Feature Writer: T.S.Severe
Feature Title: A FRIENDLY CAPER 6
Published: 28.07.2015 / Copyright© 2015 by T.S.Severe
Story Codes: Erotic Horror, Religious, Teenagers, Romantic, Reluctant, Bi, TS, BDSM, Interracial, Anal
Synopsis: A teenage boy experiences his sexual awakening at the hands of his first crush, one of his counselors at summer camp. Later, he finds his first real love, runs away from the orphanage where he grew up, and works as a high priced escort in Europe only to find himself betrayed and sold to African White Slavers…And then the aliens arrive.
A Friendly Caper 6
“Sareth.”
I bit my bottom lip at the sound of my name, turning quickly.
“My Prince,” I breathed, dropping to my knees and lowering my head.
Prince Ibrahim Aziz bin Saud was the direct descendent of King Abdul Aziz ibn Saud; the fifth son of a second wife, heir to little more than a life of absolute privilege, and the undisputed ruler of his house and everything in it. Including me. He was tall, dark, and strong with short black hair, almond eyes, and a caramel complexion. My Prince looked more Persian than Arabic, thanks to his mother who had been born in Tehran. I could tell the difference now between Persians and Arabs, unlike most westerners, and I could write and speak Arabic, although not quite fluently yet.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, crossing the large room in his English suit and Italian loafers. After graduating from Oxford, Ibra preferred to dress as if he still lived in England.
“As I’ve missed you,” I replied, rising in my silk caftan which was quite unlike the sort most people would be familiar with. The golden robe was very thin, almost sheer, and through it my body was plainly visible. My nipples were dark and erect, not only because of my arousal, but also because of the ornate jewelry which decorated them.
The Prince had a fetish for such things and I wore not only the gold rings through my nipples and the seven golden chains of varying lengths between them, but an emerald large enough to fit inside my bellybutton, a small golden ring through the underside of my penis, just under the glans, and likewise a golden ring through my scrotum, much like Monica had worn. My cock was connected to my scrotum that way, pulled down and locked in place with a tiny, but very functional padlock. My Prince kept the only key so I couldn’t pleasure myself in his absence; no one else would dare try to fuck me.
I wore an emerald stud in my nose, only a carat, but of immaculate quality. I wore two more just like it in my ears and green was Ibra’s favorite color for me. I had other jewelry in rubies and sapphires, and diamonds, of course. Today I’d dressed in emeralds, wearing my necklace and several bracelets made of gold and laden with the precious stones. I even wore emerald bangles around my ankles and I couldn’t know how much they might have cost, but it’s safe to say I was worth a million dollars just standing there. Even more than that if you added in the quarter of a million the Prince had paid for me.
An outrageous amount for a sixteen-year-old transsexual, even one so perfectly beautiful as myself? Perhaps, but the thing to remember is that men like Prince Ibra find as much pleasure in spending money as the most miserly housewife does in saving it. Had he paid any less for me, the man would have been genuinely insulted. Such a philosophy has vexed the western world for centuries, but I understood it perfectly on the eve of my seventeenth birthday. I wasn’t merely a wonderfully crafted toy for my Master to play with, but a work of art to be admired.
If I’d had a vagina instead of a cock and balls, I might have been called one of the world’s most beautiful young women. As it was, standing before my Prince, we both knew I was much more than that. After raping me into submission and spoiling me with affection, confusing my heart and mind until I had no choice but to love him completely, Prince Ibra had created the only person he truly loved. It would have been quite disappointing to his first wife, the lovely daughter of a sheik, to discover Ibrahim’s mistress was not only a boy, but a slave as well.
“Why are you wearing your batula?” he wondered, meaning my veil, and I raised my smokey eyes to his.
“I have so little else to hide behind, my Prince.” I tilted my hips, thrusting my sex towards him. “I like it when you undress me.”
He reached for the tiny clasp just behind my right cheek and let the batula fall away from my carefully painted face.
“I’ve dreamt of you,” he whispered just before we kissed and I pressed my body against his suit, opening for his tongue.
Ibra reached between us to feel my cock through the silk and it ached against the bondage of that small lock. He cupped the shaft and played gentle fingers against the glans, teasing me with the luxurious texture of that golden material. The rings pulled my hairless ballsack taut and the sensitive flesh just beneath the glans felt the pinch as my penis tried to stand upright. I wouldn’t beg the Prince to release me, however, not yet. I’d been tormented far worse than that and his lips were a welcome distraction.
I nibbled at his mouth, drawing Ibra’s lips between mine and sucking them while my hands roamed his broad shoulders. I wished to undress the man and I started pushing his suit coat off. We’d been apart nearly a full week and my male balls were overfull of sperm, my ass cunt clasping on the awful emptiness inside. I needed his cock as much as I needed to vent my pent-up passion and as soon as his coat hit the floor, I began undoing Ibra’s trousers.
“You’re in a mood today,” the Prince said with a breathless chuckle, watching as I knelt before him.
“I’ve been empty too long,” I told him truthfully, looking up so he’d see the truth in my dark eyes. “You shouldn’t leave me so alone. I’m unhappy without you.”
“I know,” he said, loosening his necktie while I removed his shoes and then his socks.
“I’ve been trying to write you a letter…” I opened his trousers and pushed them down.
“Why?” Ibrahim stepped out of his pants and I tossed them carelessly aside.
“ … asking you to sell me to someone else,” I said. “To find me a Master who will not want me to sleep alone.”
“Don’t say such things,” he told me, undoing his cufflinks as I pulled his boxers down his strong thighs.
Ibra’s dark penis stood stiffly erect, long and thick the way a man should be. His balls were large as well and he had fine, black pubic hair. The rest of his body was relatively smooth, however. He had no hair on his chest and the man’s legs were covered only thinly. I loved his body very much as he took very good care of himself. The Prince enjoyed sports and physical activity and he had a hard stomach with well defined muscles, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He was very handsome and I felt jealous when he left me alone, imagining him with his first wife whom I knew was pregnant.
“I want you to sell me,” I whispered, holding his cock with both hands, looking up from my knees to see his eyes.
“No,” he said, touching my face briefly with his fingertips before removing his shirt completely.
“Then put me in a brothel,” I demanded. “Let every man in the Kingdom have me for his whore…”
SLAP! My left cheek reddened sharply and tears flooded my eyes, but I kept them open and on his face.
“ … the humiliation will comfort me in my loneliness,” I continued in a soft, quailing voice.
SLAP! He hit me again, frowning as his face grew dark and his eyes flashed with anger.
“You’ll earn your money back, my Prince,” I breathed. “I promise you that much.”
“Be silent!” He nearly shouted, yanking me to my feet only to throw me back down, bending me over one of the many pillows that furnished my boudoir.
“Yesssss…” I hissed between clenched teeth as Ibra drove his cock into my rectum, finding my boy cunt hot and already prepared with scented oils.
“You won’t say those things to me,” he whispered, panting the words as his fat cock stretched my hole around him.
“I love you!” I gasped.
He held my hips and slapped my ass while we fucked, working his cockhead to the very bottom of my hungry sex. His balls would find mine as I used my well-trained muscles to caress and milk the man’s penis. I’d become adept at such tricks, skilled enough that the soft walls of my fuck hole seemed to ripple with tiny contractions. I could clamp my taut anus around the shaft of his prick and draw the muscles against him like a fist, tugging at his cock and pulling him deeper.
Prince Ibra would hold himself there, neither of us moving except to breathe and enjoy the sensation of my asshole sucking his cock. I felt the bulbous glans in my bowels, pressing against my prostate and the smallest shiver would only add to the wonder of that strange and particular joy. He reached beneath me to find my perfect breasts, holding them in his hands and squeezing, thumbing the rings in my swollen nipples and kissing my shoulder and then my face. I turned my mouth to find his and I could make him cum that way; he didn’t have to fuck me at all, but only savor the intense pleasure my body offered.
And he did cum finally, after all of three minutes perhaps, and I smiled at his frustration. Ibra’s first orgasm always arrived much too soon in his opinion, but not in mine. I needed his warmth inside me and I rocked my hips, grinding my ass against his pelvis and thighs while his cock jerked and spilled his semen into my body. I didn’t relax my cunt muscles either, but kept my rectum tight and undulating with spasms to draw as much cum from the man’s balls as possible. I wanted every drop and it would make our lovemaking that much better after he recovered.
“I should have you whipped for teasing me that way,” my Prince whispered as I fucked his cock with mine.
“You should,” I agreed with a petulant smile, laying on his chest and straddling his legs with my knees at his hips. “You haven’t whipped me in months.”
He let me kiss him as I slid my body back and forth over his, rubbing my tits against his chest. Ibra had unlocked my penis and we were both hard. My pinkish cock lay alongside his and I moved deliberately, keeping us together that way. My cockhead would caress his shaft and play across and around his own smooth glans. Our precum mixed together, our balls touching as his hairy scrotum tickled my own. The Prince stroked my back and held my round ass in his hands, moving me the way he liked. We were making love that way, without penetration.
Soon enough he pulled me upward until I sat on his chest with my erection dripping onto his handsome face. I urged the man to take me in his mouth and that’s precisely what he desired. My beautiful Prince took my penis between his lips, washing the precum away with his spittle and swallowing eagerly. He played with my ass, fingering my boy cunt and feeling me wet and greasy as his semen drooled out of my tender anus.
I gasped happily as he pulled me deeper, opening his throat so that all seven inches of my sexy cock filled his mouth. My balls rested upon his chin and I blinked at the tightness of his throat, the odd pleasure of being swallowed. After a few seconds I’d pull myself out, but only enough to let Ibra catch his breath, and then we’d do it again. He loved sucking my cock, almost as much as he loved fucking me, I thought.
“I’m going to cum,” I warned him after only a few minutes and I’d been on the edge for a long time already.
“Hmmmph…” he moaned, watching my face and refusing to let my aching prick go. He teased the golden ring piercing the underside, tickled my pisshole, and took me one last time into his throat.
“Oh!” I gasped, arching my back and holding the man’s head as my balls emptied with a rush of hot semen.
He didn’t even have to swallow, my cockhead was lodged firmly within the tight confines of Ibra’s throat. I poured my creamy load straight into the man’s stomach while he pushed his middle finger inside my cum-filled rectum. It was a good orgasm and my first in a week and I had to pull my cock free of his mouth before it was finished. The Prince panted for air as I took my penis in my hand and stroked the last few spurts onto his face. I slapped his lips and cheeks with my wet cock, giggling with the euphoria of pleasure, and then bent my head so that I could lick the semen from his skin.
Later, after making love for a wonderfully long while, I asked him about his wife.
“Have you told her, yet?” I wondered, stretched along his body with my right knee bent upon his thighs.
“She knows I have a mistress,” Ibra said without smiling, but I could tell he enjoyed my fingers massaging his damp scrotum. His penis lay flaccid for the moment and I ignored it.
“I’m asking if you’ve told her about me,” I whispered. “That you love me.”
“If she knew about you…” he sighed. “It wouldn’t be safe, even here.”
“Hmmm…” I frowned and understood it to be true. The first wife of the Prince was widely known for her jealousy as well as her beauty.
“She thinks I’m keeping a whore in Jiddah.”
“Instead of a whore in Sakakah?” I asked, letting him hear the petulance in my voice.
“I did not call you that, Sareth,” Ibra said, kissing my hair and stroking along my spine with his fingertips.
“Bring me to Riyahd,” I said. “Please? I dislike this place when you’re away. If I’m there, we can be together every night and…”
“And she will find us out,” he told me with a small shake of his head. “You shouldn’t underestimate her passion.”
“And what of mine?” I asked, kissing his narrow jaw and pulling gently upon the man’s ball’s, rolling his testes even as my middle finger slipped lower. “Am I cold to your touch?”
“You have a capacity for love,” Ibra smiled, “but she knows how to hate. Believe me when I tell you this, she would harm you.”
“And you wouldn’t protect me?” I wondered, fixing my dark eyes on his. “Do I mean so little to you, my Prince?”
“You’re being spoiled now,” he said with a laugh, pointedly ignoring my questions. The could be no protection from the wiles of a jealous woman, no way to preserve my place on this earth … except one.
“I may surprise you someday…” I teased his anus with my finger, coaxing Ibra to spread his legs. “Do you love her still?”
“She’s the mother of my children.”
“The mother of your daughters,” I corrected him, bringing my finger to my lips to wet it. “She can’t even give you a son.”
“Neither can you, Sareth,” he reminded me and I bristled silently at the insult, although the truth is never that.
“Where are you going?” I complained sleepily, lifting my head from the pillows to see my Prince dressing himself in front of the mirror.
“The mosque,” he replied without looking at me. “I’ll meet you for lunch.”
“Don’t leave me,” I sighed. “We can pray on the terrace. What time is it?”
“Early,” he said, turning around in his white thob and adjusting his ghoutra, checkered red and white. It was the traditional dress for Saudi men and very common to see, but I would have preferred Ibra naked beside me.
“What’s this?” I noticed a black velvet box on the pillow beside me. I opened it to find a pearl chain perhaps twenty-four inches long, perhaps a little more. They were perfectly round, each of them, and identical in size and I had no idea how many there were, they seemed countless and silken to the touch.
“Happy birthday, Sareth,” Prince Ibra said with a smile, watching as I removed it carefully from the straps holding the chain in place.
“Today isn’t my birthday,” I said with a smile of my own, rising to my knees and ensuring the Prince noticed my morning erection.
“I’ve had you exactly one year today,” he shrugged. “Put it on. Let me see you wear it before I go.”
The pearls were meant to be worn around the neck, of course, the long chain could be turned and twisted to form two or even three short strands around my delicate throat. I had a better idea though and I rose gracefully to my feet with my penis bobbing up and down playfully. Ibra chuckled softly as I wore the pearls around my waist and being somewhat slender like I was, they fit me very well. I adjusted the chain so it fell off my left hip at a careless angle and walked over and between the pillows that made our bed.
“Thank you, my Prince,” I whispered, being careful not to let my cock touch the robes he wore.
He drew a deep breath as I stood before him, naked and beautiful. “You’re welcome.”
I was seventeen and any girl my age would have been more than happy to have my body. I’d grown only a little taller, reaching 5’10” finally, but the rest of me had changed very little. I measured 34-22-32 now, with seven inches of aching penis to defy my female form. I tried to remember how little I’d thought of playing the girl for Father John and others, but all of that seemed like a dream to me now. I was a girl and happy with that. Monica and Ignacio had perfected my body, and Prince Ibrahim had perfected my heart. He loved me, I could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice.
“Allow me, my Prince.” I adjusted his igal, the black cord holding his ghoutra in place. “Allah Ahkbar.”
“Allah Ahkbar,” he rejoined with a tilt of his head. That was as much goodbye as we required just then.
Half an hour later I wore a simple caftan made of Egyptian linen and I knelt on the terrace facing Mecca. My prayer rug was likewise simple and while the Imam’s voice carried through the palace and the city beyond, I thanked Allah for his mercy and benevolence, for bringing me to this strange place so that I could find true love at last.
Beside me, Rashid also prayed, and he’d entered my apartments as Prince Ibra had left. The man had been sitting outside all night probably, or most likely it had been Raman who had stood sentry. They were brothers and the modern version of harem guards, but only watching over a harem of one. And like the harem guards of old, Prince Ibrahim had castrated the two men in order to ensure that Rashid and Raman wouldn’t suffer the temptations of their posts. They didn’t mind, believe me, both of those men were very proud of their positions and my occasional teasing did very little but amuse them.
They were both very good bodyguards as well and I never left the palace without one or both of them at my side. I had my own driver, a handsome man named Ahmad who was most definitely not a eunuch. I had two maids, personal servants who served me in ways the large household staff couldn’t. They were Alya and Iris, 15-year-old Palestinian girls from Beirut originally and slaves like myself. My Prince had purchased them less for their physical beauty than their playful personalities, I think. They bathed me, groomed me, kept me company, and shared an amazing capacity for happiness after growing up in the abject poverty of a war torn slum.
I enjoyed a good life and I was grateful for it, my only wish being that I could spend more time with Ibra than his duties – and his first wife – allowed me. I was perhaps insane in my jealousy of her and so you’ll understand why I felt it necessary to do something dramatic. I thought of it less a betrayal than self-preservation. Sooner or later, I understood, the woman would discover who and where I was and that could only be a very bad thing for me. Any animal, even the most harmless of God’s creatures, will fight for its right to live.
“I wish to visit the market before meeting the Prince for lunch,” I informed Rashid from my bath.
“As you wish,” he agreed with a paternal smile, watching as Alya and Iris washed my body.
We were all naked and the bath was certainly large enough for three of us. Like all Saudi Princes, Ibra had more money than he could easily spend, and so no expense had been spared. The bath fixtures were made of gold, the marble imported from Italy; everything was decadent and luxurious and outrageous it seemed to me upon first arriving, but now I hardly noticed. For the first six months I’d been locked inside my apartments, never allowed to leave or use a telephone or see anyone but Prince Ibra and my servants. I’d been a prisoner locked inside a gilded cage, but that situation had changed and while I’d never be completely free, at least my prison had grown large enough to offer me the illusion.
What my Prince could not suspect was how fond even a eunuch could become of a beautiful boy, not to mention two girls in the passionate throes of adolescence. Rashid and Raman wouldn’t and couldn’t love me sexually, but after a year of watching me every single day, they could love me in other ways. Like uncles perhaps, or much older brothers infatuated with a younger sister. They were loyal to the Prince, I had little doubt of that, but their devotion was mine alone. I trusted them completely and they were sworn to protect me with their lives from anyone who would hurt me.
“Wash my cock with your cunt,” I whispered to Alya, pulling the girl closer to straddle my hips with her knees.
“Yes,” she agreed with a lick of her small, red lips. “Put her inside me, Iris.”
“Hold still for it!” the other girl replied, giggling as she held my cock beneath the water and brought the head to Alya’s plump vulva.
“Hmmmm…” I sighed as I felt the girl’s tight pussy resisting the intrusion.
My cock had grown hard beneath their expert hands and we could only fuck when the Prince returned for a visit. When he left me again, my penis would be locked to my scrotum once more and my girls and I would have to amuse ourselves in less interesting ways. But for the moment I was free and I wrapped my arms around her thin body, pulling Alya down so that my erection filled her sex completely.
I would have much preferred having two pretty boys bathing me and if I asked the Prince, he would have fulfilled my wish. They would have to be castrated though and I had no real desire for that. I enjoyed my girls anyway, even if I didn’t find them especially attractive sexually. I wasn’t a lesbian, put it that way, but I liked them well enough to ignore the instinctive distaste I felt and appreciate the warmth of our friendship. They certainly loved me well enough and Alya winced as her pussy stretched around me, squirming in my arms as she sought the most comfortable position.
Iris found a comfortable spot near my feet and she would lift my legs one at a time, washing my thighs and calves with soapy hands. She washed my feet as well, playing around and between my toes and taking them into her mouth. The girl suckled my big toe like a cock, small and pink and ticklish beneath her tongue. Iris would wash all of them that way, taking my toes between her lips one at a time while Alya rode my cock with her horny little cunt.
Before I could cum, they switched places. Iris rode me to orgasm after three or four minutes of wild fucking. She always liked it rather violent for some reason and a lot of water spilled out of the tub and onto the floor. We had little concern for that, however; someone else would clean up the mess while I was gone. Perhaps Alya and Iris would clean it, I honestly didn’t know. I made it a point to leave my apartments everyday, even if it was only to walk the luxurious gardens that covered a full hectare of palace grounds.
But not today. I would go to the market, the grand bazaar that served as the heart of the city. It would be hot and dusty, crowded with people buying and selling, or just enjoying the measured chaos to be found in the colorful streets and alleyways. There was nothing you couldn’t buy. Everything from fruits and vegetables, to jewelry, to guns and children. All one needed to do was make the correct inquiry, the proper introduction … and have enough cash, of course.
I walked through the market slowly, following Rashid and being followed in turn by Raman. They didn’t like the crowd, of course, since it made protecting me much more difficult, but there was little to fear anyway. There were a good many Arab women filling their baskets and bags with fresh food that had been trucked in overnight. The men were all vendors or beggars, or most often simply locals sitting at small kiosks and cafés, drinking strong coffee and eating bread. They would talk to each other, for it would be quite insulting to a woman if they’d dare approach one.
I’d long since learned to appreciate the customs of this strange land and the dignity afforded women, although it was most often misunderstood by visitors. I wore a linen caftan and over that a dark, gauze-like abaya, and a batula to cover my face. The relatively pale skin around my smoky eyes and my white, well-manicured fingers were surprising to some people, but it wasn’t so unusual as you may expect. Only when I spoke, my Arabic tainted with a coarse American accent, did people immediately realize I’d come from elsewhere.
My voice made the rug merchant Ababar Ali very curious, but he’d heard it before and judiciously kept his questions to himself. We were alone in his small shop, once he’d sent his eldest daughter away, and from the way he spoke to her, I suspected she played the man’s wife after evening prayers. That wasn’t my concern, but it illustrates well how unscrupulous the man could be. Selling prayer rugs to the faithful seemed a wonderful irony.
“Her husband is here,” I whispered as I examined a beautifully knotted Persian rug. “He won’t return for at least three days.”
“That’s not very much time,” he said, clucking his tongue. “The price will have to go up.”
“You wish to haggle with me now?” I stared at him as someone tried to open the door, but Raman was there to wave the would-be customer away.
“I’m only telling you that the risks are many,” Ababar shrugged. “The man I employ is not an amateur, he’ll want more.”
“How much?” I sighed, glancing at Rashid as he stood near the back of the shop, guarding a beaded curtain that led to another room.
“Twenty thousand.”
“I can give you ten,” I told him.
“Seventeen.”
“Fifteen,” I decided. “But for this, I expect nothing but good news.”
“Then you shall have it,” Ababar smiled, rolling up the small carpet and this was very much the custom.
Everything was negotiable and having come to a satisfactory price, the merchant offered me a gift in friendship to assuage his guilt and my reluctance at paying more than we’d initially agreed.
I removed a leather satchel from the woven shopping bag I carried and removed a sheaf of Saudi Riyal, a thick one, and 15,000 SR was nearly as much as I’d brought with me and it hadn’t been easy to come by. The slave mistress of a Prince doesn’t require a lot of cash, after all. The money disappeared quickly inside the man’s robes and the rug was bound with hairy twine.
“When may I expect delivery?” I asked.
“The day after tomorrow,” Ababar promised. “Allah Ahkbar.”
“God is Great,” I agreed in English, following Raman out of the shop and back into the street.
It was not until the morning of the third day that my rug was delivered and that because I’d been entertaining the Prince all evening. We’d dined in the palace, outside amongst the gardens with only candles and stars to light our eyes. Ibra had made love to me as the moon rose bright and full.
Shortly after morning prayers and before breakfast, my Prince had taken an urgent phone call from his eldest brother in Riyadh. It seems Ibra’s wife had become ill the previous afternoon and retired early that evening. By morning she had been very cold. She’d eaten wild almonds, which are quite unlike the domestic variety and only a handful contain enough cyanide to kill a healthy man. I’d have thought the bitter taste would have put the woman off, but apparently not. In any case, I kept my thoughts to myself as Prince Ibrahim made his excuses.
I understood completely, I assured him. His daughters would need their father while they mourned their mother. I would be alright by myself and my Prince was grateful for that. Even before he’d left the palace, I’d begun making arrangements to move my household to Riyadh. The children, three very small girls, would need a new mother and Ibra a new wife. I couldn’t marry him, I knew that, but I’d remain close and ensure his next wife better understood her proper place.
“Mistress…” Raman unrolled the rug on the terrace just in time for my noon prayers.
“Thank you,” I said, returning his smile and letting Alya remove my golden slippers. “We shall pray for my Master’s wife.”
“Allah is Merciful,” my guard replied with a tilt of his handsome head. His cousin, the merchant Ababar Ali, had sold me a very fine carpet indeed.
THE END OF CHAPTER SIX