Nana, perusing O’Rourke’s transmission (her packing interrupted), fails to notice that her chamber has been breached by the Prince, his silent step almost stealthy, his approach from behind covert, his capricious air ulterior as she feels his muggy breath, detects its mixture of absinthe and hashish like a tincture of oblivion while cringing at a closeness that adheres as much as woos, baulking for the very first time at his sophomoric ardor.

"I frightened you?"

"Startled me is all."

His prickly unshaved cheek abrades her laid-bare shoulder, as he attempts to read her module’s unencrypted message. English not the Prince's forte, his nuzzling supersedes, intent on ravishing the ravishing, on scraping with his chin the skin at Nana’s throat, clavicle, sternum, interposing himself between keyboard and keyboardist, squatting before the vortex of her pried-apart knees, bristles poking her belly, navel, abdomen, trawling toward her crotch, closing in on the semi-flaccid tissue that  sets her apart, venturing to kiss it, gather it into his mouth and feel the flesh elongate, 'her' erection irrepressible given his overzealous slurps; sympathetically stiffening, his phallus likewise yearns, throbs, drools at its circumcised tip in rapt anticipation of spurts / hot / thick / quick / spastic / lacquering tongue and teeth, inundating taste buds with its forbidden-fruit elixir, rousing homophobic odium with injudicious lust, loathing versus loving, shame at odds with bliss, Nana's surging discharge a harbinger kin to his; the Prince, disgorging with reluctance that which he has relished, finds her reassuring niche, the form that follows function, as Allah wills, as Mother Nature warrants, 'oddity' notwithstanding, mashed to a gooey pulp under his fervent fitful thrusting, proof of his dominion, of normalcy restored, his guilt eclipsed by climax  then Nana's slaked appendage makes a parody of his own; she is drained of her submissiveness, he of his machismo.

Disaffected by the manner of her unsolicited use, Nana fails to reach the second of her usual two-tier orgasm, and though she milks the boorish pike impaling her (employs her muscles in an expert peristalsis) the seed she sucks (ingests) engenders:


with subservience to a man she once thought pre-eminent, endowed with regal virtues, worthy of high esteem, deserving strict obedience and her utmost effort to delight, when what he is in truth (betrayed by his fixed post-coital scowl) conforms more to the Sheik’s defamation as a narcissistic wastrel


with a custom-made reality based on a masculine fabrication of vestal virgins groomed for sating one supreme incontrovertible egotistical appetite in a setting so artificial it might double as an adolescent wet-dream; Himalayas or not, the Palace is a fantasy


with her choice-less, predetermined state, and the sinking realization that she is, indeed, a prostitute, born and bred for an ignominious purpose, and destined, once fulfilling it, to meet an ignominious end (?)

unto escalating discomfort

with the Prince’s altered aspect—plotting in its sullenness, threatening in its turpitude; that which he revered he appears now to revile; that which rendered pleasure now incurs disdain—while she, unwitting source, feels worthless and defiled.

Fight-or-flight, her instincts cry. Imagining the latter, Nana scripts the scenes of a fictionalized desertion: