Part 19: How I Met an Arabian Wife As narrated

(story continues from Part 18 - The Wedding Ceremony … As narrated)

Continues from part 18

My Odyssey

As narrated by Anne-Marie Killamajiian,
Wife of Ahmed, of the House of Mustaffa, the Diamond Merchant

Warning: This story involves bondage, consensual sex, domination, coercion, sex changes, sexual slavery, rape, and other jiggery-pokery. It is entirely fictional, and is intended as entertainment for adults only. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or to any location or activity is purely coincidental. Names have been changed to protect the innocent. (As if anybody ever is!)

Note: If you would like to contact the authoress to make a comment, you may contact Anne through [email protected] who originally published it as “My Story”. She hopes you enjoy reading her story. Tony would also appreciate your comments. We will endeavor to answer all emails.

Author’s Note: My apologies to my loyal readers. The last chapter was accidentally lost in a computer crash, and in reconstructing it, some of the details were lost, especially at the end of the chapter. Originally, the teaser for this chapter was to be “In the next episode, Anne-Marie learns her fate.” -- Tony-B

RECAP:  In Part 18, Anne-Marie became the wife of Ahmed Killamajiian, the Eldest Son, and a chattel of the House of Mustaffa, the Diamond Merchant, and had complied with the ritual rape of Amhed’s brothers, sealing her to the family House under Islamic Law.

Part 19: How I Met an Arabian Wife

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is where I come into Anne-Marie’s story.  Everything that has been written up to this point has been the result of discussions with her, as a result of my dealings with her husband, and to the best of her memory of the times and events described.  After I left Ahmed’s House she continued to correspond with me via cassette tapes.  I received one every couple of weeks, and in her best way, they described her life as best she could, as she became an Arabian Wife, and Ahmed came to be the head of the House of Mustaffa.

Ahmed’s International Interests had grown, and he had expanded into business in the United States.  He was on a buying trip, flying from city to city, setting up a buying convention in a luxury hotel in each city, buying up used jewelry to be taken to the Middle East, melted down, and fashioned into new jewelry.  He was accompanied by Jubal, his brother, acting as “bagman”, carrying the briefcase full of money and letters of credit, Paul, his private pilot, Ming Loi, his private Korean bodyguard, and Anne-Marie, his wife.  The plane, still painted black, was once the property of Hugh Hefner, head of the giant Playboy Enterprises Publishing Empire.  Ahmed was proud of the plane, and had it reconditioned and retrofitted to its original condition, and it was quite an event when the plane landed at International Airports.

At the time, I was working at a major Casino Resort in Northern Nevada, and was assigned as concierge for the party during their stay.  It was quite an experience!  It was my job to make sure that the party had anything, and everything, they wanted during their stay.  If they wanted shrimp from some obscure bay in South American, it was my job to see they got it, whatever the cost.  If they wanted 200-year Old French Champagne, it was my job to find and secure it.  They lived well, and could well afford it.

My first impressions of Ahmed’s wife were that she was very shy – perhaps reticent.  She was always nearby, but remained quiet and subservient to her husband.  I learned that she was an American, and through her marriage, carried three passports, and had access to an unimaginable amount of wealth.  It seemed that her primary pleasure was in serving her husband.  In the matter of meals, for example, she acted as a serving girl.  A servant would bring food and drink to her, and she would then serve her husband, quietly and efficiently, anticipating when he wanted food or drink, as if she could read his mind, and was prepared to fulfill his every wish.

Sometimes she wore western clothes, and sometimes the Arabian Dress that covered her entirely, except for her eyes.  I must admit, wearing a veil made her most appealing, almost teasing men around her, but never acting inappropriately.  It was obvious that she adored her husband, as he adored her.

During the party’s stay in Northern Nevada, I became friends with Ahmed.  He was an easy man to like.  And whatever he wished, he had.  Money was no object.  It must be nice to live a life like that.

I was surprised on their last night, when Ahmed came to my suite.  He had Anne-Marie with him; she was dressed in the Burqua and veil which Arabian women are famous for wearing, and followed him into the suite with her head bowed, and looking at the floor.

“You are aware that this is our last night in your city?” he said.

“Yes, Ahmed”, I said, “I am aware of that.  Is there something you would like?”

“My friend”, he said, “you have been a great help to me, and I wish to reward you accordingly.”

“That’s not necessary”, I said.  “I was pleased to help you.”

“Well said, my friend”, he said.  “That is why it must be done.  In our tradition, a man must offer his greatest treasure to those who have served him well.”

Pointing toward his wife, he said, “This is my greatest treasure.  She is the jewel of my collection, the one I value most highly.  She is yours for the night.”

I looked at Anne-Marie, whose head was still bowed in submission, and she didn’t move or protest. 

“Ahmed, my friend, your gift is great, but is more than I can accept.” I said.  “She is a rare jewel indeed, but I cannot take what is rightfully yours.”

“It is our tradition”, he replied, “and she will do whatever is necessary to please you.”

With that, he slid her Burqua off her shoulders, and let it drop to the floor.  I got my first look at her.  She was stikingly beautiful.  She was nude, and her hands were tied behind her back.  There was a large red rose tattooed on her lower back.  As she stood in front of me, head bowed, she was ready to provide me with any service I required.  Ahmed removed her headpiece and veil, and she didn’t move.  She was not ashamed of standing nude in front of me.

“Please accept this gift”, Ahmed said.  “I shall lose honor if you refuse.”

“Ahmed,” I said, “She is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given to me, but I cannot accept – she is your wife.”

“That is the reason I must share her with you.  She is my most precious possession.”

Anne-Marie still hadn’t moved.  She stood there proud and unashamed while two men bantered back and forth over her services for the night.  She was an amazing woman.

Her long dark hair flowed freely down her back.  Her breasts moved as she breathed.

I weakened.  I wanted her.  Hell yes, I wanted her!  But I just couldn’t.

Ahmed reached out to her, touched her chin, and raised her face to my view.  Her eyes met mine, and there was no reluctance in her eyes.  I knew she would do whatever pleased me.  I had heard stories of Arabian Women, and how they pleased their men, and almost succumbed.

“Ahmed”, I said, “please do not think I do not appreciate your gift, but I have a suggestion….”

“What do you suggest, my friend?” he said.

“Ahmed, may I write a book about your wife?  How she came to become your wife, and how her life is, as an Arabian wife?”

He thought for a moment. …..  “Yes”, he said.  “That would be a good thing.  We consent.”

His answer almost floored me.

“If you wish to write about her, you may.  As I offered her to you for the night, I now offer you her story.”

“I am grateful, my friend.”

“Her memories, and her life are open to you”, he said.

He turned to her and said, “You will tell him of your life.”

“Yes, Ahmed”, she replied, and lowered her eyes again.

“I shall see you both at breakfast”, Ahmed said.

“Yes, Ahmed”, she replied.

With that, Ahmed smiled, turned, and left the suite.

I looked at Anne-Marie, still standing in the same spot, nude, with her eyes lowered, and hands tied, and wondered where to start.  She was even more beautiful in total submission to whatever I wished.

First, I untied her hands.

“Thank you”, she offered.

I picked up her dress – her Burqua, and draped it about her shoulders.

“Thank you”, she said again, as she wrapped the dress around her body.

I found it hard to believe she was so appreciative of small favors, yet so submissive in her attitude with a relative stranger.

“Would you like to sit down?” I asked.

“Yes, please” she said.

She glided to the nearest sofa, and gracefully lowered herself.  She was a vision of beauty.

She looked at me, smiled, and said in an off-handed manner, “I was once a man.”

 

In the next chapter, Anne-Marie starts telling me her story. …..

04.11.08

story continues in Part 20: How Anne’s Story Began As narrated

o0o