My Transformation Began on the Road to Dubai

Dawn found me in silence, still wrapped in the distant echo of music and in the cold gleam of the previous night’s flashes. Mrs. Vasari’s house smelled of jasmine and clean wood. Everything seemed arranged to erase any trace of the evening, as if the splendor of the presentation had been nothing more than an illusion designed to reaffirm my condition.

She was waiting for me in the gallery, standing beside a low table covered with folders, devices, and a tray of fresh fruit. Her elegance remained impeccable, measured in every gesture, with not a single wrinkle out of place. She did not look up when I approached to greet her.

I, by contrast, just awake, wore my hair only lightly finger-combed and still had on my long ruby silk nightgown, covered by the robe I wear every morning to protect myself from the cold. On my feet, twelve-centimeter heeled slippers lengthened my body and betrayed my gait inside the house. She loved hearing me walk like that: light, with that short, graceful step that turned every movement into a small ritual.

She did not say my name. There was no need. She spoke in that calm, precise voice of hers, one that no longer needed an imperious tone for me to obey.

—Your performance last night was excellent —she said at last, without taking her eyes off the documents—. A score higher than nine and a half out of ten. The highest mark ever recorded since the program began.

Her long, perfect fingers turned pages in a folder as she spoke.

—The committee was fascinated. Geneva will only be the beginning. After the international presentation will come the invitations from Asia. The names I received this morning are more than promising.

I stood motionless, not knowing whether to thank her or keep quiet. She came closer and placed a hand on my shoulder with a gesture so calculated it seemed part of a protocol.

—You have proven that obedience and transformation can reach levels that were once only theory. I am very pleased with you.

The contact was brief, but enough to remind me that her recognition was not affection: it was approval. And approval, in her world, was worth more than any tenderness.

***

The terrace was bathed in the warm light of midday. From there the house gardens could be seen, and beyond them the city waking amid long shadows and flashes of glass. The wind stroked my face, cool, as if reminding me that all that splendor was beyond my reach and that I could only contemplate it.

Mrs. Vasari remained beside the railing, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Her pearl-gray dress moved with the wind, discreet and ostentatious at once in its simplicity.

—Bring me a cigarette and pay attention —she said without turning around.

She lit the cigarette and lazily pointed toward the city.

—Look, twenty-three one eighteen. What we have achieved is not a simple experiment. Every presentation, every evaluation, everything has a purpose. Dubai, Geneva, and the symposiums to come are not pleasure trips. They are strategic steps.

I listened in silence, watching the shapes the smoke drew in the air.

—In Geneva you will show the rigor of your education and the effectiveness of your treatment. There, academics and committees will verify results: scores, protocols, applied biotechnology. Your performance will have to surpass even last night’s. That is not a capricious number; it is the legitimacy of all the effort and money invested.

I raised my hand slightly, asking permission to speak.

—Ask. You’ve earned it.

—And what do you really seek in those places? —I said cautiously, knowing every word had to be measured.

She smiled without turning. A spiral of smoke rose upward before she answered.

—The same thing all empires seek: legitimacy and expansion. Geneva is science, but Dubai is influence. There theories are not discussed; wills are bought. The families that control the planet’s resources need new symbols to sustain their power, and I intend to sell them some.

Then she turned toward me, resting a hip against the railing with almost cruel elegance.

—They think they are buying fertility, beauty, obedience. But what they acquire is dependence. Every case like you binds them a little more tightly to our system. And when all routes of legitimacy pass through our hands, there will be no turning back.

She set the cigarette in the marble ashtray and looked at me fixedly.

—Your body is the most powerful argument that exists. The living proof that creation can be managed, measured, directed. And whoever controls that, controls everything.

I felt a mixture of pride and vertigo. She sensed my held breath.

—Don’t be troubled. You are not a victim, you are an emblem. Thanks to you I can open doors that were never opened before for a woman without a surname or lineage. And when we arrive in Dubai, you will understand the magnitude of what you represent.

She took her glass of water, sipped slowly, and looked back to the horizon.

—Tomorrow we travel. The trunks will arrive in the afternoon, and I want you to check them carefully. Every garment has a purpose, and you will have to embody it with your grace and natural sensuality. Your gestures are what captivate; those clothes will be your weapons. There is no detail without intention.

Her voice dropped until it became almost a whisper carried off by the wind.

—There, in Dubai, silence will be your greatest virtue. And your concealment, our victory. In the East they do not seek scientific proof: they seek status and social control. Every demonstration we make reinforces that power belongs to those who decide to create, not to those who think they rule.

She sighed, as if assessing whether she had said too much, but she did not look away.

—Throughout the flight, Mrs. Marlowe will teach you the protocols for captivating those multimillionaire women who thought they had everything, until you appear and upset their balance. You will be exhibited in the most exclusive places in the Arab world, where your value will be recognized.

She came closer and brushed my cheek with a finger.

—Dubai is not a destination, my dear. It is a land of opportunity. Now go rest. We still have much to prepare.

***

I was left alone in the gallery, the sun streaming through the stained-glass windows. The house breathed an artificial calm, as if the walls were waiting for something. I went to my room with a certain anguish and began to separate what mattered to me: photos, letters from old companions, little things of no value to anyone else, but priceless treasures to me. Then I chose my favorite garments and laid them out on the bed like soulless bodies, so she could see them and authorize me to take them.

I folded them one by one, following the protocol she had taught me, while in my belly, beneath the silk, a tiny life moved as if it too were listening to the silent order to depart.

What will there be? What will the people be like? Will the desert be warm and lonely, or full of noise? So much is said about harems: will they really be that luxurious, or is it only a myth?

The morning passed wrapped in expectant silence. Outside the bedroom, the new servants came and went without speaking, as if they knew something sacred, or forbidden, was about to happen. I had just finished arranging my things when the sound of an engine interrupted the garden’s stillness.

From the window I saw a woman in a black uniform and white gloves get out. Behind her, two assistants unloaded large ivory-and-gold lacquered trunks. I brought a hand to my mouth, stunned: nothing looked so much like a fairy tale from the Arabian Nights. Each trunk bore Mrs. Marlowe’s emblem, a crescent moon embracing a rose.

***

The trunks arrived in my room as evening fell, placed one beside the other like sealed promises. The golden light of sunset made their bronze fittings gleam.

I knelt before the first, the largest, and lifted the side lid to reveal a small hidden dressing room, lit with faint lights that heightened my fascination. A breath of cedar, fresh linen, and gentle spices escaped from within. Inside rested light linen tunics, sand- and ivory-colored caftans, handwoven sandals, carved silver belts. The brush of the fabric against my fingers was cold and pure, almost penitential. Everything about those clothes spoke of discretion and obedience, reminding me that I was to assume my role as a chaste, useful, and servile being.

The second trunk was another universe. Its fragrance, more intense, mixed amber, roses, and musk, and enveloped me the moment I slid the cover open. I felt the flush rise from my neck to my cheeks. Inside, the fabrics concealed nothing: they revealed. There were dozens of translucent veils that seemed woven from air, delicately embroidered corsets, silk hip-sashes with golden coins that tinkled when moved, pearl belts that, instead of covering, emphasized the shape of the body. Ultrafine gauze skirts, anklets with tiny bells that promised a sound with every step. That trunk did not contain clothes: it contained the call of a reinvented harem, where power was exercised by women and I embodied surrender.

The third was a symphony of details. Shoes of every style, sandals threaded with gold, embroidered velvet babouches, mother-of-pearl heels, each with its own scent of soft leather and floral essence. Among them, handbags and purses meticulously carved, accessories designed for the different versions I was meant to play: the obedient shadow, the perfect ornament, the silent trophy.

The last trunk, smaller, seemed insignificant until I opened it. Inside unfolded a portable vanity so refined it was a jewel in itself. Brushes with ivory handles, cut-crystal bottles containing perfumes with nearly forgotten names: black jasmine, white amber, sandalwood, myrrh. Creams, powders, and oils arranged with ceremonial precision. The air became thick and intoxicating. Everything in that chest had been designed to create an atmosphere of contained eroticism, a sanctuary where the body prepares to become a sign, a symbol of beauty, property.

I closed the trunks slowly, aware that nothing they contained belonged to me and yet everything longed to cling to my destiny as if it were already part of my skin. They were harem clothes reinterpreted not for concubines, but for submissive men: designed to display fragility, dependence, the docile beauty of the ornamental male.

My mistress watched in silence. Finally, she spoke.

—Mrs. Marlowe has been generous. She will want to see you like this. In her world, men only exist if they adorn.

She ordered me to try on some pieces. Before she let me touch the first fabric, however, she pulled the knot of my robe loose as if untying a package, and the ruby silk nightgown slid off after a couple of precise tugs until it pooled at my feet. I stood naked in my heels, arms loose at my sides, waiting for the next order.

—Hands behind your neck. Legs apart.

I obeyed. I knew it was not a loving inspection: it was an audit of the material. She circled my body slowly, hands clasped behind her back, and made me turn slowly in place like a mannequin. The heels clicked against the marble; my belly, still flat but already warm with the life growing inside, rose and fell with my held breath.

—Your tits are fuller —she remarked, and her fingers caught one nipple between index and thumb. She squeezed until a short moan escaped me—. Pregnancy is making you sensitive. We’ll make use of that.

She lowered her hand over my belly, ran the edge of her nail along the crease of my groin, and found my cunt already wet. Two fingers entered without warning, all the way to the knuckle, and I arched my back with a long gasp.

—Look at you —she whispered, without withdrawing her hand—. Just smelling you and I’m already getting my wrist wet. That’s very good, twenty-three one eighteen. Very good and very dangerous. In Geneva I need you to hold out.

She withdrew her fingers slowly, inspected them against the light shining with my wetness, and passed them over my lips without telling me to open. I opened on my own. I sucked from my own cunt what she had collected, obediently, while she stared into my eyes.

—Swallow.

I swallowed.

—Good. Now get dressed. One garment at a time. We start with the sand caftan. Then we move on to the other one.

She handed me the inner linen tunic first, transparent against the light. I slipped it over my head. The fabric brushed my already hard nipples and sent a shiver through me. Over it she had me put on the sand-colored caftan, fitted at the shoulders and loose at the hips. She came close to tie the carved silver belt around my back, her arms circling me, and used that embrace to slide a hand beneath the fabric and feel my cunt again.

—You’re still soaking my palm —she said against my ear—. This is what Marlowe wants to see. One that melts at the air.

She pinched my clit between two fingers, a short squeeze that made me tremble on the heels. I held back the gasp out of habit; she never tolerated a spectacle before she had authorized it.

—You’re not going to come yet —she warned—. I’m going to leave you on the edge all morning. When the time comes, you’ll come when I order it and not before.

She withdrew her hand. The fabric fell back over me as if nothing had happened. She looked me up and down and nodded: the chaste outfit was already doing its work. She made a note in the folder.

—Take that off. Now the second trunk.

I undressed on my own, folding the garments as I had been taught. From the second trunk she chose piece by piece: first an ivory silk corset that forced me to tighten until my tits were lifted and offered, with the nipples just peeking above the embroidery. Then a sheer gauze overskirt held by a hip-sash of golden coins that jingled with every movement. My feet were left bare, with anklets of little bells that betrayed every step. Nothing covered my sex: the gauze was a murmur, not a garment.

When I had finished fastening it all, my mistress snapped her fingers.

—Come here. Walk.

I walked to her with the short step they had imposed on me. Every little bell counted my obedience. The coin belt swayed over my pubis and struck my clit with each stride, a sweet, humiliating lash. By the time I reached her I was no longer wet: I was dripping down the insides of my thighs.

—On your knees.

I lowered myself. The silk of her shoes was at eye level.

—Open your mouth.

I opened it. She lifted the skirt of her pearl-gray dress, moved her underwear aside with two fingers, and brought her hairless cunt to my face without further ceremony.

—Lick. Like I taught you. No teeth, no rush, and don’t steal my air. And don’t close your eyes: I want you looking at me while you lick me.

I sank my tongue into her without hesitation. I knew her by heart: I knew how much she liked me to circle her clit slowly before picking up the pace, I knew when to press my lips against hers and when to ease off. I ran my tongue flat from the opening to the bud and back down again. She grabbed my hair with a firm hand and pressed my mouth harder to her flesh.

—Deeper. Find what you know.

I pushed my tongue in as far as it would go. I felt her open against my face, salty and thick. I went back to her clit, now sucking hard, and stayed there working it with the tip of my tongue in tight circles. My mistress began breathing faster but did not let out a single moan; she swallowed them all, as always. She only clenched more tightly in my hair when she wanted me to insist on a spot.

—The fingers —she ordered.

I raised my hand and slid two fingers into her to the knuckle while I kept sucking her clit. She moved only slightly against me, without losing her posture, and guided my wrist to show me how fast, how deep. When she noticed she was close to the end, she yanked me away by the hair.

—Enough. You don’t deserve it yet.

She dragged me a step back and left me on my knees, my mouth glossy and my breathing ragged. She adjusted her clothes as if she had just signed a document.

—Stand up.

I obeyed. The heels trembled a little. The coin belt struck my pubis again.

—Lie back on the ottoman. Face up. Legs open and up.

The ottoman was beside the window. I lay back as ordered; the gauze overskirt rode up on its own with the movement and left my cunt fully exposed to the afternoon light. She came closer, evaluated the angle with the calm of a photographer, and took a small case from a side drawer that I knew far too well.

—The calibration capsule —she announced, showing me the dark silicone object, just the right thickness—. It’s the same model you used last night, twenty-three one eighteen. Let’s see if you can keep the mark.

Without further warning she slid it inside me. It was warm, slick, and filled me slowly until a deep gasp escaped me. When it was fully in, she activated the vibrator at the base against my clit.

—You last ten minutes without coming. Just like in the evaluation. If you come before then, the Geneva score won’t even reach eight. And you know what that means.

I knew. It meant punishment. It meant someone else would take my place. I clenched my fists against the ottoman’s silk and dug in my heels. The capsule vibrated in a steady pulse against the exact spot she had taught me to recognize; the flesh yielded, tightened around the silicone, sucked without wanting to. I felt the orgasm building like a storm very deep inside, still unable to rise, trapped in a ring that discipline itself had built.

—Breathe through your nose. Five seconds in, seven out. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.

I looked at her. She stood at my side, hands folded over her belly, expression cold, stopwatch on her wrist. She never pitied. Never had. And yet it was that coldness that held me together: without her I would have fallen apart long ago.

The minutes passed with impossible slowness. My tits had hardened so much they rubbed the corset, and every touch was another torment. My cunt was dripping onto the silk. Every so often she pinched a nipple to check my reaction, or passed a finger over my parted lips and I sucked it without thinking. At some point she murmured:

—Eight minutes. Good. You’re doing very well.

That was the only concession. When the stopwatch reached the tenth minute, she switched off the vibrator and slowly withdrew the capsule, listening to me gasp with my jaw tense.

—Now. Come for me. Fast and clean.

She slipped two fingers inside me and pressed my clit with the heel of her palm. She began pumping me with that manual precision only she had. My whole body arched. The climax rose from very deep inside, shook my belly, climbed through my chest, and exploded in my throat like a dry cry. I cried out only as much as was allowed, and she covered my mouth with her free hand.

—Not in the house. Quiet. Like that.

I came against her hand, a warm gush that stained the insides of my thighs and soaked her wrist. My cunt pulsed around her fingers. She did not withdraw them: she left them inside until the contractions eased, and only then came out slowly, with the same calm with which she had entered.

This time she licked her own fingers. She looked at me.

—Eight clean minutes and a controlled orgasm. Nine and a half again. Geneva is ready for you.

I lay there for a moment on the ottoman, my chest rising and falling, the gauze wrinkled against my belly, the anklets still jingling from the tremble in my legs. She ordered me to get up. I got up. She made me try on the rest: the opalescent veil, the embroidered babouches, the ceremonial mantle. With each layer she put on me, a little more of me went out. At last, when only my eyes were visible, she stepped back two paces and evaluated me again with the buyer’s eye.

—Yes. You will have to present yourself to her exactly like this and carry out all her orders. Is that clear, twenty-three one eighteen?

I nodded, lowering my gaze as I had been taught.

***

Night arrived without a sound. I slept little, perhaps not at all. I dreamed of white sands, endless mirrors, and dances wrapped in multicolored silks. Dawn filtered a flat light over the room. In the center of the bed, the garments awaited like a sequence of disappearances.

First, the inner tunic, black and weightless, to erase the outline of my skin. Then the outer mantle, thicker, which turned my silhouette into shadow. Black stockings and gloves hid the rest. A Lycra hood subdued my hair, and the scarf framed my face with invisible pins. In the end, the veil closed over my face completely and transformed me in a matter of seconds into an anonymous, secret being, leaving the world nothing but a slit of air and dimness. No one could see my eyes. Nothing of my body remained in contact with the outside.

Each layer was not just fabric: it was a renunciation. Of the face, of the name, of the other person’s gaze. The mirror returned an indistinct form, without traces or voice, as if the body had become a relic.

Mrs. Vasari watched me in silence. There was no approval or tenderness, only the recognition that the metamorphosis was complete. She extended her hand toward the door.

—You may go now.

The trip to the vehicle was a tunnel of muffled whispers and measured steps. I saw no faces, only fragments of sky and asphalt. Each movement took me a little farther from what I had been.

***

A convoy took us to the private airfield. The sun was filtering through orange clouds when I saw Mrs. Marlowe’s white jet, gleaming like a dagger at rest. At the foot of the stairs, she was waiting for us with an haughty bearing, wearing a fitted light ensemble and a white fox-fur jacket. Behind her, the silhouette of her husband, veiled in pale tones, hands joined in front of him, motionless as an obedient shadow. The crew stood in a line, the stewardesses in satin gloves and red velvet bows at their throats, smiling faintly as we approached.

They placed me beside Mrs. Marlowe’s husband. Our silence said everything: he had already assumed the role I was only beginning to learn. The lady stepped forward and her gaze pierced me from behind the veil.

—Welcome, twenty-three one eighteen —her voice was warm, musical, and firm as a command—. From today on, your gestures belong to me, and only whom I decide will be able to see you as you truly are.

I bowed, following protocol. She nodded, satisfied.

—Board first. My stewardesses will take you to the reserved salon. I wish you a good takeoff. Heaven awaits us, and in heaven, Dubai.

***

The interior of the jet was a temple of golden dimness. At the back, behind heavy curtains, another world opened: intense colors, thick rugs, an enveloping scent of incense and orange blossom. In the center, cushions and divans formed a lustful circle, the so-called “harem of the air.” The air had the density of ritual; there, covered bodies were not individuals, but presences.

There were several veiled men, lined up in silence before the divans. No one spoke; only the rustle of fabric and the hum of the ventilation could be heard. Then the curtains parted and Mrs. Marlowe entered alone. Her presence changed the air and forced us to stand. Her amber-and-oud perfume filled the space like an invisible signature.

—From this moment on —she said with a calm that contained absolute authority— you may remove your veils and make yourselves comfortable. No one will come in here except me. You will cover yourselves again only when we land in Dubai.

Her tone was neither kind nor distant: it was the tone of someone granting permission knowing that the gesture, more than freeing, reaffirms control. The sound of veils sliding off filled the cabin, a soft wave of fabric falling onto the divans, sighs of relief, cautious glances crossing as faces tried to be recognized after so much anonymity.

—Welcome to my air harem —she added—. On this plane there are no passengers, only representatives of a new order. Each of you is living proof of what that order can achieve. Rest, talk, learn the protocols. The journey is long.

She turned with the elegance of someone used to being followed and left, trailing warm perfume and a reverent silence behind her.

Little by little we began to breathe more freely. For the first time in hours I felt the fresh air brush my naked face, an odd sensation, a mixture of relief and loss. The engines roared, the craft rolled down the runway, and ascended. Among us, all men, there was a certain complicity: we learned from Mrs. Marlowe’s husband the strict rules that awaited us.

***

On the other side of the plane, in the open area, the women conversed amid the silent luxury of lacquered woods and amber lights. Mrs. Vasari had chosen a sober pearl-gray linen outfit, with a fine veil falling over her face as a gesture of respect toward the culture of our destination. Her style spoke of intellectual authority, not submission.

—Your program is advancing faster than we imagined —said Mrs. Marlowe, pouring herself a whiskey without lifting her eyes—. The reports on twenty-three one eighteen are extraordinary.

—I expected nothing less —replied Mrs. Vasari in a low, firm voice—. What began as an experiment has become a symbol. And symbols travel better than data.

Mrs. Marlowe set the glass down on the table with a sharp sound.

—Symbols also wear out, dear. That’s why I want to see her before presenting her in the Gulf. I want to make sure she is still useful.

—Useful —Mrs. Vasari repeated without looking at her— is a word that defines both objects and people. But this case represents something more: fertility as women’s patrimony and power. Don’t get confused.

Mrs. Marlowe smiled.

—We’ll see whether the world is ready for so much power concentrated in our hands.

They raised their glasses, a silent gesture sealing the agreement. Outside, the sky was turning copper-colored as the jet kept climbing.

I watched from my corner, hands resting on my belly, as if caressing the life growing inside me, while the laughter of my traveling companions merged with the hum of the engines.

Will my son be born, or is he only a specimen used to display my capacity? We all know we are living trophies, and that some of us will never return home.

The plane moved on over the sea and, beyond it, over the desert, like a suspended temple. Obedience was the passage. The destination, a golden unknown waiting for me beyond the last curtain of silk.