Fevered Fall part 11 of 11 (NND)
                                        Chapter Eleven

         Sitting quietly, like mice in the wolf’s lair, we listened to
the Sultan.  The carved walls of his palace seemed to enshrine us; we
were the ultimate trophies, my aunt and I, living art.  We breathed, we
moved, I squirmed; in contrast to the flat, two-dimensional frescoes
that lined the four walls of the room.  Above us, glittering chandeliers
cast down a rain of light.  I glanced up at the brightly refracted
prisms, each glowing with white light; and wondered what an expense it
must have been, to build such a fine place, to be used for dining and
dancing. 
         The Sultan surveyed us with possessive eyes.  The ruby crown
gleamed on his head.  Then he continued his remarks:
         “Here, you will experience the ultimate in refined erotic
pleasure,” he said.  There was a deep, somber tone to his voice, and I
took his words less as an invitation than as a warning.  I clung to the
tablecloth with my fingers.  I hunched forward.  I stared at him, my
mouth agape in wonder at his words, saliva pooling within my opened
lips.  When the saliva had accumulated to the point of almost
overspilling my wide open lips, I licked them and gulped.  I fear he
took the licking of my lips as a sign that I accepted and looked forward
to all the shocking things he was saying.
         “There is nothing I cannot do, as a Head of State,” the Sultan
told us.  “No law restrains my whim.  Only my own conscience stays my
hand, so please keep that in mind.  I could literally rend you both in
two and there would be no penalty for me, no matter how unjust my
actions.  Oh, there might be some minor diplomatic effort on the part of
your countries to locate you, but it wouldn’t amount to much, in the
end.  You are both merely girls, come willingly to my kingdom, and, I
trust, with few people knowing your whereabouts.”  He grinned.  “I
mention this not to frighten you, but merely to warn you of the enormous
extent of my power.  As the saying goes, ‘Power corrupts, and absolute
power corrupts absolutely.’  Do not tempt me with excessive insolence,
or disobedience.  My commands are to be obeyed.  Naturally, being a
generous sovereign, and a lover of girls, I am willing to put up with a
minor amount of female sauciness.  But anything severely contradicting
my will risks being punished severely.  Not because I am a severe man,
by nature, but merely because, being able to punish you to my heart’s
content, I might do so, even to the point of harming you or, I may as
well say this right out in the open, killing you.”
         I gasped, as did my aunt.  Quickly, the Sultan raised his
hand.  “Like I said, it is not my intent to harm you,” he said.  “But
when one has as much power as I do, it is a risk.  I have been known to
have a violent temper.  I was born into this position, of Sovereign, and
I am accustomed to having my way at all times, from the very day I first
walked on this earth.  Beware of contradicting me.  I shall do my best
to restrain my violent nature.  Do not, as one might say, excessively
‘beard the lion’, or you could feel my wrath in a way that both of us
would live to regret.”  His grin had disappeared completely by now and I
took him quite seriously when he added:  “Well, that’s the real risk,
isn’t it?  That I might live to regret my actions, but that you might
not.”
         He gazed at Glenda.  His smile returned.  Fawningly, she smiled
back at him.  “This woman here,” he said to myself and my aunt, “Will be
in charge of your erotic instruction.  I am royalty.  You, Chloe and,
Rebecca... is it?”  My aunt nodded, silently, biting her lower lip a
little.  “You are not royalty.  You are mere girls.  Therefore it would
be unsuitable for me to come into contact with you to any great degree. 
Also, you are mere white girls, while I am an Arab.  My people tolerate
my white female companions, but it wouldn’t do for me to impregnate
you.  Our religion would require me to acknowledge the child, and an
Arab Sultan fathering an heir to his throne through the body of a white
commoner, even an American commoner, Chloe, would be a disgrace. 
Therefore, for that reason you will be put through your paces by Glenda,
here, a trained expert in the female body, and a female herself, while I
merely watch.  I cannot say that you will never have an opportunity to
receive my royal sperm, but the times that you do will be necessarily
infrequent.  Mostly you will be like performers at a party, albeit my
own private party, entertaining me.  In this way I can enjoy myself,
without coming into excessively intimate contact with mere white
European girls.”
         “I’m from America!” I piped up.  The Sultan looked at me.  His
eyes danced.
         “Ah, yes.  Thank you for reminding me, little Chloe,” he said. 
I frowned.
         “I’m not little,” I told him.  “I’m 13!”
         “And so you are,” the Sultan said, amusement showing on his
face.  “With a new, young body that I’m sure you’re proud of, and eager
to test out and use.  What fine breasts you have, Chloe!  I received
many compliments from my guests for picking such a perfect pair of teats
to adorn our dinner.”
         “Thanks,” I said.  It felt odd for him to refer so particularly
to my bosoms, as if the rest of me was without importance.
         The Sultan lifted his hand and swept it upward, as if to take
in the entire vast expanse of his desert abode.  “Here,” he said, “You
will have no cares, other than those that I myself impose upon you. 
Using Glenda, of course, as my surrogate,” he said.  “All your ordinary,
everyday cares will be attended to by servants.  Your menstruation, for
instance, will be handled by trained servants.  Your period will be of
no concern to you.  They will ensure that your legs remain shaved, your
pubis perfectly trimmed, anything that involves an ordinary, mundane
care will be dealt with by them.  On the other hand, such things as your
hair on your head, your makeup, the rouging of your breasts, your
fingernails, these will be done at the discretion and direction of
Glenda, your mistress.  If she wishes for you to go without makeup,
meaning, of course, that it is I who wish it, then you will go without
makeup.  If your nipples are to be rouged, it will be by my command, for
my delight and enjoyment.  And as to your bush, and the perfuming of it,
this will also be her special care and concern, picking odors that I
myself find especially attractive. 
         “Finally,” he said, “there is the matter of your sexual
training.  This will, of course, also be handled by Glenda, to please my
will.  You will both have a long, hard ride here.  I will make no bones
about that.  But when it is complete, I think you will both be proud of
yourselves for what you were able to endure.  You will look back upon
your stay here for the rest of your lives, and remark, ‘Yes!  I did
that!  It sounds unbelievable now, but I was able to see my way through,
and come out the other side.  I was able to please.’  You will keep such
knowledge secretly tucked away in your psyche as a badge of honor. 
Girls have written to me, and told me, after being sent home, how much
more confident they feel, after their stay here.  Having endured
successfully with me, they fear nothing back home.  Nothing at all,” he
said with a wry grin.  “Except, perhaps, me.  Which is why a girl only
ever visits here once, so that she need not ever have to face the fear
of seeing me, her trainer, ever again.”
         I was feeling terrifically nervous by now, and not sure what to
do about it.  I was grateful for the big, heavy candlesticks sitting on
the dining table.  The way I was nervously clenching the tablecloth, I
surely would have yanked it into my lap, if I were seated at a normal
table.  Fortunately the weight of the candlesticks, and the size of the
table, prevented me from doing that.  What a mess it would have been,
pulling the things from the deserted table into my lap!
         As the Sultan spoke, male servants cleared the table.  They
worked silently, deftly, careful not to make the slightest sound to
interrupt the Sultan’s speech.  By the time he was finished telling us
all his plans, only two plates remained.  A servant swept by and picked
them up.  Then he left, and as he did I wondered if he and his fellows
were discussing myself and my aunt in the kitchen.  I blushed, thinking
surely they must be; imagine, two new girls, about to undergo some wild
initiation into the Sultan’s perverse fantasies!  I hoped half of what
the Sultan said, if not all of it, was just that; fantasies, too bizarre
to actually be acted upon.
         “Do you have Hubba Bubba here?” I asked, hoping to change the
subject.
         “Huh?” the Sultan asked.
         “Hubba Bubba,” I said.  “It’s my favorite bubblegum!”
         “I have no idea,” he said.  He looked at Glenda.  “Take down
her request.  See that she has plenty of whatever it is she’s asking
for, when those occasions arise where I don’t have need of her.”
         Glenda raised an eyebrow.  “There will be some of those?” she
asked.  The Sultan laughed.  “Perhaps,” he said.  He looked again at
me.  “Do you have any other necessities you require?”
         “Don’t forget to fill up my ‘dime account’,” I said.
         “Your what?” he asked.
         “She means her bank account,” Rebecca said.
         “Oh, yes,” the Sultan said.  “Of course, Chloe.  You will be
well paid for your efforts here in my kingdom.  Though,” he said,
“Considering the value of what I bestow on the girls I receive, I should
think it would best be the other way round.”
         “I only have $5.39 in my account right now,” I said.  “I’m
saving it to buy a Hubba Bubba glow-in-the-dark boomerang.  It’s big and
yellow and it says ‘Hubba Bubba’ on it, so all the kids can see that my
favorite gum is Hubba Bubba!”
         “Of course,” the Sultan said.  “Which is why we have our
current arrangement.  You will be able to buy many boomerangs after your
service here in my kingdom, Chloe,” he assured me.  
         “Must we really be... sexual?” my aunt asked, finding it
difficult to say the word, and blushing when she did.  “The dance was
wonderful, and the meal delicious, and our gowns are, uh, quite
ravishing, but surely--”
         The Sultan raised his hand.  “I can see I have talked too long,
when such questions come up.”  He clapped his hands once.  A servant
entered, as conservatively dressed as before.  He carried upon a silver
tray a can of whipped cream.  It stood upright.  He offered it to
Glenda.
         “Yes, thank you,” she said, and dismissed him.  She walked over
to where my aunt was seated.  “Open wide,” she said.  “You are familiar
with male sperm?”  My aunt, looking up at Glenda with big eyes, nodded. 
“Good,” Glenda said.  “First we must test your ability to take a
mouthful of sperm.  The Sultan doesn’t wish you sullied with other men’s
sperm, and is not yet ready to release his own.  So we will use this.” 
She proffered the can of whipped cream.  “Open,” she said.  My aunt,
sheepishly, obeyed.  Glenda pointed the nozzle of the can between her
open lips.
         SQUIIIRT!  My aunt’s mouth filled, almost to overflowing, with
a sharp, sudden burst of whipped cream.
         “Close,” Glenda said.  My aunt obeyed, drawing her lips shut. 
A bit of whipped cream oozed from between her lips, her mouth had been
so thoroughly filled.  “Now swallow,” Glenda told my aunt.  Rebecca,
after a moment’s hesitation, obeyed.  The whole mass of sticky whipped
cream was swallowed down in one gulp.  She made a face afterward,
surprised at having to swallow so much whipped cream at once.  “Very
good,” Glenda complimented her.  “You are off to a good start, capable
of swallowing a whole mouthful of sperm when the time comes.”
         As I watched, Glenda left my aunt and came round the end of the
table to me.  I stared at her with wide eyes.  
         “I like whipped cream, but I don’t need a whole mouthful of--”
I said.  I hadn’t finished my sentence when Glenda took advantage of my
open mouth to squirt in a huge glob of cream.  I felt rather like a
fool, complaining about flies, and having one zoom into my mouth as I
spoke.
         “GLOOP!” I said, my mouth filling up with cream.
         “Swallow,” Glenda told me.
         “Ooook,” I said, and managed to gulp down the cream.  I wiped
the back of my arm across my mouth.
         “Very good,” Glenda said.  “You’ll prove a good fucker and a
good sucker, I expect.”
         “I already am a sucker, I think, for coming here,” I said.
         “Chloe, do not insult my hospitality,” the Sultan warned me. 
He gazed approvingly at me and my aunt from his big chair at the end of
the table.  “I am glad to see you can both swallow an entire mouthful of
sperm,” he said.  “When I cum, it will no doubt be with a great deal of
substance.  I am not prone to ejaculating indiscriminately.  You will
receive many days worth of my sperm in your mouths, all at once.  So it
is good to see that you can absorb it.  Try not to lose even the
slightest drop, when I do cum in you.  It would be unseemly for my royal
sperm to be spilled onto the floor.”
         “Yes, sir,” I said, in a soft voice.  I licked my lips.  The
cream had been tasty, even if it was rather hard to take so much of it
at one time.
         “Now you will indulge me with a small Arab ritual,” the Sultan
said.  “It is a custom, performed to assuage those hard-liners who would
prefer that I have nothing to do with mere white girls.”  He lifted his
hands and clapped them together.  
         A servant came forth, from the kitchen.  He was accompanied by
an old woman.  I remembered seeing her at the dance.  She was dressed in
conservative Arab garb.  She wore her hair under a scarf.  Her clothes
looked expensive, despite their conservative cut.  I took her to be a
woman in the Sultan’s kingdom of some prominence.  The servant carried
two pies; one aloft in each hand.  They were, I saw, made of cheesecake
and whipped cream.  He put one down at my aunt’s place, intending, I
assumed, to serve it to her.  But we’d already had scrumptious
desserts.  I wondered if the other pie was for me.  I didn’t have any
room left in my tummy for it!
         “Oh!  But I’ve already had my dessert,” my aunt protested.  She
looked at the Sultan, sitting at the head of the table.  “Sir,” she
said, “Your highness, this is too much for me.  Surely you don’t want me
to get fat?”
         The old woman seemed to mutter something under her breath.  It
didn’t sound flattering.  It sounded envious.
         “This is another part of your training, Rebecca,” Glenda said,
standing beside the Sultan.  “I want you to put both your hands in your
lap.  Clasp them together.  Are you doing that?  Good.  This will test
your restraint,” she said.  
         The old Arab woman patted my aunt on the head.  She seemed to
be admiring her long hair.  Then, suddenly, she shoved my aunt’s face
forward.  It would have hit the table, but the pie was in the way.  My
aunt’s face went smooshing into the deep, thick creamy pie.
         “Aughghgh!” my aunt cried.  The old woman ground my auntie’s
face into the pie.  Then she let my aunt lift up her head.  I felt
startled; I’m sure my aunt was!  Her eyes blinked.  Mounds of cream
covered her eyelids.  Her face had a whole pie clinging to it in big,
gooey clumps.  I watched as, from the middle of her pie-covered face,
her small mouth opened in alarm.  “What is--?” she cried, when her words
simply failed her.  How embarrassed she must have felt!
         “American slut!” the Arab woman cried.  The Sultan laughed.
         “She is from Europe, my dear mother,” he said.  “It is the
little one over there who is from America.”  The old hag looked at me. 
I shrank under her glare.
         “I don’t want a pie in my face!” I blurted, as the servant came
round to my place with the remaining pie in his hand.
         “You must, Chloe,” the Sultan said.  “Remember what I said
about defying me.  It is not wise.”
         “Stand up!” the Arab woman shouted at my poor auntie.  My aunt,
unclasping her hands, with a nervous glance toward the Sultan, wondering
if that were permitted, pushed herself up from her chair.  The Arab
woman took hold of her gown.
         RIIIIIIP!  sounded in the room, loudly, as my aunt’s gown was
torn off her body.  She shrieked.  She raised her hands to defend her
modesty but it was too late; the gown was of an insubstantial material
and she was at once stripped naked.  Gazing at the shorn garment, which
the Arab woman threw to the floor, my aunt covered her breasts with her
hands.  Her pubis, uncovered, showed fleecily between her legs.
         SMOOOSH!  To my shocked horror, the servant himself, an Arab,
after setting my pie down, immediately dunked my face into it.  There
was no warning.  One minute I was staring speechless at my aunt, the
next I was screaming, my mouth agape, my whole face a mass of cheesecake
and white cream.
         “Stand up!” the servant said to me, roughly.  With my belly
churning and my knees wobbling, I stood.  He yanked on the strands of
pearls which draped my breasts.  The gesture pulled me forward.  I
almost fell.  He yanked again.  Some of the strings of pearls came loose
from my collar.  I heard a clattering sound as pearls came off the
strings that held them and fell to the floor.  The servant yanked some
more; more pearly strands broke away, more pearls cascaded to the floor.
         The next thing I knew, the servant was pulling down my thong
panties.  He shoved them down my legs, leaving my sex, barely covered
before, now completely naked.  I clapped a hand over my pubic hair.  The
servant finished pulling my panties down and made me step out of them.
         Our faces creamed, our bodies stark naked, save for our heels
and my collar, the servant and the old woman ushered us forward to the
Sultan’s place at the head of the table.
         “Ah, very good,” the Sultan said.  “You have done well,
mother.  I have no need to see their faces.  But how lovely their
breasts are, swinging so freely and nakedly.  How their hips move when
they walk!  Such sweet cunts!  I shall have to test how large a member
they can take up such small, scrumptious sexes as those!”  The Sultan
gripped my hand and lifted it off my pussy to get a good view of me. 
“Glenda,” he said.  “It’s time they were introduced to being prisoners. 
To serve as a warning, should I find them excessively disobedient.”
         “Yes, your mightiness,” Glenda said.  I watched as she walked
over to the ornately decorated wall behind the far side of the dining
table.  She opened a panel in the wall, which surprised me, for I had
assumed the wall was solid.  From within this panel she withdrew four
wristlets, made of steel.  Also she took out a whip of clinging bamboo. 
It was long.  It scared me.  It looked as if it could lift the skin
right off me.
         “Now, girls,” Glenda said, returning to where we stood, on
either side of the Sultan, who himself still sat in regal splendor,
seated calmly at the head of the table.  “I want to assure you that your
wrists will not be hurt in the least.  Each cuff is lined with fur. 
These manacles may be tight, but the fur will keep them from chafing
against your arms.”  She said nothing of the bamboo.  Handing that to
the Sultan, she went behind me first.  She placed a cuff round each of
my wrists.  She pressed down hard, locking each wristlet tightly to my
arms.  Then she brought my arms back behind me and used the D-clips,
hanging off the wristlets themselves, to lock my manacles together.  I
was held as if by handcuffs, with the convenience that my wristlets
could be taken apart from each other without having to take the manacles
off my arms.  I tried curling my fingers up to wedge open the D-ring; it
was quite impossible.  I was a prisoner, without the need for a key to
lock my arms together.  I felt my breasts jiggle nakedly as I worked my
hands, hoping to undo my restraints.  The Sultan laughed at my
predicament.
         “Yes, Chloe, you are now my prisoner,” he said.  “Nude, without
the use of your hands, your face defiled and made unknown to me by the
pie that has been smashed into it.  Your lips still part prettily; I can
thrust my dick into them if I please, or order that some other man do
it.  Your bosoms hang freely off your chest, able to suckle babes, or
piglets, as my whim desires.  Your nest shows its fur, with nothing to
keep me from ramming up within it anything at all, from my cock to a
plumber’s helper.”
         “Noooo!” I shouted.  My mouth was all creamy and I saw bits of
cream fly away from my lips as I spoke.  One landed on the Sultan.
         “Such an outburst!” he said.  “And it has put whipped cream on
my royal robes.  This is behavior I find disrespectful.  You will suffer
for it, Chloe, but first Glenda must confine the hands of your aunt.”
         Indeed, Glenda was already doing that.  I watched with a
sinking feeling in my tummy as my aunt’s hands were bound behind her. 
The Sultan prodded her nest with a finger.
         “Yes, Rebecca,” he said.  “Your cunt is now quite open to me. 
Stand with your legs apart, that I might freely admire it.  What pretty
cuntlips you have!  Does it tickle when I pass my finger up underneath
them, like this?”  Lightly he stroked her sex.  My aunt stifled a moan. 
The Sultan drew his finger away, after a minute.  He lifted it up and
showed it to his mother.  “She has wet my finger with her juices,” he
said.  “I did not ask to be defiled by her vaginal juices, but she
liberally sprinkled them on me anyway.  Has she no restraint, mother? 
Such a slut!  She will be disciplined for such immodesty, mother, I can
assure you of that!”
         Oh, was he merely jesting?  I did not know.  With fretful,
fearful eyes I watched Glenda bind Mr. Jim Rutland’s hands behind him. 
All this while he’d watched our plight, yet he had not intervened.  I
didn’t blame him.  There was no way a nude man, burdened with manacles
round his neck, wrists, and ankles, could defend us.  Especially since,
all this time, Jim Rutland’s penis had been unwillingly displaying
itself.  It stuck out all vulnerable and exposed; a quick swipe from a
sword would deprive him of it forever.
         “Your majesty, is it not indiscreet for Mr. Rutland to stand
here with his penis enlarged and throbbing?” Glenda asked the Sultan.
         “Yes indeed,” the Sultan said.  “He should be reprimanded for
that.  Mr. Rutland, do not show off your cock to me!  Are you not aware
of the punishments which took place last week?  Three convicts, spared
their heads, had their dicks lopped off instead.  Is that what you
want?”
         “No,” Rutland said simply.
         “No, your majesty,” Glenda corrected him.
         “If I wanted to say ‘your majesty,’ I would have said it the
first time,” Rutland answered her.
         “What?!” the Sultan cried.  
         Oh, how my heart went out to Rutland at that moment!  Not only
was he quite handsome, in a rugged, swarthy way, but he was utterly and
totally defiant of the Sultan!  Even after that long lecture the Sultan
had given us on the limits of his ability to control his rage!  Just
then, as if to further enflame the Sultan, Rutland did something
outrageous.  With his big, engorged dick, he peed on the floor!
         Pissssssss!  went Rutland’s pee, insolently peeing onto the
hard floor, splashing his legs and making Glenda jump back, lest she get
splashed too.
         “This is an outrage!” the Sultan bellowed.  He leapt from his
chair.  I was too shocked to laugh, as was my aunt.  We just stared at
Rutland, our eyes full of fear.