after a rich husband. And it's more than finding a master. Much more. I asked because what I learned about you clicked in me, and I learned more about you than any man I've ever dated." She shook her head unbelievingly. "When I saw you, I thought I'd lose my mind I wanted you so much. And talking to you? My God, Michael, my tumblers and I are in free fall."

I didn't reply. "That's part of what scares me. I can't read you. I don't know what's going on behind those cold blue eyes of yours," she said. I didn't move a muscle. "Bastard." She moved back to her seat. I joined her and waited until she looked at me.


She smiled sheepishly. "Well, your eyes aren't always cold. Sometimes they're hot and sexy. Sometimes they're gentle and caring. Look, I'm not frightened of belonging to you, or of your sexual demands."