Path: not-for-mail
From: Pentland <pentland@electronic-businesses.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.bondage,soc.subculture.bondage-bdsm,alt.sex.bondage
Subject: KLITZMAN Part 3
Date: Sat, 08 Sep 2007 06:13:18 -0700
Organization: http://groups.google.com
Lines: 1659
Message-ID: <1189257198.024638.271180@r29g2000hsg.googlegroups.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: 81.96.240.253
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable
X-Trace: posting.google.com 1189257198 754 127.0.0.1 (8 Sep 2007 13:13:18 GMT)
X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 8 Sep 2007 13:13:18 +0000 (UTC)
User-Agent: G2/1.0
X-HTTP-UserAgent: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows; U; Windows NT 6.0; en-GB; rv:1.8.1.6) Gecko/20070725 Firefox/2.0.0.6,gzip(gfe),gzip(gfe)
Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
Injection-Info: r29g2000hsg.googlegroups.com; posting-host=81.96.240.253;   posting-account=ps2QrAMAAAA6_jCuRt2JEIpn5Otqf_w0
Bytes: 105440
X-Original-Bytes: 105395

===================

Klitzman continues



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE PRINCE REVEALED
	The Prince was suitably impressed with the oral skills of his new
slave. Her rubbed her head with his hand, petting her, as she coaxed
the last few drops of cum from his slowly detumescing organ. When he
had regained his senses, the Prince pushed the slave girl's head back
and drew her to her feet. He pulled the covers down to the foot of the
bed and then pushed her onto it. The remnants of her chemise were
gathered around her bound wrists. She lay there in anxious
anticipation of her further use while the Prince stripped off his
clothes. He joined the woman on the bed and spread his tall taut frame
alongside her. She could feel the heat of his body pressing against
her. He grabbed her by the hair and kissed her lips, running his
tongue inside her mouth. Her eyes closed, the young woman eagerly
accepted his passionate embrace.
	The Prince ran his left hand down Fatima's body, caressing her
breasts, stroking her belly. He covered her sex with his hand and
probed within. Fatima's cunt was plush and hot. She moaned as his hand
enflamed her. Her nipples were taut with passion, she yearned for her
master's cock.
	Running his lips down along Fatima's neck, sucking gently on her
skin, he descended to her breasts. While his left hand manipulated her
flush sex, his other hand circled her right breast, squeezing it,
first gently and then harder. He bit down on the nipple softly,
sending an electric charge throughout the young girl's body.
	His lips went lower and lower, scraping along her stomach and down to
the apex of her moist canal. Shifting his body so that he was between
her legs, he spread them widely so that he could examine the engorged
lips, the tender, pink center. The Prince inhaled the sweet odor of
the perfume that had been applied there. His cock had risen again and
ached for insertion in a warm, moist place. Ash he ran his tongue
inside the labial lips and up and down the expanding crevasse between
them the girl was virtually apoplectic with pleasure. She had prayed
that her new master would appreciate her charms, would revel in her
softness, would enjoy her compliant sexuality. But she hadn't dreamt
that he would give her pleasure like this.
The Prince ran his hands along the inside of the girl's widespread
thighs as he continued to agitate her pussy with his tongue. She began
to rock her hips in anticipation of her incipient orgasm. Quickly, the
Prince withdrew his tongue and, pulling her right leg over her left,
turned the girl to her belly. He pulled back her hips until her lower
portals were exposed to his use. Kneeling on the bed, her forehead
pressed into the mattress, Fatima waited to be filled. She felt the
Prince's cock press against the dainty star of her ass, and loosened
her muscles in aide of his ease of penetration. She was a well trained
slut. Many weeks of whippings and callous rapes had brought her to the
point where her ass could be used almost as easily as her cunt. The
Prince enjoyed the benefit of her skills, as he was able to thrust his
cock past the tight ring of flesh easily.
Fatima moaned as the Prince's steel hard cock filled her. There was no
question but that she had come to enjoy a good ass fucking. The
friction of the pistoning of a hot cock against the sensitive tissues
of her anus sent wave after wave of pleasurable impulses to her cunt,
and in turn, to her body. The Prince, too, enjoyed the fine art of
sodomy. He thrilled to the feeling of soft warmth that surrounded his
rampant pole and the tight pressure brought to bear by the narrow
portal. He pumped into Fatima, first slowly, and then with increasing
intensity. He took joy at the vision of the tightly bound wrists as
the girl's hands writhed in evidence of her passion. The girl began to
utter small, shrill cries as he rammed his cock home repeatedly. The
cries increased in intensity as he felt her bucking against him.
When he sensed that she was coming, he intensified his efforts, his
mind clouding with pleasure. Suddenly he could hold back no more and
he shot a hot load of sperm deep inside the excited woman.
Fatima felt the warmth spread within her and her orgasm recommenced.
What joy she felt that she had brought her master to pleasure and that
he had stirred such a passionate release in her! It was as a wish come
true! He would treasure her, yearn for her, and she would please him
like a lustful whore.
When the Prince ceased his movements, the couple lay silently in
place, their chests heaving, blood still pounding in their brains. The
Prince bent forward, leaning his chest against the girl's sweaty back.
When he felt his penis slip from the girl's rear, he disengaged
himself and lay back on the bed. He caressed the cheeks of her ass
with one hand as he luxuriated in the calm after the storm. The girl
lay still, enjoying the afterglow of her orgasms. She would not move
again until instructed, but she would do whatever her master
commanded.
Fatima would not have been so content if she could have read her
master's mind. Yes, he had enjoyed his sexual bout with his new
property, but he had just begun to take his pleasure with her. As he
rose from his supine position, his innate cruelty began to emerge.
The Prince rose from the bed and refreshed his glass of scotch. He
downed it quickly, enjoying the fiery bite as it went down his throat.
He glanced up at the chain that he had had installed in the ceiling in
the middle of the room. The chain ran through an eyebolt and then
across the ceiling to another eyebolt and then down the wall. At the
bottom of the wall lay sufficient length of chain so that it could be
lowered in the middle of the room. He had had some of his father's
slaves dance to the whip there, but his father was particular how his
slaves were marked up, and he could rarely go beyond a mere warming of
their flesh. But tonight, all restraint was washed away. He would be
the judge of what marks were to be worn by his slave and how they got
there. He wanted to hear her scream in agony.
Fatima heard the jangle of the chain as it was lowered from the
ceiling. She dared not look to discover its source. But it was a
familiar sound and it did not bode her well. As she sensed the Prince
approaching the bed, her throat began to constrict with fear. Was her
idyll about to dissolve into terror? There was a deep, sinking feeling
in her stomach.
 The Prince leaned over the bed and untied Fatima's wrists, discarding
the torn and ragged maroon chemise. He then pulled her from the bed
and dragged her to where the foreboding chain descended from the
ceiling. The French girl cringed when she saw it and the open
bracelets that dangled from its end. She started to pull away from the
Prince's vice like grip on her arm. It was an involuntary motion,
prompted by panic and dread. The Prince lashed out, striking her
across the face with his hand. The unanticipated blow knocked the girl
senseless.
"Come here, whore," the Prince growled. "Come and take the beating you
deserve."
The French girl did not understand the words, but understood their
meaning. She dreaded the whip. She would do anything to avoid it. She
had seen almost countless women piteously beg and plead to be spared
the painful kiss of the lash. None of them had been. She resolved not
to beg and whine. She would submit. It was the only means left to her,
a lowly slave, to assert her humanity, to preserve what little pride
she had left, to stoically accept whatever her master could dole out.
She could not prevent the tears forming in her eyes or the involuntary
grimace that crossed her face. The Prince locked her hands into the
bracelets and pulled the chain until her hands were held far above her
head, her feet barely touching the ground. He affixed a strap around
her ankles to hold her legs together. He wanted her as still as
possible so that his blows landed where he aimed them.
Once the girl was postured in the desired manner, the Prince made a
circle around her body. She was a beautiful beast, he thought. His
cock had risen and he stroked it as he contemplated the girl's misery.
He could smell her fear, could see it in the sweat that was dripping
down her body. He went over to the long, low credenza against the wall
and poured himself another tall scotch. He took a long pull on it,
putting a sharper edge on his lust. He opened the credenza and removed
a long, thin rattan cane, a short many thonged whip and a thick, heavy
riding crop. Which one should he use first? He chose the whip. It
would warm her up for the cane, which would mark her with long, red
lacerations. And then the riding crop to cause deep purple bruises in
her skin.
 The Prince finished off his glass of scotch and, placing the cane and
the riding crop down on the credenza, stepped over to the girl. She
had been watching him with desperate intensity, mesmerized by his
every motion. The Prince rubbed his hand over her breasts, squeezing
them harshly. He took a nipple in his mouth and sucked on it long and
hard. The girl could feel the heat of his naked body next to hers. The
anticipation of her torment proved too much and she began to emit a
low, piteous whine. The Prince looked up in her face and laughed.
"Are you ready to begin?" he taunted her. "I'm ready."
The Prince stepped away and swung the thonged whip, landing its stiff,
knotted ends across the girl's back. The girl stiffened and moaned.
Her lips were trembling with pain and fear as she struggled to accept
mutely whatever the Prince dealt out to her. Another blow of the whip
crossed her bound legs, braising her thighs. Another blow across her
back and another on the thighs. The Prince struck blow after blow in
rapid succession. He moved so that he could whip her defenseless
breasts, her belly and the front of her thighs. Fatima was mewing and
crying as she suffered the burning pain. Her body was twisting vainly
to assuage the impact of the blows.
As he continued his vicious assault, the Prince's eyes glazed over
with lust. The girl's body was turning a bright pink where the
repeated blows had fallen. It was more exciting than he had imagined.
Each tiny cry, each involuntary flinch, each teardrop that he wrested
from the girl fueled his cruel passion.
The Prince paused to catch his breath. Fatima swung listlessly in her
chains, sobbing lightly. She looked up at the distorted visage of her
assailant and knew that she could expect no mercy. He had just begun
to torment her.
When the first stroke of the cane landed, it let out a loud crack that
echoed in the room. The fiery pain shot through the girl. A loud groan
escaped her lips. A bright red line had formed across her tenderized
breasts. Her tear-filled eyes pleaded with her assailant. She bit her
lips to prevent an outpouring of fruitless entreaties. Another lash
struck her, this time across her thighs. Her groan became more of a
shriek. After the third blow from the thin rod, she lost all will to
control herself, all pride left her. Fatima screamed loudly and began
to cry out and beg piteously. "Please, please," she begged in English.
"Please!" When the fourth kiss of the lash like cane kissed her rear,
the girl lost her English, what little she had, and began to beg
piteously in French.
Pausing to enjoy the girl's entreaties, the Prince admired his
handiwork. Long red lines of lacerated wounds had formed about the
girl's body. He had gone far past anything he had done before. He
wanted to go farther. The Prince increased the speed and intensity of
the blows. Fatima lost any ability to speak as a steady stream of pain
burned through her. She was screaming now, uncontrollably. Tears
streamed down her face. "Ah,h,h,h,h,h,h,h!" she cried
Finally, the rain of blows stopped. The Prince was sweating profusely.
The effort of whipping his slave left him panting and trembling with
lust. The girl hung, lifeless but for the loud soulful sobbing and the
heaving of her chest. She was covered with long red welts, some of
them oozing blood. The Prince gave her a few seconds to gather her
wits. The crop was next and he wanted her to feel every blow.
Another shot of Scotch was in order. The Prince dropped the cane and
poured out three fingers of the clear, amber liquid. It went down in
one gulp. His head was beginning to cloud, but he shook it off. He
took the riding crop in his hand.
Fatima raised her head and saw the next implement of her torment. She
knew that the riding crop caused deep, painful bruises that lasted
many days. Reaching deep down inside herself, the girl summoned the
last vestiges of her strength. She would suffer the blows in silence,
she resolved. She would give the cruel man no more of herself.
Rashan struck the girl across the back with all of the strength he
could summon. It was good that he was tired and drunk, for the desire
to inflict pain was stronger than his arm. In spite of this, the
riding crop caused a loud 'thump' when it landed. Fatima received the
painful blow stoically. A second, third and fourth blow struck her.
The pain coursed through her, but other than a small cry as each blow
landed, she remained silent. Ten times the Prince landed the thick,
hard instrument on her body. Each stroke sent a sickening wave of pain
through the girl. In spite of herself, Fatima let out a long, doleful
moan as the final blow landed.
Seeing that he could evoke no further screams of pain from his slave,
Rashan cast the riding crop aside. Despite all of his liquor, his cock
was still rampant. He would fuck his whore once more.
He released the sagging girl's wrists from the cuffs and she fell
instantly to the floor. He grabbed her hair and dragged her to the
bed. "Get up you cunt!" he yelled as he pulled on her arms. Fatima's
instinct for self preservation gave her the power to push with her
rubbery legs as she was raised upwards. The Prince flung her onto the
bed and untied her ankles. He pounced on her body as she rolled to her
back. He pushed her legs apart with his thighs and pressed his cock
into her hole.
The girl was moist, receptive, as many months of training and
conditioning had taught her to be. She was even grateful for the flush
of incipient pleasure caused by the steel hard rod pressed inside her.
Giving herself over to pleasure, the only thing left to her, she rose
to meet the Prince's thrusts. He grabbed her hands and held then above
her head and pressed his lips onto hers. She opened her mouth
willingly, earnestly seeking to raise her passions. It did not take
long for the Prince to approach fulfillment of his lust. Fatima too,
was close, and she raised her knees, pushing her heels hard in to the
bed. She desperately pounded her hips into his. He owed her this, she
thought; she earned this. As the Prince stiffened, his cock pulsing
and throbbing with pleasure, the French girl came too. She sucked on
the Prince's tongue hungrily as her pussy knotted into blissful
contraction after contraction.
Finally, it was over. The Prince's passion was spent. Fatima lay dazed
and exhausted, all energy drained from her. The man rolled off of her
and quickly sunk into a drunken stupor. Mercifully, she fell asleep.
After about an hour, as the Prince's snores resounded throughout, two
silent, light footed servants crept into the room. The scotch was put
away, the whips stowed back in the credenza. The torn remnants of the
chemise the slave girl had worn were recovered. Fatima felt herself
shaken awake. She was startled, panicked. But one of the self effacing
men placed his hand over her mouth and whispered "Sh,h,h,h,h,h,h!"
The girl was quickly, but gently, rolled onto her stomach. She felt
her hands being tied behind her back and her ankles joined. A hand
pulled her head back and a leather ball was forced into her mouth. A
black silk hood descended over her head and was tied off at the neck.
As the girl tearfully rued her helpless fate, the two men gracefully
and quietly glided across the room, dimmed the lights and closed the
door behind them. Wracked with sobs, she cried herself back to sleep.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE DUTCH GIRL
	The midday sun beat down unmercifully on the now empty patios and
verandas as I left Rukimo's abode. The morning breeze had disappeared,
and everyone had gone inside. The only other persons I could see were
the ubiquitous guards and even they had managed to find shade. I
decided to take a little siesta myself and wandered over to the
supervisor's dormitory. I passed through the lounge area, and, except
for a number of slaves chained to rings along the walls, and a
foursome of rough looking fellows playing poker, it was deserted.
	I walked down the curved hallway, looking for my card in the slot by
the door. When I found it, I entered. The blonde haired girl who had
been given the ridiculous name of Tulip was kneeling in the middle of
the room, her hands resting on her thighs, palms up, her back erect.
Her eyes were downcast, her head bowed. She was a beautiful creature,
no more than nineteen or twenty. Her heavy, plump breasts had large
red areolae, with flat, dime sized nipples. Her skin was as white as
cream and seemed as smooth and rich. I sensed her nervousness at my
presence, an expectancy of demands intolerant of lassitude.
	Stepping up to the girl, I placed my hand under her chin and raised
her face. "Look at me," I said. Her eyes were pale blue with flecks of
white in them, giving them an almost star like quality. A very light
tint of blue covered her eyelids, complementing her eyes, which were
outlined with a thin line of black. Her eyelashes were long and curled
and a feint tint of blush was on her cheeks. Her parted lips were
painted a dull red, echoing the hue of her nipples and areolae.
	"I want to take a bath," I told her.
	"Yes, master," she replied. She rose gracefully and stepped quickly
into the bathroom. As she walked away from me, I admired her long,
narrow back and the tight, solid globes of her ass. I removed my robe
and heard the water begin to splash into the tub. I strode into the
bathroom and was startled by the luxurious décor. The tub was large,
sunken into the floor. A shower was set in one end with a gold plated
faucet and handles below it. The room was lined with a wainscoting of
copper colored tiles, the upper walls papered with red, yellow and
blue swirls.
	The tub filled rapidly and I could see the steam rising from the
heated water. The girl stood in the tub expectantly. I descended the
three steps into the tub and sat down in the water, my back laying
against a sloped side. The heated water drained all of my energy as my
muscles went limp. I sighed with pleasure. This was the life. I dozed
off almost immediately; I don't know how long, but for at least ten or
fifteen minutes. I awoke at the sound of water being added to the tub
by the girl, to maintain the luxuriant temperature. Groggily, I drew
myself to my feet and stepped towards the faucets where a bar of
creamy white soap lay in a golden dish. I heard the timid, tentative
voice of my servant, "Master, may I wash you?"
	I nodded affirmatively, and the girl lifted a large soft sponge from
the water and approached me. I closed my eyes as I felt the sponge
dragged across my broad back. The girl's body was pressed up close to
mine as she meticulously soaped my shoulders and arms. She then did
the back of my thighs and my ass. The blonde girl dutifully crossed in
front of me and soaped my front. When she reached my cock and balls,
she rubbed the soap in her hands and delicately massaged me there. She
was kneeling in the water, her breasts rubbing up against my thighs.
Her entire being seemed devoted to her task.
	She left my manly appendage just as it had begun to harden. She
rubbed the sponge along the inside of my thighs. The water was up to
just below my knees and when the girl's efforts reached there, she
gracefully lifted my legs so that she could wash my feet. She massaged
my feet with her surprisingly strong hands. I was awash with a
mesmerizing pleasure as she manipulated the toes and dug her fingers
deep into the bottom of my feet. I had to place my hands on her head
to keep my balance as my mind swum with the delectable sensations.
	When she had finished my feet, the girl urged me over to the shower
and, turning the spigot on, rinsed my body. Apparently loathe to
disturb my reverie, she whispered "Will the master lower himself so I
can wash his hair?"
	I complied wordlessly with her request. I kneeled in the water, my
haunches resting on my thighs. The girl spread a ginger scented dollop
of soap in my hair and massaged it thoroughly into my scalp. Her
strong fingers drove all thought from my brain, all sensation from my
body, except for their enervating, almost hypnotic rhythm. When she
was done with the shampoo and had washed it from my head, she applied
a similarly scented cream rinse. She worked it into my scalp and
resumed her massage of my head. When she had finished, she requested
that I stand and commenced to rub a lightly scented body lotion into
my skin. She started, as before, on my back, running her strong hands
cross my shoulder muscles, down my spine and across my rear. When she
had finished the back of my legs, she came to my front, covering my
arms and my almost hairless chest. As she massaged the lotion into my
body, she pressed hers tantalizingly close to me. The steam from the
bathwater befogged the room, creating a dream-like atmosphere. When
she began to cover my thighs, first the fronts and then the insides, I
felt her lips brush against the head of my cock. Obediently, it sprang
to life. I looked down just as the beautiful blonde girl, a sheen of
water covering her most desirable flesh, leaned forwards and gobbled
the head of my now hardened dick into her mouth.
	The wave of pleasure that shot through me was so intense that I had
to close my eyes and arch my back. I steadied myself by again latching
onto the head that now slowly and artfully bobbed on my cock. Her hand
cupped my scrotum and massaged the small twin orbs within. Her tongue
danced on my tool, sliding down its length and then up again on the
other side. The expert mouth then engulfed my pulsing rod, consuming
it to its length. I felt the tight, hot constriction of her throat.
The girl moaned, sending pleasurable vibrations down the length of my
rock solid instrument. I felt my fluids rising and I groaned with
pleasure. A precum tingle passed through me, starting from the warm
sac that the girl was delicately massaging, and expanding through my
body to my brain. As I came, I could feel the passage of my semen as
it was pumped through my penis and into the welcoming mouth. The girl
sucked long and hard as jolt after jolt of almost painful pleasure
passed through me. As the last few diminishing pulses throbbed in my
cock, the girl circled it with her other hand, pumping it softly as
she licked the final drops of sperm from its tip.
	When I had recovered from my semi-conscious stupor, I looked down at
the girl. Her eyes were expectantly peering up at me. I leaned over
and pulled her to her feet and kissed her lips. She whispered to me
timidly, "Was the master pleased?"
	"Oh, yes," I answered. "Very much."
	"Let me dry you master and then you can rest," she said with somewhat
more confidence. I let her lead me by the hand from the tub and stood
docilely as she patted me dry. She then led me from the bathroom and
over to the bed. She pulled down the cool white sheets and gently
guided me down until I lay there supine. She quickly dried her own
body with a towel and jumped in beside me. She pressed her body
against mine, draping her arm across my chest. I was asleep almost
instantly.
When I awoke, I was alone in the bed. The strong, midday light had
dimmed. For a second I thought I was back in the joint and that all of
this had been a dream. But I knew I was awake when I saw the blonde
girl kneeling at the foot of the bed in what I came to learn later was
presentation position. I remembered her well trained mouth and my cock
stirred.
	"Come here," I said.
Without further instruction, the buxom girl crawled into bed with me.
I drew off the white, silk sheet and had the girl spread herself out
by my side. I had come already four times this day, but the little boy
raised his head nonetheless. I leaned over and draping my leg over
hers, took her stiff, button like nipple in my mouth. Her breasts were
like pillows, soft and plump.  I ran my calloused hand down her side
and the flank of her thigh. She moaned as I pulled hard on her teat
with my teeth.
When I was sentenced to a lifetime prison sentence, I had believed
that I would never feel the pleasure of the skin of a beautiful
woman's against mine as long as I lived. It was heaven. She ran her
soft hand across my shoulder and down my back. I switched to the other
breast and laid my stomach onto hers. I could feel her breathing
beneath me, the beating of her heart. My left hand found the center of
her thighs and gently stroked the hairless mound. I drew another moan
from the girl as I teased her nipple with my tongue and gently
massaged her other breast with my right hand. Her body stirred beneath
mine.
I looked up and saw both passion and uncertainty in the girl called
Tulip's face. Her mouth was pursed into a pout as I continued to
massage her breast, the firm flesh more than filling my hand. But
there was worry in her eyes. And I realized that for this girl each
sexual encounter was a test, a test of her training, her obedience.
Pain and torment were always but a moment away for her. I ran my other
hand through her golden hair, spread about her head on the pillow like
a corolla. I placed my hand on the side of her face and stroked her
cheek gently. I felt pity for this frightened girl. I looked into her
eyes and kissed her lips tenderly. "It's all right," I whispered.
"It's all right."
Her eyes softened and she smiled gratefully. She reached her hand
behind my head and pulled my lips back to hers, opening her mouth and
drawing in my tongue. It was my turn to moan as her hot tongue
inflamed me. I moved my legs between hers and, grabbing my stiffened
cock, rubbed its head along her lower lips. She was moistened and her
lips slid open easily. I slowly eased myself inside her. As I felt her
soft, hot tunnel envelop me, I sighed with pleasure.
	I began to slowly rock my piece backwards and forwards within her.
Each traverse of her channel sent ripples of excitement through me. I
could feel her hips grinding slowly, matching my almost torpid pace.
Gradually, the pace quickened. I could not teeter on the brink of
passion for too long. The girl's tongue danced against mine as she
circled me with her arms, drawing me tightly in. Her legs curled
around mine pulling me deeper into her loins.
I was overwhelmed now with lust. I slammed my hips against hers and
grabbed the side of her face with my hands. She was breathing heavily
and pouring little intermittent cries into my mouth. Again and again I
drove my cock deep into her womb. It seemed that all of me was
centered there, that all the nerve endings of my body were wired to my
manhood. Suddenly, the girl's little cries became shouts. Her fingers
dug deep into my back, her legs held me vice-like between them. As her
hips ground hard against mine I let loose a stream of hot cum deep
within her. Our lips had parted and I was calling out my pleasure
loudly. Our mutual orgasms seemed to last forever, our bodies merged
into one writhing, shuddering beast. When the pulsing of my long,
thick rod subsided, I could still feel the hard, rhythmic contractions
of her pussy. Finally, we lay still together, intertwined, overwhelmed
by our spent passion.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ONE WOMAN'S PLEASURE
	Fatima's morning began with a resounding slap on her ass. The Prince
was awake and while he was awake his whore was not permitted sleep.
The girl gave a sharp cry, deadened by the leather ball in her mouth
and the silk sack over her head. She felt the Prince get up off of the
bed and heard him enter the bathroom and pee. The shower began to run
and she heard the sounds of him stepping in. She had suffered terribly
the night before, worse than she had suffered since her first day as a
slave. The sound of the running water gave her some slight comfort as
it meant that the Prince was engaged in another activity and could not
harm or abuse her.
	When the shower ended, Fatima's stomach began to turn. She knew that
it was unlikely that her tormentor would commence his day's
activities, if he had any that is, without directing his attention to
his new plaything.
 	The Prince emerged from the bathroom drying himself off with a
heavy, thick cotton towel. He looked at the red striped woman who lay
on his bed. Maybe he had overdone it a little, he thought. But he had
derived immeasurable pleasure from it. He resolved that it would not
be the only night she would be tortured. In the meantime, the shower
had relieved his hangover and he was randy. He wanted to fuck his new
slave. That's what she was for, wasn't it?
	Not bothering to untie the girl, the prince swung her legs off of the
bed and turned her torso so that she was face down, lying horizontally
across the mattress. He bracketed her legs with his. Her body was
folded on the bed's edge in such a way to present her rear globes and
the hidden entrance between them nicely. No need to untie her ankles,
it would be tighter this way.
	Fatima felt the head of the Prince's cock probing at her rear
opening. With her ankles tied, the entrance was constricted and
narrow. As the Prince pressed forward, Fatima felt her tender flesh
being stretched and torn. Although the way was difficult, the Prince
just pressed harder until he was admitted to the woman's bowels. She
squealed in pain as the hard sword of flesh delved inside her. Once
inside, the Prince began to saw his stiff cock across the pursed lips
of her anus. The mattress rocked the girl's body up and down with each
of his thrusts. She struggled at her bonds, rebelling against this new
abuse.
The Prince's hands were on the bed on either side of the girl's body
and his locked elbows kept him poised above her. He admired her
twisting hands as they involuntarily conveyed her dismay. The hole was
tight and the ring of flesh clung firmly to his shaft. He groaned as
he felt his orgasm build. When he felt the pulsing of his member, he
drove it home to the hilt, letting his sperm jet deep inside her.
	The French girl welcomed the Prince's release. She gratefully felt
him withdraw. The stretched lips burned as the thick member drew
across them.
	The Prince wiped his now flaccid tool with the towel he had used to
dry himself and tossed it aside. He had things to do today. He dressed
quickly, leaving Fatima draped across the bed. She dared not stir
without instruction. When he was fully dressed, smart black pants, a
loose, blue cotton shirt, fine black, leather Italian shoes, he rang
for a servant. To his surprise Ngomo entered the room.
	"Yes, Ngomo, what is your business here?" he inquired.
	"If you Lordship will permit, I have come to retrieve the slave," the
tall coffee colored eunuch answered.
	"Never mind that," the Prince said disdainfully. "She is to remain
here."
	"It is as your Lordship wishes," Ngomo replied deferentially. "But if
salve is not placed on her wounds, she will scar. And she needs to be
fed and bathed, and to rest, so that she may serve you again tonight."
	Rashan felt that he was being out maneuvered by the slave master. He
looked back at the girl for a few seconds and then turned to Ngomo.
"All right. But have her back here before dinnertime."
	"As your Lordship commands," Ngomo said with a slight bow. He
despised the Prince, his Western ways, his excesses. This girl was a
delicate flower to be enjoyed, not a cow to be beaten for no reason.
The eunuch was aware that men took pleasure in administering pain to
women. The Emir often had the slaves whipped for his amusement. But
everything was to be taken in moderation. He said a silent prayer for
the Emir's long life.
	Fatima heard the discourse between her tormentor and the slave
master. She recognized his deep baritone voice. She knew that she was
the subject of their debate and hoped that the resolution of their
disagreement would not visit more torment and abuse on her. She felt
her ankles being untied and then strong arms lifting her from the bed.
She sagged when she was brought to her feet. The Slave Master held her
body close to his until she was able to balance herself. A leash was
clipped to her collar, she was hooded and then led from the room.
	For the next two weeks, Fatima satisfied the Prince's pleasures
nightly. Each night she hoped that her considerable sexual skills
would dissuade him from further torment of her body. Some nights, the
nights that he was not drunk, and they were few, she was able to
deflect his violent disposition by the slow, mesmerizing service of
his manhood. She had a dexterous cunt and a wonderful mouth. Her rear
entrance was supple and she knew how to grip his tool tightly. Each
time he orgasmed, she would subtly and slowly reignite his passion,
stroking his instrument, rubbing her breasts against him, writhing her
torso atop his.
	She allowed herself to be carried away with lust as he pounded his
cock inside her loins or her ass. She knew that only the most
passionate of embraces would entrance this demon who owned her. It
made tolerable the callous exploitation of her flesh.
	During the days, Fatima was allowed to freely consort with her fellow
slaves. She treasured her times with the three slave girls who had
comforted her on her first day. They taught her the simple rules of
their cruel prison. Foremost of all was the need to obey. There was
another French girl there and Fatima was relieved to have someone to
talk to. It was forbidden to speak of their former lives in any but
the most general of terms.
	Most of the other slave girls were sympathetic of Fatima's fate as
the property of the cruel and sadistic Prince. Compared to him, the
Emir was kind. The only unpleasant aspect of spending her days in the
harem was the Spanish girl. She lorded it over the others and on more
than one occasion had delivered unwarranted and unexpected blows to
Fatima.
	One day, however, the Spanish girl received her comeuppance. She had
been taken to service the Emir at his afternoon siesta. When she
returned, there were bright red stripes about her body, the evidence
of a severe lashing. When her hood was removed, it was seen that she
was masked by a leather gag. Only her forlorn eyes could be seen.
	Ngomo unceremoniously pushed her to the floor and attached a chain
from the ceiling to her ankles. He pulled the chain taut and she rose
from the floor. Ngomo took from his belt a thick leather encased crop
and commenced belaboring her body with it ruthlessly. The Spanish girl
groaned and shrieked as the force of the blows caused her body to sway
back and forth, her voice stifled by her gag.
	When Ngomo was done, he left her hanging there for several hours.
Seeing their chance at revenge, the slave girls repeatedly and
viciously slapped and punched her defenseless form. Even Fatima joined
in, pinching and twisting the upside down girl's breasts and nipples,
cursing at her in French.
	When Ngomo returned, all of the girls fell dutifully to the floor,
pressing their heads down and crossing their arms behind their backs.
Ngomo lowered the Spaniard to the floor, rehooded her and dragged her
from the room. None of the girls ever learned what the Spanish had
done to merit Ngomo's wrath. She was never seen again.
	There finally came a time when Prince Rashan did not call for
Fatima's services. Even Ngomo had developed sympathy for the girl. He
entered the harem one afternoon. The girls all made their supplicating
bows. He called out Fatima's name. As required, and as she had done
now a good two dozen times, Fatima rose from her kneeling position,
ran to Ngomo and fell down at his feet, her hands behind her, head to
the floor. She expected the silken bag to be affixed over her head and
her hands to be tied prefatory to being led to the Prince's chambers.
Each time she had run to Ngomo, her stomach had churned. Her revulsion
at the Prince and his cruelty to her was complete. She prayed every
day that he would not call her, cried every morning when she was
returned.
	But this day, Ngomo did not prepare her for transport. Instead he
announced matter of factly that her master had gone away on a trip and
would not be back for ten days. He then turned and left.
	Fatima was shocked that Ngomo would break protocol to give a slave
any information regarding her future. But after a moment, her joy
overcame her surprise. Ten whole days! She was free of her cruel and
heinous master for ten whole days! She rushed back to the harem common
room and hugged Gelela for joy. They had become constant lovers and
the best of friends. Gelela joined Fatima's celebration.
	The next few days were like heaven to Fatima. She rose leisurely each
day, refreshed and contented. For the first time she was able to spend
the night wrapped in the arms of her lover. With the Spaniard gone,
there was no reason for fear from her. Gelela and the others were
subject to being called for by the Emir, but there were seven slaves
and he could not have all of them every night. Fatima was happy to be
able to greet Gelela on her return from the Emir's bed following the
two evenings that she spent there during this period.
	One night, all of the slaves, save Fatima, were called to serve. The
Emir was having a banquet and the girls were to entertain his guests.
For the first time, Fatima was all alone in the harem. It was a
strange experience not to be surrounded by a bevy of nearly naked
women. Fatima prepared herself for a long and lonely night. But about
an hour after the other girls had been led in a bound and hooded
procession from the harem, Ngomo returned. Fatima was in the
dormitory, reclining on her bed when she heard his deep voice call her
name.
The French girl sprinted to the common room and fell to her knees
before the Slave Master. Her mind was afire with fear. Had the Prince
returned? He was not due for another three days. Her whole body
tingled with apprehension. Was her ordeal to start anew?
Ngomo hooded and bound the girl and, after leashing her, led her from
the harem. As usual, Ngomo's strides were long and quick and she had
to scurry blindly behind him. She was brought to a halt while a door
was opened and led inside. She had steeled herself to her fate, but
something told her that she was not in the Prince's bedroom. Another
hand grabbed her leash and tugged on it gently. The pace was then more
leisurely. Fatima smelt the scent of perfume. It was a woman leading
her.
She passed through several more corridors and through a series of
doors. She was brought to a halt and her hood was removed. She was in
a large bedroom, decorated in a feminine style. There were long pink
gauze curtains on the windows, a soft red carpet and large paintings
of flowers and scenes of nature on the walls. The walls themselves
were rose colored. In the middle of one of the walls was a large
canopied bed with a blue and white flowered bedspread and large fluffy
pillows.
It was the Queen who held her leash. She looked the slave girl over,
making sure that her makeup was complete. Fatima was dressed in a
sheer, coffee colored teddy. Her nails had been painted a dark brown
and a dark red lipstick had been applied to her lips, nipples and
labia. Her shiny black hair had been trimmed to frame her face. An
ironclad harem rule was that all slaves must be ready to serve at all
times. Fatima, even though she had not expected to be called out
tonight had dutifully complied with the rule and she was a delectable
vision. The Queen smiled at her and caressed her breast saying
something soft and sweet sounding in Arabic.
Fatima was led over to the bed and her leash removed. She knelt in
submission. After a few moments the door to the bathroom opened and
the Princess Alliyah emerged, dressed in a flowing, sheer, green and
white nightgown. Her black hair was tied in a long braid behind her
head. She looked nervous.
The Queen took the Princess into her arms. "You look lovely, my dear,"
she said to her in Arabic.
"Oh Mother, are you sure that this is right?"
"Of course, sweet one. Come, take a look at her. She's beautiful."
The Queen guided the Princess over to where Fatima knelt, her arms
still bound behind her. She gently took Fatima's face in her hands and
turned it upwards so that the Princess could look into it.
"This girl is a creature of pleasure. She has been trained to give
delight. She knows how to pleasure a woman. It's time you learned what
fleshly pleasures a woman's body is capable of. Do not fear this girl.
She will treat you gently and with loving care. She is yours for the
night. Enjoy her." The Queen kissed her daughter and left the room.
Without understanding the words, Fatima understood exactly what was
expected of her. She looked up at the shy, uncertain girl. The
Princess was a desirable young woman. She had kind eyes. Her breasts
were firm and ample enough for her slender frame. She had a pretty
face, unmarked by avarice or cruelty. The French girl's loins stirred
at that thought of the sweet caresses she could give her.
The lights in the room had been turned down low and there was a sweet
smell of incense in the room. The Princess sat on the bed nervously
contemplating the young girl who knelt beside her. Part of her yearned
for the girl's embrace, and the other part wanted to call the whole
thing off. This girl was vastly experienced at sex and she had none.
Not even a kiss. The Princess was afraid that the girl would mock her
innocence. Suddenly, as if propelled to action, the Princess got up
from the bed. She moved about the room lighting small votive candles.
When she had finished, she turned off the lights.
The room was even dimmer now, and the Princess felt less uneasy about
the task to come. For she saw it as a task, one compelled by her
mother's wishes. Alliyah dreamed of a strong man's arms; like she had
read of in the cheap romance novels she had stolen from her mother's
room. She wanted to be overcome by a man's passion, possessed by him.
She had never harbored a desire to make love to a woman. But her
mother had said that she must and so she would, just this once, just
to see what it was like.
Fatima had watched the young princess scurry nervously about the room.
When the lights were extinguished she understood the Princess's need
for the cover of darkness. She remembered when she was innocent, when
she first yearned for a lover's touch. It had been a young boy in her
school, a year ahead of her. They had made love at his house, when his
parents were away. She was afraid to be seen naked, afraid to see a
look of disappointment in the young boy's eyes. She had made him turn
off all of the lights. Now her nakedness was for all to see.
When the Princess returned to the bed and resumed her sitting
position, Fatima realized that she would have to take matters into her
own hands. She did not want to make an enemy of the Queen by failing
in her duty. She sensed a hard taskmaster in the Queen and remembered
the hard slaps she had given her on the day of her arrival. She had
been beaten almost senseless by Rashan, but she sensed that any
punishment inflicted by the Queen would be infinitely more exquisite.
Fatima rose from her knees and turning her back to the Princess
offered her her bound wrists. The Princess was startled by the slave
girl's sudden movement, but she realized that she would have to untie
the girl. Her hands, moist with sweat, and trepidation in her heart,
she undid the leather thong.
Fatima's hands were free. She turned and looked the Princess in the
eyes. The flickering candles made shadows dance across the Princess's
face. Fatima sat next to her and reaching a hand up, gently stroked
the other woman's cheek. The Princess drew back slightly, but allowed
the caress. The hand was warm, almost hot. Alliyah trembled.
Encouraged by her boldness, Fatima leaned forwards slowly. With her
hand still on the Princess's cheek, she drew her lips close to hers.
She could feel the nervousness of the girl. Before placing her lips on
the Princess's, she hesitated, looking for a sign of resistance or
refusal. Seeing none, Fatima leaned forwards just a quarter inch more
and the lips of the two girls met. It was a soft kiss, more like a
caress. The Princess's lips were soft and sweet. Fatima felt a well of
affection rise within her. She leaned back and smiled. The Princess's
eyes looked downwards demurely and she smiled too.
The French girl now placed her other hand on the Princess's face and,
holding her head steady, kissed her again, stronger now, bolder. She
made small kisses around the outline of the Princess's mouth, along
her chin and over her eyes. She drew her body closer. The two women
could feel each other's warmth through their delicate clothes.
Alliyah sighed, mesmerized by Fatima's eager lips. Fatima found the
Princess's lips again and, after pressing them firmly with her own,
gently guided the young girl's mouth open.
Alliyah inhaled the hot breath of the slave girl. She was feeling
things that she never would have guessed at. Her nipples had grown
firm, and there was an incipient yearning in her loins.
When Fatima's tongue touched hers, a soft, hesitant touch, Alliyah
felt a flow of warmth through her body. All her thoughts were on the
gentle tongue in her mouth and the hot, but sweet breath of the other
girl. Unconsciously, her hands reached out for the body of the other,
and she rested them on the slave girl's hips. Fatima delved deeper
into Alliyah's mouth, her own passions rising.
For several minutes, the two young women explored each other's
tongues. "So this is a kiss," Alliyah thought. "It's like the taste of
a luscious fruit, better."
Fatima broke off the kiss and gently pushed the Princess's hands from
her hips. With one motion, she pulled her teddy over her head,
revealing her slender, curvaceous body. Her nipples had hardened with
lust for her young mistress. Her breasts felt taut. She sensed the
lubrication of her sex.
The Princess's eyes gorged themselves on Fatima's flesh. Shadows
flickered over it as the light of the candles danced about. It seemed
mysterious to her, exotic. It was like her own, but different. Alliyah
felt the slave girl's hand take hold of her wrist and raise it to her
breast. She watched, amazed as Fatima placed it on one of her soft,
round orbs. The flesh was hot, yet supple. When Fatima released her
wrist, she kept her hand in place, gently squeezing the heavy orb and
then cupping it. Her eyes were fixated at the firm nipple and the
circle of rough flesh around it. She felt Fatima's hand on the back of
her head, gently pulling her forward. Startled at first, she looked
into the slave's face. Seeing only the French girl's tender smile and
soft, wet eyes, she allowed herself to be pulled closer to the
delicate mound.  She parted her lips and took the hard button of flesh
into her mouth. She nearly swooned as she engulfed the breast's tip,
sucking on it, tasting another's flesh for the first time.
Without the need for further encouragement, the Princess brought her
body closer to Fatima's. She was holding both of Fatima's breasts now
as she suckled passionately. She turned her oral caresses to the other
breast and heard the slave girl moan. She answered with a moan of her
own.
Again, Fatima gently pushed the Princess back. Standing next to the
bed, she pulled Alliyah to her feet. They were about the same height
and their eyes met. Fatima placed her hands on the Princess's neck and
tenderly drew the shoulders of the sheer nightgown down her arms.
Trembling, the Princess let the garment fall to the floor around her.
She was naked. She had thought that the process of disrobing before
this sensual, experienced young woman would be awkward and
disconcerting. But the other girl's tender and appreciative gaze made
her nudity seem natural. Fatima stepped forward and rubbed her taut
nipples against Alliyah's.
A jolt of electricity shot through the innocent girl. She felt the
other girl's arms wrap around her and pull her closer. Their breasts
and bellies were pressed together. The sensual melding of their flesh
was overwhelming to Alliyah. She had never dreamed that sex would be
like this. She circled her own arms around Fatima, pressing their
bodies closer together, enjoying the sensuous warmth of Fatima's skin.
Her virgin sex burned with desire. When she felt Fatima's lips on hers
she opened her mouth hungrily. The two women were overcome by passion.
Their mouths feasted on each other's, their hands seeking out soft and
tender flesh.
The French girl slowly edged them back over to the bed. She guided her
royal lover down and onto her back. Their lips were still joined as
she lay her body next to Alliyah's and drew her hand across her
breasts, down her stomach and to the throbbing lips below.
As Fatima placed her hand on Alliyah's cunt, the Princess let out a
long, low moan. She spread her legs wide to receive Fatima's caress.
Fatima took one of Alliyah's teats in her mouth and bit down on it
softly. Alliyah's moan turned into a soft cry. Her body felt strange,
as if all of her cells had been awakened. Her breathing had become
heavy, her pussy hot. Delicately, Fatima teased the hard nub of
pleasure at the apex of Alliyah's wet gash. Alliyah was now rocking
her hips, trying to grind her sex against the hand that tormented her.
She could feel a surge of pleasure as her pussy throbbed. A wave of
delight passed through her body. Her arms clutched Fatima closer. She
sought out her lover's lips. As their tongues merged once more,
Alliyah's passion was released. Wave after of wave of intense pleasure
flowed through her as her pussy pulsed and throbbed. She began to cry
out, "Oh! Oh! Oh!" as she came for the first time in someone's arms.
Fatima had been pressing her cunt down on Alliyah's thigh, rubbing her
clit against the hot tight skin. When she felt the throes of passion
flow through Alliyah, her own orgasm was sparked. She grabbed the
moist nether lips of the girl beneath her, and pressed her thighs vise-
like around Alliyah's leg. She shuddered as her whole body received
her cunt's blessing.
When their orgasms had subsided, the two women lay in each other's
arms, dazed and contented. Their bodies were covered with
perspiration, their skin glistening in the candlelight. Overcome with
happiness and delight, Alliyah began to cry.
Twice more that night, the two women made passionate love to each
other. Alliyah could not get enough of Fatima's flesh. She rolled on
top of the young girl and held her hands tightly over her head. She
drove her tongue into Fatima's mouth and pressed their sexes together.
It seemed natural for her to be rubbing her clit on the French girl's.
Fatima was a delicious fountain of pleasure at which she yearned to
drink. She learned to fondle Fatima's sex, learned to crave the
pungent aroma of her moist slit.
When the girls had exhausted their forces, they just lay there holding
each other, gently caressing each other's bodies. They were both
experiencing a dream like state, but of quite different varieties.
Fatima dreamed of being the master of her own fate, of living free,
loving whom she wished. Alliyah dreamed of a life of sensual pleasure,
of keeping this warm sensuous lover for her own.
Unfortunately, neither dream could come true. The women had fallen
asleep in each other's arms when, just before dawn, the Queen entered
the room. She looked with knowing delight at the intertwined women.
The slave girl had done her work well, that is as it should be. Now
she must return to the harem, for she was the property of her son.
The Queen shook Fatima awake. The girl woke up suddenly, afraid,
uncertain of where she was. When she saw the Queen, she knew that her
idyll with the Princess had come to an end. She was a slave girl once
more. A well of protest rose within her. But fear ruled her.
Obediently, she slipped from the bed and fell to her knees before her
mistress.  The Queen stepped behind her and affixed her wrists
together. As she was doing so, the Princess awoke. She was surprised
to find herself alone in her bed. When she saw the French girl being
bound, she felt sorrow. Her lover was a chattel owned by her brother.
She had heard the stories of his cruelty. Her heart went out to the
abject slave girl.
"Mother," she whispered, not wanting to disturb the dreamlike
atmosphere of the room. "Please don't take her back, not yet."
"She must go back, Alliyah, she is a slave, not a person. Don't forget
that."
"Can I kiss her, please, just one more time?" Alliyah begged.
"Of course," the Queen replied, knowing the tender passion that
introduction into the world of physical pleasure could bring.
Alliyah stood and pulled Fatima to her feet. The slave girl stood, her
eyes downcast, afraid to look at the Princess in the presence of the
Queen. Alliyah lifted her chin and kissed her lightly on the lips. In
English she said to the abject girl, "Thank you." It was the only
words she spoke to her all night. She turned to her mother, "Will I
see her again, Mother? Can she come to me again?"
"We'll see," the Queen responded curtly.
The Queen quickly hooded Fatima and clicked a leash to her collar. She
patted her daughter on the head and urged her to go back to sleep. She
then towed Fatima from the room.




CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A GIRL IS PUNISHED
Tulip's limbs encircled me as we rested after our passionate bout.
After ten minutes of motionless silence, the telephone rang. I jumped
at its discordant tone. The phone was beside the bed on a small, white
table and I answered it. "Wiggins," I said. It was Anthony.
	"Harry, wake up. Let's play!"
	"Okay, okay," I mumbled, not really happy at his disturbance of my
post-coital tranquility. "I'll be out in a minute."
	I rose quickly from the bed and grabbed my robe. My sex hung heavy
with the effects of the workout it had received so far this day. I
looked back at Tulip who had also risen and was standing by the foot
of the bed, her hands behind her back, her head lowered. I stepped up
to her, raised her chin and kissed her plump lips. "I'll be back
later," I told her.
She smiled and whispered, "Thank you, master."
When I stepped out to the patio that sat outside the supervisor's
dormitory, Anthony was waiting for me. "I thought you would want to
watch while I disciplined that slave from this morning," he said.
I had forgotten about the tender, delicate girl who had dared to
disobey Man Mountain Dean. I had, against my better nature, if I had
one that is, been unexpectedly entranced by the beatings administered
to Lois and Darla earlier that day. I had no reason to reject
Anthony's proffer of another display of callous brutality. In fact, I
had every reason not to. If I didn't fit in here and accept the
twisted morality of the place, I was doomed. The girl would be whipped
whether I watched or not.
"Sure, thanks," I said. "Where is she?"
"Oh, she's been waiting for us. Come on, she's on the other side of
the compound."
We walked past several lowly built, white stoned buildings. Men and
women had emerged from their mid-day torpor and the patios and
verandas outside the buildings were full of people. We passed what
looked like an outdoor café where naked and collared waitresses were
serving colored tropical drinks with little umbrellas on them. Men's
laughter and loud conversation filled the air. The women all were
naked and silent, either kneeling at the foot of a master, or
shuttling to and fro with trays of drinks and food.
We rounded the corner of a building and I saw a large concrete pad. On
the pad were approximately ten waist high poles with tubes of steel
welded to them horizontally. The poles were of two parts, a thick
round tube of dull steel and a smaller one atop it telescoping in.
This made the level of the horizontal tubes adjustable.
I saw draped over one of the tubes a woman's body. All that could be
seen of her was her twin rear globes. The rest was covered by a black
tarpaulin. Anthony strode up to the girl and pulled the tarpaulin off
of her.
It was the girl from this morning all right. At least it looked like
her. I had seen so many naked women that day that their faces and
bodies had begun to mingle. The girl's midsection was bisected by the
horizontal tube. Her wrists were fixed to rings at the bottom of the
vertical pole as were her ankles. Her hair hung down, scraping the
ground. A strap ran through the horizontal tube and across her back,
holding her torso in place. She had been immobilized in a virtually
folded position, half of her body on one side of the pole and the rest
on the other, as if she were touching her toes. He ass stood out
prominently, pointed upwards.
	The skin on her rear was tinted a bright pink. She had obviously been
left in the sun to bake while it had been at its worst. Anthony ran
his hand over it and the girl stiffened. It looked tender as hell.
	"After a while, Harry," Anthony addressed me, "a regular whipping
just isn't enough. This cunt has been on report three times this
month. That's something we just can't tolerate. So we have this
special punishment for her."
	The girl was gagged and so she protested with a mere whimper when
Anthony slapped her right rear cheek. The outline of his hand, a white
imprint, appeared where he had struck her and then faded quickly back
to red. He stepped over to a wooden cabinet mounted on the rear wall
of the building and brought out a long, thin reed. It was supple but
strong. He swung it through the air experimentally, causing a deep
whoosh.
	I looked over at the pinioned girl. Although so securely fastened in
place, she was nervously shifting her feet, pulling at her restraints.
A long, shrill desperate whine escaped her gag. She undoubtedly was
aware of the exquisite pain she was about to endure.
	Anthony reared his hand back and struck the girl across her rear with
the reed. It gave a loud crack as it landed on her flesh. A momentary
line of white emerged amongst the pinkish display on the woman's ass,
which turned immediately a bright red. In spite of the gag, I could
hear the woman's screech of pain. Her body jumped in protest of its
abuse. Anthony laughed. "See?" he said.
	Five times Anthony struck the girl's rear globes with the reed. Each
time a long red wound appeared and the girl protested wildly at her
treatment. By the fifth blow, her rear and legs were shivering with
pain. She was sobbing uncontrollably.
	Anthony put away the reed. His excitement was obvious as his robe was
tented. Mine was too. The scene of a naked helpless woman being beaten
was urgently compelling. I had watched while her buttocks danced to
the lash. Her vuvla was displayed clearly between her thighs as there
was an inch or two gap between them. Anthony now reached under the
scarred posterior and stroked the hairless cunt. After a short moment
he raised his hand. His fingers were covered by the girl's
lubrication. He showed it to me and smiled. "You're the guest, Harry.
Want to go first?"
	I was rock hard despite my lustful bout with the Tulip. Part of me
protested against the harsh treatment of this poor girl. The other
wanted to bury my cock in her moist hole. Guess which one won.
	I pulled open my robe and stepped up to the girl's behind. Her pussy
was at precisely the right level for my penetration. For a moment I
hesitated at putting my hands on her abused flesh; even the side of
her buttocks were covered in an angry pink. But there was no other way
to gain sufficient purchase to impale the helpless and still moaning
woman on my cock. I grabbed her hips and pushed the head of my cock
towards the tantalizing, glistening lips. Her moans became louder as
my hands tormented her sunburned flesh. I pushed inside her, my cock
gliding effortlessly into her sheath. As I started to pump my cock
into her hot pussy, I looked up. We were facing the west side of the
island and the sun was just beginning to set. The sky was covered with
a fiery red glow interspersed with swirls of bright yellow. Since the
club was situate on a plateau, with steep cliffs surrounding it, I
could see the reflection of the yellow-orange ball and its colorful
radiation on the wide expanse of ocean that lay before me. It was an
amazing sight under any circumstances, but was made especially so with
my cock sunk deep into a woman's body. My physical pleasure was
enhanced by my visual delight. I had experienced amazing things that
day, things I had never imagined to see. But this was the coup de
jour, the topper.
My pleasure intensified as my juices began to rise. I was humping the
girl rapidly, she, giving out little moans as I struck her buttocks
with my hips. I was grabbing her hips tightly as I rammed my cock in
as far as it would go. I could feel the heat given off by her
sunburned flesh. When my cock began to throb and spill my seed into
her womb, my eyes rolled back and my knees got weak. I was mindless of
the spectacle I made, humping this forlorn girl in the presence of
that beautiful sky and under the eyes of my erstwhile Virgil, who had
been leading me through the various levels of this earthly purgatory.
	When I had done, I withdrew my manhood. It was sloppy with her juices
and mine. Anthony was grinning at me, almost stupidly. "You see why we
do it here?" he said. "Nothing like it, eh?"
I nodded and stepped back to allow him to take his pleasure. I watched
mesmerized as he stroked his piece into the girl. He punctuated his
motion by a few loud slaps on the girl's ass. She whined and groaned
in response.
The tendrils of the sunset spread wildly across the sky. Its
reflection, disturbed slightly by the almost tranquil water, was a
surreal cacophony of colors. Anthony was right, prison was never like
this.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

FATE TAKES A HAND
	When the Prince returned from his trip, he celebrated with a long
night of abuse of his slave. Fatima had been counting the days and she
knew on the morning of the eleventh day that she was doomed to see the
Prince that night. She spent the day morosely haunting the harem, so
much so that the other girls, with the sole exception of her lover
Gelela, unconsciously shunned her. When Ngomo called her name after
dinner, she ran fearfully to his feet. When she was bound and hooded,
she began to pray nervously to herself.
	The Prince had not yet arrived in his boudoir when Ngomo led the
frightened and despondent girl inside. He leashed her to the bedpost
and guided her to her knees. He felt sorry for this little one. It
went against his grain to see a beautiful creature like this slowly,
but surely, destroyed, long before her time. He knew that most of the
slave girls were destined for unsavory fates. That was the natural
progression of things. Unless they were lucky enough to capture the
heart of a master, they would eventually be sold, and, as they aged or
showed signs of wear, they would descend the ladder until they were
little more than street whores, sucking cocks for harsh tavern owners
or lodged in some dismal brothel. When no one wanted them, they would,
if they were lucky, be given a quiet death.
	But this one would not last so long. Already he could see that he
spirit was flagging. Ngomo had learned in his many years of service to
the Emir that even slaves needed a sense of appreciation, of value.
This slave was treated meaner than the vilest dog.
	Fatima knelt at her station for two hours, hours that were a literal
hell. Her heart began to pound each time she thought she heard the
opening of the door. When she finally heard the door open, her heart
sank. It was time.
	The Prince, of course was drunk. He saw his property chained to his
bed and rejoiced. He had missed abusing this little bitch. Tonight, he
would make up for it.
	Knocking back another large shot of scotch whiskey, the Prince
considered how he would use his little whore; he would giver a good
fucking, of course. But first she must be reminded of the power that
he wielded over her. She would be punished for the very act of
stirring his loins.
	The Prince removed his clothing and tossed them in a corner of the
room. He tore off the black silk bag that covered her head and undid
her chain. He pulled his slave to her feet by her hair, causing her to
give a little cry. "Did you miss me slut?" he taunted her in English.
"Did you miss my stiff cock?" He grabbed her cheeks with his hand. "Or
was it the whip that you missed, eh?"
	The girl was frantic in her fear. The Prince was meanest when he was
drunk, and he was clearly well into his cups. She had learned a
smattering of English now from the girls in the harem. She knew what a
slut was, that he was calling her a whore. She knew the word 'whip',
too. As the Prince relaxed his grip on her face, she managed to eek
out one of the phrases in English that she had been taught.
	"May I pleasure you cock, Master?"
	The Prince was surprised. He had never heard her speak except to beg
him, mostly in French, to grant her surcease from his punishments.  He
laughed.
	"Yes, you can suck my cock, whore. That's what you're here for. But
first I think we'll have a little fun."
	He spun the girl around and untied her hands. "Take off that rag," he
commanded her.
	Fatima caught the gist of his demand and quickly pulled off the
golden lace trimmed teddy that she had worn. When she had cast it on
the floor, the Prince dragged her onto the bed. At first she thought
that he was acceding to her request. If she could keep him sexually
excited, maybe he would neglect to beat her. After a second orgasm, he
might pass out. But she had misread her master's intent.
	The Prince stepped over to a cabinet, one that Fatima knew very well.
She knew what was in it because she had seen him draw from it the
various instruments of her torture on many occasions. She watched with
trepidation as she saw him draw three long lengths of soft, cotton
rope from the cabinet and then return to the bed. She watched
disconsolately as he tied a rope to each of her ankles. She was
sitting on the bed, her legs splayed wide, her hands behind her for
support. The Prince pushed her to her back and, grabbing her hands,
secured them in front of her with one end of a rope. He drew the other
end to the head of the bed and affixed it there, pulling the girl's
arms taut above her head.
	He leaned over her, rubbing his hand over her breasts and belly. He
could feel her trembling. She should be frightened, he thought, as he
stared into her widened eyes. "What should I whip, my little harlot?"
he said. "Should I whip these lovely tits?" His face was close to
hers; she could feel his whisky laden breath. His black eyes peered
into hers as his hand found her soft mound between her legs. He
pinched the twin lips together harshly.
	"Or should it be your precious quim?" He twisted the lips hard,
causing Fatima to emit a groan of pain.
	She wished that she had the courage to defy him, to spit in his face.
He could whip her until she died then, she wouldn't care. But she
loathed the pain that he inflicted. That they all had inflicted on
her. It's repetition during her training had broken her will to resist
it. The fact that she had been forced to endure the unendurable had
not hardened her, it had made her more afraid, less tolerant of pain.
She hated to be lashed, but she knew that there were more severe forms
of torture. And, she wanted to live. She had not given up all hope of
the resumption of freedom. Someday, somehow, she would escape. She
held on to this as intently as a shipwrecked sailor would hold on to
the last bit of wreckage that kept him afloat.
	So rather than spit into this evil man's face, the French girl
retreated into herself. She closed her eyes and turned her head away
from her tormentor. He could do what he wanted. She would endure; she
would survive.
	The Prince was enraged by his victim's passivity. He lashed out and
slapped her across the breasts, violently and repeatedly. The French
girl was startled by the vehemence of his reaction. The iron hands of
the Prince insulted her flesh. Stinging pain coursed through her. She
began to cry out, "Oh! Oh! Oh!" as her breasts were flung wildly back
and forth as a result of the blows.
	'Crack! Crack! Crack!' The repeated blows echoed throughout the room.
'Crack! Crack! Crack!' The Prince struck her tender breasts again and
again with his open hand.
	"You cunt!" he yelled. "You don't turn your face from me! You'll take
your punishment and like it, you whore!"
	'Crack! Crack! Crack!'
	The suffering girl had tried to twist her body away from the blows,
but the Prince had sat himself on her thighs. With her hands tied
above her, the poor girl's breasts were easy targets for the Prince's
wrath.
	Something burst in the French girl. She lost all sense of where she
was, of what she was. Her anger welled up in her like it never had
before. "Oh,h,h,h,h,h,h!" she cried out. "You pig, you fucking
bastard!" she yelled in French. And then, in quite clear English, she
yelled, "Fuck you! Fuck You!"
	The Prince saw red. He slapped her hard in the face, drawing blood
from her lip. He slapped her again and again. "What did you say, you
fucking cunt!" he yelled. "I'll teach you to swear at me!"
	He jumped off of the girl and ran to the cabinet by the wall.
Grabbing a leather gag, he ran back and jumped back onto the bed. The
French girl was horrified at what she had done. She knew that she
would suffer tonight as she had never suffered before.  She begged him
in French, "No, no, please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
	The Prince could not see past his rage to observe her remorse for
what she had done. He would not have cared if he did. He threw his leg
over her and regained his perch atop her thighs.
	"You're going to be sorry you ever said anything like that to me you
cunt," he growled at her.
Fatima tried to shrink away from the enraged Prince. She whimpered,
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," over and over again. She grimaced
as he presented the long thick leather plug of the gag to her face. He
grabbed her face, pressing hard with his vise-like grip.
"Open you're fucking mouth, you worthless cunt!" he ordered. His eyes
were wild with wrath; his face had turned red with his rage. "Open
your fucking mouth!" he screamed.
Reluctantly, Fatima opened her mouth. Tears were rolling down her face
like a stream. His grip on her face was painful. As her lips parted,
the Prince jammed the gag into her mouth. The end of the plug struck
the back of her mouth painfully. He mashed the gag onto her face.
"Those are the last words you're ever going to speak, you cunt!" he
told her as he pressed down with all of his weight. "You are going to
wear this gag night and day until you die! The only time you'll have
it out will be when I want to shove my dick down your throat!"
Fatima tried to shake her head, 'no', but the Prince's fierce grip of
her face held it still. He pulled her head up by her hair and fastened
the straps of the gag behind her head. Satisfied that she was
effectively silenced, the Prince swung his legs off of her and came
around to the foot of the bed. He grabbed the rope affixed to one
ankle and tossed it over the rail of the canopy on one side. He pulled
on it harshly and Fatima's left leg was yanked into the air. The girl
watched him with terror as he tied off the end. He then did the same
with her right leg.
Fatima's legs were splayed wide, exposing the plump hairless mound
between them. Her ass was several inches in the air. Her hands were
held taut above her. The only movement she could muster was to swing
her hips from side to side, as she struggled, wild with fear.
The Prince drew from his cabinet a long, thin switch made of hickory
wood. It narrowed from the handle to its tip, which was perhaps a
centimeter wide. He swished it through the air appreciatively. It
would do nicely.
He approached the shaking woman. She could see him between her legs,
his face taut with cruel determination. He had beaten her many times
before. But that had been for his amusement, the joy he felt in
inflicting pain on a helpless victim. This time he was motivated by a
specific desire to inflict pain as retribution, retribution for daring
to protest his callous abuse.
The Prince paused. The girl's thighs were pale as cream, soft as silk.
He had not beaten her there yet. Not the insides of the thighs. It was
almost as if he had been saving it for a night like this. "Are you
ready, cunt?" he called to the French girl. She pleaded desperately
with her eyes. The Prince reared back his arm.
'Swish. Crack!' The first blow fell on Fatima's right inner thigh,
about four inches below the joining place of the thigh and the hip. A
bright red line appeared where the switch had met the girl's flesh.
Fatima convulsed in pain. She bit hard down on the gag between her
teeth, suppressing her scream.
'Swish! Crack!' The Prince, using his left hand had struck the inside
of the French girl's left thigh. Another angry red line appeared.
Again the French girl's body tensed as it absorbed the painful lash.
Again she bit down on the gag with all of her might. When the third
blow stuck, directly atop her proffered cunt, she could bear no more.
She screamed wildly, her hips rocked. Her breasts danced on her chest
as she writhed in pain. The sound of her scream was muffled by the
leather plug in her mouth, but it could not suppress all of the high
pitched wail.
Rashan was pleased. He had struck gold. He brought the whip down three
more times on the girl's tender sex. Each time the French girl
screamed louder and louder. Methodically, he worked his way up one
thigh and down the other. Repeatedly the slender whip sliced into the
girl's skin. Fatima emitted a continuous, pitiful wail as she suffered
again and again.
The wrathful nobleman paused to admire his handiwork. Fatima's thighs
and pussy were a latticework of red lines. In places, small drops of
blood oozed from her wounds. Fatima's wailing slowed as the continuous
application of the whip had ceased. She looked up, hopeful that the
Prince's bloodlust had been sated. She saw from his eyes that it had
not.
"I think we can move on," the Prince spat out at her. "How about those
pretty tits? Are you ready for some more? I haven't even started yet!"
He moved to the side of the bed where he had an unobstructed view of
his next target. Fatima's chest was rising and falling rapidly, her
body trying to recover the energy she had expended during her
paroxysms of pain. The movement of her chest caused her pale white
mounds to shiver invitingly. The Prince leaned over the terrified
girl. He rested his lash on the bed. "What a pretty pair of tits," he
sad tauntingly. "So inviting." He placed his hands atop them,
squeezing them gently.
Fatima was revolted by his touch, but hoping against hope that she
could use the currency of her body to deter this madman, she repressed
her reaction.  The Prince leaned over and placed his lips on a nipple,
sucking on it, enjoying its hardness. He placed his lips, then, on the
other, reveling in its tactile surface. He looked up, into Fatima's
desperately hopeful eyes. "Pretty little titties," he said in a child-
like voice. He squeezed them again, harder this time until he saw the
girl wince. "I'm going to whip these pretty little titties until they
bleed."
He rose from the bed. His cock was rampant, his lust enraged. He
grabbed the bottle of scotch from the credenza and drank directly from
it, hungrily. He wiped his lips with his arm and glared at his
captive. Wordlessly, he picked up the hickory reed and positioned
himself alongside the girl. She closed her eyes and winced, a
fruitless effort to gird herself for the blow.
'Swish! Crack!' The reed struck across the tops of Fatima's breasts.
She moaned loudly with pain. It was if a terrible beast had ripped its
claw across her tender globes. A telltale line of red appeared. As
before, the Prince methodically inflicted blow after blow onto his
targets. He crossed to the other side of the bed to achieve parity
between the injuries to the breasts. Fatima rocked and shook,
screaming woefully into her gag. Finally, after the twin, pale mounds
had been crisscrossed with over a dozen angry lines of red, the
Prince's ire was partially sated, enough, that is, for his lust to
rise to preeminence. Fatima sobbed and sobbed, tears streaming down
her face. She cursed herself for being born.
The Prince threw down the lash and crawled onto the bed. His object
was the cruelly distended mouth that had offended him. He tore off the
gag and slapped the girl's face twice. "You're going to take my cock
down your throat, whore. If you so much as nick my cock, I'll have you
flayed alive. Do you know what that means, slut?" he asked her. Fatima
stared at him, her brow furled, waiting to hear what could possibly be
worse than the merciless beating she had just received.
The Prince's voice grew ominous. "They cut the skin off of your flesh,
bit by bit, while you watch. They say it's like having your soul torn
apart. My great grandfather used to do that to infidels and traitors
and once in a while, to disobedient slave girls."
Although she understood few of his words, Fatima had no trouble
imagining the Prince making good the terrible threat conveyed by his
voice. She knew that there were worse things than being beaten. She
had witnessed some of them while a prisoner on Klitzman's island. She
would not gamble. She would suck his cock with all of her considerable
skill. He could fuck her any which way he pleased. All she knew was
that, for the most part, while he was fucking her, he would not be
beating her.
Placing his knees on either side of Fatima's head, resting his
buttocks on her fiery breasts, he presented his swollen cock to her
lips. She parted them readily. Slowly, he plunged inside of her mouth,
relishing the hotness inside. Fatima closed her lips around her
invader. She licked its tip with her tongue. But it was not the caress
of her tongue that the Prince sought. He pressed his cock inexorably
deeper and deeper until it breeched the entry to her throat.
The girl was well trained at receiving a man's rigid tool down her
throat. She let it glide past the entrance and deep within. She
expected the Prince to begin to pump his cock inside and out, allowing
her, on each backwards thrust, to exchange carbon dioxide for oxygen.
But the Prince, once he had reached the extreme of penetration, held
himself there. It was not long before the girl began to gag and choke.
She tugged madly at her bound wrists wanting desperately to push him
off of her. Loud, choking sounds emanated from her throat.
"This is what your mouth is for, you fucking useless cunt!" the Prince
yelled. "Will you swear at me again?"
Frantically, Fatima tried to convey a negative response by a shake of
her head.
"You will take what I give you and like it, right, whore?"
Again, Fatima tried furtively to convey her acquiescence.
Seeing that his whore was about to suffocate, the Prince withdrew his
rod sufficient for her to regain her breath. He then plunged in again,
this time pumping furiously. The French girl gasped for air at each
opportunity as the Prince drove himself to his orgasm. His belly
slammed against her face again and again as he thrust brutally into
her mouth. Finally, she felt him stiffen and heard a long, angry
groan. He pumped his hot seed down her throat. She received it
gratefully, knowing that her ordeal would soon end. When he had gasped
his last, he slowly withdrew his softening tool.
The girl could see that the Prince had exhausted his forces. He stood
up from the bed, practically teetering. "Soon, soon," she prayed. "Let
him pass out soon!"
He took another long pull from the bottle. When he placed it back on
the credenza, it tumbled over, spilling its amber liquid. The Prince
either did not notice, or did not care. There was one more thing he
had to do. He stumbled over to the cabinet and withdrew a thick, heavy
riding crop. He paused between the girl's splayed and uplifted thighs.
"Tomorrow, you're going to remember this," he said.
Without further warning, the Prince slammed the riding crop down on
the sole of Fatima's foot. Ungagged now, the bound girl howled in
pain. She had never felt anything like this brutal insult to the
muscles of her foot. The crop came down again on her other foot. She
howled again, "A,h,h,h,h,h,h,h. Please stop! Please stop! Please!"
Disregarding the girl's soulful entireties, the Prince slammed he crop
again and again on the bottom of her feet. Each time, she jerked her
hips and knees and arched her back, unable to endure the pain. She
begged him plaintively to stop. The cruel Prince ignored her
entreaties, and landed blow after solid blow on the soles of the poor
girl's feet. When he stopped, the Prince, sweating and near to
swooning in his drunkenness, crept over to the side of the bed. He
placed his lips close to Fatima's ear. Tears were streaming down her
face, her lips cemented into a fierce grimace. "Tomorrow," he said,
whispering, "I'm going to make you stand all day on those feet. You
don't know what agony is yet, bitch."
	Fatima spent the night hogtied and gagged at the foot of Rashan's
bed, her feet throbbing and aching with pain. In the morning, when
Ngomo came to collect her, the Prince gave specific orders that she
was to remain in his room until further orders. He instructed the
slave master that, after she was fed and groomed, she was to spend the
day standing, affixed to the chain that ran to the ceiling in the
middle of the room. He then left to pursue his pleasures elsewhere.
The day had been a long and agonizing one for the French girl. Her
feet were bruised and swollen where she had been beaten the night
before by that demon, Rashan.  It was exquisite torture to stand on
them. She moaned and cried all day. Ngomo gave her some succor from
her ordeal by releasing her for short periods and icing down her
soles. He knew that he was risking the Prince's wrath, but he could
not allow the girl to suffer so. When he reaffixed Fatima to the
chain, her pulled her arms taut over her head so that she could rest
some of her weight on her wrists.
	In the late afternoon, two servants came in carrying a large steel
cage. Its bottom was lined with padding. They were followed by the
Prince. Fatima was hanging lifelessly at the chain. The pain from her
feet absorbed her whole being. The Prince grabbed her by the cheeks
and pointed her face at the cage. "Your new home. I hope you enjoy
it."
	He nodded to the servants, who released Fatima and dragged her
slouched form over to the cage. The Prince ordered her to get in.
Morosely, not caring whether she lived or died, the slave girl
complied. She was, as the Prince had promised, still gagged, and had
been so all day except when Ngomo came in to feed her and give her
liquids to drink.
	From this day on, Fatima never left the Prince's room. She fucked him
listlessly, accepted his insults and violence. She would no longer
scream in pain, but merely moaned, a piteous, low guttural moan, when
the Prince wantonly beat her.
	About ten days after Fatima's ordeal began; she was removed from her
cage by Ngomo. She was so far gone that she hardly noticed being
carried from the room. She awoke in a bed in a small, strange room. It
was plainly decorated, with stark white walls and a small nightstand.
Her ankle was chained to the corner of the bed, but otherwise, she was
unconfined. A man came in, gave her a pill, and she lapsed back into
unconsciousness.
	No one spoke to her, and, although she was not gagged, she asked no
questions. She spent her days mostly sleeping. Gradually, over a three-
day period, her wounds began to heal, the dark purple bruises to fade.
Fatima was certain that at any moment she would be dragged back to the
Prince's room. Was she being rested so that she could endure more of
his torments? When she thought of what awaited her outside of her
room, she pulled the sheets over her head and cried.
On the morning of the fourth day, Ngomo came into to the room. She was
finally able to stand without incapacitating pain and he pulled her to
her feet. She looked up at him, resigned to being returned to her
hellish prison. She stood there listlessly as her hands were tied
behind her back.  Ngomo turned her around to face him. Her eyes met
his, forlorn in aspect. Her lips trembled, her eyes watered. She
feared to beg for mercy from this giant, her master's servant.
	Ngomo looked back at Fatima. "No, little one," he told her, "the
Prince, ille mort, dead. You never have to go back there again."
	Tears rolled down the French girl's face. She started to sob. All of
the pain and misery of the last two weeks came pouring out of her. The
Prince was dead. God's justice meted out to him. At the time, the
French girl had no inclination to wonder why or how the Prince had
died. It was a miracle as far she was concerned and miracles are not
questioned. The slave master, whose iron will ruled the Emir's harem,
softly rubbed the sobbing girl's head, comforting her.  As her crying
subsided, the tall, chocolate colored man lifted her chin. He
proffered a small leather ball to her mouth. Fatima accepted it
meekly.
	It was the drinking that had finished the Prince. He had bought
himself a brand new Harley Davidson Roadster motorcycle and was
showing it off to his friends. He had been partying all afternoon and
did not see the truck approaching. He and another of the Prince's
dissolute set, who was riding on the back, were literally flattened.
There was an investigation, but the truck driver managed to slip from
the country. It was rumored that certain of the wealthy merchants and
property owners of the Emirate had been sanguine over the prospect of
being ruled by the Emir's son. But nothing was ever proved.
	The French girl was escorted through the palace in the normal
fashion. She was stopped at the end of a hallway and she was surprised
when some kind of hooded garment was draped over her. It was a burkha,
which covered her body from head to foot. She heard a door open and
then felt smooth cool concrete under her feet. A car door opened and
she was hustled in.
	Fatima, although relieved and ecstatic over the Prince's death, was
apprehensive as to her destination. Had she been sold? Who would be
her new master? Would he be cruel and sadistic like the Prince? But
who could be as savage as that man? Anyway, in the end, it was all the
same. She was a nameless chattel doomed to a miserable life and an
ignominious end.
	After a drive of about twenty minutes, Fatima felt the car slow and
then turn into a driveway. The car stopped and she was removed from
it. She was guided up some short steps and then brought inside to a
softly carpeted room. She felt the burkha being removed and she was
then led by a chain from her collar down a long hallway. There were
many twists and turns, but she finally was brought to a halt. She felt
the chain released. Her hands were untied, the hood pulled off of her
head, the leather ball removed. Standing before her, dressed in a
long, silken robe, her face gleaming with happiness, was the Princess
Alliyah.
	The French girl was overcome with joy. She had never dreamed that she
would see the Princess again. She treasured the memories of their
night of bliss together. The Princess beamed at her. "Welcome to my
home," she said in French.
	The girl's eyes widened with surprise. The Princess spoke French! How
it soothed her ears to hear it. She hardly dared to speak herself. The
servants who had brought her discreetly left the room. When they had
gone, The Princess embraced her.
	"Oh, Fatima, if you only knew how my heart has ached for you. How I
cried and cried when I learned of the cruel torments that Rashan had
inflicted on you. Please, please speak to me. Tell me that you love me
too!"
	The Princess embraced the stunned but happy girl. They hugged each
other like old school chums. Fatima's naked body rubbed up against the
Princess's. Alliyah began to kiss her face hungrily. Overwhelmed with
happiness, the slave girl reciprocated. They were in a large, finely
decorated boudoir and there was a large, four posted bed in its
center. Alliyah dragged her lover towards it and pulled her down,
smothering the slave girl's body with her own.
	Shedding her delicate robe, the Princess was naked beneath. She
delved into Fatima's mouth with her hot tongue, crushing her lips. Her
hand seized the young woman's sex and caressed it. She ran her hand
over Fatima's tender belly, across her hip, down her thigh. Abandoning
her lips, Alliyah kissed the tips of Fatima's breasts, sucking long
and hard on the nipples and bringing a moan to the girl's lips.
Fatima's pussy was now moistened and soft. She had thought that she
would never feel pleasure from her body ever again, but the Princess's
fingers danced tantalizingly on her skin.
	Fatima felt the Princess's lips descend from her breasts, over her
belly, and to the top of her loins. Blissfully, she looked down at her
royal lover. Alliyah looked up, her face a mask of joy.
	"I've learned something since we last met, Fatima," she said, as she
drew the girl's legs apart. She stroked the inside of the thighs
delicately. Her hands came to rest astride the slave girl's throbbing
mound. Fatima felt hot lips seize her clitoris. The mouth sucked
gently on it. Wave after wave of pleasure ran through her. She took
the Princess's hair in her hands, caressing the head that lay between
her legs.
	Alliyah stroked the tender, pink flesh between Fatima's distended and
engorged labia with her long tongue. Again and again, she ran its hot
surface along the gushing slit. Fatima moaned wildly. As the
Princess's mouth again found her point of pleasure, the French girl
cried out in ecstasy. She felt her pussy throb and contract. Her mind
clouded over, the eager lips and tongue that massaged her rigid clit
became the center of her universe. As her orgasm overcame her, she
released all of her pain and joy, calling out wildly, "Oh! Oh!
Oh,h,h,h,h!"
	Afterwards, the Princess rested her head on Fatima's stomach, her
body recumbent between the slave girl's knees. Rubbing her lover's
head gently, Fatima dared to speak. "Oh, mistress," she whispered, "I
can't tell you how I feel."
	The Princess looked up. "You belong to me now Fatima, but it is I who
am the slave. Please tell me that you love me too!"
	"I do, mistress, I do," Fatima replied. She pulled her mistress's
body up close to hers and kissed her. The Princess's mouth accepted
her tongue. The two young women remained locked into their embrace,
while their tongues expressed their mutual passion and love. After a
moment, Fatima broke off the kiss. She looked deeply into her
mistress's eyes, searching for reassurance. "How can this be,
mistress? Can I really stay here with you?"
	"Oh, yes," the Princess told her quickly. "I'm married now. I was
married two weeks ago, a few days after the night we made love." The
Princess blushed and cast her eyes downward. "That is how I learned
the caresses that I just gave you. My husband is a wonderful lover."
	"But what will become of me?" the French girl asked, nervously.
	The Princess took Fatima's hands in hers. "In my country," she said,
"the men rule the world, the women rule the house. You will be called
my servant, but you will be my lover and my companion. You will be
constantly at my side."
	"But your husband?"
	"He has agreed. He is a kind and gentle man. I want to share you with
him," the Princess answered, her eyes glistening with tears. "I want
all of us to be lovers. Will you do that? Please say 'yes'."
	Fatima's eyes softened, her hand caressed the Princess's tender,
round breast, teasing the pert nipple until the Princess emitted a
sigh of incipient lust. The French girl, Fatima, as she now was known,
lowered her head to take the Princess's taut, plump nipple into her
mouth. She smiled and spoke, "It is as my mistress commands."




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

RUNNING WITH THE DEVIL


Anthony and I left the sufficiently chastised girl bound to her post.
He assured me that someone would be by eventually to collect her and
that others might come to enjoy the view before nightfall. We spent
the rest of the evening touring more of the club's recreational
facilities. There was a high powered poker game going on in one of the
lounges and I sat and watched as a blue robed guest lost a
considerable amount of money to a brown robed one. Even here, there
were sheep for Klitzman's men to shear.
I pondered the man whose face I had not seen and whose name I was not
to utter. His presence on the island was palpable, like a fog that
drifted over the red brown walkways and insinuated itself into every
corner of every building. Each of the dozens of young, desirable women
I had seen sported his sign of ownership, the red hued, cursive 'k' on
their buttocks, marking them as his property. How many of them had
even seen his face, I wondered. They may never even have heard his
name, the scarlet letter on the rear an undecipherable mystery to
them.  How many mothers and fathers, lovers and friends, sisters and
brothers mourned the disappearance of these beautiful women? Did they
have false hope of their return? If they did, it was false hope
indeed, for there was nothing that I had seen in my brief sojourn here
that gave any doubt that these women were marked as chattel for life.
I thought of the frightened young girl in my quarters. I had used her
freely, without any need for persuasion or consent. How many men would
use her body as a receptacle for their lusts before she reached
whatever ignominious end was in store for her? I would use her again
tonight, irrespective of my moral reservations. I passed on the many
opportunities to slake my growing lust throughout the evening. I kept
my drinking to a minimum to insure that my physical abilities would
match my passion. It was my conceit that I could give her a few more
moments of tenderness before she was thrown back into the maelstrom of
pain and abjectivity which was to be her undoubted fate.
Saying good night to Anthony, I drifted back to the supervisors'
dormitory. I passed a number of guests and supervisors on my way
there, many of them with naked young women in tow. There was a small
courtyard outside of the supervisors' dorm and I could not help but
notice that a small crowd of blue and brown robed men had gathered
there. As I got closer, I could hear the unmistakable sound of the
crack of a lash. At each blow, a woman's voice cried out in a piteous,
desperate wail.  Each time, the small crowd counted out in unison,
"five, six, seven...." At ten, when I was almost past them, the crowd
broke out into applause, men's laughter echoing between the stone
buildings.
I walked down the hallway to my rooms with gathering anticipation of
the more mundane pleasures I would experience with the young blond
girl who had been named Tulip. I opened the door to my room and strode
in, expecting to see her kneeling supinely in wait.  But it was a
dark, brown skinned girl that I saw there instead. She jumped in
fright as I entered. She had fine plump breasts, graceful hips and
well toned thighs. Her hair was deep black, descending to just beyond
her shoulders. She had finely trimmed black eyebrows and succulent
lips, painted a deeper brown than her skin.  She looked up at me
forlornly, her hands held behind her back, her knees spread, her torso
erect. She was beautiful, desirable, a succulent delight. What man
would not want to place his lips on her shiny, soft, brown skin, to
caress her inviting breasts, to explore the crevasse between her
thighs?
But she was not Tulip. Someone had taken her.
"Who are you?" I demanded of the brown skinned girl in an ominous,
razor edged voice. Her eyes widened with fear. She remained silent.
"Who the fuck are you!" I yelled at her now, my rage starting to grow
rapidly.
The girl cringed visibly. Tears were forming in her eyes. Her lips
trembled. "No, English," she mumbled in a timid voice. She looked at
me apprehensively as if to discover if this simple expression of her
ignorance would assuage my rage.
I grabbed her collar and dragged her to her feet. She gave a little
cry as I forced her head high. Dutifully, her hands remained behind
her, anxious as she might be to fend off any blows from the crazed man
who had burst into the room.
Disgusted and frustrated by her inability to communicate, I threw her
on the bed. I picked up the telephone. It rang twice and was answered
by a deep, accented man's voice. "Yes, Mr. Wiggins?"
"Where is the girl who was in my room this afternoon?" I demanded, my
voice tense and fraught with anger.
"I do not know, Mr. Wiggins," the voice replied calmly.
"Well, I fucking want to know," I screamed.
"If you will hold on, Mr. Wiggins, I will try and find out for you,"
the voice deadpanned.
I waited about five minutes, the hypocrisy of my rage becoming slowly
apparent to me. I wanted to fuck her tonight, not some other slave. It
was her flesh I desired. But what difference would it really make? I
couldn't keep her. It was ridiculous to believe that I had fallen in
love with her. Maybe I was angry because I had thought, in all my
naiveté, that I could protect her, even if it were for only one night.
The voice came back on. "I see Mr. Wiggins that you did not reserve
the girl Tulip for the night. If we had known of your desire to keep
her, she would still be there."
"But where is she!" I yelled. "That's what I want to know! I want her
back, now!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wiggins," the voice replied obsequiously. "I'm afraid
that she was sold late this afternoon. Her owner flew in this evening
to pick her up."
I held the phone, foolishly, against my ear. I was stunned. The
reality of the cruel bondage in which these unlucky women were held
came home to me in a rush. Suddenly, I was mad at myself, mad at the
men who had sent me here, mad at the callous men who made this hell
possible.  I hung up the telephone without an additional word.
I cannot fully know why, maybe it was because I knew that I had become
as much a prisoner here as any of these women, trapped in a role that
would ultimately, I was sure, steal my soul.  It was the beautiful
young brown skinned woman who was to feel the consequences of my
wrath.
I grabbed the girl by the collar and pulled her from the bed, pushing
her to her knees. I threw off my robe and stood before her, my thighs
spread, my body tensed as if to spring. Taking a hold of her long,
black hair, I pulled her head to my loins. "Suck!" I ordered.
This the girl understood. She reached for my loins to caress my turgid
cock into hardness. I slapped her hands away. She looked up at me,
terror in her eyes. She placed her arms behind her back and reached
for my manhood with her open lips. I could feel the moist warmth of
her mouth as she encompassed me. Her tongue teased the knob at the tip
of my prick. A wave of pleasure shot through me. My cock was
stiffening. I pushed her head down on my rigid pole, forcing my cock
to the edge of her throat. I could hear her sputter and cough as I
rammed my hot pole deep into her mouth. I wanted to use this servile
chattel to vent all of my anger and hatred and shame. I thrust my hips
against her face, forcing her mouth to ride my throbbing cock, pulling
and pushing her head up and down as I held her hair tightly in my
fist.
I let my lust build as I used the brown skinned girl. She gave a
little cry each time my cock struck the back of her mouth. I looked
down and saw her tear filled eyes searching my face for some sign of
mercy or kindness. Her breasts swung enticingly as she was pulled to
and fro, her nipples taut with fear. I decided I wanted to fuck this
ignorant, helpless slut in the ass. I pulled her mouth from my cock by
her hair and dragged her back over to the bed. I threw her onto it and
climbed over her. Holding her head back, I captured a rigid nipple in
my mouth and sucked on it hard, until I heard the girl moan with pain.
I grabbed both nipples with my thumbs and forefingers and twisted them
cruelly. I knew that the slave girl was too frightened to beg for
mercy. I knew that I could use and abuse her body to my heart's
content.
Quickly, I flipped the girl on to her stomach. I pulled on her hips
until she was properly positioned for my assault, her back curved, her
ass poised to receive me. I pressed my hard cock against the portal to
her bowels and pushed it past the dainty star-like entrance.
The girl moaned with pain as I assaulted her rear passage, without
preparation, without warning.  Her tight ring clamped around my cock
as it sank into her murky warmth. I had never experienced this before.
It was something I had never been able to gather the nerve to ask a
girl to do. But here I didn't have to ask.
My heated mind reveled in the punishment of this docile girl. I felt
my passion growing and I grabbed the girl's hair again, pulling it
back, forcing her to arch her back. Her torso bent into a bow, she
received my hard thrusts, crying and moaning as I drove my cock deep
within her, my hips pounding angrily against her buttocks. With each
thrust I could feel my moment of crisis coming closer and closer. My
whole being seemed to be poised to be poured out of me into this
woman's darkest place.  I was damned and I knew it. I groaned and
yelled as my cock jetted a stream of hot cum inside the unhappy girl.
My cock pulsed with ecstasy, a feeling that spread throughout me,
sweeping all reason and sentiment away.  As I called out my pleasure,
I felt my soul escaping. Now, like everything else on this surreal
island, it belonged to the unseen but ever-present Klitzman.

Volume One - this had to be split into 3 parts here

If you want more from Paul Blades visit his library -
Two more Klitzman books amongst others
http://www.bdsmbooks.com/libraryblades/blades.htm

    

20070908061318