tagLoving WivesThe Sheikh's Trap

The Sheikh's Trap


Wow, I'm excited about this story. I had a blast writing it, smashing it out in one fast session. On the reread, I still love it & didn't change it much. I think it was so easy because this one really came from the heart. It is fiction but could easily be real: a resonance. Given the power these ancient Arabs enjoyed, we would easily and naturally adopt the characters' actions. I hope you'll feel you would too. Off we go to ancient Arabia, before civilization, when horsemen ruled the steppe.


Very gradually, the Sheikh became aware of himself. As if through a mist, he apprehended his mind, but could not imagine his body, could not feel it. Drifting back from a slow dream, he thought the sensation precious. Unsure of his location, posture, surroundings, it was a blissful moment. Tired muscles would complain once awakened, but now he could not even feel his breathing, or hear his heartbeat; both were in such repose.

A smell intruded, figs. Figs and the sound of water. But no feeling whatsoever; the temperature must be perfection itself. Far away some voices, his band no doubt setting up camp. Cook stoves for souvlaki, grain for horses, forage for camels, a large yurt with silken walls and flags for himself and the queen.

She was not here though. They had ridden hard for 8 days, leaving her and a band of guards, so the women would not be required travel at such a killing pace. Now the men had perhaps two days, perhaps one, to change this lovely oasis into a paradise where they would winter. In 12 hundred years, it would be called Istanbul, gateway from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean. In just seven hundred years, blood would begin to spill to own the figs, the palms and most of all, the right to pass. Now though, simple people owned whatever land they camped on, and were glad to see others. There were mangoes, coconuts, dates, almonds, figs, cinnamon for coffee, and grass for the goats and the pack beasts. Hundreds of tons of silks would pay for the journey when they reached Turkey in the spring, but the tribe was successful and healthy, they would winter here, foregoing the very best profits to sleep in the cool winter sun by the lazy Mediterranean. They would entertain and trade with other smaller bands that happened by on their more urgent travels. He thought to establish a permanent camp, build a city, but not this year. A long ride from India left him eager to board a ship, hear the oars creak, maybe use a "sail" ...just invented magic to fly over water he'd only seen.

Also, while a city could entertain her properly, this camp would only do so for a few months.

He could hear his heart, knew he was awakening, inexorably. To stave it off, he allowed himself to think of her. Somewhere, she was traveling towards him right now. Stinking on a camel. When she arrives, though... The men had their orders already, she would be tired, dusty, furious. They were to take her from the camel gently, offer a bota of drugged wine of which, always savoring everything, she would drink deeply. Then they would lay hands on her and cut away her clothes away entirely. They were to be destroyed, burned before her. Thus, his most trusted men would see their queen filthy, naked and angry. He would stand there, outlined in the fire, silent, so she would know he approved the mistreatment, and ignored her cries.

Next, they would carry her, drag her if needs be, to the water's edge, out to chest deep and hold her submerged for half a minute at a time. Surfacing sputtering, she would scratch and kick, and she is strong: only heavy horsemen could do the work. Once subdued, three girls were given olive soaps to clean the queen's body, every inch, gently. The sheikh knew they would do their work nude, to entertain the horsemen, and to show solidarity with the queen. By now she would mellow, as the drug began to work and besides, this was no surprise, it was the third year she could expect this treatment.

Tied wrist and ankle to silken cords she was then to be lashed into a hammock out of sight, to recover dignity as she might and enjoy the dawn alone. The girls would then bring forth the Sheikh's new idea: a paste was being strained now, of coconut milk, mashed bananas, lemon oil, nutmeg and palm fronds. She would be plastered up in this mixture, all her skin covered in a thick layer of the soft fragrant yellow mud. He himself would show up at last, to do this work himself, smoothing the cool sticky fruit across her soft back, gentling it around her throat, pressing it gently into the crack of her ass and labia.

He mused that She might still need be tied to the hammock at this juncture, just in case. The queen's mood could be fiery, however much it was for her own good. He would allow her more wine, if she would take any. As the fruity mortar dried in the morning sun it would keep her cool, lulling her back to sleep. It would crack and dry to a cakey powder and begin to chip free, exposing luscious skin that smelt of fruit and joy. If she slept deep enough, he would invite the men back to drink in the shade, have an afternoon of rest, and to gaze upon their sleeping queen. His pride, he admitted, caused him to do these things, so the men could be jealous of their Sheikh. It was good for them: this was the one brutality he allowed himself, the cruelty to them that enforced mastery. Otherwise they were a happy anarchy. Only in this, the maintenance, the handling of the queen, was a rigid command structure enforced. It was a happy duty, and all the young men vied to become his generals.

Finally he would send them away, and bathe her clean with a soft silk and warmed water. Awakening sleepily, she would look at him now with love, her soft eyes filled with lust...

A small noise. Something nearby!

He forced himself awake, up out of reflection, but it was a long way up. He could not move limbs he did not yet feel, but the danger was near. He remembered his location, sleeping in the very hammock he would tie her in, near the creek, under dappled sunshine, too far for the men to hear his cries.

With an utmost effort of will, he forced a small moan from his lips, moved one arm slightly: his hand had been resting on his penis, which he noticed bemusedly, was erect. In a flash he would be fully awake, the veil of sleep tearing fast now, and rather than lunge foolishly for his kriis, he hesitated for perhaps it was only a goat.

The hesitation was fatal: a rope encircled his belly, another at his throat and ankles, and they were cinched taut before he could escape, while his cry of dispair mingled in the air with a harsh cry of victory, high and musical, a woman's voice. Her voice!

She looked down at him, brushing thick dust from her hair, in clothes already worn for three days, with a huge grin, love and fire in her eyes.

"Caught dreaming of your evil schemes, no doubt? This year, husband, we shall see what *I* have planned for You!"

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