The Harem
"The Sultan is dead. His widow inherits everything—including the palace, the fortune, and the tradition of maintaining a stable of servants for her pleasure. She's looking for new additions."
The telegram arrived on a Thursday.
"Your presence requested at the Palace of Winds. Employment opportunity. Significant compensation. Discretion required."
I was a struggling English teacher in Dubai, six months behind on rent. I would have accepted a telegram from Satan himself.
Instead, I got Sultana Fatimah.
The Palace of Winds was three hours into the desert.
A compound of white marble and gold, surrounded by walls that hid it from the modern world. My taxi was stopped at the gate and I was transferred to a Rolls-Royce with tinted windows.
"The Sultana will see you in the receiving room," the driver said. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not look directly at her unless invited. Do not refuse anything offered."
"What kind of job is this?"
He didn't answer.
Sultana Fatimah was sixty-four years old.
Her husband—Sultan Rashid—had died six months ago at ninety-three. She'd been his fourth wife, the youngest, the favorite. He'd left her everything.
Including traditions I hadn't known existed.
"You are the teacher." She spoke from behind a silk screen. I could see her silhouette—massive, imposing, magnificent. "You teach English?"
"Yes, Sultana."
"I require a different kind of instruction." The screen parted. "Look at me."
She was three hundred and eighty pounds.
Draped in silk that concealed nothing—her breasts heavy and pendulous, her belly curved like dunes, her thighs thick as columns. Gold adorned her wrists, her ankles, her neck. Her face was beautiful and imperious.
"My husband kept a harem," she said. "Forty women for his pleasure. When he died, they were sent away—married to nobles, returned to families, given fortunes for their service."
"I see."
"But I am not my husband." She smiled. "I kept the tradition. Reversed it."
"Reversed?"
"Come." She extended her hand. "I'll show you."
The male harem was in the east wing.
Twelve men. Ages ranging from twenty-five to forty. All nationalities, all body types, all beautiful in their own ways. They lived in luxury—silk beds, fine food, everything they could want.
Except freedom.
"They serve me," Fatimah explained as we walked through. "When I want company, I send for them. When I want pleasure, they provide it. When I want nothing, they wait."
"They're... servants?"
"They're treasures." She touched a young man's cheek as we passed—he leaned into her hand like a cat. "Collected. Valued. Used."
"And you want me to—"
"I want you to join them." She turned to face me. "Your file says you're struggling. Desperate. Running from debts and failures. I offer an escape."
"In exchange for?"
"Your body. Your service. Your complete devotion." She stepped closer. "For five years. After which, you leave with more money than you'd earn in a lifetime."
"I need to think—"
"You need to decide." Her hand found my chest. Pressed. "Now. Yes or no."
I thought about my empty apartment. My empty bank account. My empty life.
"Yes."
"Then your training begins tonight."
Training meant Fatimah herself.
She took me to her private chambers—a room of silk and gold and impossible luxury—and stripped me with practiced hands.
"The others have experience," she said, circling my naked body. "But you're fresh. Untrained. A blank page."
"What do you want me to learn?"
"Everything." She removed her own robes. Her body unfurled like a landscape—hills and valleys of soft, brown flesh. "Starting with this."
She sat on a golden throne. Spread her massive thighs.
"Kneel. Worship. Begin."
I spent three hours between her legs.
Learning her body. Her responses. The precise rhythm that made her gasp, the exact pressure that made her scream. She corrected me constantly—"slower," "deeper," "there, yes, there"—until I understood her like a map I'd studied for years.
"Acceptable," she pronounced when she finally came, flooding my mouth while her thighs crushed my skull. "You have potential."
"Thank you, Sultana."
"Now." She pulled me up. Onto her. Into her. "Show me what else you can do."
I fucked the Sultana until dawn.
She rode me. I took her from behind. She sat on my face while stroking my cock. We found positions I'd never imagined, angles I'd never attempted.
"You're strong," she observed, bouncing on me while the sun rose. "Stamina. Endurance. The others tire quickly—you don't."
"I want to please you."
"You will please me." She clenched around my cock. "For five years. Every night I call for you. Every morning I need release." She leaned down. "You're mine now. My property. My treasure."
I came inside her.
She smiled.
"Welcome to the harem."
One year later
I am Fatimah's favorite.
The other men know it. They don't resent it—there's enough of her to share, and she uses all of us regularly. But when she wants true satisfaction, she sends for me.
"The others are pleasant," she tells me one night, riding my face while servants fan us with peacock feathers. "But you're hungry. You want to please me, not just perform."
"I live to serve you, Sultana."
"I know." She comes against my tongue. "That's why you're special."
The harem has its rhythms.
Some nights she takes two of us. Some nights five. Once, on her birthday, all twelve served her in rotation—an orgy of flesh and pleasure that lasted from sunset to sunrise.
I've learned things here. About women's bodies. About patience and devotion. About the strange freedom that comes from complete surrender.
Four years later
My contract is almost complete.
Fatimah calls me to her chambers—alone, which is rare now.
"You could leave soon," she says. "Take your payment. Return to your life."
"I know."
"Or." She touches my face. "You could stay. Not as a servant—as something else."
"What else is there?"
"Consort." She kisses me. "Partner. Heir to half my fortune when I die."
"You want to marry me?"
"I want to keep you." Her hand finds my cock—hard, always hard for her. "Forever. What do you say?"
I said yes.
The wedding was private—just us, an imam, and the twelve men who'd become my brothers.
Now I rule beside her. The Palace of Winds is our kingdom. The harem still exists—for both of us now, men and women who serve our pleasures.
"Do you regret it?" she asks sometimes. "Giving up your freedom for me?"
"I found freedom with you." I pull her close. "Service is its own reward."
She laughs.
And then she shows me new ways to serve.