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THE SHEIK
His eyes demanded Linda’s attention, black eyes watching from above a black vale. His eyes captured her, held her, consumed her. She stood bare-footed upon the carpets of his tent, her linen dress limp upon her body. Linda stared back at his eyes, unable to take her eyes from his eyes. She raged. She stood bare-footed upon the carpets of his tent, and in her soul, in her breast, she raged.
He had dared. He had dared kidnap a British subject. He had dashed into the encampment at Salikar, leaned upon his horse, and snatched her, as easily as the hawk snatches the mouse. He had dared drag her over his saddle as he might a lamb being taken to the shearing shed. She wanted to slap him, hard, across his face. Her hands pulled against the rough rope binding them behind her back. She wanted to yell at him, curse him. Her upbringing as a British woman of title and class absolutely forbid it. He behaved as a barbarian, she must not.
“You may unbind me now.” Linda said, as calmly as her rage and dignity allowed.
His eyes looked at her. He said nothing.
“You have taken by force a British subject. My government simply will not allow it.”
His eyes looked at her, her face, her shoulders, the curve of her breast. His eyes penetrated the fabric of her dress, the silk of her camisole. She felt his eyes as a living force, touching her, devouring her. A hot blush crept upwards upon her cheeks.
A fear gripped her.
He moved. He walked behind her. He touched the rope binding her hands behind her back. Linda felt his eyes. She felt them measure her, remove her linen dress, remove the silk stuck against her flesh by the hot sun of the Nile.
He took her arm, forcefully, not listening to her sudden scream, her shock, her outrage. He took her arm and led her to the center of his tent, to the post at the center of his tent. He took some of the rope binding her hands and tied her to the post. The he walked away from her, to a small table. He poured himself some tea into a glass, then sat cross legged upon some pillows. His black eyes studied her. They moved upon her legs, slowly up her legs. They moved to her waist, to her brown leather belt. They moved to her breasts.
Again she blushed.
She looked down at herself. She saw the outlines of her nipples pushing through the silk of her camisole, through the thin fabric of her dress. She felt her breasts tightening beneath her dress.
Linda closed her eyes.
She thought of Edward, back at the encampment.
Edward would be happy, thankfully pleased. The Arab had only stolen a wife. He might have stolen something of value, like the exquisite marble bust of Ramsey the third, or the ornate statue of Ki. Then there were the seventy three clay tablets of the fourth dynasty, with possible references to Judea. Those were of impossible value. Edward would be greatly pleased the Arab had stolen only a wife. He would be able to send to London the clay tablets, the small statues. His reputation would become enhanced. He might even get his long overdue tenure at Oxford.
On reflection he might send a cable to Cairo, asking them to look into the matter of some Arab raiding his camp and showing the impossibly bad manners of snatching off his wife. A small matter perhaps, but not one to be over looked.
Linda felt a tear walk down her cheek.
She expected little help from Edward.
She opened her eyes and looked gain at the Arab, dressed in black, with a black veil across his mouth, his chin, hiding all but his eyes.
She noticed his hands. She locked her gaze on his long fingers. His hands were large, his fingers long. His fingernails clean and well kept. He wore a gold bracelet upon one wrist, a black rig upon one finger. He sipped his tea.
“What do you want of me? Edward is not going to ransom me, you should know that. He will cable the authorities in Cairo and have them come and destroy you.”
He sat quite still. She could not see the motion of his breathing beneath the black robes he wore. His eyes did not change expression.
“You have behaved quite badly. The government will punish you.”
He stood, put his glass of tea on the small table, and walked over to her. He reached out, touching her left shoulder with the finger tips of his right hand. His touch felt as an electric shock through her dress, through her flesh. She felt his fingers through her dress, as though at their touch her dress evaporated leaving her flesh exposed. His fingers traced the gentlest line across her dress, across her flesh, across the swelling of her left breast.
Linda took in a breath. The shock of his touch demanded that she respond by taking a breath. Her breath pushed out her breasts, as though in greeting. Her shoulder blades came together in her back, further thrusting herself outward. Outward to his touch. Outward to his fingers tracing gentle lines across the swelling of her breasts.
She felt his touch as she never felt a touch.
Edward did not touch her. He might hold her hand a moment at the breakfast table. He might take her arm at a ball, or a dinner given by his friends. Edward did not touch her. He slept comfortably in his bed, having consummated their marriage with apologetic grunting on their wedding night. Beyond that night, he did not touch her.
The fingers glided across the moist linen of her dress. They glided across her breasts pushing against the buttons of her dress. They invaded private places in her mind and soul she did not know she possessed. They opened doors she did not know existed.
Linda tightly closed her eyes, afraid to look again into his eyes. Afraid to see where he might chose to touch her.
“He will put me in his harem.”
The thought at once frightened her, at once excited her.
She listened to stories of women cloistered within the walls of a harem. She listened with proper British horror at the stories of women kept naked or nearly naked, to be used at their masters whim, and then sent back to the pillows and pools of the harem. They were slaves, and worse off than slaves. They were women who’s only purpose lay in their skill at pleasing the ruthless desires of their masters.
At the fall of Khartoum British women were taken and used as slaves by their Arab masters. She heard stories of the horrid fate of the women of Khartoum.
She shuddered.
She told herself she shuddered in fear. She did not shudder in fear. She shuddered because his fingers traced downward across her left breast towards her right. His fingers brushed lightly, softly, across her right nipple. She shuddered because despite her horror, her terror, her twenty five years of upbringing as a woman of title and class, she enjoyed his touch.
The truth horrified her.
She bit her lower lip, to keep from crying out.
She felt a second tear walk down her cheek.
His fingers traced around her breast, around the curve of her breast. His fingers touched the fabric of her dress and tore the fabric of her soul. Her breath came quickly, in short shallow panting gasps.
Her hands pulled against the rough rope binding them to the post in the center of his tent.
His fingers touched the bottom of her breasts, softly, gently.
Her mind screamed.
In panic? In desire?
Both.
Panic that her desires might be read, understood.
She never felt desire. Not once, not in her life. Twenty five years of British training snuffed the very thought of desire.
She could not recognize the feelings bursting outwards from within the very core of herself.
She could not recognize the meaning of her breasts swelling, or her nipples reaching outwards to his fingers, his touch. She could not grasp the meaning of her legs pressing themselves tightly together, her knees turned so slightly inwards, the heals of her feat turned so slightly out.
She could no understand the feelings the feeling of his touch created.
She recognized her horror, her fear.
She feared being raped, as all women feared being raped. She feared that he might pull out his knife, slash away her clothing and throw her protesting body upon his cobalt blue pillows. She feared the violence, the penetration, the assault of being raped by an Arab.
She resolved to accept her fate with the calm stoic self control her class and country demanded. He would find no pleasure in the violation of her body. He would discover nothing more than a limp useless doll upon his pillows.
She resolved to accept her fate with courage.
If only he would stop touching her, stop tracing lines across her shoulders, down her sides, across her breasts. If only he would stop the maddening touch sending shock after shock to the core of her being, then she might be brave. Then she might behave as her class expected.
“Poor Linda, kidnapped by some Arab chieftain, carted off to his tent and raped. Poor girl. At least she took it well. At least she behaved well.”
His fingers touched her cheek, brushing away the tear walking down her cheek.
If only Edward had once, just once, touched her as this Arab touched her, her fate might be easier to take. If only Edward had once brushed his fingers down her body as the Arab brushed his fingers down her body, her fate could be accepted. Edward did not, and the Arab did, and Linda felt feelings her upbringing denied she possessed.
She did not recognize them.
She could not accept them for what they were.
Her knees pressed against themselves, her toes. Her breathing came in short panic driven, desire driven, gasps.
His fingers found the buttons on the front of her dress. She felt her buttons slip through the eyes of her dress. She felt the fabric of her dress pulled off her shoulders, exposing her shoulders to his touch on her flesh.
She cried out.
She cried out, but not in horror, or fear, except the fear that he knew exactly what her cries reveled.
He did know. He certainly knew.
She surrendered to his touch. She leaned back her head, exposing her neck. She leaned her head to the side, exposing the flesh of her shoulders. With her cries she begged him not to stop his gentle touching. With her cries she surrendered to his touch, to the feelings flooding her body, denying her reason.
She cried out. She cried out in mewing whispers of pleasure, of need.
Linda woke, stretched. She pulled her hands against the ropes binding them to the stake pounded deeply into the ground. She gazed with glazed eyes at her body naked upon the carpets of his tent. She rolled her head from side to side, briefly.
He lay there, beside her, sleeping gently on his side, one of his arms casually thrown over her body, his hand cupping her breast. She smiled at him. She wanted to reach over and touch him. He had not permitted her to do that. He had taken her from the post, removed her clothes, and placed her upon the pillows. He awakened from within her all the secrets of being a woman, secrets her class and training denied her. Linda responded. She responded with her back arched, her cries, her need.
He tied her hands above her head and played with her body, arousing it beyond need, beyond reason, beyond any possibility of control. Then he took her, forcefully, completely. He held her when he had done. He held her as she cried softly into the pillows. She cried because she surrendered everything she knew of herself to him. She cried because she waited twenty five years to learn what it meant to be a woman. She cried because she realized what he had done to her.
He committed the ultimate crime.
He committed the ultimate sin against her.
He had enslaved her, completely, totally, absolutely. She wanted her hands tied above her head, her body absolutely exposed to his sight, his touch, his kiss. She wanted her body used for his pleasure. She found pleasure, she found need, she found wanting she never knew she could find, never knew existed. Linda knew how totally enslaved to his touch she had become. She could not resist him again, if she had every truly resisted him. When he asked anything of her she would give it, willingly, quickly, completely. She closed her eyes and thought of herself learning to dance as the Arab women danced, and thought of herself with bracelets and necklaces and jingling bells dancing naked before him, arousing him with the passion of her body.
She knew she would, if he desired it. She knew she would if he wanted it of her.
Linda lay upon the carpet and cobalt blue pillows. She pulled gently against the ropes binding her hands to the stake and drew long slow deep breasts. Perhaps when he woke. Perhaps when he woke he would touch her again, arouse her willing body, make her beg in whispering sobs for him to complete her. Perhaps when he woke he would use her again.
She thought briefly of poor Edward at the encampment. He might send someone to purchase her freedom. Probably not. He might cable the authorities. If they came, she would refuse their rescue. Just as the women of Khartoum. They refused their rescue too. When the army finally rescued them from the harems of their masters, the women refused a return to England, to freedom, to respectable life.
Linda understood.
Linda lay upon the carpets and pillows breathing slowly, fully, a gentle smile upon her face, her hands bound above her head.
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