The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The Adventures of Rania

Part One: Her Origin

Categories: mc, mf, md, hm, nc, in, ds, bd

Author’s note: This story ran a little long.... First there’s a slow buildup, then passages of humiliation and bondage, and then the mind control finally starts a little before the halfway point. Now that the spadework is done, it should be easy to write shorter episodes if the mood strikes me.

* * *

The king of the small Middle East state of Kazeb passed away, leaving his two children in control of the wealthy absolute monarchy. Nasser, the eldest child at 23, had been educated at Princeton, and 19-year-old Rania was between her freshman and sophomore years there. Both children were very handsome: their late mother was an Egyptian film and television star, and Rania had inherited her mother’s celebrated breasts, though she generally kept them hidden beneath fashionably casual Western clothes. Both children were personable and well-liked at the palace, and they had a good, light-hearted relationship with each other. It went without saying that, as the male heir, Nasser took the reins of government single-handedly, and that Rania had no official position of authority. Western-educated though they may have been, neither child questioned or resented this arrangement, or expected anything else. Rania attended all high-level government meetings while she was home, and Nasser conferred with her on matters of state.

During her sophomore year at Princeton, Rania spent many hours on the phone to Nasser, who liked to talk over the smallest decisions with her, to gossip about the palace life, and to laugh about the absurdity of exercizing power. But gradually the phone calls became less frequent, with Nasser complaining more and more about the demands on his time. Rania didn’t mind that she was becoming less involved with governing the country. She wanted Nasser to become a man and rule with authority, as their father did before him. And she was quite busy herself learning the social options available to a wealthy, beautiful young woman in the West. Just turned 20, she had become comfortable at last in the world of men, was enjoying giving her body or withholding it, as it pleased her. These were good times for her.

She returned to her country the next summer, a little sorry to leave the possibilities of America behind, but looking forward to seeing her brother and her home again. Nasser greeted her warmly, but she detected a difference in his manner: he treated her more like a prized guest than a childhood collaborator. He is a man now, she thought, and a ruler; he doesn’t need me in the same way. She was a little sad, but mostly happy for him.

There was a banquet in honor of her return, like the one that had been planned the summer before but cancelled because of her father’s illness. All the aristocracy of the country attended, and the slaves of the palace served the food and drink. Slavery was still legal in this little country, though the institution had changed with the times: today’s slaves were no more or less than servants, with money allowances and days off. There were old men and women in the room who remembered quite a different time...but for the royal children, those days were simply the material for the scary bedtime stories of their childhood.

That evening Nasser came to Rania’s bedroom, and they chatted as in the old days. Rania noticed that his palace gossip seemed tinged with—not cruelty, exactly, but a kind of contempt, as if the foibles of others were an annoyance to him. He has become used to power quickly, she thought.

At one point he leaned back on his pillow and smiled at her. “Rania, sometimes I feel as if I’m looking at you for the first time.” “What are you talking about?” she said. “It’s just that...your chest is so enormous. When did that happen?”

Rania didn’t enjoy this new topic of conversation. “It happened a long time ago. Where have you been?” “Well, you’re my baby sister, you know. One doesn’t notice these things. But they’re actually quite extraordinary.”

“All right, enough about my chest,” Rania said.

“Why? If I were you, I’d be proud of it,” Nasser persisted. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

“That’s because you spend all your time in meetings and committees, instead of getting out a little.”

“I get around quite a lot,” said Nasser, “and I’ve seen a good deal more of women than you think I have.”

“Well, good for you,” said Rania.

“And so I’m in a position to tell you that your bosom is quite exceptional.”

“All right, that’s enough about my bosom!” said Rania, exasperated. “I hear quite enough about it in my daily life, let me assure you. When I come home, the last thing I want is to hear my brother going on about it!”

“Why, what do you hear about it in daily life?” said Nasser.

“Enough!” screamed Rania. “Enough!” The room went quiet for a moment.

“All right, but I just want to say one more thing before we leave the subject. Okay?”

“What?” said Rania crossly.

“Some time—not now, when you’re in such a bad mood—I think it’s really important that I—I mean, I’d really appreciate it if you’d show them to me. I mean, we’ve grown up together, and I’ve never seen them...”

“Get out of here!” yelled Rania. “You pervert! Get out!”

“All right, there’s no reason to...Ow!” Rania had thrown a pillow, hard enough to knock Nasser off balance.

“Get out! You’re disgusting!” She was throwing everything she could lay her hands on.

“All right! We’ll talk about it later,” he said, beating a retreat.

The siblings met again the next morning at breakfast. Rania had lain awake angry for several hours, but had finally chalked the incident up to raging hormones. Never underestimate the ability of an Arab woman to identify with outrageous male behavior.

“Peace?” said Nasser, smiling.

Concerned but no longer angry, Rania said, “Nasser, you need to get a girlfriend.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” said Nasser. “Here, you have to try this coffee—Youssef brought it back from Marrakesh.” He poured for Rania, and was charming for the rest of the day.

The next morning, Rania attended an important meeting with Nasser, the Minister of Finance, and the ambassador to a neighboring country. The meeting concerned the ongoing fallout from a cooperative business development near the border between the countries. Rania knew quite a lot about the project and had been involved in last summer’s planning meetings, though Nasser and the finance minister had handled the project on their own while Rania was at school.

Rania arrived last, and greeted the minister, whom she had known since her childhood, and the ambassador, with whom she had only a slight acquaintance.

“You look more lovely than ever, your Highness,” said the old minister.

“Doesn’t she look extraordinary?” said Nasser. Rania, who had accepted the minister’s compliment happily, shot Nasser a sideways look. Not seeing, or pretending not to, Nasser went on: “I was just telling her the other day that her breasts are a national treasure.”

Rania stared at the table. The minister and ambassador sat in horrified silence. But Nasser acted as if nothing were the matter. “You could really make an argument that such great beauty belongs to the country, and not just to one person. Rania is a very modest person, as you know...”

Rania got up and left the room like a shot. Appearing surprised, Nasser looked at the mortified statesmen. “What’s wrong with her? We have important business to discuss.” No one said a word. “Oh, well, we can get along without her. I apologize for her, gentlemen. As smart as she is, we have to remember that she’s just a woman after all. And she’s been so long in the West....” The statesmen could do nothing but murmur in vague agreement.

This time the rift was not so easily healed. Rania kept her distance from Nasser for several days, taking meals in her quarters and excusing herself from meetings. She thought about spending the summer in America, but finally decided to wait out the situation for at least a while longer. If she had followed her instincts and left the palace immediately, she might have avoided the very strange fate that was to befall her. But the ties to her family life were too strong.

Over the next few days, Nasser became more and more taken with the idea that his sister’s unique beauty belonged to the entire country, and that a proper acknowledgment of this beauty would somehow restore purpose and meaning to the traditional image of Arab womanhood. And so it happened that the designer who had created the royal uniforms was summoned to a private meeting. There, after being sworn to secrecy, she was told that Nasser intended to design a special set of clothes, the purpose of which was to enhance and reveal Rania’s loveliness for the edification of the court and, indirectly, all the people. The designer was quite dismayed at this strange request, but was afraid to ask questions.

All but the most urgent government business was put on hold as Nasser conferred with the designer for several hours a day over the course of the next week. Completely absorbed in his project, Nasser overflowed with ideas about every detail of Rania’s new outfit. The designer was shocked to discover that Nasser’s fashion concept was not conservative at all; timidly, she tried to preserve Rania’s dignity by suggesting more modest design ideas. But, though Nasser never said a prurient word during the whole process, all his revisions seemed to push the wardrobe further and further beyond the bounds of decency.

On one occasion, Rania passed through a room where Nasser and the designer were having an emergency conference on a suitable hair style. Nasser seemed to have stayed up much of the night pondering this question, and had brought in a series of sketches, inspired more by Hollywood than the actual history of Arab women. Rania nodded curtly at Nasser’s mockingly pleasant greeting, and walked on. She knew something strange was going on, but would never have guessed that these meetings were devoted to an intimate study of her body and how to present it.

One morning, Jamila, who had been Rania’s lady in waiting for four years, appeared in Rania’s chamber, flanked by two soldiers, and told her, with an air of sorrow, that Nasser wanted to see her immediately in the reception hall. Rania knew instantly that something bad was happening. She tried to order Jamila away, but it was plain that Jamila had instructions to the contrary. And so Rania was escorted like a prisoner into the hall, where Nasser sat on the throne, calm but formal. A few palace functionaries and a half dozen female slaves stood by.

“As of this moment, Rania, I officially declare your exceptional beauty to be a national asset, to be managed by the state for the enlightenment and uplift of all our citizens,” said Nasser.

“You fucker,” said Rania, trembling with anger and fear.

The room was still. Women did not speak this way in public in this culture.

Nasser remained calm. He nodded to Jamila, as if giving her a prearranged order. Then he went on: “It is a goal of this monarchy to restore to our culture the traditional images of Arabic womanhood, images that are being swept away by progress but without which both our men and our women are deprived of their connection to the strength and dignity of our past.”

Rania looked around her. There was no way out of the room.

“At today’s official reception at 16:00, you will represent the state for the first time in a new wardrobe, designed to evoke in all of us the awe and worship due to Arab womanhood, which you will heretofore embody in an official capacity,” said Nasser. “You will now accompany Jamila, who has instructions to prepare you.”

Nasser rose and left the hall amid obeisances. Rania stood petrified. She would be taken away by force if she didn’t comply. Jamila bowed to Rania, then took her arm gently. Rania allowed herself to be led away by Jamila to the women’s quarters, followed by the slaves and the soldiers.

“Jamila...please...” whispered Rania, her legs unsteady beneath her.

“Hush, my lady,” whispered Jamila. “I love you, but we must obey.”

The soldiers waited at the doors of the women’s quarters, while Jamila and the slaves bustled about within. They had six hours to make Rania over according to her brother’s specifications, and they were going to need all of that time.

Though she tried to maintain her composure, tears leaked out of Rania’s eyes as the slaves stripped her naked, removing even her jewelry and hair adornments. For the next three hours she was washed, shampooed, shaved, styled, painted, and made up, all according to Nasser’s detailed instructions. The slaves were infinitely gentle with her, leading her softly from one station to the next. Rania saw them refer to Nasser’s drawings at every step of the way; there was no part of her body that he had not visualized and made detailed plans for. Whenever Rania tried to protest or plead, the slaves smiled sadly and shook their heads—their orders were strict.

In the fourth hour, Rania was given a meal, taken to a toilet to relieve herself, and washed yet again. Then Jamila brought out a box of jewelry, with each piece tagged and numbered. Referring to a diagram and a book of pictures, the slaves began adorning Rania’s naked body with gold and silver. Rings were placed on each of her fingers, and on several of her toes; then two elaborate slave bracelets on her wrists, and matching anklets on her ankles. The bracelets and anklets were strung with tiny bells on the strands that encircled Rania’s fingers and toes, and her smallest movement generated a soft glistening sound that sustained for more than a second after she was still. Some of the rings on her fingers and toes were belled as well, and then the slaves added bangles of different sizes to her wrists and ankles. When they were finished with her hands and feet, Rania found that she could no longer be silent: even breathing created a shimmery sound, and the tiniest movement was accompanied by a small symphony of clicks and jangles.

A gold collar, one inch high, with delicate engravings, went around Rania’s neck; it took the slaves a few moments to attach it in the back. Then came a pair of earrings with light, cascading strands of silver that separated over Rania’s bare shoulders and hung to her armpits. A single solid arm bracelet went on her left bicep; a belly chain, hung with several descending strings of rubies, was fastened behind her (a link was bent into place—the chain wouldn’t come off easily) and slung low on her left hip. Two very expensive necklaces, of rubies and diamonds, were placed on top of the collar, both hanging high on her chest. There was almost no place to put another piece of jewelry without piercing her—but the slaves found one, hanging a diadem across her forehead, with a single tear-shaped ruby suspended between her eyes. And then they found another, as Rania’s waist-length hair was gathered at the top of her head and forced through an engraved gold cylinder about six inches long. After small golden clips were attached to hold her hair together at strategic places, Rania was quite a sight, her hair flowing straight up into the air for almost a foot, then falling straight down again.

Then came a surprise. Jamila approached Rania with a kid-colored piece of leather, whispered “I’m sorry, my lady,” and pressed the leather into Rania’s mouth. The alarmed girl found a soft wad of leather filling her mouth and covering her lower face. As she made a futile effort to speak, Jamila locked the leather in place from behind her, using a key. Rania was gagged, as a result of her public obscenity earlier.

As the unhappy girl shed tears and made muffled, unintelligible sounds, the slaves covered the leather with a dark black veil, embroidered with small jewels and hanging from the bridge of Rania’s nose to just below her jaw. When the veil was fitted onto Rania’s face, her gag was invisible.

Five and a quarter hours had elapsed. The slaves positioned themselves on both sides of Rania, as if in readiness for some event. Looking her silenced mistress in the eye, Jamila said sadly, “You are ready to be presented, my lady.”

Rania’s eyes widened in confusion. She had not yet been given any clothes. Then her face went pale.

The slaves were ready to restrain Rania when she flew toward the door, screaming into her gag. As they pinned the frantic princess into a chair, a stream of urine poured down her legs.

“Get the doctor!” yelled Jamila. “And clean this up!”

A doctor was standing outside with a hypodermic needle. He was the first man in the court to see Rania’s nakedness, though far from the last. The hysterical girl was sedated while slaves held her down and cleaned her. In five minutes, Rania’s hoarse, muffled cries subsided, and her tears were reduced to a trickle.

The final half-hour was devoted to repairing the damage done by Rania’s expected rebellion. Makeup was fixed, jewelry was adjusted. Rania was taken to the toilet again and given an enema, which she endured with no resistance. Her gag was removed to give her water, then replaced.

The sedative had replaced Rania’s stabbing terror with dull misery and a paralyzed will. She saw each separate horror that awaited her, and played them over helplessly in her head. I will be displayed naked to the entire court, she thought with a leaden feeling in her stomach. She reviewed each separate witness to her humiliation: the old men she had known from childhood, the young ones on whom she had had teenage crushes, the girls of noble families who had been her schoolmates. And the mirrors all around her showed her every detail of what they would be seeing, every swaying piece of flesh, every moist, unguarded pathway into her body.

At 16:00, the royal hall was filled as Jamila led Rania down the center of the room. There was absolutely no sound in the room except for the glistening and jingling of Rania’s jewelry. Jamila led Rania to Nasser’s throne, and prompted her to bow before the young king, who himself seemed stunned at what he had wrought. Then Rania was steered to the side of the throne, and was turned to face the court. Even tranquilized, Rania appeared agitated: her movements were jerky, her breathing was heavy, and her dark skin did not conceal a furious blush all over her face and chest.

Over the spasmodic jingling of poor Rania’s jewelry, Nasser was delivering a speech to the court, again extolling Rania’s commitment to restore meaning to vanishing images of Arab womanhood. It is unlikely that anyone heard very much of what Nasser was saying—all the court’s eyes were on their naked princess. Nor did they believe what they heard. The princess’s humiliation and helplessness were apparent to all.

We have not yet described Rania’s appearance, and it now seems appropriate to go into detail.

Rania and Nasser’s parents both had essentially European looks, which Nasser inherited. Rania had some European features—a small, straight nose and a heart-shaped face—but also some Semitic features that had jumped a generation or two. Her eyebrows were thick and low, and her lips were almost Negroid, though her mouth was small and round. The combination of traits was a bit exotic, and beautiful by any standard. Rania had plucked her eyebrows considerably in America; Nasser hated this and had considered using makeup to restore her natural look, but had given up and resigned himself to growing her eyebrows back in. With most of her face hidden by the veil, Rania looked more Arabic than usual, her dark brow dominating.

Rania was 5′4″ and solidly built, with a large rib cage and hips, and a slightly thick waist. One of her Semitic features was dusky skin, much darker than her brother’s. The audience who stared at her nakedness could not fail to note something animal and carnal about her appearance. Rania’s nipples were both long and thick, with large blue-black areoles that were studded with little bumps, and that were not clearly demarcated from the dark skin of her breasts. They were nipples to be chewed on and bitten, nipples to draw milk from. Her sex was matted with coarse black hair, straighter than that on her head. But her vulva were large and low enough that they made two furry, irregular bumps in her damp-looking foliage. Anyone in the room who had imagined what a princess’s body looked like would have conjured up a more classical, wholesome image. But Rania’s body was earthy, raw; it made one think of smells, of fluids, of biology.

Rania’s breasts were as exceptional as Nasser imagined. Each one was a little smaller than her head. They sloped pleasantly outward, pulled into pointed ovals by their oversized, pimply nipples. With her long hair thrust straight up into the air, and her heavy chest obeying the laws of gravity, Rania looked like some kind of optical illusion, flying apart in opposite directions.

Her hips started swelling high on her lower back and culminated in solid buttocks: not the kind of ass that seemed to have a life of its own, but rather the kind that grew out of the fullness of her body. Above her sex, her stomach had a little, pleasant pouch; below, her legs were of medium length, with large, strong thighs and big curves. Like most Arab women, Rania’s hands and feet were not delicate: they were broad and muscled, but with long, attractive fingers and toes.

This was the spectacle which was presented to the ranking officials and noble families of the country that afternoon. After Nasser’s speech, Jamila sat Rania on a large pillow on the ground next to Nasser’s throne, where she sat trembling, eyes downcast. A buffet was served; the attendees were at a loss, wanting to flee in horror but unable to take their eyes off the degraded princess. Horror won out, and the hall emptied faster than usual, except for a few small groups of young men and women.

Jamila knelt down to Rania and said, “We are finished, my lady. I’ll come to get you for dinner.” Rania was shocked to find herself left to her own devices, naked and gagged, in her own palace. Still unsteady from the tranquilizer, she got to her feet and walked, then ran, to her room, her foot jewelry clicking and jangling on the marble floor. The people she passed, shocked though they were at her nakedness, greeted her with bows, as was the custom for royalty; but she ran past without acknowledgement, holding her breasts with one arm.

She locked herself in her room and tried to take stock of the situation. All her clothes were gone; she could cover herself with the sheet on her bed or with a curtain if necessary. She tried to pull her gag off, but it was too tight to move, and she couldn’t break the lock. The sedative was wearing off, and her tears were returning; she threw herself on the bed and sobbed.

Could she escape? The palace was well guarded, but she decided that she had to try—things could only get worse for her here. But it was surely best to wait until there were fewer people about.

Jamila and two slaves arrived at dinner time with a key to the room. Rania expected to be put on public display again, but Jamila took her to a private dining table—Nasser didn’t want to risk an outburst when her gag was removed. At the first opportunity, Rania begged Jamila for help, quite pitifully, but Jamila silenced her, saying that she was under orders to gag Rania again if she continued to speak. The disconsolate princess was not at all hungry, but Jamila concentrated on getting her to drink a little liquid, and even made her swallow a few bites of her meal. Then, Rania was gagged again, and left in the hallway to run naked to her room.

Rania slept very little that night. She had decided to try to escape early in the morning—and, though the thought terrified her, she had to go as she was, naked and decorated. There was no hope of leaving undetected, but, before this horror had befallen her, she could come and go at any entrance without question. Surely every soldier in the palace had heard what she now looked like—if Nasser hadn’t given them orders to confine her, they would not stop her.

At five in the morning, Rania left her room, trembling like a leaf, and walked naked toward the west entrance. Her plan was to avoid the business district, where she would find only police at this hour, and head for the poor neighborhoods. In her hands, she held as much money as she could conceal.

The jingling of her body jewelry sounded deafening in the stillness of the empty palace. She had not dared to meet the eyes of anyone so far, but she knew she had to acknowledge the guards at the west gate.

As she clattered around the last corner, she saw the two guards 50 feet ahead, staring at her in amazement. One of the guards was a cute guy whom she usually liked to flirt with...but adrenaline was pounding through her veins, and nothing could register on her to deepen her humiliation. Hoping somehow that she looked nonchalant, she held her head up, nodded at the stupefied guards—and sailed past them, walking naked into the town.

Once around a corner, she held her breasts with one arm and ran toward the shacks of the west district. She needed to find people, but she didn’t know what to do when she found them. She couldn’t speak, but perhaps she could write something in the dirt.

Arriving in a residential area, she saw two old men far down the main street, sitting on chairs. Her heart pounding from fear and exhaustion, she trotted toward them, trying vainly to cover herself with her arms. When the men saw her, they leapt to their feet as if struck by whips. Unnerved, Rania stopped dead in the middle of the street.

The men’s voices were loud in the morning stillness. “A slave!” “A runaway slave!”

Panicking, Rania turned and ran as fast as she could. She heard the voices behind her multiplying and getting closer: men were joining the chase. Before she knew what was happening, she was thrown to her stomach in the dirt, howling into her gag.

Everything happened very quickly. Someone tied two long sticks of wood into an X, pushed it onto Rania’s back, bent her arms and legs back over it, and tied her into a backwards knot. Then the men lashed her to the sticks with coils of rope until she lay rigid and X-shaped in the dirt, making hoarse, muffled cries, her sex wide open.

Two men picked Rania up and set her on her stomach in the back of a wagon, where she rocked in the sun as the men drove her slowly back to the palace on the rough roads. The slave who came out to meet the men didn’t recognize Rania at first—and, indeed, if it weren’t for the telltale jewelry, she was unrecognizable, covered in dust and mud, her body distorted grotesquely by the ropes. The baffled villagers feared for their lives when the palace realized what had happened...but eventually they were sent away with the modest reward they had expected.

Rania was put under heavier security, but it didn’t matter—there was no place for her to go, and her resistance was broken. Nasser brooded over the debacle. His sister seemed to him...unpatriotic.

While Rania was sequestered in her room, Nasser began to ask around among the attendants, looking for men who had served the palace during the old days, when his father had been a boy. He summoned one such man to his office, and asked him, “Back then, how did you teach slaves obedience?”

The man told stories, and some of the names in the stories were still alive, and told other stories. Nasser became acquainted with a part of life that his royal forebears had preferred not to know about, in the days when slavery was not simply an exotic-sounding name.

There were not many men alive with the skills that Nasser needed. One of them still worked in the palace, in the dining halls. He did not look like a threatening man, but apparently he had once been much feared. Nasser put the question to him directly: could the man’s old vocation be used to make his sister more womanly, more devoted to the service of the state?

The man blanched. Though he greatly feared for his life, he said, with a quiver in his voice, that he would not do such a thing to the daughter of his former king.

Nasser smiled and dismissed the man. He had no desire to punish those who did not understand.

There was another legendary name, one who had left the palace many years ago. This man was summoned, and he looked every bit as fearsome as his reputation: an extremely tall and powerful man of seventy-five, with fierce eyes and long grey hair. He listened to Nasser’s proposal, and then began to negotiate. He cared nothing about princesses, and was eager to enrich his very large family.

“I must ask you some questions first,” said Nasser. “In the course of this education”—Nasser had settled on that word—“is it necessary to have any kind of sexual interaction with the woman?”

“It would be customary,” said the man, whose name was Fouaz.

“Because this must not be,” said Nasser. “It is an absolute condition.”

“You do not want her trained for pleasure, then? Merely for household work?”

“For obedience,” said Nasser. “But not for pleasure. Can you do that, without sexual interaction?”

“Without touching her?” said Fouaz.

“Without penetration,” said Nasser. “Without use of her sexual organs, or yours, or those of anyone involved in the process. Can it be done?”

“Very well,” said Fouaz. “It can be done.”

“And another question,” said Nasser. “Will it be necessary to inflict much pain on her?”

“Yes, there will be a great deal of pain,” said Fouaz. “What you want cannot be accomplished without pain. I cannot meet this condition.”

Nasser thought a while. “But no permanent damage will be inflicted upon her?”

It was Fouaz’s turn to think. “If she has much spirit, and I need to use dangerous methods to break her will, I will stop the training and return her to you as she is, and you can compensate me as you see fit. Is this acceptable?”

“Yes, it is acceptable,” said Nasser. “I fear that she has very little spirit left.”

And so, the next morning, Jamila and two slaves entered Rania’s room, and removed every piece of jewelry from the frightened girl’s body. Without cleaning or grooming her, they tied her hands behind her back with a leather cord, tied another long cord around her neck, and stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth and held it in place with another cord around her head. Terrified, Rania was lead on her leash down to the palace’s subterranean chambers, where Fouaz, his first wife, and several of his grown sons had taken up residence for a period of time not to exceed three months.

Two hours later, Rania was groveling naked on a cold stone floor, bawling like a baby and begging for mercy. Fouaz stood over her with a small whip, light and soft enough that he could strike her repeatedly with all his force without breaking the skin. He issued one order after another; Rania tried desperately to obey, but she was never fast enough, or eager enough, or graceful enough to escape the whip.

Between training periods, the dirty and disheveled princess was led to a mattress on the floor. Exhausted, she would fall into unconsciousness, only to wake up to the sting of the whip, for failing to obey orders issued when she was asleep. This regimen continued through the night, with Fouaz’s wife and children taking the whip when Fouaz slept. Too frightened to sleep but too tired not to, Rania hovered in a semi-waking state.

On the morning of the second day, Rania entered the training room and immediately threw herself face down on the floor before Fouaz, her arms extended before her. Fouaz ordered her to fetch drinking water, and Rania ran to the tap, returned with a cup of water, knelt while handing the cup to Fouaz, then collapsed again into her prostrate position before him. “Good,” said Fouaz. The little big-chested princess was half a slave already; it used to take him several days to bring a low-born woman to this stage. But his work was just beginning. It took only a day for Rania to obey him without question, but it would take months for her body to obey without the intervention of her mind.

Rania began her “education” in earnest on that day, as she was put on a varied, around-the-clock schedule designed to inculcate in her the different skills that were deemed useful to a slave in Fouaz’s day. Some of the skills were menial, others decorative. As an aid to all this teaching, Rania was forced every day to eat a black, pasty substance made from the pulverized leaves of an indigenous plant. At first, the strange drug was so disorienting that it caused Rania to regress, costing her precious, painful seconds of reaction time. But the things she relearned went deeper into her. And she became much better at obeying orders given when she was asleep.

* * *

Some weeks later—how long, exactly?—Rania was washing herself at 6:00 in the small room that she had been given in her first days of training. She could not remember waking up, which was often the case now. But this was her first duty of the day, so she had probably been asleep just minutes ago. Her morning ablutions, which she performed kneeling on the floor next to a basin of water, were a set of instructions she was given in her first days here. No one was there to watch her, but she did not dare risk punishment by altering the ritual.

After washing, she had twenty minutes to clean the room from top to bottom. She sprang to her feet to get the cleaning supplies, walking as she had been taught: her upper body straight and still; head lowered; each foot landing directly in front of the other, touching the ground first with her toes. A sudden, violent urge seized her to walk normally, to stop the swaying of her hips that this walk forced upon her. Then, in response, came an equally violent terror of discovery and punishment. Her rebellion defeated, she scrubbed the fixtures and floor quickly and vigorously.

Next she prepared the daily dose of her drug, grinding the black leaves with a mortar and pestle, and adding oil to make a paste. She did all this with the greatest anxiety; she knew that the drug was acting on her will, changing her in some way that she didn’t understand. But her hands went on making the potion, almost without instruction from her; she had no more rebellion left in her today. With a mounting sense of dread, she ate the paste. The drug hit her almost immediately, though she could never describe its effect. She felt almost as if she were watching herself on television.

Finished with her duties, she ran to the door, knelt a few feet away from it, and assumed the posture of greeting, with her head up and her arms straight by her side. No one would come for her for twenty minutes, but she could not risk being discovered in any other position. Tears ran down her cheeks as she waited, contemplating what was happening to her. For some reason, her tear ducts still obeyed her.

* * *

Two months after Rania’s arrival, Fouaz’s wife entered Rania’s room in the middle of the night. The princess slept naked on her mattress, with no sheet. “Bow,” said the wife. Immediately, Rania rose to her knees, then bowed down to the woman, pressing her outstretched arms, her forehead, and her breasts to the mattress. The wife listened to Rania’s breathing in the silence. The princess was still asleep.

In the morning, the wife informed Fouaz of Rania’s achievement. “She is ready,” he said, as the wife pulled his boots on. “And in only two months.” Rania had not eaten the black leaves in weeks; her obedience no longer depended on drugs.

That same afternoon, Nasser sat alone in the palace hall, consumed with curiosity. At the appointed hour, Fouaz strode into the hall, followed at several paces by Rania, walking with eyes downcast, without jewelry, gag or veil—naked as a baby. Nasser was stunned to see his sister’s physical beauty enhanced by the exaggerated feminity of her carriage.

Arriving at the throne, Fouaz said to Rania, harshly, “Down before your master!” Rania immediately dove to the ground and laid face down on the marble.

Nasser was a bit intoxicated. After exchanging glances with Fouaz, he said, “Come to me, Rania.” Rania rose, ran to Nasser’s feet, and knelt on both knees, eyes downcast. Nasser gently took her chin and tilted her head up towards him. Rania’s face was covered with tears.

“You are magnificent, Rania. Are you angry with me?” Nasser said.

Rania’s mouth opened a little. She looked distressed.

“She will not speak,” said Fouaz.

“What do you mean?” said Nasser.

“It is normal,” said Fouaz. “She has lost her ability to speak.”

“You said that you would do no permanent damage,” said Nasser.

“This is no damage,” said Fouaz. “What does she need to speak for?”

“Is she still able to think?” asked Nasser.

“If she could think before, she can think now,” said Fouaz.

Nasser thought for a second. “Rania, I want you to serve me a cup of tea, just the way I like it. Do you remember?”

Rania ran to the nearest kitchen. At this time of day, it would be full of workers who would not be expecting to see their princess making a pot of tea while naked.

Nasser waited impatiently. “Will her speech return?”

Fouaz shrugged. “I’ve heard of freed slaves who spoke again.” He thought to himself: “Not this one.”

“We used to have very nice conversations, you know,” said Nasser, lost in thought. “Still, it’s quite amazing what you’ve done with her.”

Rania swayed sensuously into the room, carrying a silver tray with a tea service, and knelt next to Nasser, holding the tray up so that he could reach the tea without rising. The tea was prepared as Nasser liked it.

“You remembered!” said Nasser to the tearful girl. You are an exquisite, wonderful sister.”

Fouaz received his sizable payment, despite the small matter of his having deprived Rania of the power of speech. He returned to his desert enclave of wives and descendants, far from the influence of the court.

It was Nasser’ pleasure to invite the court to the signing of a decree the next day. Rania, once again naked in jewelry, but this time without a gag or a veil, knelt on a large pillow by the side of the throne, eyes downcast, breasts thrust forward by her position. During the ceremony, Nasser asked Rania to bring him the docunent, then a pen to sign it; she executed both her commissions in a run, amid the glistening sound of her body jewelry, breasts flying in every direction. The court was silenced yet again. Even those who did not move close enough to see the tears leaking from Rania’s eyes could tell that she was not acting on her own free will.

The next morning Nasser had a routine meeting with his cabinet of advisors. Rania used to participate actively in such meetings; today she knelt naked behind Nasser’s chair, and performed whatever menial tasks needed to be done. The cabinet, many of whom had known Rania all her life, were stupified. As Rania was pouring tea for each official, the minister of defense, an old family friend, spoke to her: “My dear—are you all right?” Rania looked at the minister and opened her mouth slightly, but continued her task, moving on to the next official and pouring with bowed head, her dark-nippled breasts dangling over the teacups. Nasser quickly began talking to cover the awkwardness. He was surprised that the minister of defense dared speak this way, and wondered if he should take action. So preoccupied had he been with his transformation of Rania that he had failed to notice that his behavior had brought a formerly stable monarchy to the edge of rebellion.

During the day, Nasser enjoyed keeping Rania near him as he worked, occasionally sending her on an errand, but mostly just enjoying her silent, decorative company. One afternoon Jamila entered Nasser’s office to tell him that Princeton was trying to contact Rania about her fall enrollment. Rania lay naked on a pillow next to her brother’s desk, propped up attractively on one arm; her eyes widened when she heard Jamila, and her mouth fell open a little, but she did not abandon her assigned position. Nasser said, “Oh. Well, I suppose she won’t be attending this semester. Draw up a letter to the right people—I’ll have Rania sign it.” Jamila noticed the tears in Rania’s eyes, but couldn’t tell whether her news had caused them—Rania often cried silently these days. Jamila remembered such silent, submissive women from the days of her childhood, but she had always taken them for born slaves who knew or wanted nothing else—it had never occurred to her that they might have been people like herself, or like her lovely young mistress, who had been so much smarter and more sophisticated than anyone else she had known. Shuddering to think what it must feel like to be trapped within an obedient body, Jamila withdrew, leaving the royal children in the same strange tableau in which she found them.

One evening, Nasser entered Rania’s bedchamber late at night. Left without orders at bedtime, Rania lay inertly on her bed, drifting in and out of sleep. Nasser sat on the end of Rania’s bed, and shook her little toe to wake her. Roused with a start by the sound of her jewelry, Rania jumped to her customary kneeling position in the bed.

“No, Rania, you can relax—I just wanted to talk to you.” Rania didn’t move. “Well—are you comfortable like that?” he said. Nasser persisted in posing questions to Rania, even though each one seemed to distress her: part of her felt obliged to respond, but she had lost the autonomy of thought necessary to create speech. Her mouth worked a little, then stopped.

“I hope that you’re not angry at me for all this,” Nasser said. “I know you couldn’t see it at first, but this has really done you a lot of good.”

Rania showed not the slightest sign of disagreeing.

“I do think it would be acceptable for you to talk when you had something to say, but, really, you were in danger of becoming more of a Western woman than an Eastern one. Some women could be happy that way, but you couldn’t be one of them.”

Nasser paused for a response. It was hard to avoid staring at Rania’s dark-tipped breasts. “And I wonder if you understand how much it means to the people to be in the presence of your great beauty. When God gives you such a great gift, you must not hide it.”

Nasser became aware that his stirring speech had given him an insistant erection. He dropped his eyes from Rania’s breasts and looked between her legs, which were slightly spread in this position of obeisance. Her thicket of black hair was matted at the bottom, perhaps a little damp. A thought occurred to Nasser.

“Rania, would you mind just turning around, and putting your elbows on the bed...there, that’s good.”

Rania instantly assumed the new position. As the jingling of her body jewelry died down, Nasser examined her full-lipped, hairy sex and her asshole, both within arm’s reach. It was now possible to tell that Rania was more than damp: she was fully lubricated. Is it because of me? wondered Nasser. Or is she always this way?

Nasser took out his erect cock and moved toward Rania, nestling its tip in the purple folds of her flesh. Then he leaned forward, passing the slippery threshold of muscle and sliding slowly inside. What a peculiar feeling it was, he thought. It was foolish of me not to have tried this earlier.

“Rania, this is extraordinary,” Nasser said. He eased his hands forward and slid them slowly over the great breasts that he had so often admired, winding a finger around each stiff nipple.

Rania’s face was washed in tears, but she remained perfectly still as Nasser savored his first few long strokes.

“Rania, would you mind terribly cooperating a little bit? It would be nice if you...” Nasser ran out of breath and didn’t finish his sentence.

For a long moment Rania did not respond. It was the first time since her slave training that she did not obey instantly. Then, slowly, he felt her tilt her big hips upward, taking Nasser deeper inside her. At the top of the movement, she twisted and squeezed, then slowly tucked her hips under her again.

“Oh...” said Nasser, quite involuntarily.

Rania was more skilled in the art of sex than her brother. And that skill was now his to command.

For several days afterward, the court saw little of Nasser, who fucked Rania as often and in as many different ways as he could. Everyone in the palace guessed what was happening.

Soon Fouaz was once again summoned to meet with Nasser, who received him alone in his office.

“When we first spoke, you gave me the impression that you were able to educate a woman in the ways of pleasure,” said Nasser.

“Yes,” said Fouaz. “But not if you want her to remain untouched.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Nasser. “Approximately how long would that process take?”

“For the same woman that you gave me before?” Fouaz thought for a second. “Perhaps two months.”

“Two months?” said Nasser. This was longer than he wanted to be deprived of Rania’s favors.

“Perhaps less,” said Fouaz.

“Could I visit her during that time?” said Nasser.

“It is impossible,” said Fouaz. “She must see no one.”

Nasser sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I think it’s important for her.”

Fouaz thought the young king a buffoon, but then he had known several kings during his long life, and he had not thought much of any of them. He negotiated another deal very favorable to himself, and the next day his team of selected family members returned to the palace.

Once again poor Rania found herself under the whip, and under the influence of the black leaves. At those moments when she was able to think clearly and was not preoccupied with trying to avoid pain, she was miserably aware that she was being turned into a sex slave. Her drugged mind seemed to drop pieces of time, so that she would find herself in the middle of some complicated obscene act, without remembering when it started or how she had learned her role. There were many men training her, and a few women; sometimes what pleased one earned her punishment from another.

Her will already broken, Rania did not need any further lessons in obedience or in faking enthusiasm—even on the first day, she fucked and fellated her trainers as if her life depended on it. Neither was this program meant to teach her new sexual skills, though she had to acquire the endurance of a professional athlete to service her trainers at the lengths that they demanded. (The most agonizing of all her tasks was learning the art of erotic dance from Fouaz’s first wife, who was no less cruel than the men. Rania’s fleshy body began to transform under the grim woman’s whip; her thickish waist narrowed and flattened into a finely muscled concavity, and her ass began to protrude, its muscles working visibly as she moved. To keep her a little plump, as her trainers assumed was desirable, Fouaz’s servants had to feed her frequently.)

The real goal of this process was that Rania’s newly learned behavior, which was intended to arouse men and to present her in the most sexual manner possible, should take over her mind and become her nature. The months of anxiety and punishment, and the disorienting black leaves, were intended to destroy the barrier between what Rania did and what she felt. Rania’s obedience already came from somewhere deep within her; soon these learned sexual responses would as well.

There is something terrifying about toppling headfirst into one’s own sexuality: it makes one come a bit unglued. As the training began to take effect, Rania’s obedience wavered. She would sometimes freeze on commands that had been part of her nervous system for months. And her voice returned for brief moments: not words, but little inarticulate noises, often when she was aroused. Even though these hesitations cost her dearly, Rania was almost glad to see cracks in the shell of obedience that imprisoned her: it was like feeling a paralyzed limb move again. But her hope didn’t last long. She was too disoriented, and her punishment too relentless, for her to hold on to these little fragments of ego, and she was quickly battered back to total, desperate compliance. She felt herself being driven further inward, deeper into herself, trapped beneath more and more layers of stupid slave dependence and whorish abandon. Her voice remained, but it was worthless for communication: it expressed nothing but her willingness, or her desire. More and more, willingness and desire were confused in her mind: did she arouse herself to obey, or did she obey to arouse herself?

As Rania collapsed back into total submission, Fouaz said to his sons, “If you want to teach her special talents, now is the time. She will harden soon, but now she is as soft as clay.”

“What kind of talents?” said one son.

“Anything you want,” said Fouaz. “You will be surprised at what you can do with her. Once I created a woman who would empty her bowels on my command.”

“You could order this one to do that right now,” said the son.

“Yes, and she would try,” said Fouaz. “But the other one did not try. It happened without her cooperation.”

Fouaz’s choice of an example was not very inspiring, but one of the sons had the idea of making Rania orgasm whenever a certain piece of music was played. Fouaz showed him how the trick might be done. If the trainer rolled Rania on her stomach when she was asleep and slid a hand under her sex, she was already conditioned to grind her hips into the hand until she came, even while drifting in and out of sleep. To create a new association, the trainer should insert his hand at the same time that the music starts. The only music available in the palace basement was an old cassette of THRILLER, so poor Rania was forced to bring herself off to the accompaniment of “Billie Jean.” A little while after Rania drifted off to sleep, the music would start again. Her brain was so malleable at this point that she was immediately ready to take the music as a cue instead of the hand—all the son needed to do was to order Rania to reduce the movement of her hips a bit at a time. By the second night, Rania was twitching herself off to orgasm in her sleep when she heard “Billie Jean,” without even being touched; on the day after the third night, the son was able to demonstrate the parlor trick to his brothers and nephews, using an awake, bewildered Rania.

At the end of a month and a half, Rania’s transformation was essentially complete. The black leaves were taken away, and even after her mind cleared, she found herself unable to alter her new behavior in the slightest.

On the morning of the last day of training, Fouaz’s first wife came to Rania’s chamber to administer the princess’s final examination. As always, Rania had completed her ablutions and was kneeling on the stone floor, waiting to be called. Her waiting position was more provocative than before her sex training: the most obvious difference was that she thrust her breasts out toward the person who commanded her, making little straining efforts as if she thought her nipples could make contact with a bit more effort. Rania was also looking her mistress longingly in the eye as if pleading, her lips slightly open and making little movements. And her knees were spread wider than before: once in a while she would contract her hips slightly, as if she were trying to bring her sex into better view.

Setting to work, the wife reached down, lifted Rania’s soft, heavy breasts with her fingers, and began tweaking Rania’s already-distended nipples with her thumbs. Instantly, Rania began moaning pitifully, wriggling and pushing her breasts into the wife’s hands. There was more than a little theater in Rania’s reaction to the nipple tweaking, but if she was giving a performance, it was a good one: her face became redder and hotter, and the little room began to smell of Rania’s sex juices.

Kneeling down, the wife put her hand in the shallow part of Rania’s sex and began rubbing vigorously. The little princess became wild, though she more or less held her position—she pivoted and slid on the hand as if trying to swallow it with her sex.

“Good girl,” said the wife, wiping her hand clean on Rania’s breasts. Fouaz eldest son was summoned; he sat in a chair before Rania, pulled open his pants to reveal his sex, then motioned to Rania’s breasts. The princess wasted no time, using both hands to gather her sex juices and smear them on the insides of her breasts. Then she took her great chest in both hands, trapped the man’s sex between her breasts, and began an extraordinary undulation, using the whipping motion of her back to push and pull the man’s sex through her slippery flesh. A few seconds of this strenuous motion would have fatigued her a month ago, but she was still in action two minutes later when the son pulled his erect sex out of her chest and thrust in in her mouth. Without missing a beat, Rania grabbed his legs and began sucking him hard, as she knew he liked it. Sucking had become a reflex for her: her sleep had been interrupted so often with sexual demands that she could now suck a man to orgasm without waking up. The reflex made eating difficult, especially with certain shapes of food.

Fouaz’s son came quickly in Rania’s mouth, and his father arrived to finish Rania’s examination. Wasting no time, he presented his sex to the kneeling princess and commanded her to suck it: as soon as he was hard, he turned Rania around, lifted her ass up, and pushed into her from behind. Rania, her hands and feet on the stone floor, abandoned herself to Fouaz’s aggressive fucking, slamming her hips into his thrusts whenever she caught his rhythm. After his orgasm, Rania licked Fouaz clean, causing the 75-year-old man to regain his erection—which, remarkably, was common for him. He roughly took control of Rania’s mouth again, grabbing the curly hair on each side of her head and pulling her back and forth over his sex. This went on for a full twenty minutes, with wife and son standing politely by.

Rania looked as if she was doing no more than hanging on for dear life, but, when Fouaz finally came inside her and ordered her back to a kneeling position, he said, “Good. Our work is finished.” The wife and the son nodded in agreement, with Rania looking up at them as if pleading to be fucked again.

That night, Fouaz and his family celebrated their last evening in the palace with a party, at which Rania danced naked, to demonstrate Fouaz’s first wife’s training skills. It was a very impressive demonstration indeed: Rania had been a fairly good dancer, but now her hips traveled around her body as if they were on springs. The little princess moved from person to person, twisting and untwisting her body in and out of reach, moving gracefully but arriving at lewd positions that exposed her intimate parts. She sprawled on the floor and arched and stretched into suggestive shapes, leaving smears of sweat on the bare stone. Soon she was so sweat-covered that her feet left wet marks on the ground, and her curly hair straightened and lay close to her head. As she undulated inches from her amused audience, sweat rolled down her dark skin and flew off of her purple nipples.

Only the fact that most of the men in the audience were a bit tired of fucking Rania kept a lid on the tensions that the dance was meant to arouse. Even so, one of them yielded to temptation and took one of Rania’s heavy breasts in his hand as she dangled them in his lap. As soon as he touched her, Rania covered him like a blanket, pushing her chest into his hands and grinding her wet sex on his thigh. Laughing, the other men pulled the two apart and ordered Rania to keep dancing.

“How can she do such things?” said the young wife of one of Fouaz’s grandsons. She was visiting the palace for the first time.

“You would do them too if we brought you here,” said the grandson.

“No, a good woman would never act like that,” said the young wife.

“You are stupid,” said the grandson. He meant no particular offense, and his wife took none.

Fouaz, having finished the work that would make him a wealthy man, was in a good humor. “A princess is practically a slave to begin with,” he said to his eldest son. “Never have I seen a woman yield so easily.” After the dance, Rania was taken into the back rooms, where the men at the party snuck away, alone or in groups, and used her continuously until the early morning.

The next day, Fouaz once more led Rania to the palace hall and ordered her to kneel before Nasser. Nasser noticed something different about Rania this time, though. For one thing, she looked at him now—and it was quite a provocative look, though still teary. And, for another thing, she was pushing her beautiful breasts out toward him.

Fouaz gave Nasser a brief synopsis of Rania’s new capabilities. A portable CD player was brought in, and Fouaz ordered Rania to dance. Nasser’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Had Rania’s ass always looked like that?

“Work her hard,” said Fouaz before leaving, “so she will remain supple. Use the whip.”

Nasser and Rania vanished for days, and the state was left to run itself. Fucking Rania was like playing a complicated video game: the more you explored her, the more surprises you got.

On a lazy afternoon, Jamila came to Nasser’s chamber with a package that a courier had delivered. Exhausted from his recent journeys inside Rania, he was nonetheless excited to get the package, and called to Rania as soon as Jamila had left. Rania ran to Nasser and knelt in front of his chair, brushing against him with her hair, her cheeks, her nipples.

“Here, Rania, these are a present for you. Give me your pretty breasts, so I can show you,” said Nasser. Rania sprung into his lap, her breasts bobbling in front of Nasser’s face. “No, Rania, we just did it! No, move back a little—I can’t do it again,” Nasser said. Rania moved far enough back that Nasser could hold two large amethyst pendants up to her nipples. At the nipple end, the pendants had rings for piercings. “Do you like them?” Nasser said.

Rania did not want her nipples pierced. She had always thought she would have children, and she was afraid piercings might interfere with breastfeeding. As her eyes became moist, she felt the back of Nasser’s hand brush the underside of her breast and rub against her nipple. She gave a little moan and plunged again into Nasser’s lap, looking for a way to arouse him. Lifting a leg, she brought her sex against the inside of his thigh and slid forward. The strategem worked: Nasser dropped the pendants, grabbed her by the ass, and pulled her roughly toward him.

Later that afternoon, the pendants hung heavily from Rania’s newly pierced nipples as she sat at Nasser’s feet during dinner.

Nasser made no effort to be discreet about his carnal relationship with his sister. When Rania knelt by Nasser’s side on public occasions, his semen would often drip from her sex or her asshole onto the velvet cushion she sat upon.

And yet it came as quite a surprise to Nasser when an aide notified him one day of a rumor that the minister of defense was about to lead the army in a coup against him.

Nasser’s disbelief and outrage quickly gave way to nervous strategizing. There was general agreement among his advisers that Rania should quickly make a public speech to reassure the army that she still supported the regime. But the room fell silent when Nasser informed them sorrowfully that this was beyond Rania’s current abilities. A second, less desirable plan presented itself: Rania should vanish from sight for a while.

Fouaz was summoned again and paid handsomely to hide Rania at his remote desert encampment. Rania was stripped of her cumbersome body jewelry and, for the first time in months, given clothes: the concealing robes of a traditional peasant, complete with a headdress that hid everything but her eyes. Under cover of night, Fouaz and Rania left the capital and made the long journey into the desert.

Fouaz was the patriarch of a large, self-sufficient, isolated community that consisted largely of his wives, descendants, and servants. After her arrival, Rania was put to work in the house of Fouaz’s eldest son. She wore simple clothes, and was given the most menial chores. Occasionally during the day, and always at night, she was taken away by some man or another and fucked. It was a tiring, debasing life, but Rania preferred it to the incestuous nightmare of the palace.

Not too many days after Rania’s arrival, one of Fouaz’s grandsons burst in with news from the capital.

“The army has stormed the palace. The young king has been executed. The minister of defense has declared martial law.”

For a split second, Rania was flushed with glee at the death of her brother. Then a wave of horror swept over her. What would become of her now?

Fouaz was a shrewd man, but he had lived all his long life under an absolute monarchy and had not expected a coup. Rania’s presence at Fouaz’s compound had been kept in the strictest secrecy, but Fouaz did not want to take a chance on her being found with him.

And so Fouaz gave instructions to his eldest son:

“We must take the woman far away, and sell her. There is a man in Libya, five days journey from here. He will buy her and take her to the markets in the south, where no one will find her.”

“She is worth twenty times what those common slavers will pay for her,” said the son.

“We do not need money,” said Fouaz. “We need safety. Sell her for whatever price she draws.”

That same night, Rania was placed under a tarpaulin in the back of a pickup truck, and transported out of the country of her birth. When they had left Kazeb, Rania was allowed to sit in the van of the truck. Fouaz’s son passed Rania off as his wife when necessary, and they slept in the same bed; having helped to train Rania, the son was painfully aware of what a rare prize he was about to throw away, and seemed determined to fuck her as many times and in as many different ways as possible before he sold her.

After many days, they found themselves in a dingy room in Bengazi, where the slave trader’s men were staying. Rania was stripped and examined like an animal; when the trader’s man opened her sex and thrust his hand inside her, Rania moaned and rushed into the man’s arms, and had to be restrained by Fouaz’s son. A doctor examined Rania, setting off more of the same provocative reactions. The trader’s men took her for simple-minded.

Fouaz’s son was determined to haggle, despite his father’s instructions. Due to Rania’s exceptional beauty, the trader’s men wound up agreeing to pay Fouaz’s son more money than was their wont, though far less than Rania would have fetched with a proper presentation in a more sophisticated market.

Rania was delivered to her new owners the next day. After a long journey into the interior of the country, Fouaz’s son’s pickup truck entered the vast estate of the slave traders, passing checkpoints with armed, unfriendly guards. At the edge of the estate, the slaver’s men waited with an armed escort and vehicles. Other sellers were arriving, delivering the rest of the women the traders had bought on this trip. The women stood in the field in various states of undress: there were a number of black Africans, a few dark-skinned Arabs, and one European. None were as beautiful as Rania, but all were attractive enough to be sold into the sex trade. Most of them showed no emotion.

The slavers paid Fouaz’s son and took possession of Rania. Her robe and headdress were lifted off of her and returned to her former owner. Naked again, she was fastened to the rear of a jeep by a rope tied around her wrists—her new owners didn’t realize that she was incapable of escape, and would have run behind the vehicle if bidden. Several other naked women were fastened next to her.

Fouaz’s son had an impulsive desire to touch Rania one more time, but it was too late. He called out, “Goodbye, princess,” which made some of the slaver’s men chuckle. Her face covered with tears, Rania turned at the sound of the son’s voice and tried to move toward him, pushing her breasts out and moving her mouth seductively. Then the vehicles slowly moved out across the field and onto a road through the underbrush. Rania and the other naked women were pulled along, trotting to keep up. Fouaz’s son watched Rania’s swaying ass until the jeep led it around a bend and out of sight.

Many unusual years would pass before Rania was destined to see her home again....