Robin has her reasons: If she completes her training with success, and stays with the keeper of the harem for six months, she'll go home with a lot of money. Spending a few months with a rich woman, with no romantic strings attached, and considerable wealth waiting for her at the end? Robin is all in, but the experience comes with many surprises, one of them her mentor Elizabeth whose job it is to prepare her for the harem life.
Robin
Last night, I dreamed that I was going to join a harem. I had answered
an obscure ad, filled out some paperwork, and against all odds, they called me
back. I wasn’t going to be plunged into a life of endless leisure and sex right
away, no, I’d move in with a mentor for a while. That mentor would teach me
everything I needed to know about the woman in whose inner
circle I might or might not end up—for, you know, a life of endless leisure and
sex. If I were to pass, I’d live in the harem for another six months at least.
After that, I could decide whether or not I wanted to stay. In a heartbeat
every dream I ever had would be in reach. After those six months—or a year—I
could take the money and travel, Europe , South America , whatever came to mind. I could
make a down payment on a house, or,
if I happened to become the lady’s favorite, even pay it off. I would never have to worry
about money, ever again.
In return, I would be hers to do with as she pleased, within limits, of
course. The contract forbids any form of abuse—that would be grounds for
immediate termination. Food, housing, health insurance, all of that would be
taken care of. Even if I never got to see her, I’d come out of it with enough
money to tide me over for a few months, but of course, that wasn’t the goal. I
would give it my best. Not just because I was desperate for a change, but because
the concept was such a taboo breaker. It freaked me out as much as it excited
me. In the days leading up to day one, I couldn’t sleep. I kept imagining what
she would be like. In my mind, I skipped from my time with the mentor straight
to the moment when I’d be invited to the inner sanctum. I would make her want
me. I knew how to. If anything, I could probably teach the mentor lady
something.
I stand in my bedroom, my packed suitcase on my bed, my heart beating
fast. The cab is going to be here in a few minutes, and then there’s no turning
back. Silly—the point of no return came and went a while ago, when I signed the
contract. Should I have invested in a lawyer, have them go over it? I read it
about two dozen times and didn’t find anything alarming, other than perhaps the
fact that it sounds too good to be true.
The woman in question is about a decade older than me, attractive, rich,
all the clichés you could possibly apply. I assume she wants to test the
boundaries of what money can buy. Who am I to blame her for that? I’m going to
benefit from it, big time, and so will the other women who were crazy enough to
sign up. Does that mean she has a dozen of “mentors,” women who are what,
trying out the applicants? Or a number lower than that, and they’re going to
sleep with more than one applicant? Part of the contract is an extensive
medical record—everyone is going to be just fine with everyone else.
What will her fantasies be like? Ordinary, as in two people together, or
would she want to push the envelope, voyeurism, exhibitionism, orgies? There
was nothing about BDSM in the contract, so I take for granted that it won’t be
an issue. Other than that, I’m open to pretty much everything, aren’t I? I
could possibly write a book about my experience later.
There’s the small, extremely unlikely chance that I might fall in love.
I shake my head at this ridiculous idea, then jump as the cab driver honks
outside.
This is it. There’s no excuse—it’s official that I must have lost my
mind.
I’m joining a harem. It wasn’t a dream after all.
