Harem Days

As I write these words, sitting in my comfortable old study in Hartford, Connecticut, my life is drawing slowly towards its end. And what a life it's been. The tale I am about to relate happened many years ago, and was my first great adventure.

My name is Emily Buchanan, and I'm...well, probably a lot older than you are. I'm something of a crab apple these days, with my long silver hair, worn in a bun, my lined face, bi-focal spectacles, liver spotted hands and stick thin frame. I've always been proud of my height though -- I'm five-nine or thereabouts -- and I carry myself erect, with my head held high. At the time when these events took place, I looked very different. My hair was long and golden, my green eyes sparkling, my complexion peaches and cream, my figure was greatly admired on three continents, and I had legs to die for. But then, I was only in my mid-twenties at the time.

I was a professional archaeologist -- the work that has been my passion across the decades. We were a rare breed then, women in archaeology I mean. I'd graduated from Cornell with a First in Classics, then gained admission to Oxford to study under Sir Wilfred Allenby, possibly the greatest archaeologist of his day. Plenty of people at the university looked on askance at the idea of a woman taking on such a profession, but like all true devotees of a subject Sir Wilfred was gender blind when it came to his students. His only concern was commitment and ability, and I scored highly on both counts. I became very fond of the old dear. It was through his class, and the summer digs in Greece that he led us on, that I met the man who became my fiancé, Gerald Crichton. Indiana Jones he wasn't: tall and skinny, with a shock of spiky black hair that no amount of Brylcreem could control, black-framed spectacles and long limbs -- at first sight he reminded me of nothing quite so much as a spider - but he was quite brilliant. He charmed me with his dry British wit and his enthusiasm, and over the course of a year or so I fell in love with him.

It was thanks to Gerald that I found myself working in the Arabian desert, which is where this story really begins. A Brit, by the fanciful name of St John Philby, was a close confidante of the Royal Family, and through him a regional potentate called Sheikh Faisal al Surreyih bin Saud invited an archaeological team to excavate a site in his territory, where an ancient temple and tribal graves were located. On Sir Wilfred's recommendation Gerald was appointed one of the leaders of the expedition, despite his relative youth, and I accompanied him. The sheikh was slightly doubtful about a female being involved, but he was utterly charming: a huge man, way over sex feet tall, with glittering eyes like those of a hawk and a big hooked nose like a beak.

My God, it was hot in that desert. We rose at the crack of dawn, worked until late morning, rested through the heat of mid-day then resumed work in mid-afternoon, carrying on into the evening. I quickly got used to being constantly bathed in my own sweat, my hair plastered to my neck, sand getting into and irritating my most intimate places. At first I felt I should adopt a modest approach in front of the native workers, and wore long pants tucked into my boots, together with a blouse buttoned to the neck and a pith helmet. After two days I decided the hell with that, and I switched to shorts, a scarf tied around my head as a bandana, and an open-necked blouse. I was well aware that when I bent down the men could see my bra, if they chose -- and I had a good rack in those days -- but, frankly, I was too hot to care. Anyway, if guys wanted to admire me I took it as a compliment.

I could never get enough to drink, and guzzled water greedily when I had the chance. One of the other guys on the dig was a British military officer, David McHugh. He was a captain aged around 30, stationed in Aden, to the south, which was then under British rule. He was an enthusiastic amateur historian, and his colonel had given him special leave to come and join us. I was amused by his military bearing in such intolerable conditions -- always ramrod stiff, his short blond hair neatly groomed, his little moustache trimmed to perfection, and his khakis always pristine, the creases in his trousers like knife blades. I didn't know how he did it in that heat. He was always very kind and solicitous towards me though, and went out of his way to make sure I got plenty of liquid.

We were staying in the local town, at a place called the Grand Hotel, where the faucets usually worked, even if they did supply only a trickle of water, but the ceiling fans were less reliable. Consequently I spent hot, uncomfortable nights, to add to my hot, uncomfortable days, even though I wore only a pair of silk panties in bed. After ten days we received a visit for dinner at the hotel from Sheikh Faisal's younger brother, Prince Hafiz. We were told what a great honour it was, and I saw it as a rare opportunity on that trip to feel glamorous, for one evening at least. I had a long bubble bath, applied tasteful make-up, and wore the one pretty dress I had with me, white cotton with red polka dots, belted at the waist, sleeveless with a v-neck line which revealed just a hint of bosom. Then I did what I could with my hair, which had been turned to straw by the sun, and pulled on a pair of black high heels which I just knew would kill me by the end of the evening -- I've never really been much of a girly girl. Finally, I pulled on the diamond solitaire with which Gerald had sealed our engagement, which I clearly wasn't able to wear on the dig. As an afterthought, and as a nod to Moslem sensitivities, I draped a thin black cardigan across my shoulders. (I had actually thought I might need one in Arabia!) Then I joined the other members of the team on the hotel verandah, to await our guest.

As eight pairs of admiring male eyes turned towards me I really felt like the belle of the ball. Gerald, unusually attired in formal evening dress, leapt to his feet and wrapped his arm around me, giving me a peck on the cheek. David was wearing his military dress uniform for the occasion. He rose as well, and handed me a lemonade. His eyes taking me in from head to toe, he murmured, "My, Emily, you look quite stunning tonight." As he stood very close, gazing down at me, suddenly, unaccountably, I felt a blush pass across my face and chest. I couldn't understand it -- I'd never experienced a physical reaction to Captain McHugh before; but there was something different about that evening. I dipped my eyes and sipped my drink to cover my confusion. It was clear Gerald hadn't noticed anything, as he continued to hold me, grinning like an idiot.

I was trying to think of something to say when we became aware of a distant dust cloud rising in the twilight. We watched in silent fascination as it gradually approached, finally resolving itself into a group of a dozen or more horsemen, all dressed in flowing Arab robes, the lower halves of their faces covered against the dust. They reined in their magnificent stallions and dismounted beside the hotel. Clearly, Prince Hafiz had decided to make an impression.

As members of his retinue gathered together the reins of the beasts, he strode towards us, a tall figure in a white head-dress and robe, with black riding boots. As he mounted the verandah I could see he was much more handsome than his brother, in his mid-thirties maybe. He flashed us a brilliant white smile, and bowed at the waist to me. He was accompanied by a bull of a man, with a fierce face, a down-turned mouth and a livid scar across his cheek, bisecting his beard. At his waist was a large curved dagger with elaborately jewelled handle and scabbard. His Highness introduced the thug as Abdullah, his personal adviser. I assumed that was a euphemism for bodyguard. The other riders, all with carbine rifles slung across their shoulders, waited outside, sitting on the steps of the hotel or lounging against the wall.

As we ate a well cooked dinner of mutton, I could feel Hafiz's gaze on me. Each time I looked up he gave me that dazzling smile, and raised his glass of water to me in salute. It seemed he was fascinated by me as both the only woman present and the only, as he put it, "citizen of the land of Uncle Sam". He had a kind of oily charm which I found slightly repugnant. Following the meal the men lit up cigars, or in David McHugh's case a pipe. Normally at this point the ladies would have been expected to withdraw, but in view of my singularity my male companions accorded me the huge privilege of being permitted to remain. I felt as if I had been 'promoted' to honorary man for the night(!).

The conversation drifted back and forth across our work, politics, Hafiz's dreams for his young country, and so on. Towards the end of the evening he leaned across to Gerald and, in a stage whisper clearly audible to all those present, said, "You know, Doctor Crichton, your woman is very beautiful. I would gladly give you ten camels for her."

Conversation died and Gerald looked shocked. Then a slow grin spread across the prince's face, and Gerald laughed, catching up with the joke. He shook his head, and replied, "I'm afraid she's worth a lot more than that to me, Your Highness." All the men thought it was hilarious, apart from Abdullah, who retained his perpetual scowl. I managed to force a sickly grin onto my face.

Hafiz sank back into his chair, nodding slowly, steepling his fingers in front of his face. The he said, "All right, thirty camels, my final offer." The laughter continued.

Gerald took my hand in his, squeezed it, and said, "I really am sorry Your Highness, but Em isn't for sale at any price."

There was a sharp crack as Abdullah leapt to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. As if by a magic trick, the dagger appeared in his hand. A shocked silence fell, and he snarled, in heavily accented English, "You insult my lord. He has made you a very fair offer." Instantly another chair fell, and it was David McHugh who was on his feet, his fists bunched, his square jaw firmly set, fury in his eyes. The hotel manager, who had been twittering around the prince all evening, stood in the doorway, looking as if he was about to faint. Gerald was frozen, sitting with his mouth hanging open, his eyes locked on that vicious dagger.

It was Hafiz who broke the spell. He uttered a rich chuckle, and placed a restraining hand on his retainer's wrist. "Abdullah, where is your sense of humor? I am just having fun with our English friends. And our beautiful American friend, of course. I apologise, lady and gentlemen, Abdullah is very devoted to me, and protects my honor with his life." The prince's mouth smiled, but his eyes did not.

After a pause of what seemed like several centuries, Abdullah slowly sank into his seat. McHugh did the same, but their eyes never left each other. Conversation continued with an uneasy edge, and only about a quarter hour passed before Hafiz excused himself. I watched Abdullah and David closely, and their eyes never left each other. As the visiting party left, Hafiz shook each of the men's hands. All gave him a polite smile but David McHugh, whose look could have melted an iceberg. When he came to me, Hafiz took my hand in his and delicately kissed it. "Goodnight Miss Buchanan, I very much hope I will have the pleasure of meeting you again before too long." I tried not to shudder in revulsion until he had passed on from me.

The next day at the dig several of the men were somewhat hung over, having stayed up late drinking a smuggled bottle of whisky. Captain McHugh was his usual trim self though, and apologised to me for any offence his behaviour the previous evening may have caused me. I gave him a warm smile, and told him how grateful I was to him for having stood up for my honor. He winked as he responded, "Well, we Scots have got to stick together" -- a reference to my surname. Then he chuckled. "Honestly, that Prince Hafiz -- 'our English friends', indeed! I'll bet Hans wasn't too impressed by that either." Hans Ullrich was a German member of the team. As usual David brought me copious amounts of water throughout the day. Something had changed between us though. Whenever he stood close to me I felt myself getting antsy and flustered, playing with my hair and blushing when my eyes met his. I became aware that I was watching him as he moved around the site, and shook myself angrily, telling myself to stop acting like some dumb broad. Nevertheless, there was a spark of sexual electricity between us that hadn't been there before.

It was after about an hour that someone noticed the lone rider on a hill overlooking the dig site. He was no more than a distant silhouette, black against the burning sky, sitting stock still on his horse. At first we tried to ignore him. Eventually the men started debating as to whether someone should drive one of our battered trucks over and see if he wanted something. McHugh counselled against that: "I think Prince Hafiz has simply decided to take more of an interest in our work here." So we ignored him again. Personally, he gave me the creeps; he seemed to me like something out of a Tom Mix movie, the Sioux scout observing the wagon train just before the big attack.

Our immobile watcher stayed with us all day, and it was only as we were loading up for the return to town that we finally saw him galloping away over the horizon. When I got back to the hotel I felt hot and dirty from the dig, confused over the way I was suddenly feeling about David, and maybe a little frustrated that Gerald didn't seem to be paying anything like as much attention to my welfare. I excused myself from the party, had the manager send dinner up to my room, then, after another long soak, sat in bed writing my journal. I turned out the light around ten o'clock and settled in for another uncomfortable night. The ceiling fan was turning slowly, but producing no relief whatsoever. There was a tiny balcony by the full length windows in my room, and I had flung them open, but the air outside was still and heavy.

At sometime during the night, as I lay basting in my sweat-drenched sheets, I thought I saw the curtain across the windows billow. It was clearly an illusion, I thought: there wasn't a breath of wind to be had in the whole of Arabia that night. Angrily, I bounced onto my other side, turning my back to the windows. A few seconds later I heard a floorboard creak. As I began to turn back to investigate the sound, a hand firmly gripped the back of my skull, a damp cloth was clamped over my nose and mouth and, as I drew breath to scream, darkness descended on me.

When I awoke I was momentarily disoriented. My head was swimming, and I had no memory of where I was, or what had happened to me. As I stirred I thought I heard a door open and close. Dopily I brushed my hand against my face, then down my body -- and froze. Apart from my bed panties I had been naked when I went to sleep. Now I was wearing some kind of soft, silky outfit. Suddenly it all came back to me in a flash: the intruder in my bedroom, the sickly sweet taste in my mouth, and smell in my nose...I realised that somebody had abducted me. But who, and why?

I leaned up on my elbows, and stared down my body. I was lying on a huge bed covered in a silk sheet. My upper half was covered in a clinging, silky pink sleeveless top, the hem elasticated above my navel, my lower half in matching pants, which ballooned around my legs, again elasticated around my ankles. My feet were bare, and beneath the silk suit I was quite naked. As I gazed at my surroundings, I realised with horror who must be behind my kidnapping. The place was like something out of the 1001 Nights -- the only thing it was lacking was a magic lantern containing a genie! It was a huge room, the walls draped in gorgeous hangings, gold fittings here and there, and in one corner several large cushions arranged on the floor, a hookah between them.

Before I could notice anything more, one of two large golden double doors at the foot of the room opened, and closed and there, as I had expected, stood Prince Hafiz bin al Surreyih bin Saud. He was wearing a simple cotton robe, and purple and gold slippers, with curled toes. He sauntered slowly towards the bed, and murmured, "Ah, my prize, I see that you have finally woken."

Pushing myself into a fully sitting position on the bed, I snapped, "Just what the hell is going on here?"

Hafiz shrugged, and said, as if explaining the obvious, "Your man refused my very generous offer for you, so I exercised my right and took you. You now belong to me."

It seems difficult to believe now, but I actually laughed at him, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of his suggestion. Sliding on my bottom to the foot of the bed, I placed my feet on the rich carpet and replied, "Like hell I do. Who do you think you are? You've been watching too many Rudolph Valentino movies. Now get me some proper clothes and let me out of here, right now."

He crossed his arms and gave me a smug smile. "I am afraid you have not yet appreciated your situation, Emily. By the way, that name does not please me, henceforth you will be known as Farrah, and you will call me My Lord. You are now one of my wives. It is done, decided. The only thing which remains is for our marriage to be consummated."

I began to feel a tremor of fear at his confidence in the situation. Trying to keep my voice steady, I said, "You'll never get away with this. My friends will already be looking for me. And this is the first place they'll come"

He nodded in acknowledgement. "Quite true. But they will not find you. There are many bandits in this area. In a day or so my men will present your friends with some severed heads, and tell them that, sadly, the rest of the gang got away. The last thing my people saw was a pale woman with yellow hair struggling between two of the ruffians as they rode off. There will be no rescue party for you."

Now I was starting to feel really scared at this quite unreal situation. "President Roosevelt is my godfather", I lied, "he'll send a thousand marines to rescue me." Hafiz simply chuckled, shaking his head slowly. I tried a different tack. "Your Highness, please, you consider yourself an educated, modern...an enlightened man. What you're trying do to me is the act of a savage."

He bridled at that. Then he relaxed a little, and said, "I am modern man. But I am also a law abiding man. If I were to visit America, or England, I would respect the laws of those countries. If their peoples come to my country, they must respect our laws. What I have done is quite legal. Of course, your archaeological team's work will cease, and my brother will be annoyed, but he will understand. But that is enough talk, Farrah. Now we will consummate our love."

With that he lifted his robe over his head, and dropped it to the floor. He was naked beneath it, revealing a long, thick, already semi-erect cock. As he advanced towards me I realised, too late, my mistake in not getting off the bed at the first opportunity. Now it was too late and, terrified, I began to edge up the bed away from Hafiz. I tried to dive off to one side, but it was too late. He grabbed my thighs and dragged me into the centre of the bed, turning me onto my back again. Then he was on top of me, his weight pressing down on me. With one hand he gripped the neck of my top, pulled hard, and it ripped away, exposing my breasts to him.

With a roar of delight he fell on them, painfully squeezing one in one hand and biting the other. Sobbing with pain and anguish I tried to hit him but he just laughed. Still assaulting my boobies, he grabbed one of my flailing arms with one hand and bent it painfully behind my back, pinning it there under our combined weights. Then he released my breast long enough to grab my other arm, which he pinned to the bed in a vice-like grip. Then, through gritted teeth, he muttered, "I like a woman with spirit. But we have played this game long enough now."