British English spelling and grammar.
I was on this site years ago, under a different name. I can't remember if I submitted this or not. Either way, it's now tidied up and a thousand words shorter.
OK, the ending is a bit outrageous - but it's only fiction. Well the ending is; 80% of this is true,
***
The Sheik
It started in the Middle East; some hot humid Arab state. Terry and I were posted there and became friends. It was porn that brought us together. Before the posting, I bought lots of hardcore magazines, mail order from Scandinavia. Nobody searched my kit. Terry was in the RAF Regiment, a department called Special Ops. I have no idea what he did, and he never told me. The military is run on the 'need to know' basis. I was in Photo Flight, hence the porn.
Once I'd settled in, I started discreetly copying the magazines, and stapling the photos into story sets. There were three thousand personnel there, mostly single males. Soon I was making a fortune. Terry ended up getting free sets as he had so many contacts, and effectively became my main distributor.
Terry and I, I'm Dick, were both corporals but, as I made so much extra from the porn, I usually got the rounds in. One Sunday, we were in the local town, looking for bargains in the souk. We stepped out at the far end, onto a sloping backroad for deliveries. A few yards up the hill was an open truck full of watermelons. Closer, a local woman dragged a small boy along.
One of the wooden slats, holding the fruit in place, snapped. A solitary melon made its bid for freedom, bouncing down the hill without breaking. The boy darted towards it and another truck, coming up the hill, hit the brakes. Terry was like lightning. He leapt out, scooped the boy up against his chest, and landed on his back, legs pointing towards the truck. He looked almost casual as he lifted his feet, and planted them on its bumper. The truck shunted him four feet up the hill, before it groaned to a halt. Terry's shirt was shredded, as was much of the skin off his back.
Then it got confusing. The woman screamed. Terry, back covered in blood, lifted the kid up. A large Arab guy in a suit appeared from nowhere, and roughly pulled the woman away. He shouted at her, and snatched the boy off Terry. Then a Mercedes appeared and reversed up to the truck. Terry and the boy were pushed inside and it took off, leaving me, the wailing woman, and a scarred melon.
He didn't turn up at the bar that night so I went up to the Officers' Mess and found the Squadron Leader in charge of the regiment.
"I appreciate your concern Corporal Ellis, and you've done the right thing informing me. But the Sheik's palace has telephoned, and Corporal Stevenson is being treated in a private hospital, under guard apparently. They're bringing him to the CO's office, for a meeting tomorrow.
Terry and I met in the NAAFI bar the following evening. He sat stiffly and did not rest against the back of the chair.
"You know the Sheik has a hareem?" he said.
"I had heard."
"Well he has a number one wife, whose job is to provide him with a legitimate son and heir. The hareem is younger girls, who are just for fun sex. But they are not slaves; they enjoy a high status in the grand scheme of things."
"And?"
"They occasionally get pregnant and those children, male and female, will also hold important positions in Arab society; minor princes and princesses. They'll never inherit, but they won't want for much."
"And you saved one of them?"
"Correct. The woman was a domestic, and supposed to be looking after him. The big guy was a bodyguard. At the meeting this morning, palace officials were more or less asking me what I want to get out of this."
"And you said 'send me home' of course."
"Damn right I did. Nobody wants this posting. But the CO said that was beyond his power. I ended up with a good deal though. Monday to Wednesday, I'm seconded to the palace. I don't imagine it's going to be very arduous."
"You lucky bastard; will you get a crack at the hareem?"
"No chance. They're far too high up the food chain for the likes of me. And I don't want to end up a eunuch!"
I continued making money from porn, and Terry regaled me with tales from the Sheik's palace. His first story came in the second week.
"You know that rumour about his private beach? Well it's true. He goes there one morning a week, and sits under a big parasol with his minions. And he ogles the officers' wives through binoculars."
The only military personnel allowed to use the Sheik's beach, had to bring their womenfolk with them. Only a few hundred officers and senior ranks were on accompanied tours. They knew what to expect, and took their bikini-clad wives along anyway. The Sheik would select a woman he fancied, and send one of his staff over. The going rate was two hundred pounds. In those days, back in UK, you could buy a decent second hand car for that. His dish of the day would be picked up that afternoon and get whisked away to the palace. There, she would get paid in his private quarters.
"He always fucks them up the arse." said Terry. "It's part of their culture; virginity being highly prized."
"What if they don't do anal?"
"How can they refuse? He owns the police force. I suspect many of them keep that part secret from their husbands. And best of all, I get to watch, and take photos!"
"And what does the naughty wife think about that?"
"She doesn't know. He fucks them in front of a huge see-through mirror; I sit the other side, in the dark!"
"Got any photos?"
"No. I have to hand the camera over to someone else. He wants me to do the processing, but I don't know how. Now you know why I'm buying the beers."
We worked six mornings a week; afternoons were too hot for most trades. Soon I was taking him into Photo Flight after lunch and teaching him the basics. Then Terry began processing the Sheik's films. He always hid a set of prints for himself, hoping the photos might let him blackmail some of the women in the future. I'd have loved to have seen them, but Terry would never let them out of sight. I understood why. He didn't say whether he got any extra cash for his secondment, but from then on he did pay for the beer.
Back home, we got different postings and eventually both left the RAF, but we kept in touch. Terry settled in London, bought a brand new Porsche, and bought an expensive flat in Kensington. Soon, he was nicely set up with a private detective agency in the city centre, specialising in messy divorce cases. I did not enquire as to where the capital came from, but he made no secret of the fact that he and the Sheik had remained 'mates'. He also had a lot of contacts in the city's hotels.
I returned to my wife Tammy, and got a job in the Property division of an international company in Swindon. Sometimes I had to travel on business. And whenever my trips took me anywhere near Oxfordshire, I would go and call on another old friend. If the trip took me close her place, I'd stay overnight. It wouldn't have been wise to tell Tammy about the visits. This year, I saw my friend three times in two months.
Then, my sex life with Tammy started to wane. She got snappy and started picking arguments over trivial things. Around the same time, her mobile phone acquired a passcode. I've been told that's a sign your wife might be cheating, so I was curious to find out what it was.
One day, I found an amusing movie clip on my phone and sent it to hers, just as she stepped out of the shower. Rubbing water from her eyes, she picked it up and entered the passcode. I had my back turned.
"What did you want to send me this crap for?"
I spent a weekend in Oxfordshire, and the following weekend down in London. I didn't visit Terry that often, and Tammy never wanted to come. In fact, she'd only met him once, at our wedding. The trip coincided with her going to a friend's hen party. It didn't go unnoticed that she bought a new cocktail dress. Red, designed to be worn braless.
Terry and I were in a London pub.
"The Sheik was over here again, a couple of months ago." he said.
"Is he still up to his old tricks?"
"Worse than ever; he and his entourage stay at the Hilton and he always has a party on his last Friday. He still pays me to go along and take photographs."
"Really?"
"Yes. He bought this huge old English wardrobe, with see-through mirrors; says it reminds him of our times in his palace. He keeps it in his reserved suite at the Hilton, facing the end of the bed. I hide in there and take photos. His porn collection must run into thousands by now."
"So who does he use - prostitutes, escorts?"
"No. He says he prefers 'real' married women."
"What does he do, put an ad in the Evening Standard?"
"No. There are many hotels in the business district that mostly cater for Monday to Thursday people. Our Sheik poses as a businessman and sends his staff to do the rounds of them, and invite women to a party at the Hilton."
"And they go; just like that?"
"Sure, think about it. A group of businesswomen, offered a free champagne party in the Hilton, and an extra night in London? 'My rich boss just wants to meet some typical English girls to drink champagne with; no strings.' After he's had his pick, the rest are fair game for his entourage."
"And he doesn't pay them?"
"Depends what you mean by pay. He provides limos to pick them up and he lays on a buffet. OK, he drops an Ecstasy tab in their first glass of champagne; to get them in the mood. And there's a small cash incentive, 'compensation for changed arrangements'. But it's hardly paying for it."
"Wow!"
"And he goes to a lot of trouble to reassure them. Suggests they take photos of his drivers and the car number plates. Books them into a Hilton suite, and promises any of them can go to their room at any time."
"Got it all covered then."
"Yes. It seems the more you convince a woman you aren't trying to get into her knickers, the more likely she is to let you in."
There was a better atmosphere when I returned. Tammy seemed more attentive, but I thought she was faking it.
"How was your hen night?" I enquired.
"Good fun, the usual."
She was hiding something. That night I waited till she began snoring, and slipped out of bed. I took her phone into the bathroom and locked the door.
I was sure I knew the passcode. I had watched her in the mirror on the morning I'd sent the movie clip. She'd entered six numbers with her left hand. I could picture her using only her thumb, three down and three up; it was 1, 2, 3, 3, 2, 1. I entered it, but no joy. Shit, she must have changed it! I put it on the cistern, washed my hands, and glared into the bathroom mirror. Reflection! I picked it up with my right hand and tried again. 3, 6, 9, 9, 6, 3!
'Hen nite' revealed the names, or nicknames, of the attendees. 'Gang' clearly referred to the main group. Babs only got a little of the group stuff, so she must be the bride-to-be; they were keeping her out of the loop. Gina was Tammy's best mate, and it became apparent those two were responsible for hiring the strippers. The exchanges with Gina were racy, but not really incriminating. The group stuff showed their drunken state, and nobody knew who'd got into which taxi.
Monday morning I left before her, and accidentally took her phone with me. I knew she'd find nothing incriminating on mine. I'd already seen photos of Tammy sucking a black cock; acceptable under the circumstances. Eight of them did the same thing, including the girl getting married. And there were repeat performances with a big white one. I don't know how Babs' fiancé might react, but when drunken females are confronted with strippers' dicks, well - girls will be girls.
I wrote 'Taxi 1' and 'Taxi 2' on a piece of paper. And, picking through the drunken texts, tried to fill each one. A pattern emerged. No matter who thought who had gone home together, Tammy and Gina were in neither taxi.
Hoping Gina would respond quickly, I sent her a message which appeared to come from Tammy.
'I was so drunk last night. Do you remember what we did with those strippers?'
My office phone rang and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"You've taken the wrong phone you idiot!"
