The Dubai Maid | خادمة دبي
"An Ethiopian maid in Dubai's glass towers. An Emirati businessman whose wife lives in London. Two people who shouldn't touch—but can't stop."
The Dubai Maid
خادمة دبي
I clean Sheikh Rashid's penthouse six days a week.
Fifty-second floor, Marina views, more bathrooms than I've lived in apartments. He's never there when I arrive—always at work, or traveling, or at one of his other properties.
Until today.
"You must be Senait."
I freeze, duster in hand. He's standing in the doorway—tall, fifties, graying beard, dressed in a white kandura.
"Yes, Sheikh. I'm sorry, I thought—"
"I came home early. Don't let me disturb you."
He settles on the couch with his laptop. I continue cleaning.
But I feel his eyes on me.
I'm Ethiopian.
Thirty-five, in Dubai for seven years. I send money home every month—supporting my mother, my sisters, the family I left behind.
I'm also carrying weight I gained after my miscarriage three years ago. The babies that wouldn't come. The husband who left because of it.
I'm nobody.
And Sheikh Rashid is watching me like I'm somebody.
He starts being home more often.
Every day now, working from his penthouse. I clean around him, and we talk.
"Where in Ethiopia?"
"Addis Ababa, sir."
"My mother's family traded with Ethiopia. Coffee, mostly. She said Ethiopian women were the most beautiful in Africa."
I don't know how to respond to that.
"You're not comfortable," he observes one day.
"I'm your maid, sir."
"That doesn't mean we can't talk."
"People talk. You're married."
"My wife lives in London with her lover. Has for five years." He sets down his laptop. "We stay married for the children. But we're not... together."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I made my choices."
The tension builds for weeks.
Small things—his hand on mine when I bring tea, his eyes following me as I bend to dust low shelves. I should request a transfer. Should tell the agency I'm uncomfortable.
I don't.
"Have dinner with me," he says one evening.
"Sheikh—"
"Rashid. Please. Just Rashid." He gestures to the table. "The cook made too much. It seems foolish to eat alone."
I should refuse.
I don't.
We eat overlooking the Marina.
He tells me about his childhood in Abu Dhabi, before the money. I tell him about Addis, about my family, about the dreams I had before Dubai reduced them to survival.
"You deserve better," he says.
"Better doesn't exist for women like me."
"It could."
He kisses me over dessert.
Soft, questioning. I should pull away.
I pull him closer.
"We can't," I gasp.
"I know."
"I work for you."
"I'll fire you."
"What?"
"I'll fire you. Then you don't work for me. Then this is just... two people."
"That's not how it works."
"It could be."
He doesn't fire me.
But he does stop me from leaving that night.
We end up in his bedroom.
The one I've cleaned a hundred times, making a bed I've never laid in. Now I'm on my back on those silk sheets, and Sheikh Rashid—Rashid—is undressing me.
"Beautiful," he murmurs.
"I'm not—"
"You are." He kisses my belly. "Every inch of you."
He takes his time.
Like I'm precious. Like I matter. He kisses places no man has kissed in years—my neck, my shoulders, the soft rolls of my stomach that I've always hated.
"Let me worship you," he breathes.
"Why?"
"Because you've been treated like furniture for too long. And I want to treat you like a queen."
His mouth finds my center.
I cry out—embarrassingly loud—and he doesn't stop. He eats me with the same focus he brings to business deals, learning what makes me shake, what makes me grab fistfuls of silk sheets.
"Oh God—Egziabher—"
"Come for me, Senait. Let go."
I come harder than I've ever come.
Waves of pleasure that leave me shaking. Before I can recover, he's inside me.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay. Please—don't be gentle."
"Are you sure?"
"I've been gentle my whole life. I want something else."
He gives me something else.
Hard, deep, his hands gripping my hips as he drives into me. I'm loud—too loud for this glass tower—but I don't care.
"Yes—eshi—more—"
"You feel incredible. I've wanted this—"
"Take it. Take everything."
We don't leave the bedroom for hours.
Different positions. Different pleasures. He makes me come with his mouth, his hands, his cock. By the end, I've lost count.
"Stay," he whispers. "Tonight. Tomorrow. As long as you want."
"I can't just—"
"You can." He pulls me close. "I'll take care of you. Properly."
"I don't want to be kept."
"That's not what I'm offering." He tips my chin up. "I'm offering... partnership. You're smarter than most people in my company. I see how you solve problems, how you manage the house. Let me invest in you."
"Invest?"
"A business. Whatever you want. Something that's yours."
It sounds like a fairy tale.
The kind that doesn't happen to maids from Addis.
But when he looks at me like that...
"Let me think about it."
"Take all the time you need."
Six months later
I run a cleaning service now.
Fifty employees. Contracts with hotels, offices, residences. Rashid provided the capital. I provided everything else.
"You're a natural," he says, reviewing my quarterly reports. "I told you."
"You also told me other things."
"And I meant those too."
We're still together.
Not publicly—not yet. His divorce is finalizing. The children are grown. Soon, we can be official.
But for now, we have stolen nights in his penthouse.
Where the maid became something more.
Where the Sheikh became just a man.
"I love you," he says one night.
"I love you too."
It still surprises me.
That this is my life.
That I'm somebody after all.
The End.