Chapter One

Yasmin Amiri fluttered her eyes open as a subtle change in the cabin pressure pulled her from a restless sleep. She turned her head toward the oval window of the private jet and looked out at the endless expanse of golden sand stretching across the landscape below. The barren desert meant they were finally closing in on their destination. She sat up in her plush leather seat and smoothed the wrinkles from her navy blue blazer.

“We’ll be landing in fifteen minutes,” Toby Miller said from the seat across the aisle.

Yasmin turned her attention to her colleague. She possessed a striking olive complexion that highlighted her natural Khavari heritage. Thick black hair was pulled back into a strict bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a pair of high-waisted slacks paired with practical black heels to project the authority she craved in her male-dominated newsroom. Her dark brown eyes met his pale blue ones. She pressed her naturally plush lips together and offered him a polite nod.

Toby adjusted his wire-frame glasses on his fleshy, round face. A patchy neckbeard covered his double chin. He wore a wrinkled graphic t-shirt that stretched across his protruding stomach and baggy cargo pants. A constant sheen of perspiration coated his forehead to make him look perpetually nervous. A camera strap dug into the back of his neck like a permanent fixture. He had taken the demanding photography job at the American Times just to hover around his beautiful coworker. She knew he harbored a pathetic crush on her, and had done so since they met in college, but she routinely brushed his awkward affections aside. She treated him as nothing more than a convenient colleague, and made it clear that nothing would ever happen between them.

“I’m glad the flight’s almost over,” Yasmin said. “I feel like I’ve been sitting in this seat for a lifetime.”

“It’s a long trip from New York,” Toby said. “You should drink some water before we touch down. It’s like 115 degrees out there when we land.”

“I’ll be fine,” Yasmin replied. “I want to get our credentials sorted and figure out how we get inside the royal palace. We’re the first Westerners ever to be allowed to document the country. We can’t leave without an interview with the King himself.”

“We’ll get it,” Toby assured her. “You’re the best journalist I know, and I’ll always have your back.”

Yasmin forced a polite smile and turned her gaze back to the window. The photographer always played the supportive nice guy, which creeped her out a little. He offered unsolicited protection on a daily basis, and she found his eager-to-please persona exhausting. She was an independent feminist who preferred to rely on her own skills rather than the faux chivalry of a male colleague. She needed this assignment to prove her worth to her bosses back home. Coming back empty-handed was not an option.

“I still can’t believe they granted us entry,” Toby continued. “Khavaristan is a ghost state. It sits right in the middle of the Middle East, surrounded by hundreds of miles of inhospitable desert on all sides, and nobody knows a damn thing about what goes on inside its borders.”

“That’s exactly why this is the opportunity of a lifetime,” Yasmin replied, leaning back against her seat. “Their government reached out to the paper out of nowhere to say they were ready to open their doors to the Western world, and they offered us exclusive rights to document their country for an entire month.”

“It still feels surreal that they picked us for the assignment,” the chubby man said.

“The editors chose me because of my Khavari heritage, and I don’t intend to let this opportunity slip. This is my meal ticket,” the young woman explained.

“What do you actually know about the place? Your grandparents lived there, right?”

“My grandparents fled the country before I was born, taking their secrets to the grave because they refused to talk about their time there. I only know what my editor briefed me on, which suggests a strict monarchy with religious traditions. So not much different from other states in the area.”

“Are you worried about how they treat women down there?” Toby asked.

“Honestly, if they’re this secretive, I figure it will be a nightmare,” Yasmin replied, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I bet they make women cover up in abayas and face veils like their neighbors, and they probably demand you have a male guardian just to walk down the street.”

Toby puffed his chest out and sat up straighter in his seat. “Yeah, this part of the world doesn’t have a great track record. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe, though.”

“Thanks, Toby, but I can handle myself fine.” She turned her focus back to the window, watching the dunes roll by. “I’ve dealt with arrogant men my entire life. I don’t need a bodyguard.”

The man sank back into his leather cushion with a noticeable frown. He hated when she dismissed his offers of protection. He wanted her to rely on his guidance, often fantasizing about a version of Yasmin who looked up to him for safety, but he pushed those dark thoughts aside to focus on the assignment.

Yasmin ignored his bruised ego and reviewed her mental checklist for the arrival process. She planned to establish dominance early in the conversation when they finally met their assigned state guide. She refused to let the local officials sideline her just because of her gender.

“Did you memorize the questions for our guide?” she prompted, steering the conversation back to business.

“I read through them,” he answered, adjusting his glasses. “Are you sure you want to lead the interview? You mentioned earlier the briefing you received said the locals prefer dealing with men.”

“I’m the actual reporter on this story.” Her voice carried a firm edge. “I’m the one the paper sent, and if they want Americans to take them seriously, they will need to learn how to speak to a woman.”

Toby held his hands up in surrender and offered a reassuring nod. “I hear you. I just want to make sure we stay out of trouble.”

“We were told our rights would be protected,” she replied, putting her notes away. “We are guests of the state, and as long as we follow their basic laws, nobody is going to bother us. They gave us their word.”

The private jet banked left, causing the cabin floor to tilt as the pilot announced their final descent into Al-Miraj International Airport over the intercom. Yasmin fastened her seatbelt and took a deep breath. A knot of anxiety formed in her stomach at the thought of returning to the ancestral homeland her family had abandoned. She had no idea what awaited her outside, but she swore to herself she would maintain her fierce independence regardless of what archaic customs the Khavari government tried to impose.

The wheels of the aircraft hit the runway with a screech, and the engines roared as the jet slowed down along the airstrip. Yasmin watched the glass structures of the airport terminal come into view through the window. She unbuckled her seatbelt as the plane taxied toward a private gate, grabbed her carry-on bag, and prepared to step into the unknown.

❖

Yasmin and Toby walked off the aircraft and stepped into the sprawling arrival area of Al-Miraj International Airport. The air conditioning provided immediate relief from the stifling desert heat they encountered on the jet bridge. Yasmin gripped the handle of her carry-on bag and scanned the crowd of waiting drivers and officials. She spotted a tall man in a gray suit holding up a large white sign with The American Times printed across it in bold black letters.

Yasmin walked toward the man with Toby trailing a few steps behind her. She kept her posture straight, and her chin held high to project confidence.

“Hi there. I’m Yasmin Amiri,” she said. “We are the journalists sent from New York.”

The man lowered the sign and offered a polite bow. “Welcome to Al-Miraj. I am Tariq Al-Fayed. The Ministry of Information appointed me as your official guide for your arrival, to help you understand the culture here.”

“Thank you, Tariq,” the woman politely replied, extending her hand. “This is my photographer, Toby. We appreciate the warm welcome.”

Tariq returned her words with a professional smile, but chose not to shake her hand. He gestured for them to follow him toward the main terminal doors. “Please follow me. I will escort you to passport control to finalize your entry.”

Yasmin walked beside their new guide and stepped through the sliding glass doors into the main concourse. She prepared herself to see so-called oppressed women hidden beneath layers of black fabric, bracing for a culture of forced modesty. She stopped in her tracks when she looked around the bustling terminal.

A small number of local women walked through the concourse, and each one was escorted by a man dressed in a suit or a traditional robe. Yasmin blinked and rubbed her eyes, unable to comprehend the outfits these women wore as they strolled through a public transit hub. One woman walked alongside her male companion wearing translucent purple silk pants that split open down the front, leaving her hairless pussy bare for anyone to see. She wore no top at all, her bare breasts bouncing freely with each step she took, adorned only with gold jewelry resting against her bare skin.

Another woman passed them by on the arm of a bearded man, dressed in sheer green fabric that offered no modesty, her crotchless silks exposing her lower half while ornate gold chains draped across her bare chest. Yasmin felt a wave of outrage wash over her, struggling to understand why these women were parading around like exotic dancers in a public airport. She had braced herself for forced modesty, assuming the government would mandate women hide their bodies like their neighbors in the region, so the blatant display of female flesh short-circuited her brain. She wondered if this was some bizarre red-light district within the airport, or if these women were part of some strange performance art, because none of it made sense to her Western worldview.

Toby trailed a few steps behind them. The display of female exposure sent a surge of hot blood straight to his cock. He adjusted the camera bag hanging from his shoulder to hide the growing bulge straining against his cargo pants. He forced himself to look away from the bare-breasted women to avoid drawing attention to his undeniable hard-on. He expected a restrictive society filled with hidden women, and the reality presented a paradise of submissive naked flesh that sparked a dark thrill in his mind. He watched the way the local women deferred to their male escorts, and all looked like literal porno fantasies. The power dynamic on display intoxicated him.

“Tariq,” Yasmin managed to say, her voice shaking with disbelief as she pointed toward the passing women. “W-what are they wearing?”

The guide offered a calm, practiced smile as he turned to face the shocked journalist. “You are witnessing our culture firsthand, Miss Amiri. In Khavaristan, female citizens are required to display their bodies, as it is a cornerstone of our beliefs.”

“Required by law?” Yasmin balked, her eyes widening in horror at the revelation. “But isn’t that the opposite of other Islamic countries? Doesn’t the Qur’an teach a different set of principles?”

Tariq smiled politely and clasped his hands together in front of his suit jacket. “Our history and interpretations diverge from our neighbors. The women of Khavaristan find honor in displaying their beauty for our men, and the gold you see signifies their husbands’ status.”

Yasmin clamped her mouth shut and swallowed her feminist outrage. She wanted to debate the institutionalized misogyny of forcing women to walk around with bare breasts and exposed pussies, but she remembered her mission. Starting a political argument with their guide minutes after stepping off the plane would ruin their chances of interviewing the King. She nodded and opted for silent observation.

Tariq pointed a finger toward a group of women standing near a currency exchange counter a short distance away. “You will notice those women over there are wearing conservative abayas and niqabs. They are tourists from Saudi Arabia. Our modesty laws apply only to Khavari citizens. Visitors are free to dress according to their own customs, so you have nothing to fear.”

Yasmin looked over at the foreign visitors. They wore loose black garments that hid their figures beneath opaque fabric. The visual contrast between the tourists and the local citizens was staggering. Yasmin let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She found a deep sense of relief in the fact that her American status protected her from the degrading local traditions. However, a knot of anxiety still coiled in her stomach.

“Just keep your US passport handy at all times,” Tariq warned, dropping his tone to a serious register as he looked her in the eye. “Your documentation will protect you. You share our ethnicity, so our police will expect to see proof of your foreign status if they question your attire.”

“Noted,” Yasmin assured him. She patted her jacket to confirm her passport was there.

They continued walking through the large terminal and navigated around the eclectic mix of covered tourists and exposed locals. They reached a wide corridor lined with border control booths. Hundreds of travelers stood in organized queues waiting to present their documents to the agents. Tariq stopped walking and turned to face the two journalists to signal the end of his escort duties.

“This is where I must leave you,” the guide announced. He reached into his suit jacket pocket and handed a small business card to Toby with a respectful nod. “Call this number if you have any questions or need assistance. The border agents will process your entry. Good luck in your mission. I’m rooting for you, Americans.”

Toby took the piece of cardstock and tucked it into his cargo pants. “Thanks, Tariq.”

The guide offered one final bow before turning around and disappearing into the crowd. Yasmin squared her shoulders and pushed her lingering shock aside. She needed to clear customs and get to their hotel so she could start organizing her thoughts, recognizing that this story had just taken a direction she never expected.

“Are you ready for this?” Toby asked as they stepped toward the back of the queue.

“Let’s just get it over with,” Yasmin replied. “I need a strong cup of coffee before I can process what we just saw.”

They joined the organized line leading up to the passport control booths. Yasmin kept her hand hovering near her jacket pocket to ensure her American passport was still there. She suddenly felt like that small booklet was more important to her than anything.

She took another look around the terminal while they waited in line. The sheer volume of women abiding by these laws struck her on a visceral level. It wasn’t just young, attractive women displaying their bodies for their husbands. Women of all ages moved through the airport in the mandated style. Some wore gold all over their decorated bodies, whereas many others were more modest with their jewelry. This was the norm here. She saw a mother wrangling a toddler near a duty-free shop, her bare breasts swaying as she chased the child across the floor.

The normalization of the subjugation terrified Yasmin. A population conditioned to accept this level of exposure meant these poor women were well and truly brainwashed. It was one thing to force females to cover up in public, but another altogether to force them to be on display.

Toby stood quietly next to her. He was thankful for the long wait at the checkpoint, as it gave him time to calm his raging hard-on. He stared at the back of Yasmin’s neck and admired the strict bun of her black hair. He found himself imagining her dressed in the same outfits. He pictured her olive skin adorned with extravagant gold chains, fantasizing about her feminist pride being stripped away and replaced with submission to his commands.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and focused his attention on the border agent sitting inside the glass booth ahead of them. He needed to keep his fantasies in check. Yasmin was an independent American woman who made it clear nothing romantic would ever happen between them. He reminded himself of his place in her world, and was determined to support her through thick and thin, even though his dark desires continued to throb beneath the surface.

“Next,” a voice called out from the booth.

Yasmin took a deep breath and stepped forward to present her documents to the agent.

❖

Yasmin stepped up to the yellow line painted on the floor in front of the passport control booth. She clutched the blue American passport in her hand. She wanted to project the confident aura of a seasoned international traveler, keeping her shoulders square and her posture straight as she approached the counter. The more she separated herself from these Arab locals, the better. The glass partition separated her from the border agent sitting on the other side. He wore a white uniform shirt with official epaulets on the shoulders, and a nametag pinned to his chest identified him as Hassan. A headdress sat atop his head.

Hassan looked up from his computer monitor and took in her olive complexion and dark hair. “Ahlan bikum fi Al-Miraj, al-jawazat min fadlik,” he said, holding his hand out toward the small slot at the bottom of the glass.

Yasmin paused and offered a polite smile. “English?”

Hassan raised an eyebrow. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her beautiful facial features for a moment. He clearly expected someone with her ethnic appearance to understand the local language. He did not see many English-only speakers pass through this specific checkpoint, especially ones who looked like they belonged in the region.

“Passport, please,” the agent said, switching to English with a thick, practiced accent.

“Here you go,” the dark-haired journalist replied. She slid the dark blue booklet through the slot along with her printed Special Case visa.

Hassan took the documents and opened them flat on his desk. He flipped through the blank pages of her passport before settling on her information page. He typed a sequence of keystrokes on his keyboard, his eyes darting between the physical document and the screen in front of him.

“What is the purpose of your visit to Khavaristan today?” Hassan asked, keeping his eyes fixed on his monitor.

“Business,” Yasmin answered confidently. “My colleague and I are journalists, and we were invited by your government. We work for The American Times.”

Yasmin glanced to her right and watched Toby step up to the adjacent booth. Another border agent motioned for the photographer to approach the glass. Toby offered her a reassuring smile before turning his attention to his own entry process. Yasmin focused her eyes back on Hassan.

Hassan nodded and picked up a scanning device from his desk. He ran her passport through the machine. A soft beep echoed inside the booth. The agent looked at the screen, and a frown formed on his face. He pressed a button on his keyboard and swiped the booklet through the scanner a second time.

His conversational demeanor vanished. The agent stared at the glowing monitor with a hardened expression. He watched the writing on his screen for a few moments, trying to understand the message that had appeared.

“Is there a problem?” Yasmin asked.

Hassan ignored her question. He reached for the black telephone resting on his desk and picked up the receiver. He dialed a short extension and waited for a connection. He turned his chair away from the glass partition, shielding his mouth with his hand as he spoke in Arabic into the receiver.

Yasmin felt her heart skip a beat. She looked over at Toby to gauge his progress. Toby had just finished with his agent and was now standing on the other side of the desk, waiting for her to accompany him. His passport was tucked into his pocket.

Hassan placed the plastic receiver back onto its cradle. He gathered Yasmin’s American passport and her printed visa, sliding both documents into a clear folder. He didn’t pass them back through the slot beneath the glass. He placed his hands on his desk and looked at her with a blank expression.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice tight with growing anxiety.

“Please wait right there, Miss Amiri,” the stoic agent instructed in a flat tone.

Yasmin frowned. She wanted to demand her passport back, but she knew arguing with a border agent in a foreign country was a guaranteed way to cause trouble. She took a breath and reminded herself to stay calm. She was a US citizen on a valid visa; there was nothing to be worried about.

A metal door opened on the far side of the passport control area. Two men dressed in official-looking uniforms marched out and walked toward her booth. They were armed security guards. Black sidearms rested in holsters on their hips. They bypassed the lines of travelers and stepped up behind Yasmin, folding their hands in front of their belts.

Hassan opened the side door of his booth and handed the clear folder containing her passport to the guards.

“What’s going on here?” Yasmin asked, looking between the border agent and the armed men. “Why are you giving him my passport?”

“There is a weird anomaly regarding your entry status, and we need to get it sorted before we can allow you into Khavaristan,” Hassan said. “You need to follow these kind officers so we can fix the issue.”

“An anomaly?” Yasmin repeated, struggling to keep her frustration in check. “I’ve traveled the world on that passport, and that visa is legitimate. Everything was approved weeks ago.”

“An agent will explain the situation in the processing room,” Hassan said. He offered a dismissive nod and turned his attention back to his computer monitor to indicate the conversation was over.

The taller guard stepped closer and extended his hand toward a ‘restricted access’ corridor. He didn’t speak, using his imposing physical stature to enforce compliance. Yasmin snatched the handle of her carry-on bag and forced herself to walk forward. The armed men flanked her sides immediately, guiding her away from the public passport control booth and toward the secure processing area.

“Toby,” Yasmin shouted over her shoulder as the men marched her away from the checkpoint. “Call the US Embassy!”

The security personnel ignored her outburst and ushered her through the walkway. The doors shut behind them with a loud thud, cutting off the ambient noise of the bustling airport.

❖

Yasmin paced the length of the small concrete room. Her heels clicked against the bare floor as she marched from the solid metal door to the blank gray wall and back again. A square metal table sat in the center of the space, surrounded by four matching chairs. Toby occupied one of the seats, watching her frantic movements with an unreadable expression.

“You need to sit down, Yasmin,” the chubby man said, keeping his voice steady and calm. “Pacing like that is just going to make you more anxious.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” Yasmin snapped. She stopped her march and crossed her arms over her chest. “They took my passport, Toby. What the hell are they doing with it? How can you be so relaxed about this?”

“I’m not relaxed,” Toby lied, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the cold table. “I’m just trying to think logically. We are Americans traveling on official press visas. This kind of thing has never happened before, and they’re probably just trying to make sure they are following the correct protocol.”

“Then why the hell didn’t your passport get taken?” the Persian beauty responded. “Why were you allowed to walk on through?”

“I don’t know,” Toby said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe because you are a woman. Maybe because of your Arab heritage.”

“I’m an American citizen, just like you,” she snapped back, placing her hands on the table as she crossed it.

“I know you are,” he replied, keeping his tone soft to defuse her anger. “But this is Khavaristan. We saw the women in the terminal. They probably need to double-check your name to make sure you’re not skirting local laws.”

She pushed herself away from the table and resumed her pacing. The reminder of the terminal made her stomach turn. Those local women were forced to parade around with bare breasts and exposed pussies. That kind of control over a woman’s autonomy disgusted her.

“I have a real bad feeling about this,” she said plainly. “I think we need to call work and let them know they’re holding us.”

“You won’t get a signal down here,” her colleague pointed out. He gestured to the thick concrete walls surrounding them. “I think the walls are too thick. I already tried.”

Yasmin reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her device. She stared at the screen indicating zero service bars and let out a frustrated groan. She tossed the phone onto the metal table.

“This is insane,” the woman said in a panic. “They can’t just lock us in a box without an explanation.”

“Just let me handle the talking when they finally send someone in,” Toby advised. “I can smooth things over. They might respond better if a man takes the lead in this specific situation.”

Yasmin opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat. The image of the naked Khavari citizens walking through the airport flashed through her mind again. Those women were legally mandated to display their bodies for male pleasure. They had their pussies on display as symbols of patriarchal ownership. The stark reality of the local laws terrified her. If the border agents viewed her as a subordinate female rather than an esteemed foreign journalist, demanding answers might only antagonize them further.

“I hate this,” Yasmin confessed. Her shoulders slumped as she pulled a metal chair out and sat across from him. “I feel helpless. The guide said my passport is my only protection against this insane culture, and they have it right now.”

“You have me,” Toby said. He reached across the table and placed his large sweaty hand over hers. “I promised I would keep you safe, and I mean it. We are a team. We will walk out of this airport together, trust me.”

Yasmin looked down at his fleshy palm covering her knuckles. She usually pulled away from his attempts at physical contact to keep her distance. She found his lingering stares and unrequited devotion annoying and perverted back in the States. Right now, however, she needed an ally. The oppressive silence of the interrogation room chipped away at her pride. She left her hand on the table and offered him a weak nod.

“Thank you, Toby,” she murmured. “I just want my stuff back.”

“You’ll get them back,” he promised, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze.

He loved the feeling of her soft skin against his palm. He savored the fact that she was finally relying on him for comfort. The independent woman who routinely dismissed his affections was currently open to his protection. The shift in her attitude sent another thrill straight to his cock. He wanted to hold her hand forever to relish this rare moment of vulnerability.

The minutes dragged on into hours. The concrete room offered no distractions to pass the time. There were no windows to indicate the time of day, and the digital clock on her useless cell phone served as a mocking reminder of her isolation. Yasmin bounced her knee under the table as her anxiety refused to settle. She imagined the worst-case scenarios, playing out diplomatic standoffs and false imprisonment charges in her head. The US government didn’t even know they were here, which made everything far riskier.

Toby watched her squirm in her seat. He maintained a calm facade, acting as the voice of reason while anticipation brewed in his gut. He knew something was wrong. They don’t take your passport and use armed guards to escort you if this wasn’t a serious issue. He wondered if she really was in trouble, and if he was going to be caught in the middle of it.

Eventually, a sharp metallic click echoed through the small space, cutting through the tense silence. Yasmin jumped in her seat and pulled her hand away from Toby. She turned her head toward the sound. The handle on the solid metal door turned, and the steel hinges groaned as it swung inward. They were no longer alone.

❖

The steel door swung inward on its hinges. A man walked into the concrete interrogation room and pushed the door shut behind him. He wore a beige uniform adorned with official gold pins on the lapels and carried a folder in his right hand. He pulled out one of the metal chairs across from Yasmin and Toby, taking a seat at the square table. He placed the folder down and rested his hands on the metal surface. He didn’t speak, choosing instead to simply stare at the two American journalists.

“What’s wrong?” Yasmin asked, her voice cracking as the oppressive silence stretched her nerves to the breaking point. “And where is my passport?”

“I am Inspector Jalal Hussein,” the man said, keeping his tone smooth and conversational. “I represent the Ministry of Interior for the state of Khavaristan.”

“Okay, Inspector Jalal,” Yasmin said. “I am Yasmin Amiri, a journalist from New York. Your border agent took my passport and locked me in this room without an explanation. We’re here at the invitation of your government. Give me my stuff back, and let us go.”

“I’m afraid you are not an American journalist, Miss Amiri,” the man corrected her, tapping his index finger against the manila folder. “You are a Khavari citizen.”

Yasmin let out a brief, incredulous laugh. “I was born in the United States. I have an American passport. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Do the names Yusuf and Jamila Amiri mean anything to you?” he asked cryptically.

“Yes,” the woman responded. “They are my grandparents, but neither of them is alive now. What’s this about?”

“They were born here in Khavaristan,” Jalal explained, opening the folder to reveal a stack of old documents. “They lived their lives under the crown, and then they chose to escape over the Saudi border.”

“That was over 50 years ago,” the female journalist interjected. “That has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you,” Jalal replied calmly. “In Khavaristan, citizenship is an unbreakable bond. It is a blood right inherited through generations. It is not something you can discard by crossing a border in the dead of night. Your grandparents committed treason by fleeing our lands, but they remained citizens of the state until their dying breath. We do not erase records just because someone decides to abandon their heritage.”

“They became American citizens,” Yasmin argued, her voice rising as panic tightened her chest. “They spent the rest of their lives in New York. My parents were born there, and I was born there. I don’t even speak Arabic.”

“Language and geography are irrelevant,” the inspector stated, flipping a page in the folder to reveal an old black-and-white photograph of a young couple. “Our laws do not recognize foreign naturalization for defectors. Because your grandparents never formally renounced their ties to the crown through the proper channels, they retained their status under our constitution. That means your parents were citizens by default, regardless of where they resided. That bloodline passes directly down to you. Whether you like it or not, Miss Amiri, you are a Khavari citizen.”

Yasmin shuddered and felt nauseous. Her stomach cramped like she had been kicked in the gut. Did they truly believe she was one of their citizens? That was crazy. She had never stepped foot in Khavaristan until today, and her grandparents never told her what the culture of her ancestral land was really like.

“I want to speak to the US Embassy now,” she stated flatly.

“And why is that?” Jalal queried casually. “You are not an American citizen. Your passport has been confiscated, and we will be issuing you with an official Khavaristan ID card shortly.”

“You have no right to do this!” the female journalist replied, her voice shaking as the sheer gravity of his words hit her. “You can’t just claim me and strip away my rights as an American.”

“I have every legal right under our constitution,” Jalal replied.

Toby leaned forward and placed his hands flat on the table. “Listen to me, Inspector. We came here to do a job for a major American newspaper, and holding her like this is going to cause an international incident.”

“You are free to do as you please, Mr. Miller,” Jalal said, turning his attention to the photographer. “You are a foreign national. Your entry visa is valid, and you have broken no laws. You are free to walk out of this airport, catch a flight back to New York, and leave this great nation behind.”

“I’m not leaving without Yasmin,” Toby stated with a shaky voice.

“Then you face an important choice,” the inspector noted, resting his forearms on his folder. “An unmarried Khavari female cannot walk around in public without a male guardian. If you leave, the state will assume custody of Miss Amiri. She will be kept in a hotel at the State’s expense, and held until we assign her a suitable husband.”

“No,” Yasmin gasped, reaching across the table to grab Toby’s sleeve.

The horrific images of the tit-exposed women walking through the airport flashed through her mind. Those women were required to walk around with nothing covered as if it were the norm. If the state viewed her as a local woman, she would be forced into the same degrading submission. There had to be another way.

“What is my other option?” Toby asked, swallowing hard as he looked at the inspector.

“You can always stay, and we will assign you as a temporary guardian over Miss Amiri, provided you take full responsibility for her conduct,” Jalal offered. “This is no light matter, as her actions will have a direct consequence on your standing. Once a suitable husband is found for her, your responsibilities will end.”

Yasmin stared at the inspector as the concrete walls felt like they were closing in on her. A wave of dizziness washed over her. The reality of the situation shattered her entire worldview. The idea of being handed over to a random Khavari man to be used as a naked submissive wife made her throat tighten. She squeezed Toby’s arm, her fingernails digging into his fabric.

“Toby,” she begged, abandoning all of her fierce independence. “Think of something. We need to get back to the US.”

Toby looked down at her pleading eyes. A rush of hot blood pumped straight to his groin. His cock stiffened against the denim of his pants. He suddenly realized he loved having this kind of power over the woman who always treated him like an afterthought. He was the only thing standing between her and an escort to some mail-order bride hotel. Her fate was in his hands.

He let out a long sigh and ran a hand over his patchy beard. He looked back and forth between the two of them as if weighing a monumental burden.

“I won’t abandon you, Yasmin,” Toby muttered, shaking his head as he looked at her before returning his attention to the agent. “I’ll do it. I’ll take responsibility for her.”

Jalal nodded approvingly and slid a single piece of paper from his folder, laying it in front of Toby. “A wise decision, Mr. Miller. Sign on the dotted lines to formalize your responsibilities.”

Toby stared at the paper resting on the metal table. The sweeping script was written in Arabic. He couldn’t read a single word of the text.

“I can’t read this,” Toby pointed out, looking up at the inspector. “It’s all in Arabic.”

“I didn’t ask you to read it,” Jalal chuckled as if he were enjoying the moment. “I asked you to sign it.”

Toby hesitated for a second. He looked down at the foreign script and then glanced over at his colleague. Yasmin offered a desperate nod, silently pleading with him to get them out of this nightmare. He picked up the plastic pen resting beside the document. He had no idea what obligations he was actually agreeing to, but he knew he couldn’t leave her to the mercy of the state. He pressed the tip to the paper and scrawled his signature on the dotted line.

Jalal smiled and pulled the document back across the table. He slipped the paper into his manila folder and closed it.

“Thank you, Mr. Miller,” the agent said, standing up from his metal chair. “Now that’s all official, let’s get started.”

Yasmin let out a shaky breath. She had no idea what was to come, but at least now she wasn’t being sent alone to some hotel to wait for an arranged marriage. At least now, they would have time to figure out the best course of action. She stood up from her chair and reached for the handle of her carry-on bag, assuming the ordeal was finally over.

The door swung open before Yasmin could take a step. The two security guards from the checkpoint stepped into the interrogation room. They walked past the table and flanked Yasmin on both sides.

“What’s going on?” Yasmin asked with a raised voice, looking between the guards and the inspector.

“My men are going to take you to a special room,” Jalal explained, turning his attention to Toby. “We will prepare her for entry into the country, and she will meet you in the public meet and greet area shortly.”

“Prepare me for what?” Yasmin demanded, her voice rising in panic as one of the guards placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Just cooperate with them,” Toby said, grabbing his camera bag from the floor. “As soon as we’re at the hotel, we will discuss a plan. Just go with them, and I will see you on the other side.”

Yasmin wanted to ask more questions, but the guards offered no room for negotiation. They guided her toward the open doorway, marching her out of the concrete room and leaving Toby alone with the inspector.

❖

Toby sat on a wooden bench outside a coffee shop in the public arrivals lounge of Al-Miraj International Airport. He bounced his leg up and down, tapping his shoe against the polished floor as he waited impatiently for his colleague to emerge. He checked the time on his cell phone, noting that over an hour had passed since the armed guards marched Yasmin away from the interrogation room. He adjusted the strap of his camera bag across his shoulder, keeping his eyes glued to the restricted access doors down the wide corridor.

Hundreds of travelers moved through the terminal around him. He watched the Khavari citizens go about their day, observing the ridiculously revealing styles of the women as they walked alongside their male companions. The radical culture shock of the airport no longer surprised him, but the anxiety of the unknown gnawed at his patience. He had signed an Arabic document without understanding what it meant. Had he signed his own death warrant?

The double doors leading to the secure area finally pushed open. Toby stood up from his bench. He recognized the imposing frame of the security guard stepping out into the public corridor.

Toby took a few steps forward, but immediately stopped in his tracks. His jaw dropped open as he processed the sight of the woman walking out from behind the armed guard.

It was undoubtedly Yasmin, but she looked like a different person. The men had taken her navy jacket and slacks, and she no longer looked out of place amongst the Middle Eastern women around her. Her hair was tied up in a braided updo ponytail, with a gold headband keeping it securely in place. The metal band connected to a translucent veil that spread across the lower half of her face, although the sheer fabric hid nothing of her features. Her lips were painted a bright red. Her eyes were extravagantly made up with dark eyeliner and shadow, transforming her face into a sensual sight. Her short fingernails and toenails were painted a matching red to her lips.

She wore a thick gold collar around her neck. Matching gold cuffs encircled each of her wrists and ankles. A decorative chain loosely connected each cuff to her collar, very slightly restricting her range of motion. Her breasts were entirely on display, uncovered for the world to see. They were propped up by an ornate underbust bra that draped translucent gold silks from just beneath her breasts down to her ankles. The semi-transparent nature of the flowing fabric put her bare pussy and ass on clear display with every step she took. The outfit was complete with four-inch-tall gold sandals on her feet.

Toby rushed forward, his eyes wide in disbelief. He couldn’t believe the woman he had fawned over for so long was walking around an airport with her breasts completely uncovered and her more intimate regions on display. This must be one of his sick fantasies seeping into a dream.

“Yasmin,” the young photojournalist gasped, stopping a few feet away from her and the guard. “What did they do to you?”

Yasmin stared at him with wide, traumatized eyes. The sheer shock of the ordeal shattered her usual demeanor. She stood frozen in the middle of the corridor with one gold-cuffed arm stretched over her bosom to preserve as much modesty as she could. Her other hand attempted to cover her bare crotch.

The armed guard stepped forward and extended his hand. He gripped a metal tether linked directly to the gold collar around the female journalist’s neck. He offered the chain to Toby without saying a word, treating the handover like a mundane exchange.

Toby reached out and accepted the leash, feeling the cold links settle into his palm. He stared blankly at the guard as the imposing man turned on his heel and walked back through the double doors, leaving the two Americans alone in the active arrivals hall.

Yasmin let out a shaky breath as soon as the doors clicked shut. She squeezed her thighs together in an attempt to hide her crotch behind the semi-transparent silks.

“Toby,” she whispered, her voice trembling behind the decorative veil. “Get me out of here.”

“I have you,” the large-waisted man assured her, keeping his tone gentle. “We’re going to fix this, Yasmin. Let’s just get to a taxi.”

He absently gave the chain a gentle tug to guide her forward. Yasmin stumbled on her first step. The tall sandals forced her to alter her gait, and so she had to take small, measured steps just to keep her balance. Maintaining her modest posture made the walk even more difficult, as her crossed arms restricted her natural movement.

They walked through the crowded concourse. Toby maintained a slow pace to accommodate her footwear. Her lower attire parted around her legs with each movement, flashing her bare ass to the terminal despite her best efforts to hide her front. Yasmin kept her chin tucked down toward her chest, desperate to hide her face behind the useless veil. She braced herself for the crowds of travelers to point and stare at her humiliation, but the local men barely gave her a passing glance. Her revealing attire was just the normal style for women in this country, and to the locals, she was just another female walking on a leash beside her male companion.

“Just ignore everyone,” Toby advised quietly, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with her to offer some physical shielding from the passing crowds. “We’re almost at the exit. You’re doing great.”

Yasmin nodded weakly, lacking the energy to argue or take control of the situation. She stumbled again as the toe of her gold sandal caught on a seam in the tile floor. Toby reached out and grasped her bare shoulder to steady her. The chains connecting her wrists and ankles rattled loudly against her collar, drawing the attention of a Saudi tourist, but Yasmin just closed her eyes and focused on regaining her footing.

They reached the sliding glass doors at the front of the terminal. The doors parted, allowing the stifling desert heat to wash over them. Yasmin shuddered at the temperature change. The bright afternoon sun beat down on her exposed skin, making her feel even more vulnerable outside the building.

Toby led her out to the concrete curb. A line of taxis sat idling beside the walkway. He raised his hand and waved the first driver forward. The cab pulled up to the curb and stopped. The driver, an older Khavari man with a thick beard, leaned over and popped the back door open. He didn’t bat an eye at Yasmin’s bare breasts or the leash in Toby’s hand, accepting the sight as an ordinary part of daily life.

“Get in,” the photojournalist instructed his colleague, holding the door open for her.

Yasmin turned around and bent at the waist to slide into the back seat. The movement caused the translucent silks to pull tight across her backside, putting her ass on prime display before she settled onto the leather cushion. The metal chains clinked together as she pulled herself inside, struggling to arrange her limbs in the confined space while keeping her breasts covered with her arms.

Toby climbed in after her, dropping the leash the moment he sat down. He shut the door behind them, cutting off the noise of the busy airport curb. The air conditioning inside the cab provided a small comfort against the desert climate.

“The Oasis Hotel, please,” Toby said to the driver.

The cab merged into the traffic leaving the airport, accelerating down the highway toward the city center. Yasmin leaned her head against the window, staring blankly at the rolling dunes passing by outside. She wrapped her arms tighter around her stomach, trying to find some semblance of comfort in her ridiculously humiliating outfit. She was a respected journalist just hours ago, and now she was trapped in a foreign land, wearing the local style, bound to her colleague by a literal chain. She hoped Toby would help her get her passport back and escape the country her grandparents had fled 50 years ago.

End of Chapter One.