"When one makes as much money as I do,
there isn't any reason why one shouldn't have any pleasure one wants in this
world. Physical pleasure, at any rate."
The man who made the comment wore a
traditional Arab burnouse and his aquiline features were faintly tanned. It
was, however, more like a Mediterranean holiday tan than the darker colouring
of his race. Also, his accent was completely Westernised ... that of a Public
School boy. Not surprising, since Ibn Fazir had been to a minor private school,
but an exceedingly expensive one, in England. That had been many years ago. He
was now a mature man in his early forties. At his prime, many would have said.
He himself certainly felt in his prime!
"True, oh Prince," said the man who
sat in the armchair facing the Arab. Ibn Fazir was not, in fact, a Prince nor
had ever made any claim to be. But Herman Schwarz, his financial adviser and
'eminence grise' was wont to speak in this flowery fashion. 'Sire' and 'Your
Highness' were common forms of address, especially when there were visiting
businessmen about. As his name very much suggests, Herman Schwarz was German
born. The son of a Nazi official, he had fled his home country at the end of
the Second World War in order to make his fortune. At that time, Arab countries
were sorely in need of financial and industrial expertise and Herman, who had
both, had prospered mightily. Now in his fifties, he had mainly been
responsible for making Ibn Fazir's multi-millions and also ensuring, through
world-wide investment, that he kept them. Indeed, the money constantly
increased in quantity. To Ibn it had become a matter of no concern. He was
indifferent to how or where it was made.
He simply knew if he wanted a million pounds on a certain day, he could
have it. And then have a million the next day too, if he so desired. Moreover,
such an outpouring of cash would scarcely make a dent in his investment portfolio.
"It is a matter of organisation,"
said Ibn Fazir.
"We have plenty of that," said
Herman Schwarz. "Is there something particular you have in mind then,
The Arab, lean and undeniably handsome, did
not answer immediately. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and then
laid them to his lips. "Maybe ...
" he said at last.
The German frowned slightly. As chief
organiser of the financial empire in which he too lived in supreme comfort, he
did not like any secrets being kept from him. After all, he had virtually made
the man. "Is there anything I can
do?" he asked after a prolonged silence between them.
"Possibly," answered Ibn
Fazir. "But it is something quite
outside the scope of our normal business operations. There must be no connection at all."
"I see," nodded Herman. "Well, that is by no means an
impossibility. As you yourself said, it is a matter of organisation. Can you
tell me more?"
Ibn Saud looked at the grizzle-haired German.
He was a man he trusted completely. He
realised, also, how much he owed to him. Yet he still seemed hesitant. "You may not approve," said Ibn
Fazir at last.
Herman chuckled and spread his hands. "Who am I to approve or disapprove? You
are the boss. Come on ... be honest with me ..."
"It is a rather personal matter,” said
"Well ... you have trusted me with many confidences in
the past. Why not again?"
"Yes, I suppose you're right." he said. “But I can't help
feeling faintly embarrassed."
"Oh come ... come ... you're not a little
boy any more ..."
"True ... true indeed ..." There
was another prolonged pause and then Ibn Fazir seemed to come to a decision. He
grinned. “For the time being, this is
absolutely between us."
"As you must know, Herman," said
Ibn Fazir, "there are countless lovely women in this world who would be
delighted to become one of my concubines. One of my mistresses, as Westerners
put it. The four women who became my wives ... and have given me children
... could not have been more grateful.
However, I now have nothing to do with them.
They bore me. As do most of the concubines, except on rare
"I do not see what you are complaining
about," said Herman benignly. He too had little to do with his own wife,
but that suited him well.
"They are too willing ... too eager
..." replied Ibn Fazir. "Does
that make sense to you?"
Herman Schwarz contemplated the matter. "Well... yes ... in a way, I suppose it
does," he answered finally.
"That was all very well when I was
younger," went on Ibn, "But now, possibly through excess, my tastes
have become jaded. Indeed, many would say they have become perverted."
"Perverted?" Herman raised his eyebrows,
“You surprise me."
"Oh ... I don't mean little boys even
though my race is supposed to enjoy them highly. And, indeed, I have tried them
myself. Without either success or enjoyment, I may say."
"In what way perverted, then?"
"Well,' answered Ibn Fazir, “this is the
crux of the matter. Latterly I have been wanting women who do not care for my
attentions. Who have to submit to me, whatever their true feelings ..."
"Ahhh ... I see ... "
"What I now desire, I suppose,"
said Ibn, "are sex slaves, not women in the ordinary sense."
"Ahhh ... I do see ..." said Herman
again, nodding his head.
"Of course I do. I wasn't born
yesterday. In any event, your desire is nothing particularly unusual."
"No ... I'm surprised you didn't know
that. The difference is that you are in a position to satisfy your
"You think so?"
"'Of course ... I know so." Herman
shrugged. Sometimes he despaired of his patron. He could be so naive. Wherever
would he have got without the good Herman at his side?
"And you don't disapprove?"
"It is not for me to approve or
disapprove. But, I may as well tell you, I don't disapprove at all. What
concern are the emotions of a few young women in this vast, cruel world of
"Typically Germanic ..." murmured
Herman looked slightly affronted. "I
don't think your race comes out too well in the humanity stakes," he said
primly. "You were slaughtering and
raping women - and herding them into harems -
before the German nation was thought of."
"Touché," smiled Ibn Fazir. Now
that he had confessed his inner feelings, he felt rather better. Especially as
Herman looked not the slightest put out. It was absolutely essential to have
that wily old bird on his side. "You think something on those lines can be
arranged, then?" he asked.
"I'm certain of it,' replied Herman
Schwarz. One could almost see his
organisational mind beginning to work already.
"It will take a bit of time ... and we must be exceedingly
careful. We don't want any international
scandals, do we?"'
"No, we do not," said Ibn Fazir
emphatically. He noted that Herman had not mentioned the matter of money.
"Will it be expensive?" he enquired, not caring one way or another.
"In the normal sense of that word,"
replied Herman, "yes. But for you, no. Don't concern yourself with that.
It will be a fleabite compared with some of our earlier commercial operations."
"You really are prepared to go ahead,
then?" said Ibn. It was obviously difficult for him to hide his relief and
"Yes, certainly." said Herman.
"Things have been a bit boring for me, too, lately. It will give me
something to get my mental teeth into. But don't expect results very soon. This
has got to be a cast iron operation. First the place itself has got to be
suitably sited. Then I will have to set up a very discreet world-wide
organisation for snaring the little birds who will occupy the cage. Still, it
can all be arranged ..."
Ibn Fazir felt a tingling of his blood. The
idea of a young woman actually being confined to a cage suddenly had a
tremendous appeal for him.
The two men sat in silence for some while in
the luxuriously furnished air-conditioned room.
Though they were a thousand miles from nowhere in the desert, with
intense heat outside, they could have been in the penthouse of a Hilton Hotel
anywhere in the world. These were the kind of surroundings Ibn favoured, so
they were arranged for him in his numerous residences.
"What are you brooding on?" he
asked the German, who sat rather like a Buddha in contemplation.
"You don't use Shalik-Mir these days, do
you?" enquired Herman by way of reply.
"No ... it's quite a trek,"
answered Ibn. Shalik-Mir was another thousand miles into the remote hinterland.
"Even though I do go by 'chopper' these days,” he added. "Besides, it
always reminds me more of a fortress than a residence."
Herman nodded. "It was a fortress once," he said.
"That's why I think it will make an ideal site for our purpose. The only communication with it will be by
air. Any wandering tribesmen will not concern us - nor we them."
"You mean that's where you'll organise
this new set-up?" said Ibn, sitting up.
"I think so," replied Herman. "It certainly seems the best place. From a security point of view, anyway."
"You're right." agreed Ibn
Fazir. Trust Herman to set off on the
right foot straight away!
"Then, if you consent, I shall make
arrangements to have any necessary alterations begun at once ... "
"Oh please carry on. Herman ... you have
an absolutely free hand from now on ... "
"Thank you, Sire," smiled Herman
egregiously. He paused again. "I shall certainly need assistance. You have
no objection to my co-opting Greta and Stella?"
Ibn shook his head. "None at all. When I say a free hand, I
mean it," he said. "You think
they'll agree, then?"
"I'm sure of it," smiled
Herman. "I know those two. I should
think they'll be highly delighted by the idea. You see," said Herman,
"like a lot of idle and expensively kept women, they are inclined to get
bored. Also, like most women, they enjoy being in control of other women. Oh
yes, they'll be delighted to give every assistance."
"That's fine then," said Ibn
Fazir. "Then I'll leave the rest to
you. And I'll promise I'll try not to be
"It will be best not to be" said
Herman. "This sort of thing takes
He got up. The prospect of planning, of
organising, pleased him. Like most of
his race, he enjoyed work - and he had found little to occupy him in recent
Well content with the outcome of their
conversation, Ibn made his way back to his private quarters. On the way he happened to run into Greta
Schwarz, Herman's wife, and her so-called secretary-companion, Stella Gold. It
was an open secret that these two women, both in their mid-thirties, were
lovers ... Greta being bi-sexual, Stella a pure lesbian.
"Good afternoon, ladies,' said Ibn,
giving them a courtly bow.
"Greetings, oh Lord," smiled Greta.
She was a big, angular woman, square-shouldered, straight-backed. Very Germanic
in appearance, in fact. She had probably never been what might be called
beautiful, but must have had a certain severe attraction, with raven hair and
green eyes that had a cat-like slant. Stella was as fair as Greta was dark. She
was equally tall - around five feet ten inches - but her figure was more
curvaceous than that of Greta. Certainly one could have said she looked the
more feminine of the two women, although there was a certain steeliness about
her pale blue eyes. It rather pleased Ibn to think that these two women would
soon be part of his new enterprise.
"What's new?" he enquired.
"Nothing you could call
sensational," answered Stella. Her accent was North American. Though born in France, her parents had
originated in the States.
"I think Herman may have some news for
you before long," said Ibn.
Greta raised her eyebrows. "Oh ... what's our brain-box been up to
now?" Her relations with Herman had been purely platonic after the first
few months of marriage. It suited both of them best that way. Their
relationship had been more of a business partnership than anything. A most
successful one, too.
"I'll leave it to him to tell you,"
said Ibn. He bowed again and moved on down the corridor.
"I wonder what that can mean?" said
"Let's not bother about that now,
darling," smiled Greta, taking the blonde woman's hand.
"No ... let's not," laughed
Stella. "I'm feeling very much in
the mood this afternoon.” Her long, soft hair danced on her shoulders as they
went along the corridor.
"Mmm ... me too," said Greta. Thank
God, she thought, for the devoted love of a woman. Life would be very boring
without it ... even though that life was one of unending comfort and luxury.
Meanwhile Ibn Fazir had reached his suite ...
where he removed his robes and took a shower.
It was at such moments, he reflected, that it
would be most delightful to have a slavegirl attend upon him. Not one of his
concubines - who would be happy to do so - but young woman who was forced to do
and thus was not at all happy about it!
Yes that would be most amusing ... most
Not, Ibn told himself, that he intended any
great physical cruelty against such women. There may be sadistic emotions in
him, but he was not a true sadist, he was sure. He did not, for example, wish
to cause any of these slave-girls of the future any permanent harm. Of course,
quite naturally, they would be rebellious at first and would have to pay the
penalty. Or penalties, rather. Until they learned to be submissive and
obedient. How long that took depended on how proud or stubborn they were. But
there must not be any savagery. No excessive cruelty. He must make that clear
Chastised they must be. That would be an
essential part of their training. But there must be definite limits put upon
that chastisement. I'll have to consider that carefully, said Ibn to himself as
he stepped out of the shower. Since it is my game, I am entitled to make the
Naked, Ibn Fazir walked across his bedroom
and lay down on the huge square bed which was piled with multi-coloured silken
cushions. He was well-muscled and, for a man in his forties, had kept his
figure well. This was the result of regular exercise and a lot of horse-riding
rather than any arduous diet regime. He sighed as he relaxed into the luxury of
the bed and felt that familiar throb of desire at its contact. His mind roved
over the women available to him at that moment.
His wives he dismissed. They were for child
rearing. Beyond that, there were a handful of women in the harem. They were not
slaves. They were delighted to be there. It was a position much prized.
Easy-going, well-fed, well clothed ... nothing to do but beautify themselves
all day. There were scores of women of that type eager to take their place.
They were overjoyed when he sent for them.
Still, for the moment he must be content with
what he had. Should it be Delia? She was white ... an ex-dancer from the
Beirut cabarets. Or Sula ... one of the most beautiful Arab girls he had ever
possessed? Or maybe Zoe ... a young Nubian girl with body so lithe and loins of
Yes ... perhaps it should be the Negress that
afternoon. Ibn Fazir picked up the telephone beside his bed.
"'Ask Zoe to come to me," he said
Then he put down the receiver and lay back
again, waiting contentedly as he contemplated the immediate, and the more