1

I was born in Bangladesh into a very poor rural family. My father, Abdul Ur-Rahman, had two wives, seven daughters, and, unfortunately, no sons. I was the youngest and he could not afford to marry any of us. By the time I was a teenager, my oldest half-sister was in her early twenties and the family was getting desperate.

A labor broker came to our village one day, offering contracts for domestic work in the Middle East. The contracts paid a lump sum upfront and the salary and the benefits seemed unbelievably lucrative to everyone in our poverty-stricken village. That evening, my parents met with all of us sisters.

“Suhaila, you are the youngest,” said my father. “The salary and benefits are very attractive. Your mother and I have decided you should go since you are the youngest.”

“But I have two more years of high school,” I protested. “The headmaster thinks I could get a scholarship to go to university…”

“Enough!” said my mother. “You’ve already studied far too much. You’ve passed the tenth grade, more than any of your sisters.”

“But I’m only sixteen, Mother!”

“If we had money, you would have been married by now. Even the government allows you to have sex at sixteen.”

My father signed the papers. There was a huge sheaf and Father could not read it as it was all in English. I tried to look over his shoulder and what little I could read was not comforting.

The broker took me to the city, got me a passport, and bought me new clothes and even some jewelry. He took me into the back of the shop and forced me to take off all my clothes, even my underwear. I cried and begged him, but it made no difference, he was unmoved.

"These underclothes are disgusting!" he exclaimed and threw them in the rubbish bin.

I tried to put on the new underclothes, a bra, panties, and stockings - all silk and lace and nylon. But when I fumbled, he put them on me, feeling my breasts and crotch as he did so. He wound two colorful scarves around my wrists and then allowed me to put on the new silk petticoat and sari that I was more accustomed to wearing.

"Use the scarves to cover your hair when you land," he told me.

All this took most of the end of the day, and in the evening, he took me to the airport.

“You are quite pretty,” he said to me as he dropped me off at security. “Large, dark eyes, a pert, young figure with firm breasts, narrow waist, and a taut, round ass. A straight, thin nose. Plus, you are little, you barely come up to my shoulder and I am a short man. They will like you in the Middle East, Suhaila Ur-Rahman. It is a pity you are so dark, or I could place you in a much richer family.”

“What will happen to me now?” I asked in a panic.

“Don’t worry. It is a direct flight. It is printed on your boarding pass. Someone will meet you when you land. They will take you to your employer. It is all arranged.”

He was right. There was a big man wearing military-style fatigues at arrival holding a sign with my name on it. He looked at me with a trace of contempt.

“Your headscarf is not traditional,” he said. “It is very colorful. Wound in your hair, it looks like a turban. And you’re black.”

“I’m not black!” I retorted with spirit. “My skin is dark brown, like mahogany.”

“You’ve got a tongue, you ugly bitch,” he responded. “What the hell is mahogany?”

“I’m not ugly! My mother always told me I’m as pretty as a flower. And mahogany is a hardwood tree…”

“Too much book learning,” he said. “It will be beaten out of you. Give me your papers.”

I handed him the folder the broker had given me with my signed contract and passport. He took it and put it in a briefcase. He led me out of the arrival hall into the searing heat outside and into the parking deck. He opened the rear hatch of a big four-wheel drive vehicle and I put my bag in it. He came behind me as I did so and put his arms around me, roughly kneading my breasts, squeezing my belly and my buttocks. I was embarrassed and ashamed to find my body reacted with excitement to his rough treatment.

“You’re just the right size,” he said, thickly. “Like a little dark doll. I’d like to put you up against a wall, ruck up that sari and tear off your panties. I’ll bet your pussy is tight, it would squeeze my big cock like a vise.”

“No, no,” I said, alarmed.

“I’m just feeling the merchandise. The chieftain bought you, you’re his property, not mine.”

“I’m no one’s property!” I exclaimed.

He just laughed. I got into the back seat of the vehicle, and we drove off. He had the air conditioner blasting – even though the day was scorching, I felt cold on the long drive. We soon left the city behind, and the desert stretched out in all directions. The road narrowed from a four-lane highway to a two-lane paved road and finally to an unpaved dirt track. We bumped along for hours, and it was dark by the time we got to our destination.

I got out of the vehicle in the courtyard of a rough mansion that had seen better days. Goats and camels wandered about. A middle-aged woman came and took charge of me. “Suhaila Ur-Rahman?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You are the new maid,” she said. “My name is Fatima and I am the harem mistress. Follow me.”

I followed her into the house, carrying my bag.

2

I was lodged in a dark basement with another maid, a Filipina named Bitiun.

“You pretty,” she said. “Tomorrow the master, he will want fuck you instead of me.”

“I am a maid,” I said. “I’m not a sex worker. It says so in my contract.”

“Contract gone,” she said. “Passport gone.”

My passport and contract had indeed been taken away.

“My God,” I said. “What will happen to me?”

“No worries,” she said. “Me pregnant now, two months, still flat stomach. Master happy, he want me give him son. Then I move upstair into harem. You do same.”

“But I don’t want to sleep with the master,” I said, tearfully.

She shook her head.

“You make trouble, they tie you down, he fuck you anyway. Stupid girl.”

“What should I do?” I asked, continuing to cry.

“I teach you suck cock, make master happy.”

She left and returned with a cucumber. She ran her tongue along it lasciviously, and then slowly, ever so slowly, swallowed it, inch by inch. She kept sucking on it strongly as it entirely disappeared into her mouth. She deliberately pulled it and held it up triumphantly, dripping with her saliva.

“I would choke if I tried that,” I cried.

“My friend, Chessa, she teach me. Now I teach you.” She smiled. “But no need this skill for master, he have small cock. But need learn to suck big cock of butler, Omar.”

“Omar?” I asked.

“He pick you up airport. He have thick cock, stretch my mouth.” She ran her fingers over my lips. “You have sexy lips, but small mouth. Omar choke you unless you learn cock-sucking.”

I worked on the cucumber with Bitiun late into the night. I kept choking on it and nearly threw up several times. She was on the verge of giving up on me when I finally managed to hold almost the entire cucumber in my mouth for a few seconds before gagging and pulling it out.

“There!” she said. “You keep trying, you won’t gag.” She giggled. “Disappoint Omar. He like to choke girls with his cock.”

3

Fatima came to get me in the morning, and I followed her to the kitchen. I sat with about a dozen domestic staff and ate a spare breakfast. Then she led me upstairs.

"You are a contract worker," she told me. "Not a slave. You will fulfill the terms of your contract, or we will send you back to your homeland."

"Please do not do that," I begged. "My family needs the money."

"Your contract specifies that you will wear the accoutrements of a maid in the al Sura household."

"Yes," I said.

"Your uniform includes the standard abaya and rings."

"Rings?" I asked, fearfully.

She opened the door to a white-painted room and sat me down on what looked like a doctor’s examining table. Two young women came in wearing white nurse’s uniforms. Fatima and one of the nurses undid my sari and took it off me.

“What are you doing?” I protested, but they did not reply. Fatima unfastened my black silk and lace bra while the nurses pinioned my arms behind my back. I struggled, but there were three of them and I was little.

One of the nurses roughly squeezed my breasts and used her nails to scratch my jet-black nipples. They hardened and stood out like pencil erasers.

“Her nipples are long and hard with small aureoles,” said one nurse. “Pity they are so black. But her breasts are lovely and firm. The master will enjoy fucking her.”

“And Omar as well,” said the other nurse with a laugh. “Even though he is not allowed.”

"Hush," said Fatima. "She is a maid, not a sex slave. You must not talk like this."

The first nurse applied some fluid to my nipples, one at a time. It was cool and soothing. But then she took a long, heated pin and drove it through my nipple. I twisted and screamed with pain, but Fatima and the other nurse held me fast. Then she repeated the procedure with my other nipple. She used some cotton wool to wipe away the blood and then slid a copper ring through the hole in each nipple. She used pliers to twist the ends together so they could not be taken off.

“Well done,” said Fatima to the nurses as she felt the nipple rings with her finger.

Fatima and one of the nurses continued to hold me with my arms pinioned. The other nurse reached down and took off my black lace panties.

“Her pussy lips are so black!” she exclaimed. “Just like her nipples!”

“I’ve seen the accounts,” replied Fatima. “She was cheap.”

The nurse applied the same cooling fluid to the folds of my pussy. Now I knew what was coming, so I stayed still and closed my eyes.

The nurse drove the long, hot pin through one of the folds of my pussy and used a cotton swab to clean the spout of blood. Then she attached a third copper ring and twisted it with pliers. Fatima reached down when she was done and wiggled the pussy ring with her finger saying, “Good, good.”

She refastened a black silk-and-lace bra on my breasts. She pulled the cups down to leave my nipples exposed with their new rings. Then she pulled on my matching thong panties up my legs and settled it in place, patting my pussy as she did so. Then she gave me a black abaya.

“Put on this abaya,” she said to me when she was done. “You are not in Bangladesh anymore, you will not wear a sari here. You are ready to be presented to the master now.”

I ran my fingers over my nipple rings before I put on my abaya, and felt the lettering stamped into them. With my sharp, young eyes, I was able to read the minuscule abjad lettering on the small rings – The al Sura family. I felt my pussy ring with my finger and realized it had the same lettering stamped on it. I looked at myself in the mirror. I thought the rings were quite pretty.

4

My master, Rasul bin Khalifa al Makhtoom al Sura sat on a sofa with his three senior wives. I could see the vestiges of their youthful beauty, but now they were fat. They all looked at me critically. His fourth and youngest wife sat on a separate chair. She was by far the most beautiful of the four. With blue eyes and pale skin, she looked like a European.

“Has she been ringed as per the terms in her contract?” my master asked Fatima.

“Yes, master,” said Fatima. “Rings on her nipples as well as her pussy.”

“She is so black,” said one of the older wives. “I hope you do not pay her too much, Rasul.”

“I am not black,” I said. “I am dark brown, mahogany.”

“She dares to talk back,” said another of the older wives. “Beat her, Fatima.”

Fatima stepped forward and slapped the back of my head so hard that my ears rang and I saw stars.

“Oh, she’s just a little thing,” said the youngest wife. “Go easy on her. Come here, dear.”

“You spoil all the servants, Tasvir Afifa,” said the wife who had asked Fatima to beat me.

As I approached her, Tasvir Afifa stood up and put her arms around me. She was very tall, so my face was snuggled between her firm breasts as she held me. She smelled fragrant and I felt a rush of love for her.

“How is it you speak Arabic, dear?” asked Tasvir Afifa.

“I learned at school,” I said. “As part of religious instruction.”

The three older wives tittered at this.

“Humaira Begum is right, Tasvir Afifa,” said my master. “Her family signed the contract for her. She is here to work as my maid – it says so in the contract. I will take her to my room now.”

“But Rasul, she is so young!” said Tasvir Afifa.

“She must please me.” He rose. “Come with me, girl. What is your name?”

“Suhaila Ur-Rahman,” I said in a dull voice.

Tasvir Afifa released me reluctantly, and I followed my master. He led me down a corridor to a big bedroom with an old four-poster bed. He pulled his dishdasha over his head and dropped his sirwal.

"You are my maid," he said. "Will you do as I command you?"

"Yes, master," I said, fearful of losing my contract and the money for my family.

“Get on your knees, girl.”

I obeyed and he grasped my headscarf-covered head. I opened my mouth and swallowed his small, flaccid cock. It was much easier than the hard cucumber. I began to suck on it and use my tongue on him as Bitiun had taught me. He puffed loudly and his cock gradually grew less soft. It took several minutes of hard sucking and aggressive tonguing before he grew his full erection. As Bitiun had said, he was quite small compared to the cucumber. Almost as soon as he achieved his erection, he came, crying out and clamping his hands on my head. His ejaculation was very modest, and he shouted, “Swallow my seed, bitch! Don’t spill a drop!”

I did as he wanted and swallowed it. It tasted rancid and I felt like throwing up but controlled myself with an effort.

He sat on his wide bed for almost fifteen minutes regaining his breath. I squatted on the floor and waited.

“You are a black Bengali bitch,” he said. “But you know how to suck cock. How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” I said.

“Good, you are legal, so there will be no problems if the authorities check the papers. And you are little, just what I like. Are you willing to share my bed?”

"Yes, master," I said, unhappily.

"I will begin fucking you tonight. If you get pregnant, I will move you up to the harem and give you a room."

5

My master led the way back to his wives. There was now one other person in the room, a pale young girl who sat by Tasvir Afifa. They looked so alike that I guessed they were mother and daughter, though they could have passed for sisters.

“How was she, Rasul?” asked one of the older wives.

“Not bad for a cheap black Bengali,” said my master. “She’s ugly, but she’s young. She will warm my bed on nights I am not with one of you.”

The young girl by Tasvir Afifa came to me and put a hand on my shoulder. She was as tall as Tasvir Afifa and had big hazel eyes. I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

“She is not ugly, Father,” she said, putting her other hand under my chin and turning my face up. “On the contrary, she is very pretty. Her skin is so lustrous, her eyes are so big, dark, and bright.”

“You are a fool, like your mother, Zainab Habiba,” said one of the older wives. “Pampering the servants and giving them pride. A girl with dark skin like hers cannot be called pretty.”

“You must not lie with her if you think she is ugly, Father,” said Zainab Habiba. “You have been promising me a personal maid for months. Let me have her.”

“I’ll get you a proper maid, Zainab Habiba,” said my master. “An Uzbek or a Chechen. Not a black bitch.”

“I want her,” said Zainab Habiba.

“Very well,” said my master. “I’ll contact the broker to get another girl to serve as my personal maid.”

6

That is how I became Zainab Habiba’s personal maid. On that very first day, she took me to her suite of two rooms in the harem, sat me on her bed, and put her hands on my cheeks.

“I want to start us on the right foot,” she said. “First of all, you are not my servant or even my maid. You will work for me, but I want you to know you are my friend.”

“I am your servant, Mistress Zainab Habiba. I am paid to work for you. I must work and send money back to my family in Bangladesh.”

“We are both sixteen, Suhaila. I was just a bit luckier in birth than you.”

I cleaned her rooms, washed her clothes, bathed her, massaged her, and dressed her. Bathing her I discovered that under her hijab, she had the palest blonde hair. She always was very gentle with me, and never scolded or raised her voice with me. I worshiped her and began to mimic her rough, Badawi dialect when I spoke.

“You are the most beautiful girl in the world,” I often said to her.

“We are both...