The Picture: Tangier
By Katharine Tyler Brooks
Katharine64@verizon.net
	Tangier.  Rosalie Harrington stood on the deck as the ship docked, her body trembling so with excitement that she feared she might faint.  Other passengers stood along side her, chatting with one another, discussing plans for dinner and which hotels they intended to stay in.  Rosalie stood silent, breathing as deeply as her lungs would allow.   The scent of the sea, the fishy odor of the port, were perfumed with the fragrances of spices and warm fruit.  It made her feel hungry, not for food, but adventure and discovery of life.
	As long as she could remember, she had yearned to come to the mysterious east, the place of Sinbad, Aladdin, and Sheherazade, rich and intricate tapestries, vibrant colors and rare seasonings that bit the tongue. She could think of nothing more exhilarating.
	Her parents had not wanted her to come, in fact, had forbidden her to come, even threatening to send her home to New York if she so much as mentioned it again.  Therefore, she had turned to her fiancee, Adrian Hallowell.
	She remembered even now he had tossed aside her fondest dream as if it were a mere scrap of paper.  She had gone to him in his office at the embassy in Paris where he served as an assistant to her father.  He had been hunched over some papers when she had entered which he swiftly put away in a drawer as she rushed in, nearly tripping over her long skirt and four petticoats in her eagerness.
	“Adrian, you must help me.”
	Behind his glasses, his dull blue eyes blinked at her.  “Why Rosalie, whatever is the matter?”
	“You must take me to Tangier.  I simply must go.”
	“Rosalie, we are not yet man and wife.  It would be quite inconceivable for me to take you anywhere, let alone some strange place in the Near East.”
	“I mean for our honeymoon.  Please, Adrian, I must go.  I must.”
	Adrian cocked his pale head to the side like a curious dog.  He seemed unable to absorb what he had just heard.  Then he looked down at his desk for several moments.  Furious at his hesitation, she stamped her high heeled boot.  The sound was muffled in the deep pile of the Persian carpet.  Adrian looked up and blinked.
	“I’m afraid it would be quite out of the question.  Morocco simply isn’t a safe place for people of  European heritage right now.”
	“But I have dreamed of the East; Morocco, Afghanistan, India, China, for nearly all my life.  I must go there, Adrian, and I must now, while I am still young, before children and social duties weigh me down.
	“No, no, I’m afraid I simply can’t allow it.  Perhaps a nice journey to Rome or even Vienna.  Greece is very nice as well.”
	She had stormed out of his office so furiously that her bonnet had nearly flown off her head.   She would take matters into her hands.  She had an ample legacy from her grandmother that would last her the rest of her life if she lived frugally and she had saved more than have of her monthly allowance for the past two years, foregoing many trips to the dressmaker and teas with friends to prepare for the adventure of a lifetime.  
	Through the brother of a friend, she had purchased a passage to Tangier.  Though it was technically in north Africa, it was still exotic and exciting.  From there she would travel east until she had seen it all, right to the east coast of China.  To hell with marriage and society.  And most of all to hell with Adrian Hallowell.
	The ship came to a halt and the passengers began to move.   Rosalie picked up her skirts and moved with them, making her way to the gangplank like the rest.  She claimed her few bags on the dock.  Then she turned to faced the city she had come to explore, thinking “What now?”
	Despite the breeze from the ocean, the air was stiflingly hot.  Her outfit, a silk dress, four petticoats, a bustle, long pants, and long stockings, and high-heeled boots, was quite fashionable in Paris, but suffocating in the Arabian heat.  Furthermore, she had begun to feel hungry and thirsty.  She began to wonder where she might get a cup of tea and a bite to eat before she decided what to do next.  
	But first there was the problem of her luggage.  She had not brought much, but there was certainly more than she could carry.  She had thought there would be porters when the ship docked, but there were none to be seen.  She pondered what arrangements had made for they all seemed to have left her behind by now.
	As she stood on the dock, watching the great hubbub as the ship unloaded, a young boy of about nine or ten in ragged clothing ran up to her.  
	“Please, Miss you rent my donkey cart?”
	Taken aback to here he spoke English, she hesitated before she answered.
	“Please, Miss.  I take your luggage.  I take you to the best inn in tangier.”
	“But you’re only a boy.  This luggage is very heavy.”
	“I am very strong, Miss.  And my donkey is even stronger.  Come, Miss.  I take your luggage to good place.  Plenty good food and cool water.  You like it there.”
	Still she was reluctant.  The boy seemed far to wise for his years.  She had a feeling she was being manipulated.
	“Please, Miss.  My family is very poor.  My father was killed and my mother is very ill.  She can no longer care for her children.  I am the oldest of six.  I make take care of them.”
	Was this a lie, she wondered, just to get her to hire him, or was it true.  If it was true, then she must help him and she could not know it was not true.  
	“Very well, young man, but I am cautious.  If this is a trick, I will have the police on you.”
	“No trick, Miss.  I promise. No trick.”
	The boy ran off around a building and returned momentarily with a small wooden cart drawn by a thin looking donkey.  He tugged and pulled her bags inside the cart and patted the small wooden seat in front.
	“You sit here, Miss.  I walk along side donkey.  Keep his attention on the road.”
	There was no step up to the cart, but she managed to mount the small seat, long skirt, petticoats and all.  It was a most uncomfortable seat, and Rosalie prayed the journey would not take long.  
	The boy led Rosalie down a narrow street where white box-like buildings encroached its edges like overly eager crowd waiting for a parade.   
	The street emptied into some sort of market place, a huge plaza of sorts filled with rows of merchants with baskets of fruit, vegetables, nuts, or spices; blankets spread with pottery, cloth, or silver jewelry; crates full of chicken or eggs.   At their every step, peddlers placed themselves in their path, offering goods and spicy smelling foods.  Rosalie’s empty stomach made her wonder what a nice plate of that aromatic meat dish would cost, but she did not know how to ask or which coins in her handbag were which.
	They turned into another small street,  one with many alley ways leading from between buildings.  Where on earth was this boy taking her, thought Rosalie.  She was quite uncomfortable on her perch.  There were far too many shadows on this street.  She began to fear what might be lurking in them.
	The donkey cart stopped.  Rosalie looked around for the boy and found he was no longer beside the cart or anywhere that she could see.   In the next moment, she was beset by thugs, rough looking men in ragged sand colored clothing suddenly surrounded her.  One wielded a large, curved knife and hissed at her.  Another carried a rope looped in his hand as if to tie her.  Several others crowded round her as if waiting be called.  
	She rose, trembling but determined, and stood her ground, grasping her collapsed parasol in one hand.  The tight sleeves of her dress inhibited her movements, but if she bided her time she had a chance.  As the one with the knife rushed her, she drove the handle into is abdomen, below his navel, or where she thought it must be, causing him to falter and gasp. As he fell backward, she struck him on the side of the nose with the heavy handle and again in the crotch of is ballooned pants.  He landed on the ground in a scream. 
	She swung around as two others mounted the cart.  She delivered several good blows before they were joined by a third and finally subdued her, holding her motionless, but not silent. She screamed, in fear and rage, as the man with the rope approached her.  She kicked at his testicles, but the men grabbed her ankles.   He lowered the loop of rope over her head and then slid it down to tightly bind her shoulders.  Then he wound the rope about her wrists as she struggled hopelessly against the men who bound her.
	There was a shout.  Another male voice joined in the cacophony of human sounds, a strong voice, deep and resonate.  Suddenly the men who had seized her abandoned her, running away down alleys like frightened cats.  Rosalie turned her head in the direction the men had run from.  A man  in a dark robe and a brightly striped head dress holding a gigantic curved sword.  She collapsed on the seat and wept into her skirt.  He had chased away the other, but what new torment would he subject her to.
	“There, there, Miss,” his voice was kindly now and directly next to her ear.  She caught the spicy fragrance of his breath as is brushed over her damp cheek.  “It is over now.  You are safe.  I, Izemrasen Ahelfi, advisor to the Sultan, declare it so.”
	She raised her head to look at him through damp lashes.  Only his hands and face were visible, but what skin that showed was swarthy.  His hands were thick with hair and below his rather long nose grew a thick mustache.  His eyes, however, were what caught her attention.  Deep and dark, they seemed like two wells.  They fixed her, seeming to draw her in.  She wanted to fall into his arms.  Only her resolve to recover herself and behave in a respectable manner prevented it.  
	He began to untie her.
	“Thank you, Sir, for rescuing me,” she said with what dignity she could muster.
	“You are very welcome, but what are you doing on the street alone?  Where is your family?  In Morocco, no woman goes out without a man from her family to accompany her.”  
	His voice was deep and smooth, as rich as chocolate.
	“My family is in Paris, Sir.”
	“Paris?  Unthinkable.  You are not French?”
	“I’m an American.  My father is the Ambassador to France.”
	“Then how are you here when he is there?”
	“I took a trip on my own, Sir.”
	His face darkened.  “You mean, you ran away.”
	“I’m afraid I did, Sir.”
	He took her now freed hands in his, squeezing them tightly.
	“Were you might daughter, I would have you whipped for such behavior.”
	She heard herself gasp at the thought, yet, at the same time, she knew the gasp was not entirely from fear.  Somehow the mere tone in which he had said it sent her heart racing and stirred feelings in the lower portion of her body that she recognized but could not name.  
	“But you are not mine to whip.  Therefore I will take you under my protection until you can be returned to your father.  He may deal with you as he sees fit.”
	Rosalie was very certain what he would see fit to do.   She was an adult now, but that would not save her from his punishment.  Once, when she had only dared to go to a nearby village without gaining his permission, he had thrown her over the arm of a chair, raised her skirt and petticoats, and strapped her over her long pants until she had been unable to sit comfortably for days.  It was the worst thrashing she had ever had.  The previous whippings  had been no more than two or three blows with the wide black leather strap he kept in his study.  This beating had gone on and on until she had screamed herself hoarse and the welts had made tiny spots of blood on her underwear.  What he would do now that would be worse than that, she could not even imagine.  	
	“Come,” said the Arab.  “My carriage is this way.”
	With this, he grabbed the robe that the boy had used to lead the donkey and took her by the arm leading her down one of the alleys to a larger thoroughfare, much wider than the others she had traveled and paved with large stones.  There stood a black carriage with two white horses.  Two young men is colorful shirts and ballooning breeches stood watch over it.  When they saw Izemrasen, they fell to their needs and bowed until their heads touched the ground.  He snapped some orders to them and they immediately took her luggage from the cart and piled it into the compartment at the back of  the carriage.
	One of the men lowered the carriage step and offered her is hand and she realized that these men were the Arabian version of a coachman and footman.  Once she and Izemrasen were inside, they took their places in front an back of the coach  and they were off.   
	She noticed that the Arab was careful to sit far enough away that he his body did not touch her.  Yet somehow she could feel him next to her as if he his entire body lay against hers.   A heady feeling began to take her over as if nothing about her was quite real.  His presence in itself seemed to drug her.  Here she was in a carriage beside a strange man, going she knew not where, and while it occurred to her that she should protest, or at least question what he was doing, somehow it simply didn’t matter.
	“May I have the pleasure of know whom I am taking into my home?” he asked after a while.  “You are Miss..”
	“Rosalie Harrington.  You are taking me to your home?”
	“I have placed you under my protection.  You will stay in your own quarters until your parents are able to come and fetch you.”
	She nodded.  Of course he would not simply put her on a ship home.  
	“I must know, my dear, who they are in order to contact them.”
	“My father is Paul Harrington, the American Ambassador to France.  My mother’s name is Madeline.  They may be reached at the American Embassy in Paris.”
	“Very good.  I shall send a message at once.  And here we are.”
	The carriage stopped in front of a huge white wall.  Above the wall projected the towers of a magnificent building that must be as big as a palace.   An arched gate opened into a beautiful courtyard with a tiled walk and masses of fragrant flowers in vibrant colors, most of which she had never seen before.  
	They entered an enormous open room filled with colorful cushions.  The walls were draped in boldly colored tapestries and bright richly textured rugs covered the brown tile floor.  A flat round basket on a small table held a mound of dates and other baskets brimmed with fruit, many of which she could not identify.  He clapped his hands and a servant brought her a cushioned rattan chair.  He seated himself on one of the cushions opposite her.  
	“Xanadu,” she whispered to herself, remembering the description of the pleasure Palace of Kubla Khan.  Izemrasen smiled.   	
	“I believe the River Alph was in China, Miss Harrington, but here in Morocco we have pleasures of our own.”  Then, in response to her look of surprise.  “I have an Oxford education.  My father felt it would benefit our business for me to understand western culture.”
	She wondered, momentarily, what that business was, but before she could ask, a woman in a dark, loose garment and a veil entered the room from behind one of the hanging cloths, and, seeing Izemrasen, cried out something Rosalie could not understand, then ran and fell to her knees at his feet, weeping.
	“There, there, my little Mamma.  All is well.” He leaned forward and caressed the woman’s head. “Come, meet our guest.”
	He helped the girl to her feet and she struggled to compose herself.  Rosalie noticed that she was only about her own age, and despite her red, tear stained face, very beautiful.  Her eyes were as dark as Izemrasen’s and her hair flowed from beneath the veil like a black river.  On seeing Rosalie, her expression seemed to change from tearful joy to anger and perhaps resentment.
	“This is Miss Harrington.  She will be staying with us for awhile.”  
	Mamma turned to him quickly, spewing some words Rosalie did not understand in a rapid, high pitched voice.  Izemrasen’s face darkened.  He said something sharp in his native language, and the girl turned away in tears.  He put his arm around her.
	“Do not take on so, little Mamma.  It is only until her parents claim her.”
	At these words, her tears suddenly ceased and a small smile crept over her lips.  Izemrasen smiled back and nodded.  The girl turned to Rosalie.  
	“Please accept my apology for my outburst, Miss Harrington.  My Master has been away a very long time.”
	“Of course,” said Rosalie.
	“Mamma, can you not see that our guest is hot and tire.   Bring her water.  Bring her mint tea.  Bring her food fit for a princess.”
	“At once, my Master.”  Mamma seemed to fly from the room.
	“You must for give her.  She lives to serve me and I have been away quite a while on a long and dangerous journey.”
	“I am sorry to hear so, Sir.  I hope your troubles are at an end now.”
	“Not yet, but I think it will come soon.”
	“I am glad to hear that, Sir.”
	Momentarily a servant placed a low table between them.  Another placed upon it a flat dish filled with a pale grain and with almonds and bits of orange.  Rosalie waited with her hands in her lap, waiting for the plates, forks, and napkins to be handed round.
To her amazement, a Izemrasen held out the three fingers of his right hand while a servant poured water from a silver pitcher over them. 
	“Please, Miss Harrington, eat.  You will feel better.  Do this.”
	He scooped a bit of the grain dish onto his fingers and put it into his mouth.  She thought it disgusting, but she was very hungry.  If she ate from the part of the dish furthest way from him, it might be all right.  She removed her gloves and let the servant pour water over her fingers.  
	The grain dish was exquisite.  The idea of cinnamon and green onions in the same dish seemed odd, but tasted wonderful.   Many other side dishes were served as well as many goblets of water and a sweet mint tea as intoxicating to the palate as wine.
	Their meal over, they cleaned their hands again.  That had solved the problem of her hunger and thirst, but she was still uncomfortably warm.  She felt sticky and damp beneath her clothing and wished sincerely that there were a ladylike way to ask to be allowed to bathe.  Izemrasen seemed to be reading her thoughts for he leaned forward.
	“Forgive me for being forward.  Are you not very uncomfortable in such clothing,  a close fitting bonnet, gloves,  so many layers of clothing. It is highly unsuitable to this climate. You should remove them.”
	“I am afraid I have nothing more suitable to change into, Sir.”
	Suddenly his gentle smile grew to an evil grin and his voice lowered to an evil growl.   “I did not ask you to change your clothes.  I told you to take them off.”
	Rosalie gasped, jumping to her feet, only to realize anyway she ran, he was between her and any possible exit.  Desperate, she fell back into her chair, prepared to defend her virginity with the heels of her boots if necessary.
	“How dare you!  You took me under your protection.  Shame on you for your dishonorable behavior!”	
	“ It is not I who is shamed. You have shamed yourself, coming here unescorted, unprotected.  It is an obscenity, an offer to be taken by any man at this will.  Such is my will.”
	With this he leapt forward and ripped her black bonnet from her head.  Then he pulled the pins the held her hair until it tumbled to her waist.  She screamed, beating against his chest with her fists, but the sleeves of her dress were so tight, they inhibited her movements and he laughed at her pitiful attempts at self-defense.  
	He began to fumble with the tiny black buttons on the back of her dress, but grew impatient and ripped them away, throwing the garment to the floor.  His fingers went to the lacing of her corset, tugging hard at the knot.  When his fingers, made clumsy by his excitement, could not tie it, he drew forth a huge, curved knife.  He put the blade of the knife under the laces and cutting them away.  The corset sprung away from her body.  She immediately felt more vulnerable without it.  The garment had forbidden access to her more intimate apparel.  Now she felt incredibly exposed.
	But she could also breathe more freely.  This, combined with her arms being freed from the dress renewed her spirits, and she began to fight him again, despite her fear of the horridly big knife.  She slapped his face and raked the nails of his ungloved hand across his eyes.  He grabbed her by the hair at the top of her hair and held her head still.  He placed his face very close to hers, his black eyes as dark and wicked as twin ravens.
	“You will submit to me,” he said his a hoarse whisper.  “No woman defies me!”
	He struck her in the face, then pinned her hands behind her back, pulling off he other glove in the process.  Then he slipped the blade beneath the knot on her outer most petticoat and sliced it, letting it fall to the tile floor.  He did the same to the second, and then the third, leaving her standing in only her chemise, long underpants, stocking, and boots.   He pushed her down onto one of the cushions.  He grabbed one foot and cut the laces where they crossed one by one from toe to top.  He threw the boot aside and cut the laces on the other, tossing that one aside as well.  Her stockings followed immediately afterward.
	She lay trembling on the cushion, breathing rapidly, her eyes riveted to his two black holes.  The blade gleamed in his hand, yet she did not believe he would cut her, not even when he used it to make a small cut in the hem of her chemise then rip it from her body, exposing her round, pale breasts.  
	She tried to cover them with her hands, but he fell on her, wedging himself between her legs and pinning her arms to the cushion.  She felt a hardness pressed against her most private parts.  Despite her fear, she found the sensation pleasant.  She spread her legs a bit further, to enhance the pleasure.
	Her heart beat so swiftly she thought it would burst in her breast.  Only their clothing prevented penetration.  As much as she feared the dishonor of losing her virginity before marriage, she could not deny the awakening of sensations long repressed.  
	“American women,” he hissed in her ear.  “You pretend to be so pure.  You cover your body with layers of clothing.   You show not so much as your toes.   Yet beneath you are all shameless whores hiding your bodies in fear of your own lust.”
	He released her wrists and fondled her breasts roughly.  She could not suppress a moan.   He laughed viciously, rising on his knees, and ripped her long pants from her body.
	She was naked, now.  Naked in the eyes of a man.  Not even her father had ever seen her completely nude.  Yet she did not feel abashed.  The sneer on his face had turned to a gaze of admiration and for the first time in her life, she knew she was beautiful.  She felt freer than she ever had in her life, much freer than in the presence of her stogy fiancee.  
	She had come to Tangier ready to discard the life she had known in favor of adventure.  It was not until that moment that it was her entire way of life she had given up.  In her new life her virginity no longer mattered.  Let him take her now.  She was ready.
	Her sex was wet and fragrant.  Her nipples were stiff and puckered.  She opened her legs and bent them at the knees to welcome him.  He threw back his head and laughed.
	“Do you think I want you, you pale stick of a creature?  You have no idea how to be a woman.   But you will learn.”
	With this he stood and clapped his hands.  Mamma appeared in the doorway holding a rope and a gold ring on a chain.  She pulled Rosalie by her long hair and brought her to her feet.  She tied her hands behind her, and clamped the ring on her left arm, leering wickedly.
	“Go with Mamma, you wretch.  She will teach you to be a woman.  Take her way.  Bathe her.  Anoint her skin with fragrant oils.  Then bring her back to me when she if fit for me to touch.”
	Mamma led her away by the gold chain, giving Rosalie a severe swat to make her walk more quickly.  Disappointed, hurt that he had not wanted her, Rosalie complied.  
	“Wait!” called Izemrasen, picking up the knife from where he had dropped it on the floor.   He grabbed Rosalie by the hair and cut off a ringlet.
	“This will go with the message to your parents.  I am certain they love their daughter very much.  They will pay well, I believe, for your return.”

	Mamma led her to a white chamber, as pale as the previous room had been colorful.   Cushions in this room were pure white.  The draperies were sheer and in pastel shades the blew in the slight breeze.   
	“Kneel, American whore.”  She kicked Rosalie behind the left knee and she fell, painfully striking her knees on the tile floor.  
	“Listen to me,” said the dark woman.  “The Master is mine.  No matter what you do, he will always be mine.  Remember that!”  
	With this she kicked Rosalie all the way to the ground.  
	“I will teach you to serve him.  It is as he wishes.  But you will never serve him as I do?  Do you know what my name means?  Precious toy.  I had another name once, but this is the name he gave me.  It is the only name I bear.  Precious toy.  His Mamma.  You, you skinny pallid rodent, are no more than a temporary diversion.  I am his forever.”
	She yanked on the chain.  Rosalie struggled to her feet.   She was led through an archway to a pool of blue water.   There was a set of white tile steps at on side, but Mamma pushed her in where the water was over her head.  
	Unable to use her arms to swim, Rosalie sank to the bottom like a stone, but when her feet touched ground, she bent her knees and pushed herself back up.  As she broke the surface she took a deep breath, then sank again.  Once beneath the water again, she contracted her knees tight to her chest, brought her hands under her body and up to the front.  As she hit ground, she again propelled herself upward and forward towards the shallower water.   She proceeded to do this until her head no longer sank below the water.  She applied her teeth to the knot at her wrists and within a few moments she had freed herself.   At last able to use her arms, she swam to the edge where Mamma stood smirking and grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her into the pool.   
	Deep in the water, both women wrestled for supremacy.  Mamma was by far the larger of the two, but Rosalie the stronger.  In a matter of moments she had bested the Arab woman, holding her head under water until bubbles rose before she let her rise to the surface, gasping for air.   Then she pushed her under again, holding her for a shorter time this time.  
	When the woman emerged again, she was passive as a kitten.  Rosalie drew her through the water to the edge of the pool, throwing her upper body onto the tiles so her bottom was in the air.   Without reservation, Rosalie yanked up the Mamma’s soaked garment and began to spank her on the wet bottom until the other woman cried hysterically.   Rosalie stopped spanking and grabbed her by the hair to look directly into her eyes.
	“Now you listen to me, you ungainly harridan.  I don’t give a damn what your relationship with your Master is, but I’ll be damned if I will let you abuse me.  Is that clear to you, or must I drown you in my own defense?”
	“My Master will be most displeased if you kill me.”
	“He’ll be most displeased if you kill me.  Do you know what will happen if I die his captive?  Do you know who my family is?  There will be no hiding place in all of Arabia obscure enough for him to conceal himself.  American soldiers will turn every stone from here to Turkey to find him and bring him to his death.”
	“This must not happen!”
	“The don’t let it happen.  Your master is an arrogant man.  He does not know he power he plays with.  If you love him, you will help me.”
	“He will kill me.”
	“If you don’t, it will kill him.”
	“You lie.  I will tell my master your lies.  He will punish you.”
	“Then you’ve killed him.” 
	 The two women stood eye to eye, both in silence, neither willing to admit the other might be right.  After a moment, Mamma took hold of the gold chain and yanked.
	“Come.  We will dry off.”
	Mamma stripped off her clothing and hung it over bush near the pool.   Free of her baggy costume, she stood naked in the fading light, her amber skin enhanced by the vermilion and gold rays reflecting on the water.  She was not fat, as Rosalie had imagined, but womanly, with voluptuous curves in the places Rosalie’s contours were more delicate in nature.   Where Rosalie had a pale silky patch of hair, Mamma’s body sprouted a wild dark bush that concealed her mysteries.  Rosalie longed to run her fingers through it, but she knew Mamma would most likely be angry.
	Mamma yanked the golden chain, leading Rosalie back into the pale room.  From a covered basket, she drew two white towels, handing one to the girl, then beginning to dry herself.  Rosalie began to apply the white flannel to herself carefully.   
	It was not long before she felt the other woman’s touch and the towel in her hand join in drying her body.   She was surprised to find the contact felt good.  She found herself relaxing under the other woman’s tender ministry, despite the fact that the woman had recently tried to kill her.  She wondered what this sinister woman was up to.
	On impulse, she turned to face her, using her own towel to dry the crevices beneath and between the golden orbs of Mamma’s breasts.  She noticed that the other woman’s nipples were very stiff and that her own were in that condition as well.  She also noticed that Mamma had dropped the towel on the floor and was caressing Rosalie’s breasts with delicate fingertips.  Rosalie let loose her towel and reciprocated.
	The intense feelings she had sensed when Izemrasen had stripped her swept her body.   Between her legs she felt both pleasure and desire for some form of satisfaction she could not recognize.  By instinct she pushed her hips forward.  The dark woman lowered her face towards hers.
	“My Master says I must teach you to be a woman.  For this I must teach you the pleasures of your own body.”
	With this, she kissed Rosalie full on the mouth--and Rosalie welcomed her, opening her mouth to allow her probing tongue, pressing her body against her sumptuous form, feeling it’s warmth transmitted to her.
	Mamma released her and led her to one of the cushion, pushing her down gently this time.  She took a green glass bottle with a spout from a rattan table and poured some scented over her hands.  It smelled of cinnamon and clove as she began to apply it to Rosalie’s young body.   Rosalie moaned as she submitted to the other’s hands.  She could feel a wetness gushing from between her legs as Mamma’s hands edged closer and closer to the source of her sweet agony.   
	Mamma renewed the oil on her hands and ran her fingers through Rosalie’s pubic hair, kneading and pinching her mound.  Rosalie spread her legs in eager acceptance.  Fingers teased the opening, slipping deeper and deeper inside by increments. 
	“You do know how to be a woman.  I did not believe you did.”
	Fingers moved in and out in a smooth rhythm.  Rosalie’s pleasure grew more intense.   She did not know what was coming, but she knew she wanted it, and she raised her hips anxiously in a struggle to obtain it.
	“But to be a woman is to know your place, to know you must submit.  You will be punished for pulling me into the pool, little Rosalie, not by my Master, but by me.”
	She withdrew her fingers from Rosalie’s body and the fair woman nearly wept with frustration.  She seated herself on the thick cushion, her feet on the floor.  Rosalie did not need to be told what to do.  Further, she knew her need would go unmet if she did not comply.  She crawled over Mamma’s lap, her bare bottom slightly higher than her torso, ready to accept what the woman intended.
	Mamma knew how to deliver a spanking.  Even Father had not been so harsh when he had spanked her by hand, nor had he spanked her on her naked posterior.  Rosalie could not help crying out as Mamma spanked her harder and longer than she had ever been spanked except for the time Father had used the strap.  Tears flowed uninhibited and she could not be still.
	At the same time, however, Rosalie noticed that the spanking did nothing to diminish her desire.  Quite the opposite in fact.  As the fire in her behind intensified, so did the fire in her private place and the kicking a wiggling on the woman’s lap made the enfolded by her mound feel so intense she thought it might burst.
	Without warning, Mamma stopped the spanking and threw Rosalie off her lap and onto her back on the cushion.  Her hand plunged vigorously between Rosalie’s legs, rubbing furiously at the hard little lump in the front.  From deep inside herself Rosalie felt an overwhelming power build until it burst into a scream and wave after wave of pleasure overtook her until she lay exhausted beneath the hands of Mamma.
	“So that’s what that is for,” she said as she began to recover.
	“What?”
	“That little place above where I pee from.  I did not know it had a purpose.”
	“Now you do.”
	Rosalie propped herself on her elbow and kissed Mamma softly.
	“Thank you.  It was a beautiful lesson.”
	“Then do not be so selfish.  Show me your gratitude.”
	Mamma lay back and spread her legs.  Her sex was crimson and gleaming.  Her hard little button was clearly visible and zealously ready for Rosalie’s touch.   Rosalie, however, had learned her lesson well.   She did not go directly for the seat of pleasure.  She caressed the woman’s breasts, squeezing lightly at first and then harder as Mamma’s groans urged her on.   She crawled over her body and used her tongue to lick first this nipple and then that one, causing Mamma to writhe. 
	On impulse she pinched the right nipple hard.  The cry she heard was not of pain.  She did the same to the other until Mamma begged with breathless voice.
	“Take me now, little Rosalie.  Please.”
	Rosalie plunged her hand inside her new friend, feeling the woman’s hips rise and fall in rhythm with her thrusts.  She rubbed the flesh pebble in the cleft with her other hand until Mamma loosed a howl and bounced her pelvis up and down like a ball several seconds until she collapsed on the cushion.  
	Suddenly she reached out and grabbed Rosalie by the hair.  
	“You are my slave now, do you understand me?  I am Master’s slave, but you are mine.  You will serve me as I serve him and you will serve him because I serve him.  Your life will never be your own again.  You belong to me forever.”
	“Yes,” Rosalie heard herself whisper, and was surprise to realize that she meant it.

	They spent the next few hours in one anothers quiet company.  It was inconceivable now that they had been enemies a short time ago.  In the peaceful time that the lay naked on the cushions and talked to one another, Rosalie came to realize the real reason that she had run away.  She did not want to marry Adrian.  She felt no desire for him.  She had not known at the time that that was what she had lacked.  She had no idea before this afternoon that such intense pleasure existed in the world.  She knew now.  She would never go back to Adrian now, no matter how much Father beat her.

	The woman had just finished brushing one anothers hair when a loud gong resounded through the air.   Mamma jumped to her feet.
	“Master wants us!” she cried. “That is the signal to prepare.”
	Mamma drew from yet another basket a silk skirt of brown and gold which she donned.  She topped this with a matching garment designed to remain open in the front and expose her breasts.  She place on her head a long black veil that trailed down he back and adorned herself with a necklace of gold and dark stones and long, dangling earrings
	“I must retie your hands.”
	Rosalie compliantly turned her back as her hands were fixed in place again.  
	The women waited.  Rosalie again felt a trembling in her thighs.  Izemrasen was a brute, but she had never met a more exciting man in her life.  This was not what she had imagined when she had gone to seek adventure.  It was better.  
	In time the gong sounded again.
	“Walk like this.  Eyes down.  Do not  meet his eyes unless he tells you to.” 
	Mamma led Rosalie to yet another room, a darker room deeper inside the building.  This room was sparsely furnished with no hint of the luxury of the other rooms.  Izemrasen sat on a wooden bench against the wall.  He smoked from a red hooka at his side, casually blowing smoke into the air.
	“I see you are still naked, little one.  As I will have you.  Always.”
	The words shocked Rosalie so that she forgot Mamma’s instructions.  Her head snapped up to face him.  
	“Eyes on the ground, you shameless whore.  No woman may meet a man’s eyes without his permission.”
	Rosalie dropped her eyes to the brown stone floor.  What did he mean always.  Surely he intended only until her parents arrived with the ransom.  He did not mean to keep her forever.  Did he?
	She heard him approach.
	“Kneel, worthless one,” his hoarse voice commanded at her side. 
	Rosalie complied.
	“Bow.  Your forehead to the ground.”
	She did as she was told.  
	Then she heard a sound that filled her with terror.  As her mind identified the sound to a strap swishing through the air, her bottom felt the sting.  She cried out.  She had never been strapped bare and that one blow was worse than all the blows her father had given her.  There was no time to think about it for the strap struck her again and again until she wept as hard as she had ever wept in her life.  
	Beating over, her dragged her to her feet by her hair.  
	“You will give me absolute obedience.  The slightest infraction of the rules will be punished.  There will be no exceptions.”
	His footsteps went back to the bench.  
	“Bring her forward.  There is something I want to give her.  An adornment to match the bracelet on her arm.”
	Mamma pulled on the chain and both women went forward, stopping in front of the captor.  Since her eyes were on the floor, Rosalie saw the gold shackles that were placed on her ankles, saw the gold key turn in the locks.
	“Mamma, have you been teaching her to be a woman?”
	“Her lessons have just begun.”
	“Let us teach her another.  Come, Mamma.”
	He patted the bench beside him.  Mamma lay beside him, inclined on one arm, her exposed breasts heaving, offering themselves.  In Rosalie’s peripheral vision, she saw Izemrasen help himself to them, fondling, sucking, pinching the nipples as Rosalie had.  Mamma sighed and moaned.
	“Oh, but we forget our new slave.  She is lonely, Mamma.  Let her join us.”
	Mamma yanked the chain and Rosalie fell to her knees at Izemrasen’s feet.
	“Show her, Mamma.  Show her the only way to truly be a woman is to serve a man.  Show her how to serve.”
	Rosalie’s face was inches away from the crotch of Izemrasen’s red pants.  She saw Mamma’s hands begin to unbutton them.   A large stiff object jumped in front of her face.  She gave a small shriek.  He Arab laughed.
	“Of course you have never seen a penis, have you?  Yes, here it is.  That which makes a man a man.  His power.  With it, he takes from a woman whatever he desires.”
	Mamma’s hand moved up and down the shaft as he spoke.  His voice grew rougher and rougher.   
	“Now, Mamma”
	Mamma leaned over and took the penis in her mouth, continued to massage the shaft with her hand.  She voraciously engulf most of it’s length, moving her head up and down to move it in and out.  Periodically she paused to lick it from base to tip or blow cool air over the bulbous end.  Izemrasen grunted frequently.  
	Rosalie watched in shock.  She had never imagined such an act.  Yet it fascinated and thrilled her.  She opened her mouth and licked her lips, trying to imagine what it would feel like to do as  Mamma did.
	“Enough.”
	Mamma withdrew and propped  herself on an elbow again.  Her hand remained on the shaft.  Izemrasen grabbed Rosalie by the hair and pulled her head down to his penis.  
	“Now you will serve me as a woman must serve a man.”
	He thrust his penis against her lips.  She opened her mouth.  His sex was very hard in her mouth, though the skin was soft.  She used her tongue to caress it as is thrust in and out of her mouth, shallowly, for she had no yet learned to take it more deeply.  He seemed to understand this as he did not force himself deeper.  Or perhaps Mamma’s hand on the shaft prevented it, protecting her.
	With a great groan, he sudden thrust faster.  Warm liquid, sweet and salty, filled Rosalie’s mouth and ran down her chin.  Izemrasen leaned back in satisfaction, his newly released organ slowly becoming flaccid.
	 “You seem dissatisfied, little one.  Disappointed that I did not take your virginity?”
	She nodded, honestly.  She had entered the room fully expecting to be raped, though in reality, it would not have been rape as she had intended to comply.
	“Do you want to know why I did not take you?”
	She nodded again.  
	“Because the Sultan only accepts virgins as gifts”
	At his words, both women broke into tears.  Rosalie had known her previous life was gone forever.  Even after her parents delivered the ransom, she had intended to stay with Mamma forever.   Now she knew that even Mamma would be taken from her.
	“Your parents will deliver the ransom, of course, but unfortunately, they will not find you here.  You will come with me to my Kasbah in the mountains.  There you will be trained to be the most perfect sex slave a woman can be, as perfect as Mamma.  As much as it would please me to keep you for myself, the Sultan has a fondness for fair skin and blue eyes.   The gift of you will put me much in his favor, even more so than now.  Now slave, no matter how skilled, is worth more than that.”
	What a dishonorable wretch he was.  He would make money from her family and give her to the Sultan instead. Were she unshackled and untied, she would attack him.  As it was, she could only kneel at his feet and sob, knowing she had given up all she had desired only to end up a slave.  Her poor mother.  How heartbroken she would be.  
	Suddenly she remembered her life at home.  It had not been so bad after all. She no longer wanted adventure.  She wanted to go home, and that was something she could never do again

The End