Zainab the mother

[This is a Jack Grierson story. It is related to many of my other stories about Jack. All characters are totally fictitious and bear no relation to any person, living or dead. All events narrated here are the products of my imagination.]

* * *

My name is Zainab Habiba bin Khalifa al Makhtoom al Sura and my father's family are poor, country-bumpkin relatives of the billionaire al Sura family. My maternal grandmother was a Russian slave and my mother had a month-long secret fling with a blond Norwegian oil field explorer, who was almost certainly my real father. I was a tall, very pale blonde, with Nordic European looks.

When I was eighteen, I was selected by Walid al Sura of the main branch of the family to be his fourth and youngest wife. He was forty-seven at the time, nearly thirty years my senior. I lived in my husband's palace in the capital.

I had the finest silks, a treasure trove of gold jewelry with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls, and maids for every possible activity from my bath and massage to making sure my bed and chambers were always pristine. I even had a maid whose only job was to maintain fresh flowers in every corner of every room. My suite of rooms in the palace included a vast bedroom, an equally big sitting room, an anteroom, a boudoir, several walk-in closets, two bathrooms, a full gym, and an expansive terrace with a horticultural garden and an arbor.

I was now twenty years old and had three lovely children, a pair of twins -- a black-haired boy and a pale blonde girl -- and an equally blonde daughter. The twins were nearly 18 months old, and my daughter was a six-month-old baby. The children were all the result of two wild, unbelievably ecstatic sexual romps with Jack Grierson -- he had impregnated me both times (see my stories, Zainab Habiba and Zainab the princess). No one but my mother knew this and my husband thought the children were his. If he even suspected the truth, my life would be forfeit -- for Walid al Sura was a chieftain of our tribe as well as a businessman. His power was not formally recognized by the government, so his sentences were carried out secretly, often in the dark of the night. However, the government did not interfere with tribal affairs, so effectively, he had the power of life and death in his hands.

Walid kept me sequestered in the palace, not even allowing me to make trips within the capital. My three co-wives did not like me. They were all much older and while their suites were near mine, they avoided me to the extent that they could.

Walid's harem mistress, Najma al Wakhar oversaw everything. She was a sensual woman in her late twenties, with rich, brown skin the color of ground nutmeg. She had a son who looked a lot like Walid. While she continually denied it, I eventually heard them having sex, so I knew he was fucking her regularly. She obviously wanted to be Walid's fourth wife and hated me for being chosen instead of her.

All the staff reported to Najma and spied for her, so I had to be very careful with everything I said or did. She was always looking for ways to make me look bad in front of Walid. My only ally was Suhaila, the personal maid I had brought from my father's house. She was a pretty little Bengali with skin as black as ebony, thick, plank-straight black hair, and dark, large luminous eyes. She had an ear for gossip and kept me informed of what was going on behind the scenes in the harem and the palace.

* * *

I was returning one evening from putting the children to sleep in the nursery and chatting with the nursemaids. That evening, I was particularly missing my carefree teenage years in my father's decaying mansion by a remote oasis in the desolate desert. I had been a crazy tomboy, riding camels, surfing sand dunes, and climbing date palms. However, in many ways, I remained very traditional. Through all my shenanigans I was always covered from ankle to wrist in my abaya with my hair completely hidden by my hijab. Till I met Jack, I knew absolutely nothing about men.

I had shared my teenage years with my half-sister and best friend, Salima Banu. She was a few months older than me and was now married to another distant relative. He was a much poorer one who worked in the date trade. They lived in modest circumstances in Al Zubah, a minor town. We texted each other frequently about inane matters, but now I decided to call her.

"Zainab Habiba!" she cried, picking up after only one ring.

"Salima Banu, I was missing you so much today," I said. "I really wanted to hear your voice!"

We both spoke Badawi, the rough dialect of the desert. Everyone in the palace ridiculed my language. Walid, my co-wives, and Najma regularly and openly mocked me when I spoke, even when we had guests. Many of the servants smirked when I talked to them. My country dialect made my low status in the palace crystal clear, despite the material grandeur of my apartments, clothing, and jewelry.

"I miss you, too, Zainab Habiba. My husband, Faisal al Abadi, and I talk about you all the time. Whenever we go camel riding, I always tell him that you are the best camel rider in the desert! And the way you surf the sand dunes! A hundred meters high, and you just fly down, fearless! I'm always so tentative when they are high and steep like that."

"I don't do anything these days, Salima Banu," I replied, sadly. "All I do is work out in my gym in my suite in the palace. I haven't even left the palace since the official trip I made to America and Europe last year with Walid and his entourage."

"You are his youngest wife, no wonder he is protective of you," said Salima Banu. She laughed. "You are such a sexy thing, he must fuck you with all his might! All his other wives must be jealous of you."

"His other wives hate me," I agreed. "But they have nothing to be jealous about. He visits me once a week, usually on Thursdays. But it is very unsatisfying for me. He always wants me to suck his cock -- fortunately, that is not difficult, since he has a small organ. Then I must straddle him to get him in me as soon as possible because he never lasts more than a minute. Never more than three thrusts, often just one, and he's done -- he spouts a tiny ejaculate. I've never cum in my marital bed."

"Oh! That is so disappointing! But at least he has given you three children."

"Yes, I love my three children." To change the subject I said, "So tell me about your marriage. I know you have one son, your husband must be happy."

"Oh, Zainab Habiba, I couldn't be happier. Faisal and I ride camels together, and I have taught him to surf the sand dunes. We picnic and make love in the desert under the stars."

"Is he a good lover?"

"Well, I don't have anything to compare him to, so I don't know how good he is. But he tries hard to please me."

"Does he have a big cock?"

"He's quite thick, I cannot encircle him with the fingers of one hand. From what I've been reading on the internet, his length is not great. He lasts longer than three thrusts, but never long enough to make me cum."

"That does not sound promising."

"It is much more than that. He kisses me all over and traces his tongue from the swell of my belly to my nether lips. He pushes his tongue into me, along with his fingers. He works on me so patiently, then faster, faster, sucking my clit exactly as I command him. Then I straddle his face with my pussy and grind away with my clit till I cum. Sometimes, I cum so hard, I see stars! When I am cumming, I push my pussy on his mouth and nose so forcefully, that I nearly suffocate him, the poor darling."

My grip on my phone tightened as I listened to her. I felt my own pussy growing moist with her description of cumming.

"Does Walid kiss your pussy? You have such a pretty pink one."

"No, never. It is strictly one way -- he owns me, he is the master, so I suck his cock. Never the other way round."

"You poor dear!"

"I wish I was married to a man like Faisal al Abadi. A man I could ride camels and horses with."

"But you have so much wealth and power, Zainab Habiba!"

"I'm a bird in a gilded cage, Salima Banu. Trapped in a palace where everyone treats me with contempt, a mongrel desert girl who speaks Badawi, rather than the sophisticated dialect of the capital."

"Maybe you can visit me. After all, I am a respectable married woman with a son. I can chaperone you. Then we can go riding into the desert together and surf the dunes!"

"That sounds like heaven, Salima Banu!"

* * *

I walked on and found little Suhaila in the wide corridor outside the door to my suite. She was crying.

"What's the matter, Suhaila?"

"Oh, Mistress Zainab Habiba! It is so cruel, I wish you do not go into your suite right now. Let us take a walk in the gardens."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, surprised and a bit irritated. "Why shouldn't I enter my own suite?"

"But mistress, ..."

I opened the door and walked through the anteroom to the sitting room, with Suhaila following me.

"Please, mistress ..." she kept saying.

I heard the moans and sighs from the open door to my bed chamber. I stood in the open doorway in silence.

Walid was fucking Najma in our marital bed. She wore a yellow bra that highlighted well against her darker skin tone, yellow stockings with snap-on garters, and black high-heel pumps. She wore my pearl and emerald Bulgari choker necklace around her throat -- the one Walid had given me on our first wedding anniversary. Her bra cups were pulled down and her dark brown nipples were stiff and hard, standing out proudly on her firm breasts. She was covered with a sheen of sweat. Walid was naked and much sweatier, grunting as he drove his cock into her pussy. One of his hands was on her throat, just below the choker.

"Oh Walid," she moaned. "I'm cumming again! And again! You're a beast, a machine, a god! Omigod! Omigod!"

She thrashed under him, gripping his sides with her thighs. He must have just entered her, for like clockwork, in three thrusts he began groaning and shuddering. He collapsed on her with his weight and she held him with her arms, scissoring her long legs around his waist.

They lay in a heap for a while and I quietly faded behind the doorjamb.

"I cannot believe I fucked you here, Najma," said Walid, after a few moments. He was still breathing heavily. "This is the bed I share with Zainab Habiba. But I have never known such passion with her as I have with you. She is cold, frigid, I think. She sucks my cock and then just straddles me with a word. Her pussy is so tight, she makes me cum immediately, joylessly. She has no passion."

"She does not deserve you, my lord," said Najma. "You should have made me your fourth wife after you had that bitch, Parveen Bibi strangled."

"I wanted to, Najma," said Walid. "You know that. But my oldest brother forced me to marry Zainab Habiba. He wanted to bring her European looks into the family. I could not disobey him."

"He should have married her himself!" exclaimed Najma.

"She was only eighteen. I'm the youngest of my brothers and even I am a bit old for her."

"Of course not, my lord! You have the energy and virility of a randy twenty-year-old!"

"With you, perhaps," said Walid, laughing.

She's so good at faking sexual excitement, I thought.

"I hope you have impregnated me today, my lord," said Najma. "It is Thursday, an auspicious day to become pregnant. And it is a good time of the month for me."

"You will always be the mistress of my harem, Najma," said Walid. Then he sighed. "But I wish you could teach Zainab Habiba how to be a subservient wife. No matter how much a beat her, she retains her proud, independent spirit. She will not bow to me, will not beg me for mercy."

"She is a mother, she has children," said Najma. "I know she loves them more than anything in the world. They are yours, not hers. Take them away from her. Then she will cry and beg."

"What a brilliant idea, Najma!" Walid exclaimed.

My blood ran cold. He couldn't, he wouldn't take my children! I thought, alarmed. I ran into the bedroom with Suhaila following me on her bare feet.

"Oh, Walid!" I cried, unmindful of the shock on both their faces. "If you take away my children, I will have nothing to live for! I will die!"

"How dare you ..." began Najma.

"You can give Najma everything!" I said in a panic. "Give her this suite, give her all my jewelry -- she is already wearing my Bulgari choker. Divorce me and marry her, if you want. But let me have my children!"

I went down on my knees by the bed and put my head on the carpet.

"They are not your children," said Walid. "They are mine. You were just the incubator for my seed, now the caretaker of my offspring. But they don't need you now. They have their nursemaids, and they will have Najma."

"Oh, please, please, Walid, I beg you," I said, sobbing. "Kill me first, but do not separate me from my children."

He swung his legs out of bed, putting one on my head. I felt the pressure build along with the pain. I thought he was going to put his whole weight on it and crush my skull, but he relented at the last moment. I looked up -- he looked enormous from my prone perspective.

"Keep begging," he said. "Keep crying."

"I am your servant," I faltered, continuing to sob. "I will do anything you want. Beat me, flog me, torture me. But do not take my children from me."

I found that Suhaila was lying prone next to me.

"Have mercy, my lord!" she cried.

"That black Bengali bitch is her confidant," said Najma. "Make an example of her, my lord."

"Good idea, Najma. Take her away and have her flogged. Then get her visa revoked and send her back to her homeland."

Najma got out of bed and belted on a silk robe. Then she grabbed little Suhaila by the arm and dragged her screaming out of the bedroom.

"Suhaila has done nothing wrong, Walid," I sobbed. "Please do not punish her. Take her away from me, but send her back to my father's house in the desert, please, please."

"You must learn that I am serious, Zainab Habiba."

"I do not doubt you, Walid! I never did!"

He ignored me, pulled on his trousers, and kaftan. He left, leaving me prone on the carpet.

The tears would not stop. I cried so hard, that a wet puddle formed on the carpet in front of my face. Finally, I picked myself up and ran to the nursery. Over the protests of the nursemaids, I put the children into a pram and wheeled them to the daybed in my boudoir, away from the sheets of my bed that were scented the sweat of Walid and Najma's sex.

I burrowed into the quilts with the three small bodies and held them to my breast. My 6-month-old contentedly suckled on one of my swollen nipples, and the twins held each other and me. They seemed unaware of my distress and for that I was grateful.

If Walid takes them away from me now, I thought. They will soon forget me, I will fade out of their consciousness. The prospect of that loss was like a heavy rock on my chest and I struggled to breathe.

* * *

I woke up and gradually came to, realizing that I had my three precious bundles in my arms. I got up and quickly bathed with them and got us all dressed. I threw a few things into a shoulder bag, looked in a mirror to make sure my silk hijab was tied just so with a stylish knot and put the three babies in the pram. I headed out of the anteroom and almost ran right into Najma and two female security guards, both wearing gun belts.

"Going somewhere?" Najma asked, unpleasantly.

"Najma, I beg you, ..." I began.

"You had years to learn to be subservient, Zainab Habiba," she replied. "It is too late now. Especially now."

"Why?" I cried.

"Lord Walid and I listened to your conversation with your half-sister, Salima Banu yesterday. When you insulted his manhood in the most disparaging terms."

"How could you?"

"What do you think, Zainab Habiba? The internal network here is monitored, for security purposes. Everything you say, text, or surf on the internet while indoors is recorded. In addition to the recording of your offensive conversation with your half-sister yesterday, we have lots of texts you have exchanged with her. And surfing the internet for skiing and climbing sites, most inappropriate."

I thought of my two texts to Jack, remembering that I had made them outdoors on my big terrace, far from the main palace building."

"Is that all?" I asked, relieved that she had not brought up Jack.

"Isn't that enough? Lord Walid is most disappointed in the way you spoke about him. He will not divorce you, despite all my arguments. But you will be punished."

"How?" I asked, my heart in my mouth.

"He will take your children." The two female security guards took my arms, wrenched the pram from me, and Najma took it.

"No!" I screamed. "Please, no! I will do anything!"

"And you will be confined in the dungeons," she said, gloating. "Till you learn your lesson."

She wheeled the pram away from me and the two security guards dragged me down the corridor. I struggled and fought, but it was no use. They were bigger and stronger than me.

* * *

It was dark in the dungeon, four flights of stairs below the ground level of the palace. The walls were made of old rock, and looked centuries old, certainly far older than anything above ground level in the palace. There was one guttering torch on the far wall, and it cast waving shadows.

There was an iron ring around my neck and it was fastened to a spike driven into the wall. My wrists were in manacles and there were leg irons around my ankles. My legs were tired from hours of standing, but any attempt to move away from standing upright caused the iron ring to choke me. My eyes were dry for I had cried out everything I had in me. I thought of my grandmother, wondering if this was where she was confined.

One of the female guards came, put two crusts of bread in my hands, and left. I ate them slowly, masticating lightly. I was a desert girl, I knew the importance of preserving my body water.

There was a wisp of air coming from the far side of the chamber and I assumed there was an air vent of some sort there. I felt a weight in my abaya pocket, reached in, and found my phone! They had not searched me thoroughly.

I pulled it out and saw the time. It was just after nine at night -- I had already been confined for over twelve hours. There were no service bars -- I did not expect to get cell phone service this far below the surface.

There was the sound of footfalls and the female security guard came back in. She gave me a glass of water that I guzzled down. Then she tied a black blindfold over my hijab.

"Do not attempt to remove it," she said. "Or you will be flogged."

"At least tell me your name," I said.

"Sultana," she said. "Sultana al Abadi."

I heard her footfalls retreat and then a moment later, another set approached. My shoulders were gripped by powerful hands and I was turned around to face the wall. My abaya was pulled up. I felt the tug and heard the ripping sound as my panties were ripped off.

"Who are you?" I cried. "Please tell me! I am faithful to my husband, Walid al Sura! My body belongs to him. I will resist anyone else with all the strength that God has given me!"

I felt the cockhead at my anus as I twisted and fought. My assailant tried to hold me still, but could not. Despite the coolness of the dungeon, I was covered with sweat as I writhed in his arms.

"Enough!" It was Walid's voice. "Enough, Zainab Habiba! It is I, your husband. Cease this defiance immediately!"

I stopped and was still.

"I am yours, my lord," I said.

"That is better. Stay still now. I'm going to fuck you from behind. Your ass is more inviting than your pussy."

"Whatever you want," I said.

He pushed into me. It was easier as all the sweat slid into the slit between my buttocks and lubricated his cock and my anal passage. It still hurt, for he used no finesse. He thrust into me, and stayed for a moment, panting. Then he thrust once more and began to spurt the few drops of his ejaculate.