© Copyright 2008 - Anne-Marie to Tony B - Used by permission
Storycodes: MM/f; bond; nude; submissive; gift; breast milk; cons; X
Continues from part 19
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.
RECAP: In Part 19, Anne-Marie had been offered to me as an overnight gift by Ahmed, the Diamond Merchant, who was on a buying trip through the United States.
Part 20: How Anne’s Story BeganAnne-Marie’s Story as she told it to the author.
“I was once a man”, she said.
She paused to let that soak in. It took a moment. I didn’t know whether she said that just to shock me, or was fucking with my head!
“You can’t be!” I said. “You’re too beautiful.”
She studied my face for a moment to see if I was taking her seriously, and said, “I had a very brilliant and skilled doctor. In fact a whole slew of them at a secret clinic in Thailand.”
She paused again, allowing me to process that information.
She continued. “It’s a long story. I made a mistake once, which ended up with me being here.”
She paused again, as if deciding how much of her story she would tell me. Or perhaps, where to start.
She leaned back into the sofa, tilted her head back, allowing her hair to fall straight behind the cushioned back, and tossed her head to free her hair. I don’t know whether she was pausing for effect, or trying to gather her thoughts. As she tossed her head, the fabric of the Burqua slipped off her shoulder, revealing a perfectly formed breast, with a luscious, perfectly pointed pink nipple. Modestly, she reached over and slipped the fabric back over her shoulder.
Finally, she said, “Can we have some coffee?”
“Excuse me”, I replied. “I didn’t think. Have you had your supper?”
“Yes, thank you”, she replied. “But my story is long, and we may need coffee to keep us awake.”
“Certainly”, I said, and moved toward the telephone.
“Do you have a cassette recorder?” she asked.
“I can get one from the Audio-Visual Department”, I said.
“Better get several cassettes, too”, she said. “There’s no telling how much you’ll want to record.”
I picked up the telephone, and dialed 6-3, the in-house Room Service number. When they answered, I identified myself and requested they send a small urn of coffee to the Penthouse, Suite 3. Then I added, “Send someone over to Audio-Visual and get me a cassette recorder and several blank tapes.”
“Can we have some of those crumpets from Kipper’s Restaurant on the Mezzanine”, she asked.
“Of course”, I said, as I repeated her request into the telephone. “I don’t care if they’re closed,” I said, somewhat peeved. “Get someone over there and get me some English Muffins and Jam.”
I returned to my chair across from Anne on the sofa. I had started to become fascinated to hear her story, and was thinking of her less formally as Anne-Marie.
As we sat there, I looked at her closely, to see if I could see any signs of her ever having been a man.
I couldn’t. As we waited for Room Service, I studied her face, looking for any masculine features that might reveal her secret. There were none. I looked at her body – how she was sitting, her body language, to see any telltale signs of anything less than feminine. There was nothing. She had closed her eyes again, and tilted her head back, as if she was reveling in her memories, reviewing them to see where she should start.
We sat there silently for about five minutes, when there was a knock on the door, and a waiter announced, “Room Service.”
Five minutes – it might have been a record.
Or perhaps I was lost in my own thoughts, anticipating hearing a fascinating story.
The waiter brought in the service cart. It held exactly what I had ordered, a two-gallon urn of coffee, English Muffins, three kinds of English Jam, a Cassette Recorder and a box of blank tapes.
As I reached in my pocket to offer the waiter a tip, he politely replied, “There is no charge, Mister B. We’re happy to provide anything that is needed.”
With that, he turned and left, closing the door softly behind himself.
“Good attitude!” I thought to myself. “I’ll have to see he gets a bonus.”
As I turned back to Anne, she had already risen and was pouring herself a cup of coffee. She was standing there nude again, the Burqua lying on the sofa where it had fallen when she got up. She was totally unconscious of standing there in front of me without any clothes on.
As she looked at me, she saw me looking at her. I couldn’t help but look… she was beautiful.
“If you would like to have sex with me, you may”, she said, and looked toward the bedroom.
“Thank you”, I said, “but I can’t, out of respect for Ahmed.”
She shrugged, returned to the sofa, sat down, and gathered her Burqua around her.
I slipped a blank cassette into the recorder, and pressed the RECORD button. She sipped her coffee, and began her story…..
“It was, without doubt, the stupidest thing I have ever done.” She said.
Her narrative began the first 19 chapters of this book.
I sat there for hours, listening to her story, pausing only now and then to change tapes in the recorder, and taking coffee and bathroom breaks as she related her story.
I couldn’t get over the fact that she had once been a man, and was relating this fantastic story to me.
After hours of talking, the sun had begun to rise over the eastern mountains of the Nevada desert, streaming brightly into the suite through the east-facing veranda. Suddenly, the telephone rang, and I looked at my watch. It was 6:30 a.m., and Anne had been talking all night. Strangely, I had grown to like this woman – this woman who had once been a man, and had been recreated a woman who lived and worked in the Arabic world with one of the richest men in the world.
As I rose to answer the phone, Anne said, “No need to answer. That was my morning wake-up call to morning prayers, and morning worship, in my case.”
The phone didn’t ring a second time. She rose to go to the bathroom.
“Uh ….. Morning Worship?” I asked. I didn’t want her to stop telling her story. She had just described her wedding night, and I was anxious to hear more.
She stopped and turned to face me again. As before, she was standing there nude, having cast aside her Burqua.
“Yes”, she said. “As a woman, I am not required to worship Allah, but only to worship my husband. Five times a day, he must pray. Three times a day, I must worship him by providing for his sexual needs.”
Smiling, she said, “And for Ahmed, that’s just the beginning of my day.”
She continued, “Since I am with you this morning, you may use me for your pleasure if you wish.”
“Uh, no”, I stammered. I wasn’t ready to have sex with Anne, even if she had freely offered.
“Okay”, she said. “But since Ahmed offered me to you, he would be insulted if you didn’t use me at least once. Maybe you’d like a quick hand job?”
“Uh, no”, I blurted out. I just wasn’t ready for this.
She turned and walked into the bathroom without comment. She didn’t close the door. I tried to collect my thoughts, just as the cassette popped up, ending that hour. I noticed that we had used up seven of the tapes in the box. Seven hours of her story – her odyssey through life. What could possible come next???
She had talked all night, yet I was still fascinated, and wanted to hear more.
I heard her peeing through the open door of the bathroom, and imagined her urine exiting her body and splashing into the bowl. It was amazing that she was not self-conscious about it. It was amazing that she was not self-conscious about anything that had happened to her, and was willing to talk about it so freely.
I heard her open the shower door, and take a quick shower. This was maddening. I thought about her washing her body, and imagined I could see her running her hands over her breasts, washing them. She was getting to me, and I thought about taking her in the bedroom. Ahmed would not object, so what – or why, was I waiting? But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
She came back into the living room, wiping her body with the plush towel we provide for our guests. She dropped the towel on the floor, and sat back down on her Burqua, spread out on the couch. She drew the fabric around her shoulders, and slid her hand underneath it and gripped her breast.
“Ah – that feels so good”, she said.
I could see her massaging her breast behind the fabric, and felt a stirring in my pants.
“STOP THAT!” I thought to myself. “She’s a guest ….. And a very important guest!”
“We have about forty-five minutes before breakfast”, she said. “Shall I continue, or would you like to stop here?” she asked.
“Perhaps just a bit more”, I said. “Perhaps about how you were ‘trained’ to be an Arabic wife, if it’s not too long….”
“Yes”, she said. That would be a good place to stop.”
I popped in another cassette, and pressed the RECORD button. “More Coffee?” I asked.
“I think I’ve about coffeed out”, she said, “but I could have another crumpet if there is one left.”
There was. I split it apart, placed it on a plate with a knife and small package of grape jam, and handed it to her.
“Oh ….. Grape Jam”, she gushed. “I like grape jam. In Morocco, Fig Jam is the most popular.”
She smiled as she spread the entire package of Jam on half of the muffin, and tasted it.
“Delicious!” she said, smiling.
“Training?”, I prompted her…..
“Yes”, she said.
“Well it was the next morning after my wedding night”, she began. “After waking me about six in the morning, Ahmed took me again. It was fast and furious, and I screamed as I came for him. Doctor Bulieu is a genius. My surgery was perfect. I am able to cum easily, and quickly, to match a man’s rhythm, giving him the pleasure of driving me to orgasm as he achieves his own. And Henry, at the Clinic, had trained my body and mind to respond to providing sex for a man in the most satisfying way for myself. I have absolutely no complaints there.”
“I came quickly for Ahmed. As we lay in the afterglow, Ahmed spoke…..”
“In three days, you will begin your training to become an Arabic Wife”, Ahmed said. “It will be difficult, but you must be trained to fit into your new life.”
“Ahmed,” I said, “I belong to you, and will do whatever you say. You may use me as you will.”
“Anne-Marie Killamajiian, you amaze and please me at the same time!” he said.
“It was the first time anyone had attached my name to his, or his to mine, if you prefer. It was the first time I heard my new name, and it affected me profoundly. I realized that I was now a new person. One who belonged. And one who was owned by another – literally owned! My life, whatever it turned out to be, was in his hands. I was less concerned with being ‘trained’, as I had been being ‘trained’ to be a woman for most of a year before Ahmed bought me. ….. ‘Bought me’ ….. ‘Owned me’! Strange words – strange concepts. I realized that I had turned myself over to another, and he would be responsible for me for the rest of my life.”
“Ahmed”, I said, “I promise that I will be a good wife for you.”
“I shall be kind to you”, he replied, “But there will be times when it will be hard for you.”
“That is up to you”, I replied. “I have given my life to you.”
“There was more, as we whispered promises to each other – as we promised everything people wish and hope for. …..”
“He fucked me again. Long and slow, the best way for a woman to bond to a man, as she gives of herself openly and freely to the man she loves. And that is how I became Ahmed’s sex slave, and a sex toy.”
Just then, the cassette popped up, and I looked at my watch. A half-hour had passed, and it was just about 7:30.
“Oh, we’ll have to hurry now. Don’t want to be late for breakfast or I’ll be punished”, she said.
She jumped up and put on her Burqua, head cover and veil. Her hands were under the fabric of her ritual dress as she crossed her wrists behind her as if they were tied. She went to the door, and stood, waiting for me to escort her to breakfast with Ahmed and the rest of his party. Everyone would know by our entrance that Anne had spent the night with me, and they would have assumed by her demeanor that we had slept together. I felt it best that we maintain the illusion, and leaned close and whispered “Act as if we had sex.”
“I will”, she said. “And maybe someday you will allow me to pleasure you.”
“I’ll look forward to it”, I heard myself saying……
“As will I”, she said. “It will please me to give you pleasure.”
She smiled. Ahmed noticed her smile, and smiled himself, satisfied that I had accepted his gift.
The Breakfast Rituals
As we arrived at the breakfast table, Ahmed and his party of men were already seated, and drinking their morning coffee. As Arab men, they preferred thick, sweetened coffee made by boiling whole coffee beans in a silver brazier over hot coals. To this, they added several spoonfuls of sugar, and fresh human breast milk drawn directly from the breast of a slave girl who was kept for that purpose. There is a drug which will make women who are not in their child bearing years continue to provide breast milk, yet not in a sufficient quantity to cause uncontrolled leakage. Arabic men seem to favor milk produced by dark-skinned women, and keep one as a milk slave if they can afford it. Her job is primarily to provide breast milk on demand. Yet many men would suck her dry, given the chance. A real prize would be a young virgin, often not yet in her marriageable years. In their strange way, they still highly prize virgins, and virgin milk at the same time.
I order to get milk for their coffee, the men would notion to her, and she would kneel beside the man, leaning forward pressing her breasts over the table. The man would hold his cup under her nipple, and squeeze her breast to extract the milk directly into the cup. When he released her breast, she would use a napkin to wipe her breast, then return to her position against the wall, waiting to be summoned by someone else.
Since I did not favor the bittersweet taste of Arabian coffee, Ahmed had provided me with a glass of orange juice instead.
The men were seated on cushions around the table, There was one place cushion set for me, and as Ahmed indicated, I sat on it. Anne-Marie knelt at his side directly on the floor, and bent at the waist touching her forehead to the table. It was a message of submission to the men at the table. She held that position, with her hands behind her back as if tied, and waited for Ahmed to speak.
As he continued to talk over the day’s business with the men, it was as if he totally ignored her, and she remained with her forehead touching the table. I marveled at her discipline as she refused to move or speak. In fact, she wasn’t allowed to speak to the men under penalty of punishment. Women are not allowed to enter into men’s conversation unless bidden. Should she transgress by expressing an opinion, or speaking on her own, she would be punished then and there, before the men whom she might have offended.
It seems that almost all rooms in an Arabic house include a location for punishment. Generally, it’s in the form of a simple rope that can be lowered from the ceiling, tied around a woman’s wrists, then pulled upward, lifting her up onto her toes for as long as the punishment continued. Usually she would be stripped and beaten to satisfy the offense, and often, left to hang there until the men left the room.
In rooms where she might be punished publicly, before witnesses, there was generally a block-and-tackle arrangement that could be used to lift her off the floor, in full suspension, while she was being beaten. The blows causing her body to jerk and swing with the momentum of the beating.
This was not the case with Anne-Marie this morning. She knew her place and had been trained well to accept it.
Ahmed spoke: “Let us have some fruit”, he said. Immediately, Anne straightened her body, took a small knife from the table and started peeling and slicing fruit from a large bowl in front of her. As she sliced several large pieces onto a plate, she handed it to Ahmed, who passed the plate clockwise around the table. The first plate went all around the table, stopping in front of me. The next plate was passed around the table, stopping in front of the man to my right. I had seen this ritual in Nevada, and we all waited until everyone was served before eating.
Arabic men generally eat with their fingers, or a small dagger, following the custom of the host. As Ahmed picked up a piece of an orange and brought it to his mouth, each man around the table followed his example. As they ate, Anne continued to cut and slice the available fruit, setting it aside on a large platter for anyone who wanted more. She did not eat or drink; it was not allowed.
The men ate leisurely, with Anne refilling their plates as they emptied them. Fruit, dates, and figs, accompanied by a flat bread which was torn from the whole loaf without being sliced. As each man finished his meal, he turned his plate over, face down in front of him, and concentrated on finishing his coffee.
When all men were finished, signified by the last plate being turned face down, Anne bent at the waist, pressing her forehead to the table again. The men, engaged in the conversation of the day, leisurely rose and left the room. When she was sure she was alone, except for the milk slave, Anne straightened up, but still kneeling, ate her fill. She avoided the coffee, but did sip from a glass of water in order to soften the flat bread enough to swallow it, and ate her fill of fresh fruit. She exchanged pleasantries with the milk slave, who sat beside her, and they both ate fruit as they conversed and giggled like schoolgirls. I wondered if the milk slave knew that Anne had once been a man.
Several weeks later, I received a letter from Ahmed, asking me to visit them at their home in Morocco. The invitation was brought by an armed diplomatic courier, accompanied by a U.S. Marshall, who was also armed, and accompanied in an official Consular car and driver. Who, I presume, was also armed.
The invitation asked me to visit during the Feast of Dakar in late September. It was a sort of Harvest Festival, celebrating the harvest of desert dates, an important staple in their diet. It was to last two weeks, including feasting and celebrations. There was a scribbled note on the bottom of the invitation. It said, “It would please me to see you again – Ahmed”.
Ahmed Killamajiian is not a man to be refused. So I began to think about making arrangements. At that point, the diplomatic courier said “Mr. Killamajiian will send a plane for you.”
He didn’t ask if I would accept the invitation, or if I could get away for a vacation, or if I had other commitments. He just assumed that I would be there. After all, it was already arranged in Ahmed’s mind, and he was anticipating my visit. The courier knew that I would be there.
After Ahmed’s “Bunny Plane” arrived, I was driven to his home a short distance away in the limousine, I found Ahmed and Anne-Marie waiting at the door to greet me. In the Arabic way, Ahmed threw his arms around me and slapped me vigorously on the back.
“How good of you to come”, he bellowed.
“How good of you to invite me”, I replied.
“And of course you remember my wife”, he said.
Ahmed stepped aside and gestured toward Anne, who was standing slightly behind and to his right. She took a single step forward, smiled, and extended her hand. I took her hand, and she did a slight curtsey and lowered her eyes.
“Of course”, I said. “I am anxious to hear more of her story!”
“And indeed you shall”, Ahmed said. “But this time you must allow her to pleasure you in my house.”
HE KNEW, I thought to myself. She had told him that I had not used her sexually the night we spent together.
I glanced at Anne, and wondered if she was blushing at Ahmed’s open declaration.
I looked at Ahmed, who was studying my face with a wide grin.
“Ahmed,” I managed…. “I know her secret. …… I know she was a man.”
“A young man, really. A very beautiful young man, who is now a woman.” His grin widened. “Who better to pleasure a man than one who has been a man?” he asked. “I guarantee you will not know the difference, and she will give you more pleasure than a natural woman.”
I looked at Anne, and it seemed surreal that two men were discussing her attributes while she waited silently. She was not embarrassed, but waited for a decision to be made – to learn whether I would accept her attentions in bed.
“I don’t know what to say, my friend”, I said reluctantly.
I was still not sure. Yes, I was attracted to her, but she was another man’s wife. A very powerful man’s wife.
“She is a very talented and willing sex-toy”, Ahmed said. “Every man who is with her, teaches her something. Literally, she is a walking, talking, sex doll, here for your pleasure – and mine.”
Turning to Anne, he said, “Show him your breasts.”
Anne was wearing a colorful native tunic; the fabric draped over her shoulders, gathered at the waist, and descended to her ankles. Immediately as Ahmed spoke, her hands went to her shoulders, pulling the fabric off the shoulders and letting it drop to her elbows, revealing two perfectly shaped breasts. Little brown nipples forced their way forward into perfect cones of pleasure, just waiting to be suckled. Her white skin was smooth and perfect. The fabric pinned her elbows to her waist, almost as tightly as if she were in bondage, and her forearms stretched forward, almost as if she were inviting me to embrace her. Her hands were palms up, as if she was pleading to be taken.
“Look how perfect and beautiful they are.” Ahmed said. “She has been brought to the height of perfection as a young woman, who is ready to provide pleasures without number to a companion.”
“She is very beautiful”, I agreed, knowing that it was an understatement.
“Feel her breast”, he said. “Feel how warm, soft and firm it is. It can give you many hours of pleasure.”
I was slipping and Ahmed knew it. He was seducing me with Anne’s body. Gingerly, I reached forward with my right hand and grasped her left breast. I squeezed it gently, and Ahmed was right. Her perfect breasts were warm and inviting. I was amazed that she stood there motionless, as I pinched her nipple.
“Notice how she doesn’t resist”, Ahmed said. “It took a long time to train her not to withdraw from a man’s touch.”
He reached out his hand and grasped her other breast, and squeezed it hard. I saw a flash of pain cross her face as she closed her eyes and accepted that two men were holding and squeezing her breasts.
“I will accept your gift with great appreciation and respect”, I said.
I had lost the battle. Ahmed had won me over. And Anne would pleasure me that night.
Turning to Anne, Ahmed said simply “Recite.”
She knew what she was to say, and do. She knew what Ahmed wanted me to hear and understand.
She lowered her eyes, and repeated the Rules of becoming an Arabian wife. …..
“I am my husband’s property”, she began, “and a chattel of his house.”
“My primary duty to my husband is to provide him with pleasure, comfort, and obedience.”
“My husband owns me, and by extension, owns by body.”
“I am required to provide sexual pleasure for whomever he chooses.”
“I shall stand naked, without shame, before anyone my husband wishes, or where he wishes to display me.”
“I am not to flinch or withdraw from anyone to whom he has given permission to touch me in any way.”
“If I displease my husband or fail to obey him, I will be punished.”
“Very good”, Ahmed said. “I shall reward you tonight”, as he released her breast.
As I released her other breast, she pulled the fabric of her dress back over her shoulders, and smiled slightly, knowing that she could use her body to give me pleasure.
Turning to me, Ahmed said, “Come my friend, we shall dine and talk before evening. We have held dinner for you.”
Holding dinner, for the master of the house, seemed unprecedented. He put his arm around my shoulder, and we walked into his home as if we were old friends – and I had only known Ahmed for a few weeks, but I liked his style! Anne-Marie followed a step behind us, with no self-consciousness that she had just been fondled and had revealed the depth of her commitment to her husband and his House.
As we entered the dining area, there was a large oriental carved table in the middle of the room with many pillows arranged around it. There were three men already seated whom I already knew. Paul, Ahmed’s private pilot, Ming Loi, Ahmed’s bodyguard, and Jubal, Ahmed’s brother and bagman on their recent trip to Nevada. Two other men who were dressed in Arabic garb. stood nearby.
As Ahmed approached the table, the seated men rose to greet him.
Ahmed said to me, “Come my friend, sit next to me.”
As he said that, he pushed some pillows next to his and gestured that I might sit down.
“You already know Paul, Ming Loi, and Jubal my brother”, he said. These are my other brothers, Ahmin and Osala.” He pronounced the first brother’s name with a long “I”, as in “Ahmeen”, and the second brother’s name as “Oh-Sallah”, short letter a’s, rhyming with Osama.
As each name was mentioned, the man came forward, salaamed to me, and sat at the table. (Salaam: the typical Arabian bow, wherein the right hand is touched to the heart, lips, and forehead, before rising.) I gathered that I was being accorded great respect. Anne knelt beside me, bent forward at the waist, touching her forehead to the table. From this simple gesture, all the men at the table knew that she had been given to me for the night, and that I would sleep with her – a singular honor for a westerner.
As the dinner began, there was a murmur of approval, as each man took stock of me, and of how important I must be to Ahmed. I wondered what Ahmed wanted from me!
“Let us begin”, Ahmed said.
Anne-Marie straightened her body, picked up a small dagger, and began slicing fruit from the bowl sitting before her. A bare breasted milk slave appeared through an arch from another room, ready to provide breast milk for the guest’s coffee.
In the next episode: Anne describes her training, and I learned what it took for her to become an Arabian Wife.
story continues in My Odyssey Part 21: Anne-Marie's Fantasy As narrated