Chapter Thirteen

         The Sultan turned to his mother.  “I apologize for the obscene
behavior of this white dog, mother,” he said to her.  The old Arab woman
nodded.  “I shall have his penis lopped off at once.”
         “No!” I shrieked.  Bits of the pie on my face flew from my lips
and landed on the Sultan’s expensive robes, but I didn’t care.  I began
sobbing.  The Sultan looked at me in alarm.  
         “Chloe,” the Sultan said, in a grave, measured voice.  “You are
making me jealous with your constant outbursts on this criminal’s
behalf.  First you save his head from the block.  Now you cry out to
save his worthless cock--”
         “It isn’t worthless!” I said, mustering my nerve.  “It’s
imporatant!” My words came out all mangled and mistaken (a man’s cock
important?  Yes, but how silly to put it that way!)  The Sultan grinned
at my tears and the way I was trying to speak, the bits of pie flying
off my face and the tears rolling down my cream smeared cheeks.
         “Alright, Chloe,” the Sultan relented.  “I’ll do you the favor
of sparing this man’s cock.  But on one condition-- I shall have his
cock used on you in the coming days however I please, even to the point
of torturing you with his cock!”
         I sniffled.  The old Arab woman cursed.  “Fear not, mother,”
the Sultan said.  “If little Chloe agrees to my bargain, justice will be
done.  But she will have to bear it, instead of Rutland.  Do you agree,
Chloe?”
         I gulped and, to be honest, I had to think about it a minute. 
Good Lord, what was I agreeing to?  It wasn’t me who’d peed all over the
floor.  Nonetheless, on the gamble that whatever might happen to me
wouldn’t be as bad as what was about to happen to Jim, I agreed.  I
shook my head and said “yes.”
         “Oh, God, Chloe!” my aunt blurted.  “Please!  He’s just some
man!  A criminal!”
         “I don’t want to see him hurt, auntie!” I cried, mournfully.
         “I don’t see the problem,” Jim said.  “I mean, I was looking to
use the latrine, and when I saw this place, I figured, ‘Hmmm, this must
be it!’”
         “Oh, shuttup!” my auntie cried at Rutland, her voice sounding
terribly frightened. 
         “Hmmm, more insults,” the Sultan said.  “I shall not forgive
you again, Rutland.  You have my absolute word on that.  You will obey,
do you understand?”
         Rutland looked down at the puddle he’d made on the floor.  “Ah,
fuck!” he swore.  He spit.  The Sultan’s face reddened with rage. 
“Shit,” Rutland said.  “I’ve never looked out for anyone but myself
before, but-- shit!”  He looked at me.  I trembled.  Then he looked at
the Sultan.  “On account of this girl here, I’ll do as you say,” he told
the Sultan.  
         “Thank you,” I said, meekly, to Rutland.  I heard my aunt
exhale with a sigh of relief.
         “Very well,” the Sultan said.  “You are a prisoner for one
month, Rutland, just like these two girls.  You will do all that’s
expected of you, and more.  You will be constantly ready for sex.  I
mean it!  I expect that penis of yours to be erect at all times.  You
will be a stud to these two females, and they will be made to work your
cock repeatedly.  You will be fed large meals and exercised daily by
Glenda, to make your physique as perfect as it can be.  Any laziness in
your exercising, any refusal to fuck whatever is presented to you, and I
will reconsider your fate.  You will be eating plenty of eggs, and
drinking goat’s milk straight from the teat, to ensure a constant supply
of sperm for your balls.  When you are not required to exercise, your
arms and legs will often be bound.  This will leave only your penis
hanging naked and free, so that you might focus all your attention upon
it.  Even then, if I am dissatisfied with your performance, I may, after
your month is up, cut off your dick anyway.”
         “Oh, please!” I moaned, on Rutland’s behalf.  The Sultan gave
me a cross look.  He held up his hand.  I bit my lip and said nothing,
fearing I’d plunge us all into even deeper straights than we already
were.   
         “Do not tempt my temper, Rutland,” the Sultan continued.  “And
let this be a warning to you:  I may work your cock so hard that, in the
end, you might wish you’d had it cut off, so you could be rid of it, and
all the work it brings into your life.”  The Sultan laughed.  I gasped. 
I looked at Rutland.  He grinned, half-heartedly, still trying to be
carefree and insolent.  But, to my great relief, he said nothing, and
only nodded.
         “Now we must go downstairs,” the Sultan said.  He looked at
Rutland’s dick.  His eyes gleamed.  He looked at Glenda.  “If I cannot
whack his penis off with a sword, perhaps you can whack it off?”
         “Of course, sire,” Glenda smiled. 
         “Good,” the Sultan said.  “It will be his first test.  We’ll
see how quickly he recovers from it.  Whack him off with your hands,
dear Glenda.  It does quite annoy me to see him sticking his thing out
at me like that.”
         Glenda looked at Rutland.  She smiled.  “Now we’ll see just
what quality of stud you are,” she said.  Rutland gulped.
         The Sultan laughed.  “Ha!  See?  Already he is nervous.  Good. 
In the end you’ll beg me to cut your pecker off, Rutland.  God, how I’ll
make you beg for it!”
         “Oh, Boo!  Hoo!” I sobbed.  The Sultan looked at me.  My nude
breasts quivered with my sobs.
         “Silence, girl!” the Sultan scolded.  “Having a stud to serve
you girls is most interesting, if his penis is up to the job.  I’ll not
have you served by an inferior male, though, no matter how much you
cry.  Hopefully Rutland is up to the job.”  The Sultan smiled,
wickedly.  “And remember, Rutland, I made you no guarantees about what
you would be forced to fuck.  Pigs?  Goats?  Donkeys?  Or only girls? 
Your dick will be put to extensive use, that I promise.  Now you shall
begin your trials by enjoying the loving hands of my servant Glenda. 
Tomorrow, in the morning, you’ll be checked to see you’ve recovered. 
Pray that you wake up with wood.  For tomorrow will be a ball-blasting
day.”  He looked at Glenda.  “Milk him, my dear.  I want every last drop
of his sperm forced out of him.”
         “Yes, your majesty,” Glenda grinned.  She blushed, a little,
and looked at Rutland’s penis.  “I think it is a wise choice, your
majesty,” Glenda told the Sultan.  “Empty Rutland’s balls, so that we
can start him off with a clean slate tomorrow.  By emptying him now,
we’ll begin to gauge how quickly he can replace what he’s lost.”
         “Yes!” the Sultan agreed.  “Let us be at it at once.”  He stood
up.  He took his frail mother’s arm, and motioned for us to follow.  We
did, awkwardly, our faces still smeared with cream, our hands bound
behind us.  Rutland’s penis bounced in front of him as he walked.  His
testicle sac hung heavily between his legs.  I wished I could disappear
with him and spare him his fate, but I couldn’t.  I shivered.  I had no
idea where we were going.  I looked at my aunt.  She walked with her
head bowed, her eyes lowered.  She’d already accepted her fate, I
realized.  Whatever happened, she was willing to do her best to meet it
and survive it.  Oh, how brave she was! I thought to myself.  I watched
her bosoms sway with her steps.  Her nipples were hard.  Her feet, so
prettily encased in her heels, moved with dainty grace.  I wished I
could be like her; submissive, quiet, accepting.  There was great
courage, I thought, in being so utterly feminine.  She was graceful and
sweet, even as the Sultan led us into the unknown realms of his most
perverse fantasies!
         “Do not gaze all about, Chloe,” Glenda told me.  “Lower your
eyes, like your aunt has.  You are to pretend you’re a prisoner.  A real
prisoner, being taken downstairs for punishment.  It is not true, of
course, but appearances are important.  Do not gawk at the walls and the
ceiling.  It is unseemly.  Walk with your eyes toward the floor, but
with a certain smoothness and femininity to your step.  Even in the
worst of circumstances, a girl must always strive her best to be
feminine.  It is our duty, Chloe, and more than one girl has won the
heart of her captors by being utterly feminine, even in the worst of
predicaments.”
         I obeyed.  I looked down at my bosoms, bouncing casually on my
chest, and tried to look nowhere else.  The manacles holding my arms
were tight.  I wriggled, tried again to curl up my fingers and undo the
D rings on them.
         “No, Chloe,” Glenda said.  “Do not fight the manacles.  Accept
them.  Surrender yourself to your master the Sultan.  Do whatever he
wishes.  This is how to win, Chloe.  Accept, open yourself to his will. 
Did you ever hear the story of the slave girl, brought to the Sultan’s
harem, who rose to be queen?” Glenda asked me.  
         “No,” I replied quietly.  
         “Let me tell you about her, then,” Glenda said, “as we go
downstairs.”
         “Okay,” I murmured.
         We arrived at a large room with a television.  Just beyond it
was a small wooden room.  The smaller room was, we were told, a
miniature sauna.  Jim was escorted into it by Glenda.  We were given
hassocks to sit on in the room outside.  The T.V. in our room was big. 
It was a wide-screen T.V.  It showed an interior view of the sauna.  We
gazed at it.
         Two European girls, a redhead and a brunette, whose job it was
to always remain ready to serve in the sauna, snapped to attention when
Glenda stepped in with Jim.
         “There are six girls in all,” the Sultan told us, taking his
ease in a large leather easy chair in front of the T.V.  A male servant
approached him, and offered him a pipe.  The Sultan nodded.  The man
prepared the pipe for him and then gave it to the Sultan to smoke. 
“Sometimes,” the Sultan said, “A man is brought here, like your friend
Jim, to be relieved of his sperm.  Eunuchs have fallen out of fashion. 
Hence, those males who serve in my harem repair here regularly to be
pumped dry.  Intercourse is not permitted; that would reward the male. 
Rather, he is fondled, forced to ejaculate by the girls’ hands.  If they
cannot get him to spend with their fingers, they blow upon his penis. 
If that fails, as a last resort, they suck him.  Always it is for a
utilitarian purpose; the girls are told to keep their feelings about the
man to themselves.  
         “Another sort of man who might be sent here is the prisoner who
is about to be demembered,” the Sultan said.  “That’s our officialese
for a man condemned to have his penis cut off.  He is given a final
ejaculation, as a kind of ‘last meal.’  The same goes for a man being
castrated.”
         My aunt and I, our arms bound behind us, our faces slathered
with dripping cream, listened in awed silence, our bottoms perched on
the hassocks.  I hated hearing such awful things, but what could I do? 
I watched with my mouth agape as the two European girls teasingly
received Jim into their presence.  Glenda explained to them that he was
a stud, and they would, on this occasion, be permitted to express awe
over his equipment.
         “He is the Sultan’s special Pet, thanks to the love a girl
bears for him, a girl of 13, named Chloe,” Glenda said, her voice coming
to us over the T.V. from the wooden room.  The Sultan turned up the
volume so we could hear every word.  “Stroke him, manipulate him, and
most of all, jerk him completely dry, girls,” Glenda said.  “The Sultan
wants every last drop wanked out of him so we can begin to measure his
rate of sperm production.  We need to start with a clean slate, that is,
an empty pair of balls, to properly measure how much sperm he can
produce on a given day.”
         “Oh, Jim, I’m sure you make quite a lot of it!” the redhead
proclaimed.  She gave her co-worker a smile.  They both giggled.  
         “How randy he is!” the brunette said.  “God, how it sticks
out!  Don’t worry, Jim, when you leave here, little boys will boast that
yours is smaller than theirs, you’ll be so worn out and exhausted.”
         “We know all the tricks,” the redhead agreed.  
         “I’d much rather fuck,” Jim said.  He watched as the two girls
splashed water onto heated coals over a burner that sat in the room. 
Steam rose up into the room with a loud HISSSSSSSS!
         The two girls and Glenda knelt, but they kept Jim standing up. 
His penis displayed itself to our eyes.  It was long and throbbed
mightily, like some living sausage.  The girls had a shelf-full of toys
in the room, all within reach of their kneeling figures, which they now
resorted to in order to induce Jim to spend.
         “Every man who comes in here would prefer to fuck us, dear Jim,
but it’s not allowed,” the redhead said.  How strange, I thought, that
they had been told his name, but he was not told theirs!  They were
anonymous, just fingers, hands, mouths.  Their only purpose was to
procure his sperm.
         The brunette held a glass cup under the tip of Jim’s penis.
         “Just do it right in here when you’re ready, JimBo,” the
brunette said.  Her eyes danced with encouragement.  The redhead popped
the top off a tube of vaseline and began squirting it along the length
of Jim’s cock.  Glenda blew upon his member with her lips.
         “We have lotions to make your penis hot and lotions to make it
cold,” the brunette, holding the glass under Jim’s cockhead, said.  She
tilted the glass toward the head of Jim’s penis, capturing just the tip
within the glass’ open top, so that he could spurt directly into it when
he came.  “Which do you prefer?” the brunette asked.  The redhead kept
squeezing vaseline all over his dick, making it drippy and slick.
         “Let’s apply both,” Glenda said.  “We’ll make the upper portion
of his rod burn.  The bottom part, near the root of his cock, where it
meets his warm belly, we’ll make freeze.”
         “Yes!” the redhead said.  She closed the top on the vaseline
and put it back on the shelf.  The brunette, leaning back, drew more
water from a wood pail and tossed it with a ladle onto the burner.  More
steam hissed from the coals.
         “How nice and warm it’s getting!” the redhead said.  “Relax
this big thingie of yours, Jim.  It mustn’t stick out so!” the redhead
teased Jim, referring to his cock.
         “Oh, God!” Jim said.  The girls began stroking him with
maddening slowness.  Carefully, expertly, they massaged his big penis. 
They treated it like some valuable trophy, handling it with utmost
respect.  Jim shivered.  He did not wish to spend like this, for the
Sultan’s amusement, especially on T.V.!  I couldn’t blame him; for all I
knew, the Sultan would replay the tape for his Arab friends, all of them
laughing at Jim as he was forced to spurt.
         “Come on, Jim,” Glenda urged.  “Don’t make me take a whip to
your ass.  We have one here-- see it on that second shelf there?  I’ll
whip your ass raw if I have to.  Spend into the glass that this nice
girl is holding under your dick.  Do it now, Jim!”
         My swarthy hero grimaced.  He held out against their
manipulations.  Glenda threatened him with a butt plug if he continued
to resist.  Then she threatened him with a penile catheter.  Jim
groaned.
         “Yes, if I have to, Jim,” Glenda said.  “I’ll thread a catheter
up your dick and suck the sperm out that way!”  She laughed.  Then,
gently, Glenda squeezed his balls.  “Don’t make things difficult for
yourself, Jim,” Glenda warned.  “Spurt into the glass.  Do it just like
you would have done it so happily as a little boy.  Did you used to
masturbate when you were younger, Jim?  It wasn’t so bad, was it?  A
little humiliating, perhaps, to shoot your sperm out so fruitlessly, but
you must have done it many times.  Tonight there will be no intercourse
for you, Jim.  You’re to shoot it all into that barren glass.”
         “NO!” Jim cried.  He worked his hips.  He struggled against the
handcuffs which kept his hands bound behind his back.  The girls
frowned.  They began to work him harder with their fingers.  Glenda
squeezed Jim’s balls tighter.
         “We’ll all be sucking in a minute if he doesn’t cum soon,”
Glenda muttered.
         “I don’t want to get to get a bellyful of sperm, ma’am,” the
brunette said to Glenda.  “I just ate dinner!”
         “Jim, shoot your wad,” Glenda said.  She reached back and
tickled Jim between his buttcheeks with her finger.  Still he resisted.
         Glenda cast a worried look toward us.  She jammed her nailed
thumb into Jim’s behind.  He let out a howl.  The brunette pushed the
glass urgently up over the head of his dick.  His knob was so big it
just fit within.  She gave him a beseeching look.  The redhead liberally
sprinkled his dick with burning oil at one end, ice cold oil at the
other.  She rubbed both oils into his skin.  Then, with Jim still
holding back, his chin high, his teeth grinding, the redhead grabbed his
dick hard and began pulling on it.
         Jim remained rock hard.  Tears appeared in the redhead’s eyes. 
She pulled harder on his cock, as if trying to wrest the sperm from his
balls with the force of her small, squeezing fists.
         “Oh, please cum, sir!  Otherwise we shall be punished!” the
redhead implored.
         “No,” Jim breathed.  It was a deep, guttural sound.  I felt a
shiver run through me.  How powerful his loins were!  He was straining
with need, yet somehow, he held himself back.  He resisted.  Jesus did
not make a greater display of resistance when tempted by Satan.  Jim’s
face was haggard, but he refused to cum.
         The Sultan threw the television remote control, which he had
been amiably holding, to the floor.  It was made of stone, and the
remote shattered upon it.  From his dissolute position in the easy
chair, the Sultan jumped up.  He tore the pipe from his mouth and threw
it at the T.V.  It was a direct hit; the T.V. screen shattered and went
dark.
         “I’ve never been so outshone in my life!” the Sultan bellowed. 
“Guards!  Guards!” he hollared.  Men, armed with swords, came running. 
I heard their footsteps along the stone hall.  A moment later they burst
into our room.  Others, assuming that the source of the trouble must lie
in the sauna, rushed into that room and broke up the proceedings.
         Mr. Jim Rutland was taken out of the sauna, his arms still
bound, his cock drooling pre-cum but his balls still full.  He had an
insolent look on his face.  His penis, sticking up hard and full of
virility, presented itself to the Sultan’s eyes.
         “Damn you!” the Sultan muttered to Jim.
         “I am without a kingdom,” Jim replied.  “What money I had has
been taken from me.  I have no clothes.  My body is not my own.  I do
have a full load of sperm, however, and I intend to discharge it at my
own discretion,” Jim said defiantly to the Sultan.  The ruler glared
back at him.
         “Were I a rasher, younger, and more impetuous man, and not so
enamored of little Chloe here, I would cut that damn thing off of you
this instant,” the Sultan told Jim.  His guards, their swords drawn, the
blades sharp, hovered over Jim, gazing at his stiff member.  “As it is,
I shall instead have the girls who have failed whipped,” the Sultan
said.  “Soundly.”
         “No!” the brunette and redhead cried.  Their nude bodies were
seized by the guards.  They were hauled off, both of them kicking their
bare legs and struggling.
         “Oh, please!  What is to become of them?!” I shouted.  The
Sultan looked at me.
         “They may be young, but they are not slaves,” he told me. 
“They have accepted employment here, in my kingdom.  And today, despite
being well-trained by the older women, they have failed in their
duties.  For this they will each receive numerous strokes of the lash
across their bottoms.  They will be back at work tomorrow, I assure
you.  No true harm will come to them.  But they will have well-striped
bottoms for the next several days, and they will be taking their meals
standing up, and sleeping at night on their bellies, so as not to cause
themselves excessive pain.”
         “Oh, you should not!” I gasped.  But I confess that I felt a
secret thrill.  Imagine!  Both females, each only a few years older than
myself, being subjected to punishment by the Sultan’s hunky guards!  How
would they be whipped?  How would it feel?  I longed, somewhere deep
down in the depths of my psyche, to see them put to their trials.  Would
they bear the lash well, or bawl from the very first stroke?  All these
questions swirled in my mind as I listened to the two girls being taken
away.  Peering down the hall, I glimpsed the flash of their legs,
kicking out beyond the muscled backs of the two guards who were carrying
them.  To think the girls had signed up for such an occupation, knowing
the consequences if they should fail!  I wondered if they had been
punished before, or if this was their first time.  I looked at Jim. 
Inside myself, I felt a sudden rush of blame and accusation towards
him.  The poor girls had only wanted to give him the pleasure of an
orgasm with their small, sweet hands.  Now he, withholding himself, had
doomed them to painful correction.  Such a cad!  All this-- just so he
could sass the Sultan and show off his dick to him!
         “Come.  Downstairs,” the Sultan ordered.  He glanced at
Glenda.  “You are lucky I have need of you, or you’d join the two who
just left,” he warned her.
         Glenda bowed her head.  “I shall do my utmost to please you in
all things, sire,” Glenda said.
         “Very well,” the Sultan replied.  “We shall on to the throne
room, then.”
         The throne room!  The words sang in my mind.  Were we to see
the Sultan’s royal throne?  I thought we had already, upstairs; in the
ball room.
         We went down a flight of stone steps.  We came to a
moderately-sized room.  There were guests within.  I heard singing,
laughing.  They were celebrating.
         Amidst the hoopla and laughter, I saw three chairs.  Each was
an exact replica of the throne the Sultan had sat in upstairs, in the
ball room.  However, there the resemblance ended, for instead of being
encrusted with precious stones, and cast from gold, these thrones were
each carved from simple wood.  Each had a high back, arms, and stout
legs.  Underneath each chair, unlike the real throne upstairs, was a
maze of cogs and wheels.  Small handles jutted from the sides of each
chair, underneath each throne replica’s seat.  I looked at the machinery
built into the underside of each chair and wondered at its purpose.
         Sitting in two of the three thrones were women.  They were
nude.  Near the thrones that they perched upon were togas; apparently
cast off, which now lay on the floor.  One of the women was lifting a
glass of champagne high over her head.  She was pouring its contents in
a languid, carefree way down into her mouth.  I watched the champagne as
it spilled from the glass and poured like a tumbling fountain down into
her mouth.  Her lips were wide; carelessly the liquor overspilled her
lips and ran down her neck onto the naked mounds of her breasts.  The
fluid dripped from the tips of her bosoms.  What wasn’t dripping off her
nipples ran between her carelessly wiggling breasts and on down the
sloping flatness of her tummy.  It collected in her pubic bush.  It
dripped from her venus mount into a small puddle onto the wooden seat of
the chair.  The woman had her legs spread wide, displaying her pussy. 
Her bare feet kicked lightly, joyously.  She laughed and closed her eyes
and poured more champagne into her mouth.  Despite her idyllic
appearance, her hair, long and golden, was pinned up with utmost care
atop her head.  Her makeup was perfect, her nails, on both her fingers
and toes, polished to a bright hue.  She was a lovely creature, and
minded not, it seemed, that all her naked charms were on full display to
all half-dozen guests in the room.
         In the other chair sat another woman.  She also held a glass of
champagne.  She was naked, her toga discarded onto the floor like the
first woman’s.  She was laughing, and said, “Oh, to think of all that
could be done to me in this chair!  How awful!  How awful!”  She lifted
her hips and bounced her bottom provocatively on the chair’s seat.  Then
she lifted her champagne glass and sipped it.  Over the rim of her glass
she saw us enter.
         “Oh!  The Sultan!” the woman cried.  Her companion ceased
pouring champagne into her mouth and gazed at us.
         I looked at the other guests.  There were two men, and two
women, besides the two women in the chairs.  All four women were
European.  The two men were Arabs.  The two women not seated on the fake
thrones wore togas; both of their togas still hung from their shoulders,
but were ripped open to reveal their nude bodies beneath.  The two men
were clad in togas.  One man’s fell away as we entered, revealing a
throbbing hard-on beneath.  There was a table with food piled high; plus
expensive liquors.  Chairs, besides the two thrones, offered mundane
seats, their comfort enhanced by small cushions.  The three wooden
thrones were simple, bare wood, without cushions upon them, or any
adornment.  Nonetheless the two women seated in them seemed happy to the
point of being giddy.
         “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Prince Saul and Prince Havash,”
the Sultan said.  “Introducing your new female companions to the
pleasures of my throne room, eh?”
         “Yeah,” one of the Arab men replied.  He lifted his glass in
toast to the Sultan.  The others, seeing him do it, lifted their glasses
also.
         “To the Sultan!” they all cried, the women breaking into
laughter as soon as they said it.  Then they all drank.
         “I shall have to ask you two to move your party elsewhere,” the
Sultan said.  “Official business beckons.”  He said nothing to the
European women, not even nodding to them, as if they were mere
wallpaper.
         “Ah, yes, your highness, if you insist,” the other Arab man
said.  “But who are the two glorious creatures you have brought down
here?”  His eyes brightened as he looked with interest at me, then at my
aunt.
         “This is Chloe, and this is her aunt,” the Sultan said.  He
passed his hand over my head.  I shivered.  “And this, this infidel dog
of a white man, is a Mr. Jim Rutland,” the Sultan said of Jim.
         “I think I’ve seen him before,” one of the Arabs said.
         “Yes, he is the one who was to be executed, but I spared him at
the last moment,” the Sultan said.  The Arab who I later learned was
Prince Havash rolled his eyes.
         “Just what the world needs.  Another white man,” Prince Havash
said.
         The Sultan smiled.  “From white men come white daughters,” he
said.
         “You have a point,” Prince Havash said.  He lifted his liquor
glass and declared,
         “To the wisdom of my older brother, the great Sultan of
Quatar!”
         “To the Sultan of Quatar!” all six partiers announced,
including the two women who had mounted themselves on the thrones.  They
toasted the Sultan again, and drank some more.
         “May we stay to see your mightiness at work?” one of the women
perched on a throne asked.  The Sultan regarded her.  She had large,
perfect tits and a full bottom, surmounted by a waspishly narrow waist. 
Her long legs dangled from the throne’s seat.  Her toes barely touched
the floor.
         “Yes, of course, if one as beautiful as yourself wishes it,”
the Sultan said.  “You shall see the thrones in all their glory.”
         “Oh!” the woman said.  It was a short, sharp declaration.  She
smiled sheepishly.  Then, nimbly, she leapt down from the throne she was
seated upon.  Her friend also leaped down.
         The Sultan had myself and my aunt turn around.  He stepped
between us.  He grasped each of us by our bound wrists, held behind our
backs, and lifted our arms to display the full girth of our bottoms,
unobstructed by our hands.
         “My friends,” the Sultan said.  He addressed himself to his two
younger brothers and the four European women.  They drank wine and ate
from the food on the table as he spoke.  Their eyes gazed attentively at
us.  “Consider, if you will, these two new girls and their bottoms.  One
is 13.  Observe how her bottom is slim and narrow, almost like a
child’s.  How pert her cheeks are!  How delicate and soft the flesh! 
Beside her, fuller and shapelier, is her 19-year-old aunt.  Her heinie
is just as soft, yet, thanks to the extra half-decade in years, it is
fleshier and able to endure more.  Tonight, with their bare bottoms,
these girls will go adventuring on my thrones.  With their arms bound,
their pretty mouths gagged, they will explore the furthest limits of
erotic mischief, all with the unguarded flesh of their soft, bare
fannies.  They will never forget the night they both sat on my thrones. 
How their bottoms will ache with the memory!  And, if we are fortunate,
their nether holes will be widened by the experience, opened to more
easily receive a lover, or whatever he may wish to insert there!”
         “Oh my!” one of the women who’d been sitting on a throne
gasped.  I myself emitted a cry of alarm, as did my aunt.  It did us no
good; we were turned, hoisted up by several guards who’d come down with
us, and placed onto two of the three thrones.  Jim Rutland was seated by
Glenda in the third.  She smiled, bowed low to him.  He merely growled
and frowned.  There was nothing any of us could do to resist, however;
the guards who’d followed us down were all armed with swords, and
displayed no hesitation about using them on whomever the Sultan should
wish to see cut.
         “Their faces-- why are they covered with cream?” one of the
European women asked.
         “So that you may lick it off,” the Sultan replied.
         “Oh!” the woman said.  Then, grinning at a companion, she
advanced upon me.  She grasped my knees, as I sat having my arms worked
into a slot at the back of the chair by the guards.  With my hands bound
behind me, I could not resist.  The woman offered her tongue to my face
and licked my nose.  I wriggled it.  She laughed.  Her other friend, the
one who’d shared the experience of sitting on a throne with her, came
forward and began licking my aunt.
         Together, my aunt and I had our faces cleaned by the women’s
tongues.  It was most unusual, and embarrassing.  I blushed.  My aunt
did too.  All the while guards secured my auntie’s and my hands behind
us, fixing them to the backs of the chair’s seats.  Then, being not
needed, by us, the arms on each throne, and each throne’s tall back,
were removed.    The guards stacked them in a corner of the room.  My
aunt and I found ourselves sitting on just the flat seat-portion of each
throne.  My aunt squirmed, uncomfortably.  She had the misfortune of
sitting in the puddle made by the woman who’d drunk champagne, and
spilled it down her front.  My chair at least was dry, but the wood felt
cold against me.