Sinbad in the Sultan's Palace

% The Adventures of Sinbad

% Prologue: Sinbad in the Sultan's Palace

% by Mogrem

*Author's note: This is the prologue to a story that will be darker than my normal fare, veering between amoral and immoral and back again, without ever stopping off at moral.*

-------

It was a hot, humid August night, some fifteen or twenty miles outside of Reading. At the end of a quarter mile of drive, in a sea of pitch black fields, sat a red house.

'House' didn't seem quite sufficient as a descriptor. It's great bulk glowered over the surrounding countryside. Light poured from every window, illuminating the dozens of cars drawn up around it, like a firebrick blazing in a bed of hot coals.

There were faint sounds of laughter, a constant background thrum of murmur, splashes of water from around the back. There were cigarettes left smouldering in flowerbeds, smashed glasses on the gravel of the driveway, lovers behind the bushes.

And, if you looked through the right window at just the right time, there was Sin.

 --------

"Sir! Excuse me sir, my wife and I need to get back to the kids soon. Is she, I mean, can I take her home now?"

Sin had just exited by, and closed behind him, a disguised oak panelled door, beyond which lay a discreet corridor into the heart of the house.

He had been about to head back to where the main shareholders were being entertained, in the party proper, on the East wing, when the gormless looking man he vaguely recognised as an employee from Corporate Policy had stepped up to him. Clearly he had been waiting.

"Which one's your wife again?"

The man was handsome enough, in an nonthreatening way. Probably in his early forties, ten years on Sin. He looked nervous, but not as nervous as he ought to. Most men knew to turn a blind eye, or they didn't let their wives get into the situation in the first place.

"Uh. She's, uh. She's the blonde, forty, slim, 5ft6..."

He got a blank look back from Sin.

"And, umm... well endowed, you know..." the man added helplessly, gesturing to his chest.

Sin sighed. So he wasn't clueless, he just didn't have the wits to pretend ignorance, or fake outrage. Admirably honest in its own way, he supposed. He wondered how far he could push this.

"Yeah," Sin replied, "that's as far as I got too. You better pick her out yourself."

He turned, opening the door again by feeling for a handle that looked just like any other section of panelling, and walked the man down the corridor with him, his hand on the man's back.

As the door shut behind them the merriment from the party was muffled to a whisper; a party far far away and yet all around them.

--------

Sindibadu al-Bahriyy, Sin to his friends, was a second generation Briton. His parents had come over from Baghdad to Berkshire in the eighties, worked hard for twenty years and, by the time Sin was in his late teens, had got themselves, and him, precisely nowhere.

Sin had joined the company in his early twenties on a training programme for young working class men without degrees, A-Levels, or anything much else going for them besides petty larceny.

He had climbed quickly after that, wasting no time in getting the attention of the singular person (in all senses of the word) that was the owner, Chairman and CEO. Sin had caught his eye with a particularly outrageous and unapproved use of company funds that had, nonetheless, bought in‎ very lucrative new client. 

Everyone had just called the owner 'the boss'. But Sin sometimes called him 'the old man' as a term of affection. The other employees, even board members, had never dared. 

Over the next decade Sin had become first a favourite, then a Director, then he realised he was being groomed for the top job.

Perhaps it was their mutual disregard for the niceties of business that made them click. Not for them the smothering vagueness of the middle class Southerners, of fucking Berkshire; not for Sin, as an immigrant Arab, and not for the boss, as a self-made Yorkshireman.

Or perhaps it was Sin's tastes, which shone through even the best tailored suits like a red light through a drawn curtain. Sin had been womanising and living fast before. Joining the company had only sped him up. 

The old man approved. He had built his empire on the principle of getting what he wanted when he wanted it. They might have been in property and fund management, but to the boss, it was all a means to an end. 

What he had wanted in particular was women, preferably other men's wives. If they were his competitors' wives, all the better, but clients' wives and employees' wives and, indeed, employees themselves, would do just fine too. Red meat, long liquid lunches, fast cars, dances with the law, imaginative accounting, and women. Lots of women.

But he was getting on, almost seventy by the time Sin had joined. It had probably pained him to imagine his perfectly depraved firm falling into the hands of generic-fucking-Berkshire change-fucking-consultants and the usual circulating Chambers of Commerce types. Sin was his way of rescuing the business from bland virtue.

And so the old boss retired, holding on to ownership and the Chair, as Sin, the new boss, ascended to CEO. 

Sin would have carried on where the Chairman had left off --- grow fast, bend the rules, enjoy life to the full --- but truth be told it had already been getting a bit stale and gentle at the firm in recent years, as the old man's declining years had got the better of him. So Sin took them back to basics. More ruthless, more exploitative, more, more, more. Business boomed.

 --------

The company's annual party was the biggest moment of the year. The old man had started the tradition in the nineties and, in this at least, Sin had only to continue it in its every debauched particular.

Each August every employee and as many hangers on, clients, plus-ones and VIPs were invited to Chairman's preposterously expansive mansion. The Chairman might have been 79 by then, but he and Sin knew how to throw a party that would make Bacchus go take a lie down.

All were invited but where in the party they actually went was carefully managed. Raucous young salesmen weren't to disturb the higher class of client. The duller variant of shareholder wasn't to leave their gilded bubble to deaden the mood for their more glamorous guests, the models and local personalities.

And when Sin wanted to talk to a couple of young women, or not so young women, on his own, somewhere discreet, you let it be.

It was like a dinner party seating plan that let the dowager duchess aunt talk pleasantly to the vicar at one end of the table, whilst her dissolute nephew got the neighbour's daughter mischievous drunk at the other end.

It was a large enough house for that. You were invited to one wing or another, to the pool party or to the smoking rooms, or game rooms, prize draws, buffets, you name it. There wasn't any enforcement it was just... understood. You didn't go wandering where you weren't invited.

It was never spoken, but if it had been it would have said something like, "Be good, don't try that red leather padded door and never mind the noises. No, we don't know where your girlfriend went. But I hear you're doing wonders for your department; maybe you should go talk to the Director of Sales by the bar. We reward competence, we reward loyalty and we reward discretion."

Those attending knew the deal, or at least they knew not to ask about the deal. Because one day, if Sin or liked you enough, you might be invited to one of the inner parties. One day. Maybe...

--------

Meanwhile, this evening, after showing his face earlier for old time's sake, the Chairman had retreated upstairs to have a private dinner with his wife. His sixth wife, who was less than half his age.

Sin wasn't married but he had a girlfriend. She didn't attend the company dos any more, not since she quit her job at the same firm to keep the house for him.

--------

Sin and the man went down the silent corridor into a small, dark room dominated by a one way mirror that looked out onto a much more expansive and opulent red satin dominated room next door.

In that other room were five women matching the man's description, sitting neatly on their knees in the middle of the carpeted floor. They were naked, their faces and tits covered in come. They looked dazed, but not unpleased with themselves. Several unconsciously and affectionately held or squeezed the thighs the woman next to them.

Jesus, the man mutters, looking at his wife second from the left, who he had to admit really did look almost interchangeable with the others. Obviously, today at least, the CEO had a type.

"Are these... other employees' wives?"

Sin shrugged.

"They're just, waiting there. And... You did this to them? To all of them?" He said, looking at five glazed expressions on five come-glazed faces.

"Me? Not all this! What do you think I'm made of, corn starch?"

Sin half turned to look at the man, to see how he was reacting. Hardly at all, it seemed. So Sin went on.

"I had my fun, but when I'm done always let the security guys get a face fuck in. Its only fair, after all the work they do at these things. Keeping us all safe from marauding bandits and noise pollution officers and so on.

"I only let them have a go after I'm done with the girls, of course. For obvious health reasons."

In the corner a female tattooist was packing away her kit. The man recognised her from the party out there, where she had been obliging drunks with tramp stamps and butterflies on the wrist, that sort of thing. He wondered what she had been doing in here. That is, until he saw the discreet little company logos tattooed above the right hip of each woman, red and vivid in their freshness. So that's what they had been lined up for. Very tasteful.

"Anyway, recognise her?" Sin said, glancing at his watch.

"Otherwise I can just lend you one at random and we can sort it all out tomorrow. Or Sunday, after you've had a fuck or two. They're all pretty high right now anyway, doubt they'd care."

"Oh," Sin brightened, "Two of them are sisters. That narrows it down. You wife doesn't have a sister like this does she? I know they were sisters because they needed to get a lot more stoned and pissed than the others before they felt they could do the lezzie stuff."

His face darkened again, "Oh blast," he said, "I've forgotten which two it was. Sorry old chap, not much help after all."

The man looked morosely at his wife and, now he knew what he was looking for, someone who, under heavily streaked makeup and a thick coating of semen, was clearly her younger sister. He'd forgotten she worked for one of the firm's clients.

She was sitting right next to his wife in the middle, their arses and shoulders pressed together. Their hands were clasped together at their side. It was sweet, like two sisters skipping over hand-in-hand to the ice cream van. They looked serene.

--------

The annual do was always attended by the beautiful, adventurous and ambitious from not just the company but it's various subsidiaries and clients.

Sin made sure there was plenty of loud entertaining diversions so husbands and boyfriends could always plausibly deny (to themselves most of all, no one else would raise it) noticing their sluttier halves going missing for hour or more. They must have gone to the pool.

What did the women get out of it? Great sex, crazy great sex, if you can handle it, it was whispered. Status as a known piece on side for the CEO, if they wanted to play that card. That was it, mostly.

But sometimes, though rarely, there was also explicit advancement; for them or their husbands or favourable deals for their employer.

And for their men, just like for all the other party guests, it was simple.

It was the party of the year, of the county. You got to hang out networking all night making deals and friends and deciding your future. You got a free bar, free cigars, free cocaine if you asked nicely, incredible food, and maybe if you got lucky you'd have a chance with one of the models Sin liked to invite and flood-fill with champagne and MDMA.

For some that was even worth turning a blind eye whilst their wives paid the entry fees.

--------

Sin was about to leave again when the man said, "Wait..."

He'd just spotted the DSLR and tripod set up on their side of the glass. "Is that..?"

"Yes, of course. Don't worry!" A slap on back. "We only use it for entertainment purposes. We'll screen it at next year's party for example. These birds are all around 40, there about. Next year I was thinking we go the other way. Strictly interns. Unmarried, for once; try to behave myself a little. So a video on how their senior colleagues and their senior colleague's better halves take it like champs... Well, it might be instructive. A workplace training video, if you like."

"Also, of course," Sin continued, "for insurance."

The man looked alarmed.

"No, no, nothing like that. We're not the mafia. It's just, you know all this Me Too stuff. The tapes are there in case anyone claims they weren't into it. Like hell they ever aren't. But some husbands badger them until the easiest thing is to say they were pressured, so..." Sin rolled his eyes at the unreasonableness of 'some husbands'.

"Oh," said the man.

"You can have a copy if you like."

"Uh...

"... Yes. Please."

"Good stuff," Sin said absently, as the tattooist finally packed the last of her kit and quit, leaving the girls alone in the room.

"You should see the filthy things the older sister does to the younger one once they'd got good and stoned. Practically sucked her soul out her cunt."

And with that Sin left, leaving the man unclear on what happened next. Did he get his wife out of there now? Should he 'rescue' her sister too, or would that be breaching some kind of unspoken code. "Don't hog all the cunt, old chap".

Did he really have to walk in and gingerly stand her up and wipe her down and walk her out? Where would he find her dress?

The decision was made for him when, as he watched, three security guys came in the room on the other side of the one way mirror, looking furtive. Presumably some of the same ones Sin had let "get a face fuck in" earlier.

From the way they muttered to each other it seems the offer hadn't extended to them coming back for whatever it was they were going to do next. Nor, the man assumed, could they have known about the cameras on his side, recording everything.

The guards walked over to the five women and manhandled one or two each by the hair or shoulders to various corners, where they lay them out.

There they wasted no time. They fucked the women with a sense of concentrated urgency.

There was very little fight back. In fact the women seemed either passive or pretty keen, in a spaced out kind of way.

"Oh well", thought the man, as he pulled down his trousers and pants and sat in an observation chair to jerk off, watching as his wife got taken with more brutal intensity than he had ever had the guts to try.

On the other side of the room her little sister was making protesting squeals as one of the others fucked her arse like it was going out of fashion.

"I guess those three are losing their jobs come Monday," he thought to himself, glancing at the camera.

Behind the glass the security guard that was fucking his wife pulled out and came in her hair and across the side of her face, then grabbed her by the neck and wiped her face off on the generous bush of some other interchangeable blonde slut lying legs akimbo next to her, waiting her turn.

The guard left his wife's head head resting on the woman's Mons, her cheek stuck to the blonde pubic hair with his semen and stuffed a semi flaccid cock into his wife's mouth and slapped her lightly until she started sucking him back to hardness.

After a few minutes the guard stopped getting fluffed by his wife and started screwing the girl with the bush. The guard's stomach pressed into his wife's head with every thrust, as she stuck her tongue out to lick ineffectually in the general direction of the girl's clit.

The cuckolded husband came all over the inside of the glass.

--------

Back in the party Sin had stopped by the shareholders to clasp some hands, make a point of topping up their drinks himself before the waiters could, and bluster in the robust manly kind of way these people of this class and pocket depth seemed to interpret as charisma.

Sin knew better. This you could fake. Real charisma had people crawling over broken glass to kiss your feet. The shareholders would never see that in him. They didn't need to. It was better they didn't know.

He left them so they could get back to whatever they had been talking about beforehand. Probably some patronising guff about how marvellous the new CEO was doing, given his disadvantages.

Sin knew the British ruling class though. If they thought at all they would have thought they were overcompensating because he was an Arab. Bullshit. In fact they just didn't trust men like him and the old man; men who made their own money, from nothing, men who had that look in their eye like they were never, ever going to stop.

--------

After he'd checked in on the imperial relics --- sorry, shareholders --- Sin went down another corridor, away from party entirely, to meet the Chairman's wife, who by now would have finished dining with the old man and would be in her bedroom.

Her separate bedroom.

She was 31 and looked 21. She was kept well groomed and tweaked and only taken out for special occasions, like a limited edition motorcycle, or for exercise, like a pretty but delicate Italian greyhound.

She was lovely to look at but she made for somewhat irritating company, as might be expected for someone prepared to marry an ageing philanderer for the inheritance.

Sin loved the boss, but he felt uncomfortable being thought of as his apprentice, his disciple. There was nothing he could do about that publicly, not while old man was alive (and long may he live, Sin was genuinely fond of him).

But privately, the very least Sin could do, for his own sense of self, was an affair with the boss's wife. It simply had to be done. Sin felt if the old man ever found out (if he didn't already know, that was) he would be even parts furious and appreciative. Appreciative of the sentiment, you understand. It's no less than he would have done, after all.

His mentor, the Chairman, the founder and owner, the infamous skirt chaser and ruthless leader of men, would be in his pyjamas fast asleep by now. So Sin went to do unspeakable things to the young wife.

When Sin got to the door he undid his belt and pulled it loose and wrapped one end around his right hand and pulled it tight. Then he entered.

--------

Anyone walking down corridor a moment later would have heard a loud yelp, followed shortly after by a number of smaller yelps.

Someone disciplining a dog, perhaps. A pretty but delicate Italian greyhound, maybe, one that was reluctant to be exercised. A spoilt bitch, even.

--------

Later, around 4AM, there were still a few passed out guests who the staff had all scooped up into the ballroom for itemising. Not everyone could handle their drugs; certainly not on top of the infamous cocktail speciality they called the 'Absinthe Oblivion'.

The haul included two attractive young women from accounts Sin recognised as new hires. How careless of their fellow guests, Sin, though, for these two to be just left like that, unclaimed and unconscious.

As had become his habit over the last few years, Sin had them both sent to be cleaned up and laid out on the sofas in the boss's outer rooms, for him to discover when he got up for his crack-of-dawn ablutions, as old men were want to do.