5 comments/  18934 views/  6 favorites

The Females of Wadi Ya Noh.

By: davidmuleguy



Getting married to my darling, next week, and with serious hopes of a job promotion, I had been blissfully floating along on the proverbial 'Cloud 9'. 

At the Departures Drop-Off area of Manchester Airport, Terminal 2, I retrieved my single piece of luggage from the boot of the car. And then I kissed, hugged, and said my fond goodbyes to the sweetest, most adorable and most beautiful girl in the whole world. 

Sandra, my fiancee, was twenty-three - two years younger than me. Sandra was the girl of my dreams. And she was the girl to whom I was engaged to be married, next week, just in time for Christmas. 

I was a very lucky man. A golden, happy future lay ahead of me. I had everything to live for, everything to look forward to. Gratefully, I counted my blessings. 

Sadly, as things turned out, I had 'counted my chickens', too. 

I did not - could not - know at the time, that, as I had climbed the aviation steps with a spring in my step up to the waiting aircraft, every step I took was taking me another step away from the life I knew; the life I loved. My life with Sandra. 

I felt a hand firmly grip my wrist. "Hi, Sandy ..." said the familiar voice of my boss, Miss Susan Smith, addressing my fiancee, "... very touching, I'm sure," she added sarcastically. "Sorry to cut the love-birds' stuff short, but we're running late, as it is. Come on, David. Get a move on! Or you are going to make us miss our flight," cajoled Miss Susan Smith, in deliberately trying to make me look small in front of Sandra. And who, I might add, in having only just arrived at the airport by taxi, had only made our flight by the skin of her teeth, herself. 

Sandra stood close to me, and she carefully adjusted the knot on the pale blue silk tie that she had bought for me, especially for my business trip with my boss. After a final hug and kiss from Sandra, there was an emotional catch in my voice, when I told her, "I'm going to miss you like crazy."

"Oh, per-leeese! You'll have me in tears," mocked Miss Susan Smith. "You are going on a three-day business trip, David. Anyone would think you were going on a ten-year mission to Pluto." 

As soon as Sandra had driven away in her car, Miss Susan Smith immediately let fall the thin veil of 'civility' that was purely for Sandra's benefit, and she returned to her - where I was concerned - usual, nasty persona. 

Domineeringly, she instructed me, "Go and find a trolley for our luggage, David ... and be quick about it, too! If we miss this flight, I'll have your balls for a game of conkers!" 

Oh! That woman! To myself, I thought, 'Up yours, lady!' But I replied, obediently and respectfully, "Yes, Miss Smith," and I went to do her bidding. 

Life (usually, but not always) went easier for me, when I simply put up with her bullying attitude, and subserviently played the role of her Yes Man. I didn't like it, and I wasn't proud of myself. But it meant less aggravation, in the long run. Besides - and, more to the point - jobs in junior/middle management were very hard to come by and, well ... I had Sandra to think about, too.

Miss Susan Smith was not the easiest person to get along with. Our relations were somewhat strained - to say the least. And I knew the reason for that ...

This was the first time that my boss had taken me with her on a Company business trip. Hence, Sandra's tasteful present, to me, of my pale blue, silk tie. To make a good impression: "It suits you, David," Sandra proudly told me. 

This was to be a 3-day trip. A rather short visit, considering the travelling distances involved: We were going to Arabia ... some place I'd never heard of.

Our Company - 'Jordan's Climate Control' - sold air-conditioning units, and we were very hopeful of winning some highly lucrative contracts, in that very hot region of the world. 

Miss Smith had led me to believe that if all went well, on our business trip, I would be suitably rewarded. She had strongly hinted that I could even be in line for a step up the promotion ladder. She had also alluded to the higher salary that would be commensurate with the new position. 

The extra money would certainly come in useful, that was for sure. Especially so, now that I would soon be getting married to my darling Sandra. Perhaps even starting a family soon, I mused, in blissfully contented reverie as I searched for a luggage trolley in the very busy Departures Terminal. 

There were a lot of 'early bird' flight departures at this very early time of the morning and, as I could not immediately spot a vacant luggage trolley, I made my way to the front of the queue at the Arabian Airways check-in desk. There, I grabbed the next trolley to become vacant, after its contents were unloaded onto the luggage conveyor belt, and I returned with it to Miss Smith, as quickly as I could ... Not quickly enough, though, for Miss Susan Smith's liking. 

"How dare you, David? Keeping me waiting here for you, for all this time?" she complained peevishly, while making a big show of rubbing her gloved hands together for warmth, on this bitterly cold mid-December morning in Manchester. 

Miss Smith then added acerbically, for good measure, "I certainly hope that this is not an indicator, David, of how much use you are going to be to me on our business trip!" 

My God! The woman was insufferable. Concerned, though, at getting off to a poor start, I tried to apologise. "I'm sorry, Miss Smith ... but, it's very busy in Departures. I couldn't find a vacant trolley, and---" 

"Oh, just shut up, David! I don't want to have to listen to your pathetically lame excuses, all the time - I have quite enough of that to contend with, at the office ... And, if anything is vacant, David, it is your thick, stupid head. Well, come on then! What are you waiting for ...? My God! Do I have to tell you everything? Do I have to spell everything out? Get this trolley loaded up with our luggage so that we can join the check-in queue!" instructed Miss Smith; her voice steadily rising in scale, as she issued her order to me in her customary, deliberately over-the-top, theatrical exasperation. 

I cringed in humiliation, as fellow air passengers turned their heads towards us, in looking to see what the decidedly unseemly ruckus was about. Looking to see, what poor, downtrodden sod was being openly berated by his domineering female companion. Looking to see, what hapless, unlucky sap was being publicly castigated, by some overbearing, loud-mouthed, bitchy female. 

At seeing the looks on the faces of my fellow passengers - male and female, young and old - regarding me with their various expressions: curiosity, amusement, pity, sympathy, contempt, my face went hot from my acute, keenly felt embarrassment. 

Oh! That woman!! Always putting me down. She was a piece of work!

Hastily turning away from that sea of openly staring, inquisitive faces, I obeyed my Superior's instructions, and I loaded our luggage onto the trolley. 

We then joined the queue to the Arabian Airways check-in desk. And, after passing through Passport Control, we headed for the Departure Lounge to await the call for our long-haul flight: to Wadi Ya Meen ... somewhere in Arabia.

Of course, I knew the reason, that accounted for Miss Susan Smith's sour, tetchy, irritable mood. For her snappy, sniping, bitchy way, with me. And when we had sat down in the Departure Lounge she duly confirmed, what I already knew, when she said vindictively - cattily - "I have absolutely no idea, David, what Sandra sees in you. No idea, at all. She is absolutely, totally wasted on you ... On any man, come to that." 

Yes ... It was an open secret at the office that my boss, Miss Susan Smith, was a lesbian. And ... that she fancied my Sandra. 

In fact, she had had ‘designs' on Sandra, for some time. From the first moment I had introduced them, in fact, almost a year ago, now, at Jordan's office Christmas party. I had reason to remember the occasion well ...

Miss Susan Smith had been ‘hitting on' Sandra, at my Company's Christmas party. Quite openly. For anyone to see. For everyone to see. As if she was ... 'staking a claim'. 

Miss Smith had hardly left Sandra alone, all evening. Miss Smith had drank heavily. Glass after glass of red wine, thinning out - dissolving - what few inhibitions she had, and fuelling her lustful, out-of-control ardour. Her pawing, exploring - ravishing - hands were everywhere. She was shameless. She was unsubtle; didn't even have the basic, common decency to at least wait until my back was turned, before touching my Sandra up. 

Needless to say: I was not looking forward to this year's upcoming office Christmas party, in less than two weeks' time. In fact, I had told Sandra that we needn't go to the party; we could say that we'd made other plans, this Christmas. I had suggested that we could go to Sandra's Company's office Christmas party, instead. But Sandra had surprised me. She said she wanted to go to my office's Christmas party; was looking forward to it, had been for months. It would be "more fun," she'd said.

At last year's office Christmas party, during a brief interval when Sandra had gone to 'powder her nose', Miss Susan Smith had brazenly told me that she "knew" that Sandra was bisexual. "Maybe a 'closet' lesbian," she'd mused blithely. She could "always tell," she claimed boastfully. Miss Smith had also declared to me, quite frankly, that she would be "working on" Sandra - to take her away from me. "Sandra will be mine, David ... You'll see," she had predicted confidently. Sandra was "wasted" on "the likes" of me, Miss Smith told me, matter of factly. 

Such was the convincing and persuasive, one hundred percent certainty of Miss Susan Smith's conviction as to Sandra's bisexuality - "latent lesbianism" - that I did not deny the apparent truth of it: telling her, instead, that "Sandra loves me. We are going to be married ... perhaps start a family, soon." 

To which, Miss Susan Smith had ominously replied, "No, David ... I won't let Sandra squander herself on you, like that. I've told you before, and I'll tell you again: Sandra will be mine. One day, Sandra and me - we'll be an item." 

At the time - though I had, of course, tried to brush it off as the most implausible, absurd, absolute nonsense imaginable - still, I had actually shuddered, at hearing her terrible, unthinkable prediction. I was made uneasy, at hearing her disturbing, malignant words.

Words - like little black seeds - that Miss Susan Smith had planted, in the fertile soil of my mind. That would fester inside me; would thrive, in those perfect growing conditions. Their horrible black shoots; sprouting, taking root, growing, getting stronger ... taking hold. The fully grown black weeds, entwining their impossibly strong roots around the core of my being ... eating away. 

I had felt a decided, icy chill. A freezing-cold, slimy tendril of fear had touch my heart, at hearing Miss Susan Smith's highly confident claims about my Sandra. As if of superstitious dread. As if I was, somehow, actually divining the immutable truth of her hideous, diabolical prophesy: "One day, Sandra and me - we'll be an item." 

It wasn't long, before there was an announcement over the P.A. system, and Miss Susan Smith and I responded accordingly; making our way to Gate 16. And, after producing our boarding passes and our conveniently opened Passports for the inspection of an Arabian Airways air hostess, we were soon boarding our Arabian Airways flight: to Wadi Ya Meen. 

Our aircraft would make one scheduled stop en route: at Wadi Ya Wan. 

This was, explained the female pilot - Captain Jazmin - over the P.A. system, for the purpose of changing the air crew. And also to allow a small number of passengers to disembark, at that Arabian airport, whose vacated seats would then be taken up by newly embarking passengers. Then, said Captain Jazmin, the aircraft would continue on as scheduled, to its final destination: Wadi Ya Meen. 

Wadi Ya Meen, was the city where Miss Susan Smith and I would be attending a series of business meetings over the course of the next three days. 

I sat in an aisle seat, and Miss Susan Smith sat in the seat next to me. The window-seat, I saw, was occupied by a mature, distinguished-looking gentleman, who had a full head of thick, wavy grey hair, and who wore a pin-striped business suit that looked as though it cost more than I earned in a month. He was a man, I thought, who looked as though he was used to getting his own way.

The first thing that Miss Susan Smith did, once seated, was to kick off her black, office pumps. "Aaahhh! That's better, David," she informed me, as she rested her left foot on her right knee; her sole facing towards me. "Mmmmmm," she added in a blissful sigh of relief as, looking at me, meaningfully, she scrunched, wiggled and splayed her dark pantie-hose covered toes, while running her finger tips back and forth along the full length of her sole, as though in an ultra sensitive, feather-light massage.

"I know just how much you want to get on, in our Company, David ... But, if I do promote you - and, it is a big IF," cautioned my boss, "I think it will have to be on the proviso, that I write some new ... duties, into your job description. Top of the list: Massaging my feet, for me. Oh, and all of my office girls, of course. Massaging their feet for them, too," Miss Susan Smith told me, in all seriousness.

I felt my face burn from sheer embarrassment, at the very idea of my boss's ... proviso. Massage her feet ... and all of the office girls' feet, too? She had to be kidding! Well, as far as I was concerned, she could stick her damn proviso in her damn pipe, and damn well smoke it! 

She couldn't possibly be serious - but she was. Very! I felt incredibly flustered. I had to say something. But what? "Er ... I don't know, Miss Smith ... I'm not too sure about that. Besides ... I wouldn't have the time ... surely," I blustered ineffectually. 

I had to get my boss to forget her ... proviso, once and for all. I had to think of something, to steer her away from it. But what?

And so, by means of emphatically demonstrating my distinct lack of enthusiasm for her so-called proviso; as though as a response, to Miss Susan Smith's letting loose the rather pungent, decidedly offensive aroma of her freshly released pantie-hosed feet, in a sort of half-joking gesture, I made a great pantomime of waving my hands, in wafting the stinky odour away from me ... towards Mr Pin-Stripe. 

Having evidently detected the malodorous intrusion, Mr Pin-Stripe looked past Miss Susan Smith - and glared at me, meaningfully. As though expecting me, to do something about the sudden pong. As though Mr Pin-Stripe expected me, to 'have a word' with my female companion. Ha! Fat chance of that! Miss Susan Smith was hard enough to get along with as it was, without needlessly inviting further trouble. 

I thought that this was one occasion, when the mature, distinguished-looking gentleman with the full head of thick, wavy grey hair, and who wore a pin-striped business suit that looked as if it cost more than I earned in a whole month ... was not, for once, going to get his own way.

Miss Susan Smith smiled to herself and, it was in the manner of someone thinking pleasant, highly agreeable thoughts, that my boss settled herself all nice and comfortable, for the flight to Wadi Ya Meen. And, I thought I knew exactly what she was so happily thinking about, too ... her 'proviso'. 

Soon into the flight, two Arabian Airways air hostesses arrived at our row of seats - one pulling, and the other pushing their refreshments trolley. "Oh, goody!" exclaimed my boss, before either of the two air hostesses even spoke a word. "I'll have a glass of red wine, please!" She wasn't joking, either - despite the early hour.

I imagined that both of the young ladies - attractively attired, as they were, in their lilac-coloured, Arabian Airways uniforms - were probably very beautiful ... I say 'imagined', and 'probably', because it was difficult to be sure. Since, as was the custom of their country, they wore veils when in public. Only their eyes, hands, and feet - the air hostesses wore Arabian Airways issue, lilac-coloured mules - were visible.

Their veils were semi-transparent; of a thin, white, gauzy material, that made the details of their facial features rather vague, and difficult to discern. Though this, I thought, had the decidedly alluring effect, of making their eyes all the more expressive; their gaze, seeming to emanate an enchanting, almost hypnotic air of Eastern mystery. I felt a tingle of excitement ... I was actually going to Arabia! I would have some stories, I was sure, to tell my Sandra when I got back.

Although the two Arabian Airways air hostesses wore veils, still, I thought that I could discern enough of their enigmatic features to convince myself of the actual reality of their beauty. 

And, judging by the looks of Miss Susan Smith's eyes, bulging out of her head - so could she! 

At seeing the looks of blatant, undisguised lust that were plainly evident upon my boss's ogling face, I found myself thinking that a veil would not come amiss now - to cover up her own, shamelessly leering face. You couldn't take her anywhere, I thought to myself, facetiously.

Miss Smith seemed especially enthralled, by the air hostess who was serving my meal. And, no wonder; as the air hostess appeared to be a woman after Miss Susan Smith's own heart: Regarding me, with such a down-her-nose, derisive, withering look of disdain. 

The air hostess's dark, almond-shaped eyes eloquently conveyed her great distaste of me; projecting her apparent bitter resentment. Resentment, that she should be reduced to such a deplorable, demeaning position as this - of actually having to serve, as Miss Susan Smith would have put it: 'the likes' of me. 

The Arabian Airways air hostess's name, according to her name tag, was Claudia. 

Made decidedly uncomfortable, by the unaccountable, highly unsettling power of Claudia's glowering, spiteful stare, I diffidently said to her, politely and respectfully, "Er ... thank you, Claudia ... That is very kind of you." 

Although Claudia said nothing to me in reply, still, she had about her an air of undisguised, simmering animosity towards me that I could not fail to pick up on. I sensed - read, like in-coming radio signals - her eloquent dark eyes sending out her apparently hate-filled transmissions; her malevolent messages ... How dare I, speak to her without her permission? How dare I, look her in the eyes? How dare I, utter her name?

Of course, I had no idea, not a clue, about what was going on here; about the cause of Claudia's obviously hostile attitude towards me. I mean, it could hardly be personal - we'd only just met. Yet, I sensed that there was more, much more, behind the belligerent, baleful glare, that Claudia directed at me like a black beam of malice. Things, that were going on behind the scenes. Out of sight. Things, that were unknown - unknowable - to me. 

Claudia's dark, almond-shaped eyes glittered maliciously, dangerously. I actually felt quite shaken: Shaken, at sensing Claudia's intense dislike, her bitter, red-hot resentment, towards me. Shaken, at feeling the full, venomous force of her open hostility, against me. I mean, what the hell had I done? 

I couldn't see. Couldn't understand. Couldn't fathom out, for the life of me, what Claudia could possibly have against me. How could I? It was unaccountable. It was quite inexplicable ... At the time.

Claudia's steady, brazen stare unsettled me, discomposed me - disturbed me - to the extent that I had quite lost my appetite for breakfast. And I was distinctly relieved, when she prepared to move on down the aisle with her refreshments trolley.

Not missing a trick, Miss Susan Smith took the whole, incredibly delicious thing in. She was both delighted - all but whooping with joy - and intrigued, by the mysterious 'incident'. Her curiosity was wildly aroused. Well and truly piqued, by the highly singular scene involving myself - her downtrodden Yes Man; her yes-Ma'am-no-Ma'am-three-bags-full-Ma'am underling - and the feisty, hot-blooded Arabian Airways air hostess, Claudia. 


The Females of Wadi Ya Noh. Ch. 02



It was cold, back home in the north-west of England, and the last of the March evening light was fading to night as I got out of the Airport Taxi outside my house.

I simply can't describe, just how immensely glad - acutely relieved - I was, to be out of Arabia. To be out of that terrible heat. Relieved, to be back home, and in familiar surroundings again. To hear English voices again, saying ordinary, every-day things, in normally modulated voices - and not just the belligerent babble of the black burka clad females of Wadi Ya Noh, speaking sternly and harshly and shrewishly to me in Arabic, as they so mercilessly chastised me, at their feet.

But, alas, I hadn't returned home from Arabia, without certain ... 'baggage'.

For, as I helped the taxi driver to retrieve luggage from the boot of the taxi, the other 2 passengers - both female, and dressed in their traditional, almost all-covering, black burkas - made a beeline for my front door. 

The younger of the 2 black burka clad females, immediately upon exiting the taxi, had expectantly held out her hand to me and, in her exotically accented English, she had demanded that I hand over my front door key to her. And so I had complied, and I had obeyed her command without demur ... as I knew that I must.

As I paid and tipped the taxi driver, he regarded me with yet another of his odd looks. Though, once again, he refrained from actually saying anything. It was the same odd look, that he had been regarding me with ever since he had picked up his 3 passengers, about half an hour ago, at Manchester Airport - Terminal 2. The taxi driver nodded at me, by means of expressing his acknowledgement (if not gratitude) of my generous tip, then he got back into his taxi and swung the driver's door shut behind him.

And then a great, depressing wave of soul-destroying helplessness and hopelessness hit me, pulverising my spirit. It swept over me like a huge, irresistible tide of dejection. It was a sense of despair, that transcended even my acute sense of gross injustice. 

It was like a grey, all-encompassing shroud of sheer, abject dismay that settled over me, as I stood and watched the 2 females simply let themselves into my house. As if it was their house ... which, in a sense, and to all intents and purposes, it now might as well have been.

New rulers were installing themselves in my home, and establishing their own, autocratic authority - their new Dominion. 

For, the 2 black burka clad females who were letting themselves into my 3-bedroom, semi-detached suburban house, with such a proprietorial air, were none other than my new 'wife' Claudia, and my mother Meena.

Claudia and her mother Meena were members of a population of about 30 'Fallen' women who, for their 'sins' had been shunned by their unforgiving society, and duly condemned to a bleak exile in a remote - backward - region of the Arabian Interior. As their punishment, they were left to scratch a bare, wretched existence, living in huts made of mud in the desolate, sun-seared desert village of Wadi Ya Noh.

Fortunately - for Claudia and Meena - a way out of Wadi Ya Noh had fortuitously presented itself to them. And, not just a way out of Wadi Ya Noh, either, but a way into a whole new, undreamed of life ... in England. Living in my house. With me supporting them. And, not just supporting them, either, but ... serving them. I was to become their slave, in my own home. Their house slave, and their foot slave. This was an agreement, a legally binding Contract, that I had 'willingly' signed up to.

For, after having served the first 3 months of my 2-year - 'A Thousand Suns' - sentence, for the crime of 'Indecent Assault', served in Claudia's home village of Wadi Ya Noh (which was, under Arabian Law, a sentence of Claudia's own choosing, as victim), Claudia had suddenly and unexpectedly offered me a way out. Or rather, she had offered to 'suspend' the remaining 21 months of my wretched sentence. But, of course, there were strings attached. Lots of strings. Enough to tie me up in knots. And they were knots that I couldn't undo.

The fact that it was not me, who had committed the Indecent Assault - pinched Claudia's bottom (Claudia was a part-time Arabian Airways air hostesses on our flight), but my lecherous lesbian boss, Miss Susan Smith, who had played the saucy prank, and then craftily wangled it so that I took the blame - made my glowing flame of resentment burn all the hotter. 

Miss Susan Smith, had not only got me into terrible trouble with the Arabian Authorities: landing me with an unspeakably wretched 2-year sentence; a criminal record to my name; and eventual deportation from Arabia, but she had also cost me my job, and - my God! worst of all - ultimately caused me to lose my darling fiancee, Sandra ... In fact, Miss Smith had actually stolen my Sandra from me and, they were now, according to a 'Dear John' letter that Sandra had sent to me via the British Consulate in Wadi Ya Meen, an 'item'. 

Claudia had made a proposal. Which was, in effect, for me to make her a proposal ... of marriage. 

Or, to be more exact: a Civil Partnership. Or, to be even more exact - precise - a 'customised' Civil Partnership. 

In short: a Contract, that would be composed almost entirely of Claudia's Terms and Conditions - or, as Claudia called them: 'stipulations' ... For instance: that our Civil Partnership need not be consummated, was just one of Claudia's many 'stipulations'.

Under Claudia's instructions, a legally binding Contract would be written up by the local British Consulate representative, Miss Withenshaw, and the Contract would be recognised under both Arabian and English law. 

The Contract would contain all of Claudia's many Terms and Conditions: her wholly unreasonable, uncompromising stipulations, with regard to the conduct of our 'married' life. And I would have to abide by them all. Break any one of them, and Claudia had it in her power to have me arrested, and taken straight back to Arabia ... To be once again incarcerated in Humility Hole, in Claudia's home village of Wadi Ya Noh. To serve out the remaining 21 months of my 2-year - 'A Thousand Suns' - sentence, at the chastising feet of Claudia's village sisters ... While Claudia stayed at home, living in my house with her mother Meena. Living off my savings, until I returned home and started earning a living again.

But, so desperate was I to get the hell out of Wadi Ya Noh - out of Humility Hole! - I had eagerly grabbed Claudia's unexpected offer with both hands. And so Claudia and I had both signed the legally binding Contract, as had Miss Withenshaw, as official witness. 

Miss Withenshaw, though, to give her her due credit, had tried to warn me, again and again, about the serious dangers of making an ill-considered decision - a knee-jerk reaction. She had tried to warn me about what would be the dire and irrevocable consequences for me, should I be so impulsive - so fool-headed - as to sign Claudia's diabolical Contract. Miss Withenshaw had done more than her level best, to try and talk some eleventh-hour - last-minute - sense into me, in an increasingly desperate effort to avert what she could plainly see was going to be a certain and unmitigated disaster for me. She had tried everything she could think of, to persuade me to reconsider my over-hasty decision; to make me see the error of my ways: To make me take 10 deep breaths; to stop and think; to put my thinking-cap on - to wake up, and smell the coffee. 

In short: Miss Withenshaw had gone the extra mile, to try and stop me going the whole-nine-yards. To try to stop me from pushing my own self-destruct button ... my Doomsday button. Miss Withenshaw had tried to save me from myself - or, rather, to save me from Claudia. But I wouldn't listen. 

And so, Miss Withenshaw had duly presided over the 'nuptials' for the 'happy couple'. I had promised to serve, honour, and obey Claudia. Those had been my 'wedding' vows - and my 'wife' Claudia would ensure that I kept them. Or else ...

And so it was to the tumultuous, ululating approval of the watching females of Wadi Ya Noh, that Miss Withenshaw had officially declared: "I now pronounce you, man and wife." Claudia and I, were 'married'. And so, here I was ...

As the taxi driver pulled away from the kerb, I picked up the luggage - there wasn't much of it - and I carried it to my front door.

My next door neighbours - Tony and Jan, a chirpy, fun-loving couple in their mid-20's, who had moved here about 2 years ago after getting married, and who Sandra and I were on very friendly terms with - bemusedly stared out of their front window at me. 

After all, I was supposed to have been away in Arabia on a business trip with Miss Susan Smith, for 3 days - not 3 months. I could almost hear Tony and Jan thinking: What was that all about? And, as if that wasn't enough to arouse their curiosity, I had actually returned home with 2 black burka clad females ... What was THAT all about?

But, so completely crushed, so utterly despondent was I, at the spiritually debilitating thoughts of my wretched predicament, that I could barely rustle up the sad parody of a half-hearted wave, to my 2 friends and neighbours.

Tony and Jan continued to stare at me. And, as I put down the luggage, and as I knocked on my front door and meekly waited to be admitted into my own house, the expressions upon their faces became rather less curious, and rather more concerned.

I sighed inwardly ... I was going to have some explaining to do.

* * * 

My new 'wife' Claudia opened the front door to me, and I entered my home with our luggage, putting it down in the hall. I could tell by the particular tone of insistent beeping, that my burglar alarm was going to sound at any moment. Claudia ordered me to tell her the code; explain to her how the alarm worked. She wanted to know how to operate, de-activate, and re-activate the alarm herself ... after all, she would need to know.

The house was cold, and I put the central heating on, turning it up high so as to get the house warmed up quickly. Satisfied, at hearing my boiler firing up as though it meant business, I then put the kettle on to make a pot of tea - mint tea. 

On our way home from the airport, Claudia had asked the taxi driver to stop outside a corner shop, and she had told me to quickly run into the shop to buy a box of mint tea-bags, plus a few other bits and bobs of food for our evening meal. "You had better get used to mint tea, David," Claudia had advised me, once I was back inside the taxi. "It is all you will be drinking from now on," she had decreed. "Coffee is sinful, and I forbid you to drink it," she said. "And, it goes without saying, that I also forbid you to drink alcohol," Claudia said anyway.

No wonder, that the taxi driver was giving me odd looks. 

As it happens, I hardly ever drank tea - let alone mint tea. I am a coffee person. But now ... if Claudia caught me sneaking so much as a sip of the 'evil brew' - breaking one of her Civil Partnership Contract stipulations - with a click of her fingers she could have me back in Wadi Ya Noh, and back in Humility Hole before I could say 'cafe au lait'. 

And the same could be said for the occasional glass of red wine that I so enjoyed - Claudia had firmly put a stopper on that, too. My God! But it was just one thing after another.

When I brought the tray of tea things into the living room, I saw that Claudia and Meena were sitting comfortably together on my large sofa. Then I thought to myself: Oh! Just make yourselves right at home, why don't you? upon seeing that Claudia had put the Al Jazeera channel on my large (50-inch), high definition plasma flat-screen TV. And I had no sooner served Claudia and Meena their cups of mint tea, when Meena pointed to the carpeted floor, at her feet, and she harshly yelled at me one of the few words of English that she knew: "Slave!" 

My own cup of mint tea had still been on its way to my lips. But now, I was a fraction too slow in returning my cup of mint tea to the tea tray, untasted. "David! You heard my mother! You will obey Meena! And you will obey Immediately!" commanded Claudia angrily. And I obeyed Claudia - and Meena ... as I knew that I must.

I listened to the occasional, gentle chinks of Claudia and Meena's china tea cups against their saucers. I listened to the sound of their voices, as they engaged in companionable conversation in their own, Arabic tongue. In short: I listened to the sounds, of Claudia and Meena's inestimable contentment. 

I listened to their quiet discourse, as Meena rested the leathery soles of her bare feet upon my face, repeatedly cupping her toes over my nostrils; and as Claudia slowly, absentmindedly, played her own smooth bare soles over my chest and stomach.

A short time later, Claudia said, "David. Serve Meena and I more mint tea. And then return to your place, at our feet."

"Yes, Claudia," I replied obediently ... as I knew that I must. 

After topping up Claudia and Meena's tea cups with more mint tea, I returned to my "place." Once again, Claudia and Meena's bare, brown feet rested and roamed on and over my face and body, as if I was some sort of soft, luxurious foot furniture for them to relax upon.

Then, and with a sudden shock, it occurred to me: 'The Big Match' was on TV tonight! And it was a big match, too - Liverpool v Manchester United. Their replay, in the Quarter Final of the FA Cup ... And here I was, in my 'place'. Lying on the floor of my own living room, at Claudia and Meena's feet, and being used as their footrest as they gabbed and drank mint tea and watched the Al Jazeera channel. 

And I gloomily realised, that my chances of watching the football - any football, from now on - were precisely nil. Zilch. Zero. Nada. My God! But it was just one thing after another.

A short time later, Claudia spoke to me again, and at some considerable length. "David. I want you to trade your car in, and part-exchange it for a people-carrier - one that is capable of carrying up to seven passengers. A new one. A good one, too - not some cheap rubbish. Start looking for one tomorrow," ordered Claudia. 

What? I thought, dismayed. Trade in my precious car! I'd been saving up for ages to buy it.

Claudia went on, and I could only listen to her, my mouth getting ever more slack, in shock. "You will be picking up five of my village sisters from Manchester Airport, next Sunday afternoon, when the Arabian Airways flight arrives from Wadi Ya Meen. Their visa's will be valid for one month. Meena and I will be going along with you in our new people-carrier, to greet them. You will be buying their air tickets. Buy them tomorrow. I'll write down their names and any other relevant details for you to take to the travel agent." Claudia then paused briefly, to take a dainty sip of her mint tea. 

Thus refreshed, Claudia continued. "When our five visitors are due to return home to Wadi Ya Noh, at the end of their month-long stay with us, they will stay overnight at an airport hotel on the Sunday preceding their flight home, early on the following Monday morning. You will drive them to their hotel, and you will book and pay for their hotel accommodation, including evening meal and breakfast. And leave nothing to chance, David. Make sure you book well in advance - in fact, book some rooms tomorrow," instructed Claudia. 

My God! She was on a frenzied, relentless roll, of pitilessly piling on my misery.

"Another five of my village sisters will then come and visit us for a month," Claudia then informed me, dropping yet another of her bombshells. "And this will happen on a regular basis - in relays, as it were - every month. They will all be staying here, of course, as guests in our house. With three bedrooms, there is enough room to comfortably accommodate all of us. Buy any extra beds, pillows, sheets and blankets, as are necessary. Buy them the day after tomorrow - you will be too busy tomorrow, David. See that all of their beds are properly made up, and be sure to put fresh, clean sheets on them. Make their beds every day, and give their bedrooms a good vacuum cleaning after you have done so. And I want you to change all sheets, every Sunday ... You needn't concern yourself about your own sleeping arrangements, David. From now on, you will sleep with Meena and I, in your own double-bed. And, just as you did so, in Wadi Ya Noh, you will lie across the foot of the bed, at our feet ... In your place."

What, the ...? My mind was in a topsy-turvey, panicky whirl, at trying to process Claudia's seemingly endless stream of words and instructions; at trying to absorb, all of that terrible, horrible, hideously stressful information. 

The funny thing was, though, that it wasn't the terrible thought of the vast, insupportable cost of meeting Claudia's incredible demands, that had made the biggest impression upon me. It wasn't even the dreaded prospect of having to sleep at the foot of the bed, at Claudia and Meena's feet - I had already been doing that, back in Wadi Ya Noh ... No. It was Claudia's very particular stipulation, that I must "be sure to put fresh, clean sheets" on the beds, and, that the beds are "properly made up" ... the females of Wadi Ya Noh were accustomed to sleeping on a hard-baked mud floor, in huts that were made from mud. And their bedding consisted of straw mats, and thin, scratchy, holey blankets.

Funny, how I should think of that ... Maybe it was some sort of defence mechanism: My mind, trying to divert my attention away from more traumatic thoughts; trying to deflect me towards safer musings, that were less likely to result in a nervous breakdown.

Claudia spoke beautiful, melodic, easy-on-the-ear, exotically accented English, and she was certainly an intelligent woman. But, when it came to money matters: finances, expenses, in comings and outgoings, staying in the black - balancing the books - Claudia seemed to have absolutely no grasp, at all, of such economical concepts. As far as my new 'wife' was concerned, it was simple: I earned money. She spent it. Simple as that.

Apart from the 25-year mortgage on my house, I was debt free. I didn't believe in using credit cards. I said: Never! to the 'Never-Never'. I believed in saving up the money that I needed, to buy the things I wanted. I believed in saving up for a rainy day, too, and I had been prudently feathering my nest, whilst earning a decent enough wage working for Jordan's Climate Control. I did not want to get myself into any debt. Just the very idea, was unthinkable - it was anathema to me.

"Claudia," I began tentatively, and with the utmost respect, that I had - in accordance with the Terms and Conditions of our Civil Partnership Contract - promised to accord her at all times, "I am very sorry, but - but I'm afraid that much of that will not be at all possible. You see---"

"David. Do you wish to return to Wadi Ya Noh ... to Humility Hole? To serve out the remaining twenty-one months of your suspended sentence?"

"No! Not that! Please, Claudia ... It's just - it's just that you simply don't understand. I am not made of money, Claudia - forgive me, Claudia, I didn't mean that, the way that it sounded. It's just that ... My finances, at the moment ... I'm not even working, haven't worked for three months, and---"

"You start your new job, David, next Monday. I have arranged everything," Claudia stated matter-of-factly.

"Job? What job? I don't understa---"

"I have been in touch with your former boss, Miss Susan Smith ... or rather, she contacted me. She kindly offered to let you return to work at Jordan's Climate Control - under certain conditions, that is. She said she is not willing to let you return to your old job, or to pay you your old wage, but that she would instead like to create a brand-new post, just for you. As her office boy. Miss Smith said that you would earn a lot less, in your new position, and she also mentioned something about a ... "proviso," I think she said, if I remember rightly. Still, I think it is very good of her to have you back at all - everything considered. She wants you to report to her office next Monday - nine a.m. sharp. And I told her that you would be there, David. And David, be warned: I have told Miss Smith to inform me immediately, if you are anything less than one hundred per cent satisfactory to her, in your duties."




The Females of Wadi Ya Noh. Ch. 02



I was shocked, absolutely appalled. What? Go back working for Miss Susan Smith again, after all that she had put me through? After all that she had done to me? After she had ruined my life? Well, there was no way! Absolutely no way! She could forget it! And then there was the small matter of Miss Smith's so-called "proviso." Oh no. Oh, no! I knew, just exactly what Miss Susan Smith's so-called proviso was. I remembered her telling me about it, aboard our flight to Arabia. I remembered all too well! How could I forget? I could still remember my sense of shocked disbelief, my shudders of revulsion - my actual distress - just at the very idea of it ... Massaging Miss Susan Smith's dark panty-hosed, stinky feet, for her. Urgh! And massaging her office girls' feet, too! Yeeew! I couldn't believe it. She actually seemed ... preoccupied, fixated - obsessed - with the idea. It was as if Miss Smith was determined - hell-bent - on subjecting me to her damned so-called proviso ... Thinking back, in fact, I also recalled her telling me that, one day, she would have me on my knees, at her feet ... Well, it was quite unthinkable. I was simply, unequivocally, definitely not going to allow that to happen. Never in a million years!

"I'm very sorry, Claudia, but it's quite out of the question. There is no way, absolutely no way in this world, that I am ever going back to work for that woman. I'll find another job, Claudia ... It was her fault, that---"

"David. Do you want to return to Wadi Ya Noh ... to Humility Hole? To serve out your remaining---"

In a momentary flash of foolhardy and, potentially self-destructive, defiance, I rudely interrupted Claudia, blurting insolently: "Oh! That's your answer to everything, isn't it, Claudia? To threaten to have me sent back to Wadi Ya Noh. To put me back in Humility Hole."

"Yes, David, it is. And don't think I won't ... if you disobey me."

"So, I start my new job at Jordan's next Monday, then. Working for Miss Susan Smith, as her office boy," I said, in total capitulation ... as I knew that I must.

My God! But it was just one thing after another. 

* * *

The following day, and following Claudia's explicit and detailed instructions, I set about the first of the tasks on Claudia's Things-to-do list: that, of part-exchanging my car - a 2-year-old Ford Focus - for a brand-new people-carrier. With Claudia's stipulations still ringing in my ears, about the vehicle - "A new one. A good one, too - not some cheap rubbish." - I went to the local Mercedes Dealership. 

The car salesman 'saw me coming', as it were, as if I had 'SUCKER' emblazoned across my forehead. And he rolled me over good-style, greatly boosting his commissions for the month, and greatly depleting my bank balance, all in one slick move.

Still, having said all of that, I came away from the Mercedes Dealership with an absolute beaut of a vehicle. A brand-new, silver-coloured Mercedes people-carrier, that was capable of carrying up to 7 passengers (just as Claudia had stipulated). 

The people-carrier was pretty much ready to go, too: It just needed plating up; a mechanic made a few last-minute checks and preparations; a couple of car valet's busied themselves fussing over it; and a junior salesman nipped out in an amazing-looking Merc to the Post Office for my new vehicle's tax disc. And, while all of this activity was going on, my new insurance details were sorted for me. And then I was ready to roll. "Any problems ... bring her right back," said Slick.

The Mercedes people-carrier had climate-control, black leather seats, tinted windows, DAB radio and CD player - the lot ... Only the best, for my dear 'wife'. The people-carrier went like a dream; it whispered along the road, and it was a real joy to drive. Hell, with its automatic transmission, The Merc damn near drove itself. And it was very pleasing to the eye, too, and I thought that even Claudia would be pleased with it, and coo her approval when she saw it.

All of this luxury-on-wheels, though, came at a price. Despite trading in my 2-year-old Ford Focus as a deposit, I was still going to be paying rather hefty monthly repayments on the new people-carrier, for the next 5 years.

That little job sorted, my next task on Claudia's Things-to-do list was to go to the travel agent's, in town. Of course, I went in 'The Merc' (as I was already thinking of it). I had some air tickets to buy - 5 of them.

I parked The Merc right outside Taylor's Travel - 'Taylored To Your Needs' - was their rather naff, play-on-words claim, on the sign above their shop.

I got out of the vehicle and shut the driver's door behind me. It didn't clang shut (like "some cheap rubbish"), but closed with a soft, satisfying click, that spoke of quality. Then, when I pointed the key/remote at it, and pressed the button, my chest puffed up with pride, as if 2 of The Merc's air-bags were inflating inside my lungs, at seeing the bright yellow flashing lights that signified the alarm being activated.

Fortunately, Taylor's Travel weren't very busy and, at seeing me enter the shop, one of the travel assistants behind the counter, whose name tag informed customers that she was Zoe, gestured for me to take the seat opposite her. "Good afternoon," she greeted me when I had sat down, and with what I could see was a genuine smile. "How can I help you?" she asked brightly.

I put my hand in my pocket, and I retrieved the piece of paper upon which Claudia had written out her air ticket requirements. I handed over Claudia's note to the attractive and rather pleasant-voiced (early 20's, I guessed) travel assistant. I said to her, "Well, Miss. Can you sort me out with five air tickets, please? Return tickets, from Wadi Ya Meen, in Arabia, and valid for one month? All the necessary details are written down there," I said to her, nodding at Claudia's note that I had just handed to her.

After just a brief scan of Claudia's note, Zoe tapped some keys on her keyboard, and the Arabian Airways website appeared on her computer screen. Zoe's warm and welcoming smile then turned into a quite concerned-looking frown. "These five air tickets, that you want ... they are dated for travel within a week - for this coming Sunday," she said.

"Yes, Miss, I know ... Is - is that a problem? Are there no tickets left available?" I asked worriedly, concerned about how Claudia would react to such news.

"It's not that. There is still plenty of availability on that flight - there usually is. It's just that ... Must these five women travel so soon? Could they not travel in a month or two, instead? Is it an emergency?" she asked, almost plaintively. "I mean, it's your money, but ..." 

"Well, it's not an emergency - as such ... But, yes, they must be on this Sunday's flight," I replied, my own voice now touched with even more concern.

"Oh," Zoe said, almost forlornly. "Well, the thing is, you see, booking so - so last-minute, these air tickets are going to be terribly expensive. People usually book these sort of tickets well in advance - three, six, even twelve months ahead, if they possibly can. It's just like with the trains, you see ... the later you book your ticket, the more expensive it becomes," explained Zoe. "Now; if it was a last-minute charter flight standby ticket to some Spanish or Greek or Turkish holiday resort, that you were after, well, you would be laughing. But it's different, with these sort of scheduled flights, I'm afraid ..." 

To illustrate her point, Zoe swivelled her computer screen so that I could see, for myself, just what price I was going to have to pay for those Arabian Airways tickets, at such short notice.

My God! It doesn't rain, but it pours. Talk about exorbitant! These last-minute Arabian Airways tickets were going to cost me an arm and a leg. And - my God! Claudia had told me that there were going to be "relays, as it were," of 5 females of Wadi Ya Noh coming to stay with us, arriving every month. Every month! 

I felt like crying - bawling. I was in deep, deep despair. Buying all of these air tickets - not to mention, endlessly forking out for all of my other Claudia-related expenditures - was going to ruin me. Ruin me! It could only be a matter of time. It was, I knew, going to be a constant struggle to keep my head above water; to stay afloat. But, eventually ... 

And I knew there was no point in pleading with Claudia. No point in trying to get through to her. No point in trying to talk some economic sense into her. No point in trying to convince her, that she was slowly strangling the goose that was laying all of her golden eggs. 

And besides, I couldn't afford to risk getting on Claudia's nerves about it. She'd made her position quite clear to me, and I wasn't about to go putting her to the test - she'd have me transported back to Wadi Ya Noh, quicker than I could say 'Bankruptcy Court'. No. It was quite hopeless. I felt acutely dejected. The thought, of the sheer futility of it all. The thought, of all of my valiant efforts, ultimately counting for nought ...

"Are you all right?" asked Zoe, concernedly. "What's the matter? You look quite upset," she said kindly.

And it was Zoe's warmth, and friendly kindness, her genuine solicitude, that undid me. God knows, but I'd known precious little kindness, in the last 3 months. I couldn't help it, but I was so overcome that I just unravelled. My tears of self-pity started to flow. I was actually weeping, right in front of Zoe.

"I'd like to book those five air tickets, please, Miss," I blubbed.

"Oh," was all that Zoe could bring herself to say.

Sensing that there was something amiss, the senior travel assistant - whose name tag informed customers that her name was 'Sonia' - suddenly materialised beside Zoe. Alternating her concerned gaze between Zoe and me, she tentatively asked, "Is - is there ... a problem?" 

Zoe said, "No, Sonia. Not - not exactly. It's just - it's just that ... the gentleman, he ..."

In terms of economic principles, I was the exact opposite of Claudia. Claudia would casually and carelessly pour money - my money! - down a bottomless pit. Whereas I practised thrift. I was a big believer in the wise old adage: 'Spend a pound to save a pound'. And it was this deft, pecuniary savvy economic stratagem that I was going to deploy now.

I found that I could barely speak, such was my distress. But I had to get the words out. "Miss ... in addition to those five air tickets, I'd like to book, in advance, another five similar air tickets, for each of the next six months. I'll - I'll bring all of the necessary details in for you, as soon as I have them." I treated Zoe to a wan smile. "That should at least save me a bob or two, in the long-run. Thank you, for your kind advice, Miss," I said to Zoe.

Ah! Bless Zoe. But she was actually wiping away a tear of her own, in sympathy ... it was surely a heartfelt thing, for she could have had little idea of what she was actually sympathising with.

Neither of the 2 travel assistants said anything, for some moments; they just stared at me, perplexed. The senior travel assistant - Sonia - roused herself first. "At Taylor's Travel, we pride ourselves upon always striving to procure the best possible deal for our clients, but ... May - may I ask ... why you want to book all of these air tickets?" she inquired of me, not unreasonably.

"It's a long story, Miss," I said. "Here's my Debit Card."

Shaking her head in obvious befuddlement, the senior travel assistant said, "Sort the gentleman out with his air ticket arrangements, please, Zoe."

Which Zoe did. "That's all sorted now, then," she told me a few minutes later. "Their air tickets will be ready and waiting for them at the Arabian Airways Check-In Desk, when they arrive at Wadi Ya Meen airport to fly out to Manchester," Zoe assured me with a kind, but sad-looking smile.

"Thank you, Miss," I said. "I will be bringing all of the necessary details in for you, as and when Clau - as and when they are given to me." And, with that, Zoe gave me a rather wan wave, as I walked out of the door of Taylor's Travel. 

Outside, I looked up at the legend on the sign above their shop: 'Taylored To Your Needs' ... Well, they were certainly doing their level best: credit, where it was due - and Zoe was a real peach. But, I knew that there was no one who could tailor to my particular needs.

I still had one last task to do today, I glumly realised. But it was something that was not on Claudia's Things-to-do list: I needed to visit my bank - urgently. 

I needed to top up my Debit account - seriously, drastically top it up. There was soon going to be a real run on it - a lot of rather sizable chunks of money were going to be withdrawn from it. And, not only that, but it was now abundantly clear to me, that I was actually going to have to re-mortgage my house, too, to bring the monthly repayments down a bit. 

And, not only that, either - and worst of all, by far - despite my not being a believer in credit cards; despite just the very thought of them, being anathema to me, nevertheless, dire necessity now plainly dictated that I apply for some immediately ... And max them all out. 

* * * 

Well, at least I had been right about one thing: Claudia was absolutely over the moon, with our brand-new Mercedes people-carrier. Of course, I mostly intuited this, from reading her body language. By nature, Claudia was quite reserved, and she rarely broke out into a sweat of excitement about anything - except when she was threatening to send me back to Wadi Ya Noh, that is. Although all that Claudia had actually said, upon her first setting her dark, almond-shaped eyes upon our gleaming new vehicle, was: "I approve, David," I knew that, inside, she was thrilled to bursting, and I was sure that she wanted to jump up and down with unrestrained joy ... Claudia was coming up in the world.

Meena was positively awestruck, at the very sight of The Merc. As though she thought to herself: 'I, Meena, fallen female of Wadi Ya Noh, am to be chauffeured like a princess, in that gleaming wonder ... By my daughter's very own house slave and foot slave.'

Meena was almost as amazed, by The Merc (or, rather, by the wondrous idea of herself actually riding in it, princess-like), as she had been at first setting her eyes upon my 50-inch, high definition plasma flat-screen TV. Almost a week later, and Meena was still enthralled. She still couldn't get over the marvel; could hardly tear her eyes away from the big TV for a moment. 

Of course, Claudia was a bit more worldly. She had worked part-time as an air hostess for Arabian Airways. She had routinely stayed overnight every Sunday at an airport hotel, and so she was quite used to seeing and using such wonders and gadgetry of the modern world. Meena, on the other hand (who had only ever lived in a remote and quite primitive - backward - part of the Arabian Interior), was another matter entirely. Although Claudia had told her of the existence of such things, Meena had no real grasp as to what Claudia described to her. Meena could not imagine; could not 'get her head around', the realities of such science-fiction like fantastical wizardry's - which is why they came as such a tremendous shock to her, when she actually saw them for herself.

* * * 

I was dreading the arrival of Sunday ... Dreading the arrival, of another 5 females of Wadi Ya Noh.

The days leading up to Sunday were bad enough, even with just Claudia and Meena to ... serve. I was their slave, in my own house. I served them endless cups of their damned mint tea and, after doing so, they would then command me to return to my 'place'. To lie at their feet. To be used as their footrest, while they chit-chatted companionably and watched TV.

Claudia had told me the names of her 5 village sisters who would be arriving on Sunday, and coming to stay with us on their month-long visit. Kandi would be among them, as would Fatima. 

I remembered them both. But I especially remembered Fatima. After all, I had good reason to ... 

Back in Wadi Ya Noh, Fatima had straddled me after I had been stripped naked by the furious, vengeful females of Wadi Ya Noh, immediately upon Claudia informing them that I was an Englishman. 

(It was absconding English oil workers, who were predominantly responsible for the females' hideous situation. By leaving them pregnant, and with no father for their child, the deserting Englishmen were, effectively, condemning their former concubines - many of whom, had been promised marriage, and a new life, living in England - to an ignominious and wretched exile, in some godforsaken desert village somewhere in the remoteness of the Arabian Interior. And Fatima was one such victim). 

And, with Fatima's black burka clad bottom hovering right in front of my face, and the soles of her filthy dirty bare feet positioned either side of my head, she had firmly grabbed hold of my penis with her left hand, yanked it out of the way and, with her right hand she had raised one of her black, extremely well-worn mules above her head. And I had stared at Fatima's shoe, in abject terror, in my sensing - knowing - what was coming.

Fatima ululated with ominous, horrible portent, and then she viciously swung down her shoe. Wielding her shoe with controlled power and unerring accuracy, Fatima scored the most devastating direct hit with the chunky heel of her mule upon my so horribly exposed and vulnerable testicles - twice. 

Oh! The pain! The agony! The anguish! I had never experienced anything even remotely like it. For long moments afterward, as I had moaned and groaned my terrible anguish, as I had squirmed and writhed in the throes of my frightful affliction, Fatima had continued to straddle me, keeping me helplessly pinned to the hard-baked ground. And Fatima had continued to hold onto my penis, keeping it tightly gripped in her left hand, while she ululated gleefully.

And now, Claudia had told me that Fatima was actually coming to stay in my own house - for a whole month! And I would be 'obliged' to extend every hospitality and service to her. Fatima had taken me straight to hell. And now I was actually going to be her slave - albeit, a shared slave, with the other visiting females of Wadi Ya Noh - in my own house. Making her bed every day. Vacuuming her bedroom every day. Changing her sheets every Sunday. Waiting on her, hand and foot ... Being her foot slave.

Every night, as Claudia had decreed, I slept in my own, double-sized bed, with Claudia and Meena. Lying naked across the foot of the bed, at their feet - in my "place." I didn't sleep at all well. For, if it wasn't enough, in itself, that such a sleeping arrangement was rather less than conducive to my getting any sort of restful sleep, Meena had the rather ... disconcerting habit, of warming her feet on my genitals.

And Claudia loved nothing more, than having me drive her around in The Merc. She was becoming quite the snob: "Bring the Mercedes, David," she was now in the habit of saying - and in an unnecessarily loud voice, so that as many people as possible might overhear her snooty command. 

On Saturday, Claudia instructed me to drive herself and Meena to the Asian Market. And this would become a regular visit, every Saturday, buying in the greater bulk of her weekly shopping requirements. Whenever Claudia wanted something more during the week, she would send me off to the supermarket with a shopping list. 

Our 5 visitors - the first, of many such "relays, as it were," - would be arriving next day (Sunday), and so there was an awful lot of grocery shopping to do. Claudia and Meena fully intended to look after their visiting village sisters very well. Very well indeed. In fact, Claudia and Meena meant to ensure that all of them wanted for nothing - absolutely nothing. They meant to ensure, that they would be completely pampered and utterly spoiled. That their month-long stay in my house, would be as splendidly enjoyable to them all as was possible to make it. And, that no expense was spared, in providing this luxurious level of hospitality ... After all - I was paying. 




The Females of Wadi Ya Noh. Ch. 02



And, though I was completely at Claudia's command, her ... puppet, Claudia had instructed me to obey commands given to me by any of her visiting village sisters. To treat their orders, exactly as though they were being issued to me by Claudia herself - and so carried her all-powerful authority. 

I had never been inside the Asian Market before, and I could hardly make head or tail (perhaps an ironic term) of most of the groceries that Claudia and Meena selected for their shopping trolleys.

By the time Claudia and Meena had finally finished their epic shopping expedition, they had accumulated and filled 12 large shopping bags, bulging to almost overflowing with - to me - mysterious-looking groceries. "Bring the Mercedes, David," ordered Claudia, in a voice that was several decibels above what was really necessary.

But, before I hurried away to obey Claudia's haughty command, once again, I was reaching my hand deep into my pocket. 

* * * 

At last, it was Sunday afternoon. I had phoned Manchester airport to confirm that the Arabian Airways flight from Wadi Ya Meen was arriving pretty much on time - which it was: at 4 p.m. - and now Claudia, Meena and I were preparing to leave the house to go and meet-and-greet our very first monthly batch - "relay, as it were" - of 5 visitors from Wadi Ya Noh. Claudia told me to go out to the people-carrier; she and Meena would follow me outside in a minute or two.

Outside, I saw that my next door neighbours, Tony and Jan, were both half-covered in soap suds. They must have been messing about (as usual) whilst giving their car its weekly foamy wash & wax ... just as I used to do, with my cherished Ford Focus. Upon seeing me, Tony and Jan immediately chucked their sponges back into their wash buckets, and came over to talk to me - or rather, to question me. To get some long-awaited answers.

"Hey, Dave!" exclaimed Tony, nodding towards The Merc. "What's with the new wheels?"

Exasperated beyond measure, Jan none too gently jabbed her not-getting-his-priorities-right husband in the ribs with her bony elbow. "Tony! Never mind about the stupid people-carrier!" she chided sternly.

Turning to me, Jan mercilessly harangued me, giving me a piece of her good-neighbourly mind. "David, would you mind telling me and Tony, just - just where the hell you have been hiding, for the last three months? You told us you would be back home from your business trip, in three days. Three days, David! In time for Christmas ... In time for your flipping wedding! What happened to that? Sandra sent us a note, telling us it was all off, but giving us no explanation as to why. All off ...? We didn't know what to think. Did we, Tony? Tony ...? Tony!" Tony's eyes were once again appreciating The Merc. 

Jan turned back to me again, furiously. She was getting warmed up - hot under the collar. "Oh! I could swing for you, David. I could throttle you, I really could! We've been sick with worry, Tony and me. Because of your bloody disappearing act! Just where the hell have you been, David? Couldn't you have had the common decency to at least have sent us a card; a note or something, just to let us know you were okay? We phoned your workplace, and we were put through to a Miss Susan Smith. She told us that you didn't work at Jordan's Climate Control now. She said that you had left her Company in the lurch; that you had left without even working your notice. And we haven't been able to contact Sandra ..." 

At hearing the sound of my front door closing, Tony and Jan redirected their gazes at the 2 black burka clad figures who had just come out - Claudia and Meena. Lowering his voice, Tony hissed: "And, Dave, just who the hell, might we ask ... are they?" 

I felt a sort of perverse thrill of glee, at what I was about to say to Tony and Jan. As if to say: Put this in your pipe, and smoke it!

As soon as Claudia and Meena had reached us, I said, "Claudia. Meena. Meet my next door neighbours and very good friends, Tony and Jan ... Tony and Jan, I have the pleasure of introducing to you, my wife Claudia. And Meena, my mother."

I wanted to laugh my head off, at the expressions on Tony and Jan's incredulous faces - absolutely priceless! My God! But it felt good; the feeling of wanting to laugh again. I'd quite forgotten what it was like. God knows, I'd had precious little to laugh about, in the last 3 months.

Tony and Jan could only stare after us, stunned speechless. They simply just stood there, mouths agape, as they watched me slide open the passengers' door of the people-carrier for Claudia and Meena. Watched, dumbfounded, as I politely and respectfully assisted them - my new 'wife' and my mother - into their seats, and then fastened their seat-belts for them.

I allowed myself a wan smile.

* * *

Upon our arrival at Manchester airport - Terminal 2 - I very carefully guided The Merc into a parking space on the first level of the multi-storey car park, that was, rather fortuitously, just being vacated by a maroon Volvo. I knew from experience just what it was like, sometimes, the frustration of trying to find a free space in that damned place. 

I escorted Claudia and Meena to the Arrivals Hall. The time was now 4:55 p.m. According to the Flight Arrivals monitors, the 16:00 Arabian Airways flight from Wadi Ya Meen had arrived slightly early, at 15:55. And so it had landed exactly an hour ago ... our 5 visitors might be through at any moment. 

As usual, at Arrivals, there were many meeters-and-greeters: taxi drivers; friends; family, all waiting to meet someone off one of the flights that had landed within the last hour or so. At the behest of Claudia, as soon as there was room for us at the roped-off Arrivals corridor, Claudia, Meena and I took up places there. We watched intently, as passengers - mostly returning holiday-makers - poured en masse along the corridor. The 5 black burka clad females of Wadi Ya Noh should appear at any second.

I spotted them first.

Fatima appeared first and, as eldest, she led the other 4 members of the small, black burka clad group. They followed behind Fatima uncertainly, and in a very closely attending huddle, like chicks afraid of losing the reassuring sight of their mother hen. After all, it was a very strange world that they had just arrived in. 

Although all that was visible of their features were their dark, almond-shaped eyes, still, I recognised them all immediately. Fatima, in particular. I was absolutely certain, that I would be able to instantly identify Fatima's bulky but solid shape anywhere, anytime. Certain, that I would be able to effortlessly pick her anonymous, shrilly ululating figure out of the baying crowd in the punishment square at Wadi Ya Meen during a public caning ... after all, I had good reason to.

Claudia had already told me that Fatima and Kandi were coming to stay with us. I had very good reason to remember Kandi, too ... Kandi had trampled me half to death; mashing her bare feet into my stomach, as if she was treading grapes in the south of France. And it was Neesha, Shami, and Saida who made up the rest of the small party of shuffling black burka clad females.

Claudia and Meena then spotted their 5 visiting village sisters among the congested throng of the other air passengers - well, they did stand out a bit - and they ululated their greeting. 

At hearing the shrill, primitive sound, the heads of meeters-and-greeters and of arriving air passengers alike turned and looked about, in trying to identify the source of that decidedly unsettling - profoundly disturbing - emanation. And Fatima, Kandi, Neesha, Shami, and Saida immediately and enthusiastically responded to their 2 village sisters' primal-sounding call, ululating back their acknowledgement. 

"What, the ...?" I heard one taxi driver say. "What, in hell's name ...?" wondered another. "Muummmy!" wailed a frightened child.

And then it happened: one of the worst moments of my life.

For it was then that Claudia said, "David. You will now give Fatima the appropriate greeting - exactly as I instructed you earlier."

"Claudia ... please, please, Claudia ... don't make me do this ... Not - not this! Claudia ... please - I'm begging you! I'll do anything - anything! But, please, Claudia ... not---"

"Yes, David - you will do anything. Anything that I tell you to do. Now go, David! Give Fatima your welcome. Obey me ... Or else!"

Upon hearing Claudia's suddenly raised voice - or, more to the point: hearing what she had said, and the decidedly harsh, authoritative tone she had used in saying it - quite a number of people turned around to stare at us. The expressions upon their appraising faces were varied; interested, curious, intrigued - amused.

Well, I knew what "Or else!" meant ... 

But, there were times, when I seriously wondered whether I should actually defy - yes, actually disobey - Claudia. Times, when I wondered if I had come to the end of my tether; finally reached the point, where enough was enough. Times, when I thought I could take no more; that I must finally draw a line in the sand - make a stand. Times, when I wondered if it would actually be preferable, to break the diabolical Terms and Conditions of our Civil Partnership, as stipulated by Claudia, and thereby contravene the manacled, shackled, ball-and-chain rules and regulations of our legally binding Contract - and say to hell with the consequences ... And this was one of those times.

But, I just simply could not bring myself to do it; could not make myself disobey my 'wife' Claudia. In short: I just couldn't man-up enough. I couldn't face being dragged back to Wadi Ya Noh. Back to Humility Hole. Back, to the mercilessly chastising feet, of the females of Wadi Ya Noh.

And so, I gave in again. And I complied with Claudia's command. "Yes, Claudia," I said obediently ... as I knew that I must.

I ducked under the waist-high cordon rope and, going against the congested flow of the air passenger traffic, I approached our 5 visitors - approached Fatima. I got down on my knees at Fatima's feet and, lowering my eyes, in showing my great respect and reverence, I stared down at the tops of her brown feet. "Fatima!" I cried loudly, in adulation. "Jewel of Wadi Ya Noh! Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!"

In response to my highly reverent welcome, Fatima glared down at me, in great, withering disdain. Fatima then turned her broad back on me, in preparing to summarily inflict, upon me, what was considered by her Culture to be the most gross, vile, obnoxious - humiliating - of all possible insults. 

Fatima slipped her right foot from her extremely well-worn black mule, and she then raised her foot behind her, presenting her bare sole to my meekly, humbly attending face ... to allow me to demonstrate the sincerity of my respect and humility, at her feet. 

Which I then proceeded to do ... as I knew that I must.

I started kissing Fatima's grubby, fleshy, wrinkled, rough-skinned brown sole, all over: From the pads, and then the undersides of her toes; progressing to the firm flesh of the ball of her foot; onto to her wrinkly low arch; and then proceeding up to the bottom of her grimy, hammer-head hard heel. Where I then firmly pressed my respectful, reverent lips - and kept them there ... Until Fatima, upon finally being satisfied that I had received her in the "appropriate" manner, then removed the sole of her right foot from my unmoving, passive face; returned her foot to her bin-worthy black mule, and then serenely proceeded on her way ... Which was just as well, for we were starting to cause something of a logjam behind us. 

"What's up? Come on! Get a move on! We're going to be here all ruddy day!" I heard one exasperated male air passenger say from somewhere further back in the queue, who had finally grown impatient with the inexplicable cessation of any forward movement. 

"What's the hold-up?" complained an annoyed woman peevishly. "For crying out loud! C'mon!" she shouted, voicing her growing displeasure.

Making a bee-line towards Claudia and Meena's welcoming waves, Kandi, Neesha, Shami, and Saida diverted their luggage trolleys around me - as if they were motorists avoiding a large piece of debris littering the road. Fatima now followed them, and I respectfully followed at Fatima's heels.

I tried to close my ears, to the terribly hurtful comments that I heard, from meeters-and-greeters and air passengers alike. I heard one taxi driver say to another: "Oi, Stan. Did you just see what I just saw, eh? ... or have I finally lost my marbles; gone Loony Tunes?" 

"Ha ha ha!" replied his friend. "I'm glad you asked first, Joe! I thought I must be seeing things! Well! It just goes to show, dunnit - just when you think you've seen everything ..."

And I could hear literally dozens - seemingly hundreds - of other similar, sharply cutting comments. I heard hurtful and distressing observations. I heard a belittling badinage, of rollicking remarks; dry and droll denouncements. Juvenile jokes. Everyone was a comedian. And all the jokes were on me. No one, it seemed, was at a loss for an off-the-cuff cruel comical contribution; for an impromptu, belly-laugh inducing gag, at my expense. And there was a shaming, ridiculing background chorus of disbelieving, derisive male laughter; and of incredulous, exclamatory female tittering, coming from all around me. All directed at me.

It was incredibly, unspeakably humiliating. 

At least, when I had 'tended' the dirty soles of the females of Wadi Ya Noh, whilst wretchedly incarcerated in Humility Hole, they (and other females of low station) were the only ones present to witness my diabolical degradations, at their chastising feet ... Unlike here. Where Claudia had, in commanding me to "Give Fatima, the appropriate greeting," forced me to debase myself so publicly. Effectively, to perform a character assassination upon myself, in the crowded Arrivals concourse at Manchester airport - Terminal 2.

And now an appalling wailing hullabaloo of ululating filled the Arrivals area with shrill, almost ear-perforating sound, as Claudia and Meena excitedly received our 5, equally excited visitors. Meeters-and-greeters and air passengers alike desperately covered their ears with their hands, in defensive response to being so intolerably assailed by that dreadful cacophony. And so did I. 

And so it came as an immense relief, when Claudia - and, this time, she did have to speak loudly - ordered me to "Bring the Mercedes, David. Bring the Mercedes around to the pick-up area. We shall be waiting for you outside," she instructed me.

"Yes, Claudia," I replied obediently. And it didn't take me long to pay the parking fee, exit the multi-storey car park, and bring The Merc around to the pick-up area outside Arrivals, where the 7 females of Wadi Ya Noh were waiting for me. I opened the passengers' door for them and, while they got into the people-carrier and seat belted themselves up, I busied myself with loading their luggage - there wasn't much - into the back of the vehicle. And then we were soon leaving Manchester airport behind us; joining the M56 motorway, and heading east, towards Manchester.

There was a very excited babble, coming from our 5 visitors, and Claudia (seated in the front passenger's seat) translated to me that her village sisters were all absolutely amazed, and marvelling at seeing the incredible number and variety of cars and other types of vehicles on the road. 

"Oh, this is nothing, Claudia," I said blithely. "This is quiet, being a Sunday. You should see it during the rush hour!" I told her. And, a moment later, I was fervently wishing that I'd kept my stupid big mouth firmly shut.

"The 'rush hour', David? What's that?" asked Claudia.

"It's when people are in their cars in the mornings and in the evenings, when they are driving to and from their places of work. It's when the roads are at their very busiest, and most congested - massive traffic jams, all over the place," I explained.

When Claudia had translated what I had told her to her raptly listening village sisters, and listened to their excited replies, Claudia turned back to me and said, "So you must drive us around then, David. In the rush hour. We would all very much like to witness such an amazing spectacle."

* * *

Within half an hour we had arrived back at my house, and I saw that my next door neighbours, Tony and Jan, were still outside, still lavishing their TLC upon their car. And now, I was chuckling inside - I could actually see the funny side - at seeing Tony and Jan's wide-eyed, slack-mouthed, incredulously gawping faces, as they watched the 7 black burka clad females of Wadi Ya Noh shuffle to my front door, and let themselves into my house. 

"Dave - what the hell ...?" blurted Tony. 

But, before I could enlighten Tony, at all, as regards to "what the hell ...?" was actually going on, I was prevented from doing so, at hearing Claudia's imperiously commanding, come-to-heel voice: "David!" 

It was just one, single word, yes. But, just in saying that one, single word - my name - Claudia managed to convey, in her tone, so many things: power, control, dominance - authority. Unchallengeable authority. In short: the tone that Claudia conveyed whenever she spoke my name, could be summed up in one word. Rulership. 

Claudia was beckoning me to come inside. And so, it was with a hapless, helpless, forlorn wave and melancholy smile, that I left Tony and Jan to mull over between themselves, just "what the hell ...?" could possibly be going on, as I meekly obeyed Claudia ... as I knew that I must.

Once inside the house, Claudia, sounding in exceedingly good humour, at playing hostess to her visiting village sisters, said, "Well, David. First things first: put the kettle on. I think we would all benefit from a nice, relaxing, refreshing cup of mint tea. And bring out a couple of plates of those rice cakes and maize biscuits, that Meena and I made this morning."

"Yes, Claudia," I replied, and I went to do her bidding.

When I returned to the living room, carrying a large tray heavily laden with said refreshments, the TV was on, and tuned in to the Al Jazeera channel. And I went around my own living room with the tray, as if I was a waiter in the lounge of some Eastern hotel, serving cups of mint tea and plates of rice cakes and maize biscuits, to 'Ladies who lunch'. 

Claudia and Meena were seated upon my 2 comfortable armchairs. While our 5 visitors were seated together right in front of the TV, on my large sofa, which could just about accommodate them all without cramping them. And they were (just like Meena) ooh-ing and ah-ing their amazement and wonder, at the vivid colour images upon my 50-inch, high definition plasma flat-screen TV.

When I eventually served Claudia - "Guests first, then my Mother, David," she had instructed - she told me: "This just won't do, David ... Really, it won't."

What's wrong now? I wondered, thinking that Claudia must be in some way dissatisfied with the quality of my services. But, it wasn't that ...

"I want all of my village sisters to start learning English, David," Claudia now informed me. "So that they will all be better able to instruct you, of course - that goes without saying. But also so that they will then be able to enjoy, and to make the most of their time, each time they come to visit us in England. I shall begin teaching Meena, Kandi, Neesha, Shami, and Saida myself, here and now. Indeed, David, you will undoubtedly be of some assistance to them yourself; explaining the meaning of colloquial phrases, and things of that nature. But I want them all to have the benefits of professional tuition, too. Just as I had. And so, David, I want you to start sending money to the Educational College in Wadi Ya Meen, to pay for their English lessons. I shall write to the College today, enclosing your first cheque," Claudia told me.




The Females of Wadi Ya Noh.



"What a peach! Ha ha ha! Oh, that was priceless! Ha ha ha! I bet Claudia would soon put you in your place, David. She would soon whip you into shape - I'll bet!" Miss Susan Smith opined confidently, of her apparently kindred spirit. 

And, neither of us could have known, just how prophetic her whimsical words would turn out to be ... 

It was just as the two Arabian Airways air hostesses prepared to move on down the aisle with their refreshments trolley, that my boss committed the act that would change my life forever: Miss Susan Smith suddenly leaned across me and, to (even my) amazement and horror, she sharply pinched Claudia's very shapely bottom. 

This so startled Claudia, to the extent that she actually jumped; Claudia's bare, brown heels lifted at least an inch off her lilac-coloured mules, in her reflex reaction ... as she loudly squealed: "YOW!" 

Claudia was scandalised.

Claudia whirled around and, in believing me - yes, me! - to be the outrageous culprit, she fixed her dark, angry eyes on mine. Her eyes were in 'locked-on' position, firing her laser-guided, high-explosive thoughts ... shooting me down in flames.

Claudia was ready to erupt. There was no doubt about that. Claudia, I could see, was incandescent with rage; seemed barely able to contain herself. Claudia was in the throes of a white hot anger. She was outraged, that ‘the likes' of me should have the towering temerity, should have such incredible impertinence, such appalling audacity - such insolence - as to touch her person in such an inappropriate, disrespectful - highly offensive - manner. 

Yes - ME! 

For, Miss Susan Smith's demeanour was a perfect picture of pure innocence. Of sweetness and light. Her mildly puzzled-looking ... what's up? facial expression, plainly suggesting - and, convincing anyone who saw it - that she had not the faintest idea at all, not a clue, about the cause of the kerfuffle. Not an inkling, about what could possibly have sparked the sudden commotion. 

Claudia glared at me. Her glinting, glowering dark eyes eloquently conveying the great magnitude of her dark anger. Claudia was silently telling me - and, in no uncertain terms, either - that she would like nothing better, at this moment, than to deal my loathsome face not just one, and not two, either ... but a punishing, systematic series of sharp, stinging, tear inducing slaps, as a means of adequately addressing 'my' indefensible display of appalling impropriety and great offence, upon her person. And thereby meting out instant, suitable, satisfactory - proportionate - retribution. 

I sensed all of this, just as surely as if Claudia had voiced her thoughts and feelings through a loudhailer. And, I found it to be extremely unpleasant - to say the least - to be subjected to the seething intensity of Claudia's vengeful, implacable gaze. 

Such was the unmistakable message of Claudia's furious stare, that her plainly worried colleague - Samira, according to her name tag - hurriedly intervened, in her clearly appearing to sense that Claudia was actually on the brink - the very edge - of launching a violent physical outburst against me. On the very edge, of an ill-considered - reckless - impulsive, foolishly indulgent act. An act, that would be sure to have ... consequences. 

Inevitably resulting: not only in Claudia's instant, unappealable dismissal from Arabian Airways, but also making her virtually unemployable, too, by any other Company in the Air Lines industry ... Claudia's flying career would be over.

For long, tension-filled moments, both my own personal safety, and Claudia's flying career, hung precariously in the balance. Only Samira's calm, cooing, soothing words, held Claudia at bay; kept her from going ... too far. Claudia stared at me, wordlessly, venomously. Claudia was clearly frustrated, that she could not - at least, not without ... consequences - unleash her barely restrained wrath upon me. 

Claudia wanted to teach me a lesson. A lesson that I would not soon forget. Remember for ever, in fact. I watched her brown fingers; flexing, unflexing. She wanted to slap my face, I knew. She was itching to, yearning to. I could tell. It was so obvious. Claudia wanted to slap, and slap, and slap ... To teach me, teach me, teach me.

While I, for my part, could only helplessly stare back at Claudia, in horrified dismay. For some unknown reason, Claudia had already taken an instant dislike to me, in the first place. And now ... this. 

I was appalled, by Claudia's innocent and perfectly understandable misapprehension of the incident. I was sorely aggrieved, by her reaction; her misplaced furious indignation. Not at her, of course. The blame, lay firmly at 'someone else's door. 

I perfectly well realised, that trying to place the blame where it rightly belonged - at Miss Susan Smith's door - was not an option. It simply wasn't. It would be futile, and counter-productive. 

Futile: because Claudia already clearly and firmly believed that I was the offending miscreant. And, any attempt now, to try and blame Miss Smith, would surely only be seen as ungallant and ungentlemanly, at best. But, more likely, as unmanly - cowardly.

Counter-productive: because I would most certainly be talking myself out of my job. Oh, I was under no illusions, about that! No sir! And, not only would Miss Susan Smith have no compunction in firing me from my job, but she would also darkly delight in making me carry the can for her own saucy misdeed. 

Calmed, to some degree, by the soothing influences of her concerned colleague, Samira - who was urgently whispering, no doubt, balm-laden, sound and sensible advice into Claudia's ear - Claudia at last moved on down the aisle with Samira, with their refreshments trolley. 

Miss Susan Smith smiled at me, smugly. Delighted that she had so deftly deflected the blame for her saucy little bottom-pinching prank, so squarely and firmly onto me. 

Soon though, Miss Susan Smith would be even more delighted. She would soon be even more thrilled, with her deft, successful shifting of the blame onto the shoulders of her innocent, hapless underling. For, this incident was far from over - it was just starting. The unforeseeable ramifications; the unknowable repercussions, of Miss Susan Smith's cheeky, saucy little bottom-pinch ... about to unfold.

The aircraft landed en route, as scheduled. It was 11 a.m. Local time. We were now in a rather remote part of the Arabian Interior, at the small desert city of Wadi Ya Wan. 

This was where the air crew would leave the aircraft, to be replaced by fresh air crew. And, where a small number of passengers would disembark. These de-planing passengers' vacated seats would then be taken by newly embarking passengers, who would then fly on to the aircraft's final destination: Wadi Ya Meen. 

It was a pity, I thought, that we were not flying direct to Wadi Ya Meen. This en route stop-off, at Wadi Ya Wan, was something of a nuisance, I felt. Just a delaying, tiresome, pesky hold-up, that was just adding extra travelling time onto the journey. And, somehow, being on the ground seemed even more boring than being airborne. 

But, as I was looking out through Mr Pin-Stripe's window, curious to see what was out there (not much, believe me), I became aware of an increase in the low, background hum of the passengers' conversation, and of a sudden tension in the air. What was going on? I wondered.

As I was seated in an aisle seat, I saw the female Captain of our Arabian Airways flight - Captain Jazmin - accompanied by her air crew, briskly striding down the aisle with a distinct air of businesslike, no-nonsense, purposeful intent, about them. Captain Jazmin meant business, I could see. But, what business? I wondered idly. Funny ... but Captain Jazmin seemed to be looking at me. Staring me right in the face. Nah, I thought to myself ... it just seems that way. 

Of course, at first I had thought nothing of it. Until the party of air crew halted ... upon reaching my seat. 

Then, I was rather taken aback - to say the least, when Captain Jazmin formally - coldly - addressed me. Her manner was decidedly curt. Bereft, in fact, not only of any vestige of natural friendliness, but devoid, even of the more basic courtesy of the professional politeness normally afforded to passengers. 

Captain Jazmin's voice carried well. And it rang out; loud and clear, and infused with the stern tones of her official authority. And I was shocked to the core, at what she said to me. It was beyond embarrassment: as nosy, gossip-loving passengers craned their necks to see better; as more than 200 Nosey Parkers looked on, and listened avidly to the scandalous details of the unfolding 'mid-air' drama. 

"A very serious charge, of 'Indecent Behaviour', has been formally lodged against you by one of my air crew," Captain Jazmin gravely informed me, as she helpfully but rather needlessly indicated the balefully glaring Claudia as the said molested member of her air crew. 

Captain Jazmin continued acidly, "You have committed a very serious offence, aboard my aircraft. This matter will be dealt with immediately. You will now vacate your seat. You will accompany me off this aircraft, and I will personally escort you to the airport Police Station, where you will be arrested, and formally charged ... Didn't you hear me? Did you hear, what I just said ...? You will come with me. Out of your seat! Now!" ordered Captain Jazmin angrily, when I made no discernible move to comply. 

I was literally dumbstruck, from my disbelieving shock. I had actually lost the power of speech - I opened my mouth; but the words just wouldn't come out, the way they were supposed to. I was so red-faced (I know I was!), from such humiliating, cringing mortification, at hearing Captain Jazmin's scathingly accusing words (broadcast all over the aircraft!), that I could only wordlessly vacate my seat, as she had so peremptorily ordered. 

Captain Jazmin, of course, had no real reason to disbelieve the word of Claudia. And, she seemed to be already convinced of my apparent guilt, by the very damning fact that I did not protest my innocence - whereas, any innocent person surely would have. Wouldn't they? Oh, yes. I was guilty as hell, in Captain Jazmin's eyes.

For, I had decided to 'go quietly'. To take the rap. To pay the fine - as I thought that it surely couldn't be any more serious than that ... just for a pinched bottom.

I turned to Miss Susan Smith, and I saw the look of malicious glee that now positively radiated from her gloating face. She was loving it! Absolutely loving it. Intervening in my behalf, I could see, was clearly not on her agenda. She was over the moon, at my predicament. A predicament, for which she was wholly responsible. A predicament, that she had so carelessly caused, landing me in this trouble with the Arabian authorities. 

Oh! That woman!! She was the bane of my life! She really was. She was like a niggling, nagging thorn in my side; pricking away at me, all of the time. Always causing me hassle. Always giving me grief.

As Captain Jazmin personally escorted me to the airport Police Station, I tried to gee-up my spirits, a little, by giving myself something of a morale-boosting, mental pep-talk: 'Come on, David ... Don't worry, you'll soon have this little matter sorted out. No problemo. It's just a little misunderstanding, after all. Easy to sort out. Oh, yes, easy peasy. Ha ha! Then you'll soon be back aboard the plane, with her Ladyship, and laughing off this whole daft thing - this ridiculous pantomime', I assured myself soothingly.

But, at the airport Police Station (which also served as an impromptu Courtroom, on occasions such as these), it was not long, before the actual seriousness: the true, appalling gravity, of my situation, was finally brought home to me - and with about the same subtlety, as half a ton of collapsing builders' scaffolding raining down upon my unsuspecting head - when Claudia formally accused me, before the Court, of committing an act of Indecent Behaviour upon her person. 

For, a representative from the British Consulate in Wadi Ya Wan, a Miss Withenshaw - who, just like Captain Jazmin, also seemed readily inclined to believe in my apparent guilt - brought me crashing down to Earth in horrified disillusionment. 

Miss Withenshaw, was a shoulder-length, dark-haired woman, perhaps in her late twenties, I thought. She was easy on the eye; I'll give her that. If not exactly a beauty. My first impressions of her, were that, while she was quite attractive: nice face, good figure, great legs, these positive attributes were rather offset, I felt, by what seemed a somewhat strait-laced, overly prim and proper nature. 

I listened to Miss Withenshaw and, I was aghast, at what she said. She stonily informed me, that in this, more remote - "rather backward" - part of the Arabian Interior, the prevailing custom was that an accused person was presumed guilty, unless innocence could be proved. 

Miss Withenshaw then formally advised me that, as I could not actually prove my innocence, in this matter, I would now be formally charged, convicted ... and sentenced. There would be no question of a fine, she told me. For here, she told me, things were done differently, very differently indeed, than they were back in England.

Then, added the decidedly unsympathetic-sounding, acerbic-tongued female representative of the British Consulate: "After having duly served your sentence, you will be formally deported from Arabia. And, with a criminal record to your name." 

My God! I was absolutely aghast. I was incredulous. I could hardly believe what Miss Withenshaw was, so matter-of-factly - coldly - explaining to me. I was a British citizen. Surely, Miss Withenshaw could help me ... couldn't she? Be of some assistance to me, in my wretched predicament?

In the same frosty manner, Miss Withenshaw went on to tell me that the prevailing custom in this, more remote ("rather backward") part of the Arabian Interior - the Province of Wadi Ya Wan - was that the victim of a crime was given, by the Court, a number of choices: Choices, with which to decide as to how, exactly, the perpetrator of the crime against them was to be punished ... To satisfy their own, particular sense of appropriate retribution. 

Upon seeing that Claudia was about to formally testify to the Court, Miss Withenshaw told me that she would translate for me everything that was said, pertaining to my 'trial'.

It was rather absently, the way that Claudia perused the Court's ‘menu' of punishment choices that were open to her selection. As if she were already quite familiar, with the contents of the 'menu'. As if the offerings were always the same ... And, as if she always chose the same 'course'. 

Claudia formally read aloud, to the Court, the precise nature of the punishment option - the penalty - that she wished me to suffer. The form of 'correctional therapy', that was most appropriate, and that would best serve to ‘rehabilitate' me from my apparent disrespectful and chauvinistic attitude towards females. 

"I, Claudia, hereby pronounce to the Court, my rightful and righteous sentence, upon my vile transgressor ... the convicted criminal - David," intoned Claudia, in a clear and confident voice. As if she had been here, and done this many times before; as if she were no stranger, to these proceedings. And I waited with bated breath, to hear the details of my fate: a fate, of Claudia's very own choosing.

"I, Claudia, decree that the convicted criminal - David, shall return with me to my home village: To suffer the time-honoured, traditional chastisement, of ‘A Thousand Suns'."

'A Thousand Suns'. What the ...? Was this for real? I wondered incredulously.

"I, Claudia, decree that my foul assailant shall serve out his sentence in my home village, of Wadi Ya Noh. In the village square, in Humility Hole. 

"I decree that: I, Claudia, and my village sisters, shall be this criminal's chastisers. 

"I decree, that my vile transgressor; my foul assailant, the convicted criminal - David, shall learn repentance, at our hands, and humility, at our feet ... This is the chosen chastisement, of I, Claudia." 

I couldn't believe my own ears! Humility Hole ... village sisters ... chastisers ... learn repentance at their hands; humility at their feet ...? This was surreal. No! This was more than surreal - it was plain, stark raving bonkers! I would certainly be having words with Miss Withenshaw. What a farce! You couldn't make it up!

Upon having formally passed upon me the punishment sentence of her choice, Claudia gave way to the Court official - who was not an actual Judge: A Judge was only called for, I learned from Miss Withenshaw, when an accused prisoner claimed that he/she could actually prove their innocence. Otherwise, it was routinely the Court official: a sort of local Governmental multi-functional handyman, who was the arbiter presiding over such ... cut-and-dried, summary prosecution proceedings as these. 

"The chosen sentence of Claudia, upon the convicted criminal - David, is hereby formally and officially recognised, sanctioned, and passed by this Court," declared the Court official. 

"Upon due completion of his 'A Thousand Suns' sentence, the convicted prisoner will be formally deported from Arabia. And, with a criminal record to his name. That is all ... the Court is dismissed," announced the Court official, in tones as blithe and as carelessly delivered, as a bored railway station announcer advising of the imminent arrival of the 15:30 from Liverpool Lime Street. 

Oh, I was definitely going to have words with Miss Withenshaw, about this! This was going too far. It was a ridiculous state of affairs. Simply preposterous.

I vehemently demanded, of the representative from the British Consulate, "Just what, exactly, is going on here, Miss Withenshaw? I know what you said - but what does it all actually mean? What the hell is: 'A Thousand Suns', exactly? And all of that other ... gibberish? What is happening?" 

To which, Miss Withenshaw replied, to my absolute horror and dismay, "‘A Thousand Suns', means a thousand days, David. Your sentence is to last for a thousand days." 

"What!" I cried with shocked incredulity. "But ... that's, that's ...â" I stammered, as I frantically tried to calculate. "But ... My God! Miss Withenshaw, that is about equal to two years and nine months! You've ... please, you've got to stop this ... this farce! This whole thing is nuts! You've got to help me! Can't you do something, Miss Withenshaw ...?" I pleaded hysterically. 

When Miss Withenshaw made no reply, to my increasingly frantic pleas, I yelled at her, in a sort of last-throw-of-the-dice desperation: "You've got to help me ... it's your job!"

"It is not my job! I am not here, to help the likes of you to wriggle off the hook!" Miss Withenshaw yelled back at me, in high indignation. "Now, give me your Passport, David. I'll take it back to the Consulate with me. You will be able to reclaim it, in ... due course." I didn't like the way she said: "... due course."

Miss Withenshaw then went on, rather more calmly; as if she was rather soothed, by what she was about to say to me. "Anyway, David, in case you haven't noticed ... you are in Arabia now. The Law of the Land has been applied, and your sentence has been passed. And ... that's it," said Miss Withenshaw, in a rather flippant, off-handed manner that made my blood boil. 

She went on, in the same careless-sounding tone. "The Court has spoken, David. And ... that's all there is to it, I'm afraid. The decision of the Court is final. And the customs of the land have been duly observed. There is nothing further that I can do for you, at this moment, other than to advise your boss, Miss Susan Smith, as to the salient details of the outcome of your trial," said the British Consulate representative, nonchalantly. 




The Females of Wadi Ya Noh.



In my extreme agitation, I asked her, "But ... what was all that other stuff? About punishment, chastisement. Repentance at their hands ... and humility at their feet?" 

"Well, David ..." pondered Miss Withenshaw, "... perhaps I should leave you to discover that, for yourself. And, after all, you will soon be finding out, won't you? 

"You are in Claudia's hands, now. And you will be under her complete control, for 'A Thousand Suns', as it were ... There is one thing, though, that I think I can predict with full confidence: After you have spent the next two years and nine months, David, at the tender mercies of Claudia and her village sisters, you will never have the disrespect; the insolence, to pinch another woman's bottom ever again!" 

As the British Consulate official's chilling words sunk in, I suddenly became overwhelmed by an appalling sense of panic. Consumed, by fear-fuelled notions of what might lie ahead. The fear of the unknown. The fear of my sentence: 'A Thousand Suns'. A sentence, of 2 years and 9 months! 

A fleeting succession of harrowing thoughts hurtled across my tormented, panic-stricken mind scape ... What about my fiancee, my darling Sandra? What about our upcoming marriage, next week, just in time for Christmas? What would Sandra say, when Miss Susan Smith returned home in three days' time, and gleefully relayed to her the shocking, appalling news of my incredible predicament? The ("salient") details, of my 'A Thousand Suns' sentence. Served in a tiny village in the middle of the Arabian desert. Being 'chastised'; by my 'victim', and by her village sisters. Learning repentance, at their hands, and humility, at their feet. 

What a disaster! I couldn't let this happen. I just couldn't ... I had to 'come clean'. I was desperate. It was the only way. 

This whole thing had gone too far. Far too far! In desperation, I frantically tried to reverse my disastrous decision. My disastrous decision to take the rap; to carry the can for the saucy misdeed of my boss, Miss Susan Smith. I had made a terrible error of judgement - I saw that now.

I parted company with my dignity - after all, it was the least of my concerns, at the moment. 

"Miss Withenshaw ... I've gotten myself into the most awful muddle, here. There has been a terrible miscarriage of justice. You see, I've made a big mistake ... I didn't do it! And that's the truth! Please, Miss Withenshaw! I am innocent, I tell you! You must believe me!"

"You made your 'big mistake', David, when you committed your act of Indecent Behaviour upon this young lady," she replied coldly, indicating Claudia. 

"But, Miss Withenshaw, it wasn't me! It was my boss, Miss Susan Smith! She did it! I saw her! I swear!" 

The British Consulate representative looked at me, in deepest disdain. "Oh! That's it! I have heard it all, now ..." she replied contemptuously. "If you can't do the time - don't do the crime! Why can't you take your punishment like a man, David?" asked Miss Withenshaw disgustedly.

In tears now, at the awful realisation that this horrible, heinous nightmare was actually becoming an unavoidable reality, I pleaded; poured out my heart, to the cynical British Consulate representative. 

"Because I am innocent! Because I took the blame for my boss ... because I had to - to keep my job! 

"Because I thought that I would only have to pay a fine ... I mean, I know it was wrong, but, but ... it was just a bottom-pinch, for heaven's sake! How was I to know, that there would be such a song-and-dance over such a little thing as that? 

"But, most of all, because of my fiancee ... my Sandra. We are supposed to be getting married, next week! Just in time for Christmas. Oh, hell! God knows what she is going to make of all this!" I blurted, in acute distress. 

At hearing my heartfelt, emotional outpourings, Miss Withenshaw remained unconvinced, unmoved - implacable. Indicating Claudia, she replied stonily, "Well, David, even if I believed a single word of what you say - which I don't - perhaps you should have thought of all that, before you indecently assaulted this young lady, shouldn't you?"

My God! There was just no getting through to the woman. What she had just said didn't make any sense. But I had quite lost the heart to argue with her anymore. I knew it was futile. I was just banging my head against the proverbial brick wall. No wonder, that I was starting to get such a rotten headache!

I was distraught. And, my abject despair did not improve any, either, as I listened to Miss Withenshaw embark upon a censorious verbal spree. A holier-than-thou, righteous tirade of moral lecturing. 

"Do you know, David, men like you make me sick. But, you are not in England now ... you are in Arabia. Where such acts of social nonacceptance are taken rather more seriously than they are back home ... and so you are certain to suffer the punishment that you so richly deserve," admonished Miss Withenshaw severely. 

"All I can do for you now, David, is to officially notify your fianceé of your current situation. I shall write to her, informing her as to the nature of your crime. And, I shall advise her of all of the details, as pertain to the attendant sentence that has been duly imposed upon you by the Arabian Court."

My God! So Sandra was actually going to receive an official letter from the British Consulate, in Wadi Ya Wan. 

In addition, then, to Miss Susan Smith's sketchy report - the "salient details" - Sandra was going to get the full, unabridged version, straight from the ... horse's mouth. Sandra would be receiving a full, detailed account of my humiliating predicament - chapter and verse! Straight from Miss Withenshaw's official pen. My God!

"It is men like you, David, who make me ashamed to be British ..." oh, she was really on a roll now; really getting into her righteous stride, "... you so carelessly commit your misdemeanours while abroad, in the smug belief that you won't get into any trouble. That there will be no irksome, tiresome come-back; no inconvenient consequences, as a result of your crass, anti-social behaviour," ranted Miss Withenshaw. 

"You think that your immature, asinine pranks will not backfire on you. Don't you? You complacently think, don't you, that if you do carelessly break the laws of a foreign country: well, no worries ... the Consulate will come and pick up the pieces; the likes of me, will come to your rescue. You think the likes of me, will come hurrying along on my white charger, and whisk you away from trouble," accused the sorely aggrieved Miss Withenshaw, scornfully. 

"Well, David ... you know differently now, don't you?" said Miss Withenshaw. And, I had heard a distinct note of satisfaction in her voice. Satisfaction, that I was about to get everything I deserved - and then some! 

"Also, David ... if you are innocent, as you now so suddenly claim, you have just admitted; to me, and in front of many other witnesses, that you have actually committed perjury in an Arabian Court - a far more serious crime, and with far more serious consequences, than the one you have just been convicted of. 

"If you want my advice: you will keep quiet about that. Very quiet. You have already made your bed, David. And now, you will have to lie in it - for the next two years and nine months," said Miss Withenshaw, with obvious relish. Mercilessly piling on the misery, in believing me to be not only guilty as charged, but - and, far worse, in her book - totally remorseless, too.

The terrible injustice of Miss Withenshaw's harsh, pitiless words - her damning indictment - slammed cruelly home, totally crushing me. She was right, though: it could have been worse. Much worse. I had, as she had pointed out, committed perjury by taking the blame for something that I hadn't actually done. 

All that I could do now, I realised despondently, was to try to somehow reconcile myself, to the awful reality of the situation that I now so incredibly found myself in. I knew it would be pointless to argue further; to make any more pleas. I would just be wasting my breath. Just as Miss Withenshaw had told me: I had made my bed, and so now I must lie in it - for 'A Thousand Suns'! 

As I was being frog-marched out of the Court by 2 policemen, I shouted back; urgently, frantically: "Miss Withenshaw! Miss Withenshaw!! Please ... tell Sandra I love her!" 

Outside, I was quite taken aback by the sudden, scorching heat that immediately assailed me. Newly arrived from a very chilly, frost-bound England, I was stunned by the ferocious, bludgeoning power of the Arabian sun - even in December - as it beat down pitilessly out of a cloudless blue sky. 

Then, it was Claudia who was standing in front of me. Standing 3 or 4 inches taller, on her lilac-coloured mules, than my 5 feet 7 inches, Claudia looked down at me - and down on me. Claudia said nothing: just stared down into my fretful eyes, for long, contemplative moments. 

Claudia's eyes were shining; a shine that came from within. Shining, with unfathomable, frightful thoughts. Glittering, with a gleeful, vengeful triumph. 

Aboard the Arabian Airways aircraft, I had felt Claudia's highly aggressive, openly hostile demeanour towards me, to be very intimidating. But, now that Claudia was actually on her 'home turf' ... she was terrifying. Menacing. I sensed threat, emanating from her, in almost palpable waves.

Without warning, Claudia raised her right hand and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to my left cheek and, while I was still registering the sudden, unexpected pain and shock of her powerful, anger-fuelled blow, she followed it up with another resounding slap, to my right cheek. "Aaahhh!!" I exclaimed, in pained surprise, in the aftermath of seeing Claudia's right hand so suddenly and swiftly lash out, immediately followed by her left hand, as quick and as unavoidable as cobra strikes.

Apparently gratified, by my reaction, Claudia stood back from me. There was such a look of gleeful, exultant satisfaction in her dark, almond-shaped eyes, as she saw my bottom lip quivering. Uncontrollably trembling, in shock, in pain - in humiliation. 

I knew, that these were the barely contained, vengeful slaps that Claudia had so longed to inflict upon me aboard the Arabian Airways flight, but had been obliged to resist that very powerful impulse in the greater interests of keeping her job. 

But now, Claudia had been given - to all intents and purposes - free reign. Carte blanche: the Court's blessing, to punish me with impunity. To 'chastise' me.

And, it seemed to me, that the very fact that Claudia had had to wait so long, for this moment, only served to heighten her pleasure; only served to make the moment all the sweeter, to her. To make it all the more satisfying. To make all of her sweet, sweet anticipation ... well worth the wait. 

My cheeks were scorching hot. From Claudia's stinging slaps, yes: but more - far more - from my burning humiliation. 

I had just stood there! Just stood there, and let Claudia slap my face - twice! Well ... not 'let' her, exactly - but that's not the point! I had done nothing about it! Nothing!! I hadn't protested. I hadn't complained. I hadn't even said as much as a single, solitary word against her, in response ... Because I was thoroughly cowed, by Claudia. That was the awful, shaming truth of it.

I could only cringe, before Claudia; the very essence of pathetic helplessness. I could only fall apart, and crumble, before her. Her eyes; dismantling me, demolishing me, reducing me to nothing more than a long pile of human rubble. The sheer power of Claudia's personality - her presence - the gaze of her dominating, smouldering, seemingly all-knowing eyes, effectively emasculating me.

I silently stared into Claudia's dark, almond-shaped eyes. Eyes, that sparkled maliciously; glittered malevolently. Eyes, that brooked no challenge. And eyes, that spoke of dark, dark promises. Promises, of dreadful revenge. Promises, of the untold cruelties that awaited me at her wrathful hands. As Claudia stared right back at me - seemingly reading every turbulent, terrified thought in my head - I was starting to feel really scared. Claudia's powerful personality; her unnerving presence - her aura - thoroughly intimidated me. 

After all: not only did Claudia now hold the upper hand - she held all the cards. I'd heard of the decks being stacked - but this was ridiculous. Claudia held all of the aces; all of the trumps ... And now, she was playing her hand.

Claudia's eyes, her voice, her superior demeanour - her very presence - held me in thrall as she spoke to me at length ... she wasn't the sort of person you could easily ignore. And, Claudia's command of English, I now found out, was confident and assured: Not limited, to such basic vocabulary; commonly used phrases, as would serve merely to help her get by at work - but quite proficient.

"David. For ‘A Thousand Suns', you will be in my power. You will be at my mercy. You will be at my feet. And, every day, I will make you pay. Oh, yes! You will pay ..." exulted Claudia. 

"In my home village of Wadi Ya Noh, David, you will have many female teachers ... my village sisters. Teachers, who will each derive great pleasure and satisfaction, from teaching you - an Englishman - your daily lessons of respect and humility. And I promise you: you will learn them well!" predicted Claudia, on rising notes. 

Claudia was getting steadily worked up; her voice rising. And I listened to her with ever increasing trepidation. I knew I was in trouble here. Big trouble.

"There are many women of Wadi Ya Noh, to whom promises of marriage have been made. Made - by English oil workers! Yes, promises, David! Promises!!" Claudia almost shouted.

"Promises," Claudia continued feelingly, "that were treacherously broken! Promises, of a better life - in England. As lawfully wedded wives. Living, as equals!" Claudia yelled in my face, almost hysterical now, in at last finding a suitable outlet for her uncontainable outrage. 

"Promises," Claudia went on hotly, "that were cruelly and callously reneged upon. Broken promises! Lies! False words, out of lying, deceiving English mouths!" shouted Claudia, pointing an accusatory finger at me. "Promises, David," Claudia asserted angrily, "that your accursed countrymen never intended to keep!"

Now, at coming to the 'meat' of her speech, I heard a distinct hitch, in Claudia's voice. For such was the strength, of her torrential outpouring of raw emotion. Claudia was, I realised, 'letting it all out'.

"All of these women, were left with child. With no husband; no father, for their child, they were treated like lepers. Worse, than lepers! Despised, shunned, ostracised from the caring, loving bosom of their society - exiled, to Wadi Ya Noh! 

"Condemned, to a lifetime of scratching, scraping poverty. Condemned, to an existence of mind-numbing, soul-destroying monotony; of endless, mindless drudgery. Condemned, to endure the blazing, unrelenting sun of that God-forsaken wasteland!" Claudia complained bitterly. 

Claudia's voice then dropped to almost a whisper. As if conspiratorial; as if, for my ears only ... "I, Claudia, am the child - the tainted fruit - of such a woman." 

Again, Claudia pointed her finger at me. "But now, David ... in my home village of Wadi Ya Noh - for ‘A Thousand Suns', you, yourself, will pay for the vile sins committed against the females of Wadi Ya Noh. 

"It is most unfortunate for you, David, that you are an Englishman. But your misfortune is our delight. 

"As an Englishman, it is right and fitting, that you will now serve as the focal point of our long-awaited retribution. The focal point, upon which to finally satiate our ... feelings. The focal point, upon whom to vent our wrath. Our long-simmering, pent-up rage and resentment. Yes, it will now be for you, David, to pay the price. To pay: for all of the wicked misdeeds of your own, accursed countrymen!" proclaimed Claudia vengefully.

By now, I was perspiring freely. Sweat was literally dripping off me - not all of it, because of the blazing Arabian sun, either.

I saw a new, taunting smile touch Claudia's dark, almond-shaped eyes as she went on, vindictively - nastily. "Also, David ... it will be of the sweetest piquancy, to the cruelly spurned and abandoned females of Wadi Ya Noh, to know that you will now miss your own, forthcoming marriage ... how ironic, David. 

"And, it will gladden our hearts; fill our hearts with joy, to know that you will be thinking about - pining for - your own stranded bride ... while we administer your chastisement.

"We have a saying in Arabia, David: ‘Revenge is a dish, that is best served cold'. Well ... the females of Wadi Ya Noh have been sharpening their appetites, for long, miserable years - some of them, for much longer than I. They have waited a long time - too long - for their cold dish of revenge. But now ... you are here, David. And ..." proclaimed Claudia rapturously, "... their time has come! 

"The cruelly spurned, treacherously abandoned females of Wadi Ya Noh, shall savour the ambrosial taste of your righteous come-uppance! Their appetites are whetted. They are hungry for revenge. They shall taste, at last, their sweet reward. For now, David, I am going to serve you up to them. You - an Englishman; the finest, of all delicacies! And ... they shall feast! As shall I!

"Now, come! We waste valuable time, here!" commanded Claudia, impatient to be making tracks, now that she had concluded her emotionally delivered speech; had got it off her chest.

Aghast - panic-stricken - I began, "I'm really very sorry, about ... what happened to your mother, and to the other ladies, Claudia. Really, I am ... But---" I got no further. I was again stunned to silence - nearly knocked off my feet, this time - by another stinging, even more vicious, power-packed double-slap to my face from Claudia's blurring brown hands. Right across my mouth. "Aaahhh!!" I exclaimed in shock and pain as, once again, I found myself reeling from Claudia's punishing slaps.

Already, I could feel my bottom lip beginning to swell. Claudia had given me a fat lip! I could feel it trembling, too, betraying my ever increasing fear of her. "You will be silent, mangy cur!" yelled Claudia right in my face, her dark eyes blazing angrily, venomously. 

(I would learn later, that it was through the various contacts of her powerful and influential local Tribal Lord, that enabled Claudia to earn her meagre living. It was through him, that she had secured her part-time job as an air hostess with Arabian Airways.

Though, 'part-time' is laying it on rather thick, since Claudia only did one return flight per week: Every Sunday, Claudia operated on the Arabian Airways early-morning flight: the Wadi Ya Meen to Manchester flight - which she boarded when it stopped off en route, at Wadi Ya Wan. Claudia then stayed overnight at an airport hotel, along with the rest of the aircrew. The crew then returned the next day: on the Monday, early-morning Manchester to Wadi Ya Meen flight - from which Claudia disembarked at Wadi Ya Wan. 

As I understood it, Claudia was routinely transported to and from Wadi Ya Wan airport by the local police, who were in the pay of the local Tribal Lord. As payment for arranging and facilitating both: Claudia's part-time job, and her ... airport transfers, by police vehicle, Claudia was obliged to give her local Tribal Lord half of her income. This sum of money, was half of what she earned from working her return flight to Manchester: Flight Pay, and Overnight Allowance payment. 

It was all thanks to Claudia's income - meagre, as it was, that the females of Wadi Ya Noh could afford to buy their simple, every-day necessities. The food, and other basic goods, that they purchased from the traders who arrived in their village by camel, every Tuesday afternoon.)