Chapter 1

 

Yosef Mohammed groaned nervously as he sat back in his chair. He was having serious trouble thinking.

It was absolutely necessary for him to clear his head and complete the concession deal for the Nigerian oil field his family owned. There were millions of dollars at stake, a large part of his family's future wealth. Indeed, it was why he was in Saudi Arabia to begin with. The Arab he was considering doing business with was a shrewd bargainer and he desperately needed to concentrate on the negotiations. But the naked white women were making that nearly impossible.

Not that they were in any way rude or noisy. They knelt quietly beside the two men, offering trays of fruit, baklava and wine. Each one was an exquisite creature with flawless pale skin and free flowing long hair. They were young, late teens or early twenties and they seemed somehow to belong in the opulent meeting hall of Ibn Al Taif's home.

The one dancing at the moment was particularly distracting. She was a petite, gray-eyed blond with perfectly sized and shaped breasts. They seemed to bounce with the same fluid and grace with which she moved - just a fraction of a second behind her. Her hips swivelled and churned, thrusting her vulva in lewd, coital motions. As she moved, Mohammed could hear the slap of her bare feet as they danced on the smooth stone floor. The whole effect was of total hedonism, made all the more sensuous and exotic by the fact she was roundly pregnant.

God, how he wanted a creature like this. In those six years he had studied in America, he'd seen white women aplenty. He had been told by some that it was easy for a black man to "score" a white woman on a college campus. Somehow, though, the secret to bedding them had eluded him. The arrogant and self-reliant white women he met had little use for him. He had always dreamed but never saw his dreams fulfilled.

The woman danced closer, swirling and writhing, moving in a way obviously calculated to inspire the basest instinct of any male present. A lovely, full-breasted white woman, he thought, closing his eyes. He wished he had been the one who had bloated her belly. He could visualize himself pushing her onto her back, mounting her and feeling her long smooth legs wrap around him. He would have made her beg for it, plead with her voice and her body for the seed that would render her in this conquered state.

Yet that state did nothing to detract from her allure. Incredibly, it seemed to make her appear even more graceful and liquid in her movements. Her hands raised over her head, open-palmed as a gesture of submission. As she gyrated, her belly bounced and jiggled, but she seemed to know just how to incorporate this into the dance, even to draw attention to it and centre the eye on it. This was a woman who appeared delighted to be naked and pregnant before her master. It was easy for Mohammed believe she was proud to be dancing naked before him, as if she were swollen with his child.

Mohammed sighed. He had no doubt she would be an incredibly enthusiastic fuck. Especially after she'd been soundly whipped!

"... And so I'll think you'll find my offer very competitive with any other international proposals."

"Huh? Oh ... yes of course, Effendi," said Mohammed. "Very competitive. I have to say however, that the American Oil Company has also made an exceptional offer."

The Arab smiled, running his fingers along his beard thoughtfully. "You're quite impressed by my serving girls."

Mohammed was startled. He had been doing his best to seem business-like and unperturbed. Despite the fact that the Arab was greatly his senior in years, there was his family's reputation as cool hagglers to uphold. Was his obsession that noticeable?

"I'm sorry, Effendi. I am a little distracted. Please forgive ..."

"No need to apologize," laughed the Arab, waving his hand reassuringly. "I am aware of your fondness for the bodies of white women. I make it a point to learn the tastes of my prospective clients.

"As you can see," he continued, "it is a predilection I share. The white female is after all, one of Allah's most beautiful animals."

Mohammed nodded. He wondered if the Arab had any idea of the full scope of his "fondness" and the bizarre fantasies he fostered about women in general. White women in particular. In the corner of his eye he could still see the dancing girl, her convex abdomen bouncing provocatively. I wonder how she danced when her belly was empty! He thought.

"Allow me to enhance my proposal," said the Arab. "And make an offer the American Oil Company is not likely to match. I will include the blond dancing girl in my existing offer. She will make a good addition to your harem."

Mohammed was stunned. He was skilled negotiator for his age, but he had not anticipated this. "I ... I don't really have a harem," he choked. "Just some mixed race servants who were with my father."

The Arab frowned. "No harem? You are a young Islamic man with means. You must obtain a harem. This wench would be a good piece to start with. She's British, from a good, cultured English family in the south. And," he chuckled. "She's well trained."

"How ... How did you obtain her?" asked Mohammed. His head was still spinning from the offer and he could think of nothing else to say.

The Arab smiled. "With extraordinary difficulty. Suffice it to say her family believes she is dead and she has no outside entanglements."

Mohammed licked his lips, leering at the girl. He had never considered this kind of deal before, but the Arab's offer was an excellent one even apart from the woman.

"How do I get her to Nigeria?" he asked.

"I can have her brought down in my private plane. A few well-placed bribes and she'll be kneeling on your doorstep in a few days."

Mohammed laughed with satisfaction. The Arab was right, he should have a harem. It was just that he preferred fair skinned white women and there had been, until now, no easy way to obtain one. He knew that Ibn Al Taif's company badly needed his oil field to diversify out of the Middle East and that the man was making an exceptional offer. He decided to act quickly.

"Done," said Mohammed, smiling. "I'll be back tomorrow and we can sign the papers."

Ibn Al Taif clapped his hands. The background music faded and the girl stopped dancing. When he snapped his fingers she ran and knelt before him, casting her eyes to the floor.

"You are being sold to this young Champion of the Faith. You will obey him as you obey me."

"Yes, Master," she replied meekly. But her eyes registered doubt, as if she were feeling revulsion at the thought of being a slave to a black African. She glanced over at Mohammed with a look of disdain. It lasted only a fleeting second, but her Arab master saw it instantly.

Without warning he slapped her viciously across the face. "How dare you show insolence in the presence of my guest?"

Her laboured smile faded to open mouthed horror and she whimpered, "please, Master ... please forgive ..."

Mohammed could tell that Ibn Al Taif was not about to show weakness or mercy in dealing with a slave, particularly in front of him. The Arab ordered the girl to bend over and grasp her ankles, which she did despite her maternal condition. One of the other slave girls scurried to bring him a black lacquered cane from wall and presented it to him, kneeling subserviently.

The blond girl's face was a mass of anguish, but she remained silent and holding tight to her ankles.

Al Taif brought the cane down on her bottom with a quick snap of his arm. The girl screamed, her eyes wide with agony, but she did not get up or release her legs. The slave had apparently been disciplined this way before.

The Arab gave her five strokes. When he was done the slave girl's cheeks and lower back were glowing with wicked red weals. The pregnant white girl sobbed pathetically, but still dutifully maintained her position until he snapped his fingers. She then knelt, chastened at his feet. "Thank you for correcting me Master," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"You are fortunate I do not want to mark you for your new Master," said the Arab grimly," or I'd give you a dozen more with the cat! Now get up. Show this young champion of the Faith what else you're good for aside from dancing."

She crawled over to Mohammed, looking up at him and smiling. Her face was beaming with joy at being allowed to service him, but he could tell in her eyes she hated what she about to do. She was simply too cowed to make even the slightest protest. Mohammed took mental notes. Ibn Al Taif was obviously a master of training white women and had just demonstrated it. He could learn much, simply by association with this man.

The blond girl moved her soft hands deftly to unzip his pants and pull out his manhood. Mohammed sucked in his breath as she ran her lips along the rock hard shaft a few times and then took it into her mouth. Then she looked up at him, her blue eyes as limped and servile as any man could hope for.

"Aaahhh," he sighed, as the woman skilfully stroked the underside of his glans with her tongue. She did not break eye contact with him as her mouth descended down his shaft.

The young black man's balls churned and he gritted his teeth to keep from cuming. He needed to distract himself quickly to avoid the embarrassment of ejaculating as quickly as an inexperienced boy.

"I ... I thought the Arabs always veiled their women."

"My wives, yes, in public or in the presence of other men. But these are mere whores. They are here for my guests to enjoy as well. These white women don't cover their faces in their own countries. Why should they be afforded a veil in my house?"

"Yes ... quite," Mohammed managed to gasp. "Do ... do you want the child returned when it's born?" He naively assumed Al Taif had sired the baby.

"Oh no," said the Arab. "I have many others. I breed them, you know."

"Breed them?" choked Mohamed, astonished.

"Yes, I have a young white boy who I use to inseminate all my white slave girls. Despite the rumours, I do not have unlimited wealth. It's much cheaper and easier to breed them than capture them. And it's gratifying to know the little creatures have been created for me, by my will, for my use. In fact, I am going to acquire another boy, blue eyed and blond haired so I can breed for the characteristics I want."

It was only minutes before the woman's expert swirling tongue, grazing teeth and gentle sucking action brought Mohammed to a rousing climax.

The girl swallowed every drop of his semen, still gazing at him with her wide blue eyes. She licked his organ clean and carefully zipped up Mohammed's pants. Then she dropped back onto her heels, her hands folded primly in her lap.

"I told you she was well trained," laughed the Arab.

"Wha ... what shall I do with the child when it comes?" sighed Mohammed, still not fully recovered.

"Oh," said the Arab, his eyes twinkling. "I believe you'll think of something."

 

Beth Kaylor sighed, bored almost to tears. She was on her nightly walk, having just finished her home schooling assignments and all her chores. It was still early evening, a gorgeous mid-summer dusk in Alabama, complete with fiery sunset.

Beautiful as it was, Beth was restless. She wished that something, anything interesting would happen. It was a crime to be a beautiful sixteen year old woman and alone on a night like this, she thought wistfully. Well, not alone exactly, her parents were here.

She turned on the gravel, country road and headed back to the house. Back for another quiet evening of family time. They would be waiting for her when she returned with a board game or some instrumental music on the old phonograph. Then her father would launch into another of his political tirades. They would finish the game and she would retire to her room to read a romantic 19^th century novel, completing the day.

Until recently, she had thought herself happy. Lately however, an odd dissatisfaction had grown in her psyche, as if she were inexplicably out of place. There was a feeling within her that somehow there must be more to her life than the isolation and religious piety her parents had chosen. It seemed to the young girl like an endless, monotonous circle, as if she were marooned on a remote island, uninhabited, except for her and her parents.

Because of her youth and sheltered upbringing, however, she simply didn't know why she was so restless. But there was a reason. Within her loins churned the first stirrings of womanhood. Strange feelings that Beth, brought up in a conservative, even prudish home had no preparation for. There had been no discussion of the "facts of life," with her parents, nor would there ever be. Her father figured the job belonged to Beth's future husband. And mother? Well her ultra-religious mother considered sex a filthy, degrading act. Fit only for animals to indulge in and certainly nothing that a proper young lady would discus with her mother! Even with her very limited knowledge of the specifics of procreation, Beth wondered how on earth her parents had ever had her.

Beth herself was a lovely girl, petite in stature but proportioned perfectly. She had large, expressive brown eyes, long chestnut hair and skin the color of a porcelain doll. Her recent metamorphous from comely little girl to womanhood's bloom was evidenced by two perfectly shaped breasts and a ripening womanly figure. She was in fact, a quite exceptional beauty.

Beth was above all, however, a good girl, in the most proper sense of the word. With every fiber of her being she wanted to be the chaste and virtuous daughter her old fashioned father expected her to be, even if that meant shunning the attentions of boys her age. But despite the isolation they lived in, there were a few boys that managed to talk to her before her ever-watchful father intercepted them. Beth always gave them a polite brush off, explaining that her father was not allowing her to "court" until she turned 18. Even then, she told them, she would need a chaperone.

This was almost always effective on the conservative boys at the church, the only place she had any social contact since she did not attend public school. The few boys who were persistent were dealt with decisively by her father.

"Did ... did you have a nice walk?" asked her mother as Beth strode into the house.

"Yes. Where's father?"

"He's upstairs ... on the phone."

Beth noticed the tight, simpering expression on her mother's face. She often looked that way, but the young girl sensed that tonight there was something bothering her.

It was difficult to tell for sure, though. Both her parents were moody by nature. Robert Kaylor, her father, was the last of his kind. An avowed racist and white supremacist, he was ostracized and despised by modern society. Even in this area of the South, most people were offended by her father's overt racism. The feeling was mutual. That was why he had moved his family to this corner of rural Alabama. To be away from "niggers," and "nigger loving white trash". That was also the reason Beth never attended the public schools. He did not want his daughter in even casual contact with black people.

"Mom, do you think I could go to the Melson town social this month?"

Her mother frowned. "Beth, you know how your father feels about dancing."

"I know, mom, but this is just folk dancing. Traditional stuff ..."

"Beth, it's still dancing. And there might be coloured boys there."

"Mother, the other girls at church do things. I never get to go out."

"Be thankful you have family, Beth. Some girls don't have loving parents," said her mother tearfully. The older woman was mysteriously emotional at the moment and Beth wondered at the cause.