Chapter Nine

         My aunt and I occupied the same room.  We were in Quatar now. 
We’d both passed our physical exams.  It was a well-appointed bedroom,
complete with long-stemmed roses glistening in a vase.  A bowl of
chocolates waited by the pillow of the bed we were to share.  I liked
the chocolates.  I ate ten of them before my auntie told me we were
invited to have dinner with the Sultan, and I must not spoil my
appetite.
         “Oh, auntie,” I said, gazing out our window.  It presented us
with a beautiful vista of Quatar, the tree-lined streets, the lazy dunes
stretching away into the distance; lots of sand intermixed with
buildings built in the grand International style.  “Why are there bars
on our bedroom window?  They are prettily wrought, but to have iron
bars!”
         My aunt gazed out the window with me.  She extended her hand
through the bars.  We were high up; too high to shout to the people
passing on the street far below.  She let go of her handkerchief.  It
fluttered away, caught by the breeze.
         “They are bars, but think of a place like this in America,” my
aunt said.  “The windows are always sealed.  Here, we have open windows,
an overhead fan, and air conditioning to boot!  We can open and close
the glass as we please, or leave the window wide open, and draw the
drapes.  Really, if you think about it, we have many more choices with
regard to our room here than, say, in America, or even in France!”
         “Yes, auntie,” I said.  “But with guards at our door--”
         “They said we should call them servants,” my aunt said.  I
looked into her face.  I could see she was slowly sinking into the idea
of being a guest of the Sultan, even though we’d been virtual prisoners
ever since we took our physical!
         “Oh, auntie,” I said.  “I don’t think you’re the best chaperone
in the world, but you are the very best aunt!  Who else would have me
put into a tower in Quatar, with guards at our door, who do, indeed, get
us whatever we please, except our freedom?”
         “Perhaps... perhaps the Sultan knows what’s best for us?” my
auntie asked me.  Her voice quavered.
         I hugged her.  “You wish he did, auntie,” I said.  
         “I hope he does,” my auntie said.  “He is so handsome.”
         “Yes, he is very handsome,” I agreed.
         The beautiful woman who’d examined my aunt suddenly appeared at
the door.  We both turned; surprised to see her.  She hadn’t been on the
private flight that brought us from Crete to Quatar.  Yet here she was,
standing now in the doorway, grinning like a cat at the two of us.
         “Well, girls,” she said.  She stalked into the room.  She wore
a long black gown that left her shoulders and arms completely bare.  In
her hand, she held a rose.  It had a stiff stem, with sharp leaves and
thorns on it.  She handled it carefully, sniffing it as she walked. 
“Are you ready to meet the Sultan?” she asked.  “Dinner is in one hour. 
How do you like Quatar?  If you find the heat disagreeable, you are
welcome to close your window.”  The woman, whose name I learned was
Glenda, sauntered over to our window.  She pressed herself between us
and stared out the window with us.  She sniffed her rose, twirling it in
her fingers.  Then she passed her hand through the window.  She let go
of the rose.  We watched it drop away.  For a moment it was lost from
sight; too close to the building we were in for us to see it.  Then a
breeze caught its big, beautiful bloom and swept it out away from the
side of our tower.  We watched as it spiralled down toward the street
below.  A single car moved on the street; things were sleepy here in
Quatar, under the relentlessly hot afternoon sun.  The rose dwindled in
size until I could see it no more.  I guessed sometime after I lost
sight of it that it hit the asphalt.
         Turning away from the window, I was startled to see that
Glenda’s gown was deceptive.  She was a white woman, in her mid-20’s,
with long, lustrous black hair.  It was piled high on top of her head at
the moment, as if for a grand ball.  She had an exceptionally large
cleavage.  Her figure resembled an hourglass.  As I turned from the
window I saw that her gown was of two minds:  in front, it sheathed all
of her body.  A black cloth collar, part of the dress, circled her
neck.  The dress ran from her chin all the way down to her toes.  As I
moved behind her, however, I was startled to see how much Glenda’s gown
revealed in back.  In addition to her shoulders and arms being
completely bare, all of her back was bare.  On most dresses which leave
the back bare they at least close over the ass.  But not this one!  The
back of Glenda’s gown remained fully open in back, right down to her
knees.  Her ass could be seen, bare as if she were at a nudist’s
colony.  Only at her knees did the gown finally close in back, sheathing
her calves.  It was as if her thighs, her bottom, and her back were
appropriate subjects of Moslem contemplation, in all their nudity, but
her calves were not.  How strange it was to see a woman so demure and
well-clothed in front, outfitted in a black gown, only to turn to her
backside and see she was all bare!
         “You will find that the Sultan admires a good bottom, Chloe,”
the woman said.  Oh!  We had not been introduced, and already she knew
my name! I gasped to myself.  “He enjoys admiring a fine derriere and he
also feels leaving it naked, on a girl, provides him with an excellent
opportunity, at all times, to discipline it if he must.  So do not
expect to have your bottom covered much here.  When I go abroad, on the
Sultan’s business, then I dress like anyone else.  But here, it is his
dictates which prevail, and I dress to please his whim.  You will do
likewise.”
         “Oh, I do not want to show off my bottom!” I said.  I clapped
my hands to my ass.  I was wearing shorts; it was, I suppose, rather a
foolish thing to say, all things considered, but the prospect of walking
around bare-assed in a strange place, where I didn’t know anyone, I did
find rather appalling.
         “She is sweet, is she not?” Glenda said to my aunt, one mature
woman conversing with another.
         “Y- Yes,” my aunt agreed.
         “You will both get out of your things and wear to dinner what
the Sultan provides,” Glenda said.  “For one month now you will wear
what you are bidden, nothing else.  No more and no less.  This will be
your room, and you may keep your things here.  No one will disturb
them.  But you will not always sleep here, as, no doubt, you have
already surmised.  You will be kept here and there in the Sultan’s
palace, as he sees fit.  But you can rest assured that your things, here
in this room, will be waiting for you, undisturbed, when your month of
service is up.  And as to the money--”
         “Yes?” my aunt asked.  
         “Yes?” I said, in a high-pitched voice.
         “It will be wired to the bank accounts you have designated. 
You will each be permitted one International call, to your bank’s
auto-teller feature, to check that the proper amount has been
deposited.  This will happen in a few days, after you have met with the
Sultan’s personal approval, and he is assured that your temperament is
of a nature that he finds satisfactory.”
         “Wow-- my ‘dime account’ that I opened last year in school is
really going to fill up!” I said.
         “Very well,” my aunt said.  “But remind him that it is his
looks that convinced us.  I have plenty of money already.  I want him to
know that, had it just been a matter of money, I wouldn’t be here
today.  I cannot simply be bought, like a piece of property.”
         “I CAN!” I said, loudly.
         Glenda smiled.  “I admire both your responses,” she said.  “I
myself succumbed to his looks, a decade ago.  And I was not unflattered
by the money he offered me, then or now.”  She looked down at me.  “You
are quite sweet, Chloe,” she said.  “He admires girls who show
enthusiasm about their work.”
         “And when the month is up?” my aunt asked.
         “Then you will be released,” Glenda said.  “You will be put on
a non-stop flight back to France.”
         “And in the meantime?” my aunt asked, a note of trepidation in
her voice.
         “We shall enjoy ourselves,” Glenda said.  “It may be
challenging at times, but you shall both bear up under it quite well,
I’m sure.  Let us have both of you undress now.  It’s time for you to
get ready to meet the Sultan.”
         I was in our room, playing in the bath, when I noticed there
was a small portable television built into the wall, behind some
towels.  I turned it on.  Glenda was out in the bedroom, helping my aunt
into her evening dress, so we could go meet the Sultan.  A hairdresser
was doing up my aunt’s hair even as Glenda got her into her clothes. 
Someone had been called to bathe me but the person hadn’t come yet.  I
scooped up some bubbles off the surface of the tub water and arranged
them over my breasts, lest the person see my boobs the minute they
walked in.  The T.V. brightened and showed a picture of five men
kneeling, each one beside the next, in the middle of a sandy lot.
         I sat up straighter.  How odd the men looked!  Each one knelt
with his head jutting out beyond the end of a stone block.  Each man’s
hands were tied behind his back.  I peered at each man closely.  To my
surprise, I saw that each one had his trousers pulled down, displaying
his naked buttocks!
         As I watched, feeling rather tense now, I saw a man stride out
into the middle of the T.V. picture’s screen, carrying a sword.  He was
barechested.  He had on long pantaloons, which were white.  He wore a
belt and hanging down from the belt was a clean, new blue cloth.  On his
feet, he wore sandals.  
         The man with the sword gazed over the five hunched men.  Then,
to my utter surprise, he positioned himself over the nearest man and,
after a moment’s pause, shouted something, lifted his sword, and brought
it down on the man’s neck!
         “EEEEEEK!” I cried.  To my horror, I watched as the first of
the five kneeling men had his head cut off!
         “Good heavens, what’s the matter, Chloe?” Glenda yelled.  She
ran into the bathroom.  My aunt, half-dressed, wearing a white gown,
came dashing in after her.  The hairdresser followed my aunt into the
bathroom.
         I pointed at the T.V.  As I did, the second man who was
kneeling got his head cut off.
         “It’s a horrible movie!” I shouted.
         “It looks... real,” my aunt gasped.
         “Oh, my!  Someone was supposed to block that channel,” Glenda
fretted.  She tried reaching out over the tub, to the far wall, to turn
the T.V. off.  But it was a big tub, and she couldn’t reach all the way
across the water to get at the T.V.
         As we watched, the third man’s head was cut off.  It hit the
sand and rolled, as the other two heads had.  Blood spilled everywhere,
turning the pebble-brown color of the sandy lot red.
         “Glenda!  Whatever is happening?” my aunt asked.
         Glenda sighed.  “This is a real kingdom, with real, if perhaps,
medieval laws.  The Sultan you girls are going to meet isn’t some mere
playboy, as perhaps you may be accustomed to dallying with in France. 
He is a head of state, in charge of a real government.”
         I felt sick to my stomach, seeing the execution.
         “Oh, stop it!” I cried.  My fingers dug into my cheeks, just
under my eyes.  I wanted to cover my eyes and not look but I was so
scared for the men!
         The executioner had so much blood on his sword that he paused
to wipe it with the blue cloth that hung down from his belt.  As I
watched, the blue cloth turned bright red.
         “Tell them to stop!” I demanded.  “Stop it at once!”
         “Yes, stop!” my aunt shrieked.
         “Oh, my, the person who failed to block this channel will
surely pay,” Glenda said.  She motioned to the hairdresser.  The woman
reached into her kit, where she kept her hair salon equipment, and
pulled out a phone.  She handed it to Glenda.  Glenda pressed a single
button on the phone.
         “Perhaps he will answer.  But don’t count on it, girls,” Glenda
said.
         I watched, in a panic, as the executioner finished wiping his
sword.  He lifted it and stood over the fourth man.  With a flash, the
sword came down.  My aunt and I screamed as the fourth man lost his
head.
         “Is the Sultan there?” Glenda said, into the phone she was
holding.  “Yes?  It is the European girls... they are watching the
execution and it distresses them.  I know it’s almost finished but--”
         To my amazement, my tummy churning, my hands clasping my face,
I watched as the executioner lifted his sword, then paused.  He turned,
as if being spoken to by someone offscreen.  For a moment everything
seemed frozen; the poor victim, kneeling stoically, awaiting his fate,
the executioner standing rigid, ready to deliver the justice of his
sword’s blade.  Then, as if in slow motion, the executioner brought his
sword down.  He nodded to whomever was speaking to him offscreen.
         “Very well,” Glenda said.  “The Sultan has granted your wish,
girls.  He has spared the last man.  Are you happy?  I hope you both
are, because he will expect you both to be fine company, given that he’s
granted such an important thing-- a stay of execution.”
         “Oh, thank you!” I gasped.  I heard my aunt breathe a sigh of
relief, as I did.  We watched as the last man was made to stand up.  His
hands were still tied behind his back.  His pants remained around his
ankles.  As he stood, he displayed a rising erection to the crowd.  They
must have been as shocked as I; all I could think was, “My God!  He’s
giving them the finger... with his dick!”
         “Chloe, please turn off the T.V.,” Glenda told me.  “It’s
unsuitable for you to watch such a thing.”  I gaped at the blood, the
severed heads, the man showing off his penis to the crowd.
         “I want to see him at dinner,” I blurted.  “I want to know he’s
okay!  Oh, how handsome he looks!  And his head is not like the others--
isn’t his hair blonde?”
         “He must be the European convicted of spying,” Glenda said. 
“He wasn’t a government spy, in which case he might have been simply
sent home.  He was stealing secret oil technology that Quatar hopes to
sell to the rest of the world.”
         “I don’t care... I want to see him at dinner!” I said.  “I want
him there!  Or I’m not going.”
         “Oh, you are a rather difficult girl,” Glenda huffed.  She
pressed the button on her phone again.  “He’s a convict, Chloe, you
already spared his life.  I’m sure the Sultan-- yes?  Is he there?  The
little one, she’s having her bath, I’m sorry she saw such a thing on the
T.V.  Yes, I know someone was supposed to block that channel.  She
insists on seeing the man at dinner.  At dinner.  Very well.  I’ll tell
her.”  Glenda pressed the ‘OFF’ button on her phone.
         “Yes?  What did they say?” I demanded.
         “The Sultan agrees to your request, Chloe,” Glenda said.
         “Yipee!” I cried.  I threw bubbles up into the air.
         “On condition that you turn off that T.V., Chloe,” Glenda
added.  I don’t think the Sultan actually stooped to making that sort of
a demand, but I complied.  I didn’t want to know what else was on.  It
was too scary.  I punched the T.V. off and settled back into the bubbles
of my bath.
         “Thank you, Glenda,” I sighed.
         “You’re welcome, Chloe,” she said.  She turned.  “Ah, here’s
the person come finally to give you your bath, Chloe.  Come in, please,”
Glenda said.  An old Arab woman came into the bathroom.  She had a scrub
brush in her hand.  “See that she’s made squeaky clean... she must be at
dinner with the Sultan in less than an hour,” Glenda told the woman. 
The lady nodded.  I don’t think she spoke English.  She looked at me,
lying in the tub.  She walked over to me and, through motions of her
hands, bade me stand up so that she could wash me.


         Our names were announced.  Just our first names.  My auntie and
I entered the banquet hall, led by Glenda.  My heart leapt the minute I
saw him; fardistant, on the other side of the hall, sitting upon a
throne.  It was the Sultan!  I could discern his good looks even from
the far end of the hall and, had my eyes failed me there, there was no
mistaking the ruby crown he wore on his head.
         I had expected we would dine with him alone.  To my surprise,
this was not the case.  The banquet hall was filled with all sorts of
people; many Arabs, a few European.  They all were dressed in
conservative Arab robes, or in formal suits and ties.  There were a few
women, dressed in staid evening gowns.  The Arab women all wore their
hair carefully tucked under scarves.
         My auntie, myself, and Glenda, however, were not guests of the
Sultan merely for the evening.  We were here for a month and, hence,
were required to wear our hair uncovered.  In addition, much to my
mortification, we were required to dress in the manner of salacious
slaves.  I wore my hair long and free.  It glistened under the multiple
chandeliers of the ballroom.  Around my throat, there was a leather
dog’s collar.  I was barechested; my only other garment, looking black
and stark against my skin, was a simple thong.  It circled my waist and
offered a slender pouch in front, that barely covered my pussy.  In
back, the thong split my bottomcheeks, framing them, as if for
admiration, or punishment.  I had strings of pearls hanging artfully
down from my collar; black pearls.  They passed over my breasts,
ineffectually, not covering my bosoms but falling on either side of the
cones of my breasts.  The strands of pearls hung down past my waist. 
Then they swept back, leaving my pussy bare, except for my thong, but
rising over my ass to attach themselves to the waistband of my thong, in
back.  As a result, though the cheeks of my ass showed, they had the
upsweeping strands of pearls passing over them.  It was a relief to me. 
Surely nobody would take it upon himself to swat my ass with all those
valuable pearls hanging over it, would they?
         I wore silver shoes on my feet.  They had high heels, lofting
my bottom higher and displaying it sexily as I walked.  I blushed,
feeling the eyes of the room upon me.  I wanted to clap my hands over my
breasts to hide my bare nipples but I guessed it would be seen as
childish, so I didn’t.  I walked with my head high, my eyes on the
Sultan.  Let everyone look, if they please!  I was beautiful.  I knew
that, even as I fought to control my bashfulness at being so naked.  I
was the Sultan’s special, month-long guest, and I had even managed to
force him to free one of his prisoners!
         My eyes searched the room.  I tried to find the man I’d saved. 
I did not see him.  I promised myself that if he didn’t show up, I’d
tell the Sultan I wished to have no part of whatever he had planned for
us.
         My aunt walked beside me.  She wore a white gown.  It had
short, ruffled sleeves.  They left her arms bare.  On her hands she wore
white gloves, studded with pearls, of kid leather.  The gown she wore
was most curious.  In front, it covered her entirely, from the high
neckline to her toes.  But in back, things were quite strange.  The top
of her gown hung down from her neck to the cheeks of her ass.  But
that’s where things got interesting.  Though her gown did cover almost
the entirety of her cheeks, it didn’t quite make it.  The lowermost
portion of her bottomcurves were left uncovered.  The bottom of her ass
could be seen wiggling, quite naked, beneath her gown’s top.  Her top
(in back) was just a tad too short to cover her ass entirely.  The
lowermost curves of her bottom could be seen jiggling away, underneath
the gown’s hem.  My aunt was forbidden panties.  As she passed, men
stared with interest at her backside.  My aunt’s ass gleamed,
pearl-white skin, framed by her gown’s top.
         Underneath her bared ass, my aunt’s gown reappeared.  It was as
if some mad designer, fearing she might need to poop, had cut away part
of Rebecca’s gown, so her bottom would be conveniently bare.  A hole had
been cut into her gown, by the dress’s designer, rather like a hole
(without the flap) on girls’ pajamas.  The hole was in the shape of a
narrow rectangle, lying on its side.  Her gown offered a view of the
undercurves of my aunt’s ass but sheathed her legs and her back.  How
seductive she looked, her legs covered by the gown, her back covered,
her front covered from her neck to her toes, yet with her bottom
showing!  My aunt wore high heels.  They clicked with reserved
efficiency on the gleaming floor of the ballroom.  She walked with her
chin raised, as if going to church, and pretended not to notice what a
display she was making of her delectable derriere!
         Glenda led the way for us, into the grand ballroom.  She was
dressed the same as when we first met her, an hour before.  She wore her
black gown that was completely cut away in back.  Like myself and my
aunt, she walked proudly, and managed not to blush.
         We walked up to the Sultan.  He gazed at us from his throne, a
fist under his chin.  Glenda bowed.  My aunt and I also bowed, taking
our cue from her.  We all showed our asses to the assembled audience. 
The thought of it made me redden, but my aunt remained calm, as did
Glenda.
         The Sultan nodded to us.  Then he whispered to a man dressed as
a servant, who was standing beside his throne.
         “Please, be seated.  Everyone be seated!” The servant
announced.  He gestured toward a big dining table which stood off to one
side.  The Sultan nodded again, then rose from his throne.  He stepped
down from the dias his throne was erected upon.  He walked toward me,
but a swirl of people, heading for the dining table, got between us.  A
man, I do not know who, offered to seat me.  He pulled back my chair for
me.  I thanked him.  I sat down.  The velour of the chair’s seat pressed
softly to my bare bottom.  The pearls felt uncomfortable, wedged between
myself and the seat.  I lifted my ass.  I reached underneath my bottom
and lifted the strands of pearls.  Then I settled down into my seat
again.  That was better.  How uncomfortable, to sit on pearls!  The man
scooted my chair under the big table for me.
         My aunt was seated by another man, Glenda by a third.  The
Sultan took his place at the head of the table.  My aunt and Glenda and
I sat some distance away from the head of the table, about a quarter of
the way down towards the table’s foot.  We looked at the table’s
centerpiece.  It was a row of tall candles.  Each one was held by a
slender candlestick, finely cast, made of pure gold.  At the very
midpoint of the table was a huge bouquet of flowers.
         Servants in sedate attire, all male, served us our meal.  It
had many courses.  I ate self-consciously.  Of all the people at the
big, long table, only I sat there with my breasts uncovered.  They
quivered whenever I took food from my plate, and lifted it to my mouth,
or when I made almost any movement at all.  My nipples stood out stiffly
from the tips of my breasts, bright pink, excited by all the attention
they were receiving.  People looked at me, at my bosoms.  They smiled. 
I tried to feel modest, but it was hard, with my bosoms hanging pertly
in front of me, all naked and free.
         After dinner, a band was called forth.  It set up and played
waltzes for us.  We danced; even myself, my auntie and Glenda danced. 
We danced with whomever we pleased, or whomever fancied us.  It was
wonderful, in an obscene way, dancing with all those men, and even a few
ladies, my breasts jiggling, my ass bare but for the slender strands of
pearls hanging artfully over them.  My long legs flashed.  My hair, long
and free, swirled under the sparkling lights of the chandeliers.  My
auntie danced with her bottom showing, as did Glenda.  Curiously, the
Sultan did not dance, but retook his throne, and watched his guests. 
There was a vague smile on his face.  I caught sight of him gazing at me
intently; I wondered, did he wish not to sully himself with commoners by
dancing?  Or was it that he was studying the fitness of myself, and
Rebecca?  Our physical fitness; our ability to exert ourselves.  We
danced easily, without fatiguing.  Perhaps, I guessed, this was a test
on his part, to see that we had the stamina to keep up with him in more
private engagements.  I had no doubt he himself could have danced all
night if he wished; he had a muscled figure.  Its girth and strength was
detectible even under his royal robes.  I clung to my dance partners and
gazed at the Sultan furtively.  Yes, his grin was widening as he watched
Rebecca and me, and I wondered, of the two of us, which did he consider
his favorite?  Surely my aunt, since she was older?
         At last the guests were thanked by the Sultan and dismissed. 
There was much merriment as they departed.  I made ready to leave
myself, with Rebecca, but Glenda told us that we must stay.  When
everyone else had gone, my auntie and me, with Glenda as our chaperone,
found ourselves alone with the Sultan.  
         The Sultan dismounted from his throne and walked to the head of
the dinner table.  He sat down.  Glenda drew out my chair and indicated
I should sit; I obeyed.  My aunt went to her chair, the one she’d
occupied at dinner, and sat down.  There was silence in the ballroom. 
Then the Sultan, sitting again at the the head of the table, lifted his
hands and clapped them once.  A figure emerged from the hall at the end
of the room, where I and my auntie and Glenda had first entered.  It was
a male figure.  He was naked.  As he approached I saw he had a steel
collar around his neck.  There were manacles on his hands, and on his
ankles.  Yet his arms swung free, they weren’t locked together.  I saw
he was white and, as he approached, I saw that he was casually
displaying a huge erection.
         “This is the spy you saved from the executioner this afternoon,
Chloe,” the Sultan said.  There was disdain in his voice.  
         I turned from the man who was walking toward us, and asked,
“Sultan, what is his name?”
         “You there!  What is your name?” the Sultan asked the man. 
Then added:  “I think it’s Jutland, or something...”
         “Rutland,” the man said.  His voice was loud.  It echoed in the
hall.  He drew closer to us, proudly displaying his naked erection, and
said, “Jim Rutland.”
         “Ah, yes,” the Sultan nodded.  “You may thank this topless girl
here for saving your white ass this afternoon.  Perhaps she wished to
admire it more closely?”
         I blushed.  I was confronted with a nude man, in shackles, and
the Sultan’s voice sounded taunting.
         “He is... he is... to valuable to have his head cut off,” I
said, my voice high, uncertain.  “Or any other part of him,” I added
hastily, gazing at his penis.
         “Very well,” the Sultan said.  “Then he shall be made a Pet, as
you are, my dear.”
         “And released after one month!” I said.  The Sultan raised an
eyebrow.  I kept having to turn my head from one man to the other, which
was making me nervous, for the captive prisoner was on one side of me,
standing near the table now, while the Sultan sat at the table’s head.
         “Perhaps,” the Sultan said.  “If you and your aunt prove worthy
enough to have him.  Perhaps now would be a good time to discuss the
rules of our acquaintance.”  He lifted his head, and stared at an
overhead chandelier.  “I shall not have the opportunity of seeing you in
the throes of childbirth,” the Sultan said, gazing up but clearly
addressing himself to me and my aunt.  “It is not, you see, my wish to
impregnate you.  However,” he lowered his eyes, and looked directly at
my aunt, then at me.  “It is possible to simulate the pinnacle of
emotion that is reached when a woman is bearing a child, through various
means.”  He grinned.  “This is my purpose, aside from mere copulation. 
To see you in your most emotional state, just as when you are giving
birth.  Or, rather, as you will be, someday, when you give birth,” he
corrected himself.  “It will be excellent practise for yourselves,
learning to endure such peaks of emotion.  For me, it will give me a
kind of joy of fatherhood, in a way, bringing to birth in you peaks of
emotion you may never have felt.  Yet after a month, you will depart,
and I, having enjoyed your company, will not be troubled with children I
do not want.  I want merely your passion.”