Anonymous - Birch in the boudoir

"Take down your pants, Maggie! Miss Martinet orders you the cane!"

Now my hand fondles Mag's bare thighs and backside. I really must break off, dearest…

… And now, dearest, the sun is an hour higher in the sky and I may resume. Maggie's bottom is a sight indeed. She kneels in repentance before me, her blond fringe tickling my bare belly, her tongue moistening her lips as she unbuttons nimbly. Believe me, Lizzie, only my loss of you drives me to these wild resorts of passion! Such are the woes of the flesh!

Your own adoring Charles

My dearest Charlie,

Faithful to my promise, as ever, I write by the first post for England to tell you of the amusements which I have witnessed since our arrival in this place. Alas, my sweet, we must be separated for weeks-perhaps months-but I vow I shall entertain you with anything of a frisky nature which comes my way. Thus you may know that your adoring Lizzie still cares for you as fondly as ever, and longs only to keep your spirits up and your resolve stiff until our next dear embraces.

How shall I begin! A few hours after our ship docked, we were borne away in a regal carriage to the residence which my father enjoys here as Britannia's ambassador. Cool, white-panelled rooms awaited us behind a garden of palm trees and purple bougainvillea. All is gilt and embossed, fit for the king himself. And yet what tedium would this have promised me-so much empty ceremonial and dull diplomacy-had it not been for the kindness of the Pasha of Ramallah.

The Pasha is a delightful companion, witty and courteous, always deferential to my rank and sensibilities as the daughter of a British envoy. He is a darkly handsome man of about forty, educated at the best schools in England and then at the Sorbonne. His house, overlooking the deep blue of the bay, is grand enough for a palace. Yet it is nothing to his country estate, some twenty miles away in a desert oasis, where he keeps his wealth and his harem.

Ah, you wicked boy! Do I sense that your ears prick up at the word "harem"?' Come, I will not scold you! To speak the truth, I was so intrigued by the notion, that my longing to see the beautiful slave girls in their silken and perfumed prison of love was quite as strong as is your own. However, my dearest, I, as a mere woman, might hope to be admitted there. You, alas, never could.

At first, indeed, it seemed to me that even I should never manage to prompt an invitation from the Pasha to visit that private place. We were, of course, given a general invitation to visit the fine country house. Charlie, you never saw the like of it! The oasis is a green island in an ocean of brilliantly white desert sand. A high wall surrounds the place, and it is well guarded by his soldiers to keep marauders away. Inside are the most beautiful ornamental gardens with little hills, lakes, paths, temples of delight, and the bright, perfumed flowers of Arabia.

What shall I say of the house itself? It is a place of marble courtyards and ornate fountains, colonnades of Moorish arches, like the Alhambra itself. The rooms are sometimes open and sunny, sometimes deep and mysteriously dark, the scent of burnt spice rising from the braziers. England knows nothing as rich as the secret world of bright silks and dark tapestries, the stools and sofas which seem made to shape a woman's body to her lover's commands.

However great my curiosity, I was careful not to show undue interest in the harem at first. I talked of it casually to the Pasha. Charlie! What do you think? He confessed to a taste for English and European girls as well as Arabian, Indian, and even Caribbean. I could not object to this, knowing that my father's power rendered me entirely safe. Yet my eagerness to see the beauties of his seraglio was now keener than ever. To my astonishment, he said casually, "If you are free to come on your own tomorrow, I shall order Nabyla to take you to the gallery from which you can view my treasures."

Can you doubt that I seized this opportunity at once? I was protected from harm by the position of my family and, even had this not been the case, my ravening curiosity would soon have conquered my misgivings. It is rare enough for a guest-man or woman-to see the beauties of the harem. What was still more provoking in this case was the knowledge that the Pasha of Ramallah had such a splendid collection of European odalisques as well as those of warmer climes.

Next afternoon, I was punctual to the minute. After the usual compliments had been exchanged, my host summoned a young Arabian beauty, Nabyla, who was to be my guide. She had a taut, swaggering voluptuousness of figure, skin like dark-gold satin, fiery eyes, and a sweep of silky black hair. In her company I was led to a gallery of white-and-black marble arches, rather like a cloister, which ran round one of the main rooms. Latticework filled the spaces of the archways so that we were able to spy upon the occupants without being seen ourselves.

Sunlight filtered through coloured glass high overhead, illuminating one of the Pasha's favourites. My guide explained to me in English that this was Tania, a girl of twenty, from the Pasha's European collection. I was taken at once by the soft prettiness of her face and figure, her rather short crop of brown curls clustered on her forehead. Such a pert female cherub, I thought, the nose neat and straight, the chin nicely tucked in. Her sun-kissed face has, I imagine, a delightful tendency to dimple when she smiles. As with most girls from that eastern clime, her cheekbones are high and her blue eyes shadowed by them.

As we observed her, Tania was by no means fully dressed. She boasted only a snug-fitting, white singlet and a pair of light-blue denim drawers, which were tight as skin from her waist to her knees. We came upon her in this charming costume just as she was stooping over a table, resting on her elbows, reading a book. What a delightful picture she made!

Her soft young breasts hung tantalisingly in the tight cotton of the singlet. You would agree, I know, that her young hips are quite broad. Best of all, she has a charming tendency when bending like this to hollow the back of her waist downward so that the broad young cheeks of her bottom appear well separated in their tight denim. She has the easy, lewd pose of animmoraliste, however proper her upbringing. With her hips slack, one knee bent at a time, she offers each cheek of her rump alternately.

I could not tell you, Charlie, what charming volume of curious literature she was reading. Yet its effect upon her was all too soon visible: her backside began to stir in a quiet rhythm as she bent over the table reading, and her thighs smoothed softly together in their tight knickers.

"You see how it is?" Nabyla said to me quietly. "There are so many harem slave girls. There are such numerous girls here that a night of excitement in the Pasha's bed is rare-unless they are one of his great favourites. Yet that occasional exquisite ordeal of her master's tool is enough to stimulate the itch of lust in such girls. Worse still, they live in the luxury of idleness with nothing else to think about. For the master's delight, books of amorous tales are provided as their only reading. The mistress appointed to supervise them will inspect them so intimately each morning with her fingers that love's demands will plague them the rest of the day. Tania would prefer another girl to console herself with at the moment. In default of that, she will take matters into her own hands."

Her words were true to the last syllable. As we watched, Tania slipped one hand down between her tightly clad thighs and began to finger her own love-pouch.

"Tell me," I asked. "Tania's body is surely her master's absolute property by the law of the harem? Every function of it, I imagine, is his to command or forbid as he chooses?"