I searched everywhere: behind the bags of couscous and neatly hung tools of torture in my closet, under the elaborately decorated cushions of my sales reception room . . .

Despite our circuitous route home, which took us under bridges and through dark alleys, with repeated crossings of the street to ensure the shadows of buildings, trees, and statues almost continuously protected us from photodamage

The barren hill could only be interpreted as an utterly senseless location for any utility purporting to make liquid deep below the earth accessible to the public...

I slept fitfully that night, my thoughts returning over and over to the dead virgin sex slave.

I was in good humor as I led the hooded sex slave up the road to the sultan's harem, enjoying the unseasonably comfortable weather and threatening her gently as we strolled beneath a row of palms.

Long ago, before I met the sultana or the sultan, I was a young and innocent slave trader . . .