The Sultan’s private chamber is vast, lit by the low, golden light of the setting sun filtering through intricate lattice windows. The air is heavy with the scent of sandalwood and power. Noor, the new maid, is nervously dusting a low table, her back turned. She is young, twenty, with wide, innocent blue eyes that contrast sharply with the opulent, intimidating room. Her simple cotton shift does little to hide the gentle curves of her body as she bends over her work.

The Sultan, a mountain of a man in his thirties, watches from his armchair. His bare chest, covered in coarse dark hair and old scars, rises and falls with a slow, possessive rhythm. His eyes, dark and hungry, trace the line of her spine down to the swell of her backside. The thick bulge in his silk trousers is impossible to ignore, straining against the fabric. From the day he saw her cleaning his chamber, his dick is not giving him any piece, his nights are sleepless with his hard on. He has not spoken yet, but his desire fills the room like a storm.