Mini-Story: Arabian Harem (Sultan FtM, Men to Harem TG Preg) (Patreon)

Our first themed story for time travel/historical August! Enjoy!

By FoxFaceStories

Sally was often mistreated and overlooked by her coworkers, especially her sexist boss. But when an unveiled artefact at a work party transported her and most of her business peers back to the height of Seljuk power, the roles are reversed. Now Sally is a powerful male sultan, and all her coworkers and bosses are her lovely harem girls, ready to serve her.

Arabian Harem

I leave these testaments in the future form of the English language, to be unveiled in the year 2026, on the date of the 5th of August, for reasons that shall soon become abundantly clear. Though the archaeologists and historians who discover my hidden library shall no doubt be astonished by the many great artworks and scribed tomes within it, they will be truly astonished to the point of disbelief by what I have to write now.

These writings will provide answers to a mysterious mass disappearance from a ‘hedge fund’ firm near Wall Street, in the currently yet-to-be-founded United States of America, in which sixteen persons - three female, thirteen male - vanished without a trace, followed later by a pair of police investigators just several weeks afterwards. I presume that this mass disappearance has caused great consternation in that farflung future time, and perhaps much crude commentary and public interest. Some may imagine it was the act of a financial cult, or that the hedge fund was greatly corrupt and its members fled the force of the law, or that they were simply killed off by a criminal or governmental group, their bodies hidden from the light of discovery. None of this is true.

I can tell you they did not die, though by your time they will have been dead for nearly one thousand years. Does that sound impossible? It should indeed be. And yet it happened! The members of the business known as Bryer Equity were sent back in time to the height of the Seljuk Empire, hurtled into new bodies and roles and forced to adapt to a world that was utterly alien and pre-modern compared to their own.

I know all of this, because I was one of those disappearances.

My name, back then in the far future, was Sally Terrence. I was a mere secretary to the firm, thirty-two years of age and still struggling to survive upon my meagre salary, despite the wealth of the firm. My looks were not terrible, and somewhat comely by my own remembrance, and so I was frequently the subject of flirtation and harassment by the male members of the firm. I despised this treatment, especially given that I truly desired to gain promotion and succession. And yet I had little option to move to a new business, for I needed the job in my tenuous situation, and could not afford to be bold. My superior - Andrew Seymayer - was my great bane. He would often find excuses to pat me on my rear - to hell with it! He patted me on my ass - and made comments about my breasts and how he would prefer me to display them. My main friend was Cho Lin, a woman of two and twenty years who was also the subject of repeated harassment, as well as a healthy dose of racial injustice and degradation by our male peers. Both of us were often put in our place by the only other woman in the firm, the human resources manager Janice. She constantly undermined our claims of outrage in favour of the company’s reputation. I suspect she and Mr Seymayer were political animals of the same breed, both sharing an unspoken alliance with one another. Only one of the gentlemen was actually kind to me: Jonathan. He was still one of the men, still willing to get drunk at the work parties and be part of the unequal system, but he never harassed me, and even sometimes called out the behaviour of the other pigs. Not always, but sometimes. I forgave him sometimes, because of his brown-haired handsomeness. 

It was a miserable status quo, but all that changed when the weaselly Peter Lathing, a man who often leered at my cleavage, brought in an item to impress our superiors at a work event. I had been forced to wear a dress that was more revealing than I’d hoped, and the same was true of Cho, so we were further back when he unveiled the latest artefact to display our so-called ‘high culture’ at Bryer Equity. Still, we couldn’t help but shuffle forward, intrigued despite the unwelcome comments from nearby males. It was a new display item to show off the opulence of the firm; a medieval Turkish-Arabian sculpture depicting a lewd scene of a lascivious sultan penetrating an orgasming young concubine. It contained the rest of the harem crowd around this scene, all looking on in a fawning manner. I was disgusted, as was Cho, but the men rallied around it, and Mr. Seymayer reminded us that Janice in human resources had given this item free passage to be displayed. To his credit, Jonathan thought it was a bit much, though he said so only in a private muttering.

The sculpture remained in the centre of the evening event, and it seemed to inspire acts of sinful lasciviousness in the already brutish men. Peter went too far and grabbed Cho’s breasts while half-drunk, mimicking a scene in the sculpture, and it proved all too much for my female constitution. I threw a screaming fit in the middle of the party, and demanded he be fired.

How was my outrage responded to, you might ask?

How was my righteous indignation treated?

You already know, dear reader. The new world I have left is not so different from the old I now call home. Mr Seymayer elected to fire me on the spot. I was in tears. I was distraught, but none would stand up for me. Jonathan could only volunteer to help escort me out and comfort me. Well, I was not a creature in need of comfort in that moment. Instead, in retaliation, and in what would prove to be my last act as a woman, I took the sculpture and smashed it upon the floor. 

We didn’t even see it finish shattering before a blinding light burst from its destruction, and each of us present closest to it suddenly disappeared.

I will not bore my future readers with excessive detail of what happened next; our initial confusion, the strangeness of our new bodies and culture, of the gain and loss of status among our peers. What I will summarise, is that all sixteen individuals in the epicentre of our party found themselves in a sultanate in Arabia’s past. Specifically, the Seljuk empire that ruled mightily over vast swathes of Persia, Arabia, Anatolia, and greater Syria and Judea. There was no slow transformation. No gradual change to our bodies. Instead, we all found ourselves in a grand and ostentatiously decorated and comfort-filled room, and all of us were in new bodies, bestowed with new languages dominant in our minds, and new instincts too. 

I was no longer a thirty-two year old female secretary, but now a strong, male, and incredibly virile young sultan named Alp Arslan. Yes, that Alp Arslan. I confess, I do not know if this individual already existed in my own time, or if he was famous or what contributions he would make to world history, or if he lived to the grand old age I have. What I can tell you is that if I were not already famous, I have made myself a figure of living history since. At the time, however, I was bewildered to end up as a Turk Sultan of the greatest empire in the known world, young and strong and tall, my skin olive-toned and my hair black. Suddenly having a large member between one’s legs was fascinating, even more so in a culture that gave me all the power because of my new gender, and as a Sultan, no less. I thankfully had been endowed with enough knowledge to get by, pretending to have experienced a strange illness that briefly affected my mind until I could convincingly rule and organise my palace staff and conduct my affairs as a leader. My horror at my new circumstance was, I shall admit, only brief. In truth, becoming a stalwart and handsome man, one at the top of the food chain, was utterly intoxicating to me. I had despised the patriarchy all my life. Now, I was the patriarchy, and turnabout was starting to feel like fair play.

My other peers were less fortunate, however. To their surprise and horror, and my own physical joy, each had become a humble concubine in an already-existing harem. As the Sultan of a grand civilisation, it was expected of Alp Arslan to possess a beautiful and expansive harem, not to mention several wives. But I doubt my work peers and tormentors had ever expected to become lovely and curvaceous women, each young and fertile and pushed by newfound instinct to serve the formerly victimised secretary of the office. Where I now had presence, they now had a lack . . . especially between their silky thighs.

Andrew Seymayer, the man who blustered and blundered, was now a curvaceous Arabian beauty with bountiful breasts and long, wavy dark hair. She initially tried to assert her authority and was restrained quite quickly. When I appeared before her, she cursed me out, and yet I could tell from her facial expressions that her body desired to please me. Peter the rat-like sycophant and harasser had gained a petite figure with dark African skin. She found her mind already groomed in the art of pleasing my member with her tongue, and yet more lessons were to come. Naturally, she was aghast at this, but her hunger only grew as the first week passed. Jonathan, a once respectable gentleman, became a softer Persian woman in her late twenties, a thick-figured beauty with the most lovely ass, if I may write so crudely, and full breasts destined to produce great quantities of milk. Her wide hips that were perfect for child-bearing too, and when this was pointed out to me by the eunuch master of the harem, she actually moaned a little, wearing her revealing harem outfit and causing her whole soft body to jiggle. Clearly, her own time-travelling transformation had left her with a strong desire to breed my royal young.

So too did these changes take my other male peers, transforming their bodies into beautiful female forms I would cover and pleasure for decades to come. The worm had turned for Janice: she was young again, a slender and elegant dancer from the Bedouin deserts, and being trained to please me with gentle music and dance, which I can assure you she has done many times, even when greatly swollen with child. Especially when greatly swollen with child, in fact.

I have little doubt that each despised me, and most perhaps still do, at least on some deep level. All but two. The first was the former Jonathan. She at least did not blame me for her new position in life as my love slave, though she complained bitterly while riding atop my body in one of the thirty-seven positions she had been trained to perform to perfection, her new nature too lustful to resist that which disgusted her male mind.

The other who did not hate me was Cho, my good friend. She found herself still understandably scared, confused, but ultimately she stuck by me and gave herself willingly over to my male lusts. She had been gifted the most nubile and beautiful form of all my new women, and I called her my ‘Desert Flower’ with great affection, often before suckling upon her great bosom and feeling her lovely flanks, so perfect in their womanly shape. It did not take many months for her to transition from my sister-in-arms against male brutalism to my most favoured concubine, and not long after, the first among my wives. Our love blossomed, and I always treated her as my intellectual equal, though she possessed a submissive side that I enjoyed dominating. She did much to satisfy me, my desert flower, though it became no court secret that Alp Arslan was a lustful Sultan who could not be satisfied completely by one woman, even if she were his great love. After a year, I no longer cared for the protests of my formerly-male colleagues, now partaking of pleasures from them at whim. They desired me as much as I desired them, and their complaints as I fucked them often aroused me even further, because they could not bring themselves to stop fucking me in turn, humiliated by their need to submit to me. Each bore me children from their fruitful wombs, and many times over at that. I paid particular effort in ensuring that Andrew Seymayer - now the gorgeous Amina - would constantly be swollen with my children. It was a fitting punishment, and while it was not tradition, I made sure to attend each birth, sometimes to aid my lovely Desert Flower, but other times to enjoy the sight of Amina spreading her legs and screaming as she was forced to push a new son or daughter of mine through her strained loins. I will mention that though I still took my pleasures from Jonathan, now known as Cyra, I never humiliated her as I did some of the others, and she remained a favoured and eventual loving second wife to me. But fate had other plans for Cyra, despite my treating her with greater sympathy: she proved to be quite fecund, and during her fertile stretch of life she bore me nine children, can you believe it? Perhaps it was fate’s way of guiding her to understanding that while she did much to mitigate the harm once done to me, she did not do enough. Now, her belly would swell and her milk would flow, as part of her penance. I rewarded her with marriage, lands, horses, and great comfort.

And so I learned to love my new life, and revel in the power of my maleness and title. At the time of writing this testament, I have sired one hundred and twelve children in total, a remarkable and potent lineage. Six of these births were from new additions to my harem. There must have been residual energies in the shattered sculpture, for as you may well be aware when reading this, two police investigators - Kade Wilson and Beatrice Hughes - looked over the remnants and examined them for several days after the incident. They too were transported into the past and added to my harem. Kade became my Sabine, a gifted horserider and dancer, while Beatrice had a slightly harder time, being a lesbian. I allowed her the pleasures of my concubines so long as she played her part for me when needed by our mutual instincts. She has borne me two children, and Sabine has given me the other four. Both I granted the protective status of being my wives, as they shared no blame nor deserved any punishment from me.

Always by my side was Cho, whom I allowed her to retain her name, and we grew gracefully old together. She had never desired many children before our miraculous change in time and space and form, but from her womb came thirteen children, of whom are a magnificent blessing. My love for her still burns brightly, and those times when I was called away to lead armies and fight wars - such as with my great victory at Manzikert - always wounded me, for I missed my harem greatly, and those who did not miss me in spirit still felt a compulsion to miss me in the flesh.

Such was the blessing of youth, virility, and fertility! 

Alas, I am now an old man as I write this by my own hand. I have few regrets in my life. My prestige is great, my children many, my legacy secured. There have been some tragedies. Amina, my former boss, was murdered by poison during a failed assassination attempt on my life. She was only fifty-seven years old in her new form, and I assure you that as much as I did not like who she had been, she was a good mother to our children. Her murderer suffered a fate I shall not speak of. An even more potent tragedy came courtesy of the times.  Three of my sons and four of my daughters did not survive to adulthood after falling to infection and disease. I still think of them often. I know the survival rate of my brood is remarkable for such an ancient time, and yet I know I will see them again in paradise. I have lost friends to battle, good servants to time, and I have grown older and weaker, so that even the act of pleasure is now reserved just for moments of gentle privacy with my closest wives and concubines. I have finally ceased taking on new, fertile concubines. I need no more children, and my spirit wanes. My concubines have been released from their duties, no longer able to fulfil them. They now work as midwives, cooks, musicians, maids, all still working to aid my household and supported by it.

There is so much more to tell, but I have now told enough. I likely have not much more than ten years remaining. Cho is my faithful wife, still beautiful in her elder years. With her, I have no regrets. I still have my harem, even if they are more friends and servants than lovers now. Still, for the better part of decades, they were my gorgeous Arabian harem, beautiful and enticing and exotic and fertile, and it is through them that I knew pleasure and joy and comfort that I know few have ever imagined, let alone experienced. I went to bed with them, I cradled my head upon their bosoms, and I made love to each and felt their bellies stir and shift as my children kicked from within them. 

Some may judge me for all this indulgence. Perhaps you do. In truth, I do not rightly care, and it does not matter. I write this testament just to end a mystery one thousand years from my own time, and so that people will know the tale not just of Alp Arslan, but of his harem as well. Judge away, if you wish. This old man will not silence you. I am, by your time, already dead. 

The End