The Bezistan Chronicles
Chapter 8: Ten Strokes of the Cane

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
An archive of my stories can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

"The characters and ideas contained in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be used without permission. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do rewrites, alterations or add pictures"

Chapter 8: Ten Strokes of the Cane

I am terrified. I have displeased my Master and I'm to be punished. In his anger, he has ordered his major domo to deliver me to the whipping-yard where I'm to receive ten strokes of the cane.

Locked in my holding pen, I've just witnessed the cruel flogging of two palace slaves who had also angered my Master. As a stable slave I've only ever seen my Master at a distance and I prefer that it stays that way.  

To me, a mere slave, he possesses godlike qualities that keep me in awe and fear of him. My fear, like that of all his slaves, is justified; among us he has a fearsome reputation. Many times, I'd overheard my overseers discussing his cruelty and the dreadful punishments he routinely hands out to any slave unlucky enough to have angered him. 

Of course, there is a difference of opinion as to how we slaves view our owner's wrath and how an overseer regards it. We slaves see it as cruel torture, whereas our overseers recognise it as a legitimate punishment for a crime committed or as a necessary correction to a slave's bad behaviour. To an overseer, the whipping or caning of a slave is routine and not considered anything out of the ordinary - it is all just part of the daily routine of a slave`s existence.

This constant fear of punishment hangs over us; it keeps us on our toes and it goes without saying that fear makes us dutiful slaves. How then could I have been so foolish as to anger my Master? Why hadn't I spread my legs as he required when I was under his inspection? I ask myself, was it silly shyness of false modesty that kept me from opening my body to the full view of my Master? The answer is neither - wilfulness made me do it and it was a deliberate act of defiance on my part. I'm guilty of disobedience and now I'm to be punished for it.

As a slave, I know I have offended my Master and that I deserve my punishment. I have sinned and now I must do the penance. Yet I am terrified as I contemplate my imminent caning.

I look out in horror through the bars of my holding cell at the two recently flogged slaves. They are still strung up in their whipping frames and will remain there until inspected by our Master when he returns. If he's not satisfied that they have been punished enough, then no doubt, he'll order a further whipping. I can only guess at the fear they must feel as they await their Master's inspection.

With their bodies stretched taut, they are unable to move or relieve their cramped limbs. Their torsos, ringed with the vivid red stripes of the whip, are testimony to the strength of Mustapha's whip arm. And I quake at the thought of my own looming punishment. I nevertheless feel sympathy for my fellow slaves.

With their heads bowed, they whimper as flies and insects feast on their discomfort. It is obvious they are in pain and, suspended as they are, they can do nothing to alleviate their agony. As I watch the two African slaves begin to wash their bodies which only add to their torment. This none too gentle scrubbing causes the slaves to cry out.

I'm appalled at the inhumanity of Daoud, the major domo and Mustapha, the whip-master. Both are laughing and joking as they share a drink and watch as the blacks wash the two slaves. The tent poles in their trousers indicate that both men are sexually aroused and obviously enjoying the slaves' sufferings. Even the two black attendant slaves are sporting erections; their massive cocks, encircled by their genital rings, are engorged and thrust out obscenely from their naked bodies.

"Well Daoud, what's your re-action to seeing these two slaves whipped?" Mustapha asks as he wipes the sweat from his bare chest and belly. "YOU KNOW! It's hot work whipping slaves. But tell me, what was your impression?"

"It was interesting, very much so, Mustapha. And it was also very informative. As you said earlier, my duties in the palace normally prevent me from witnessing such punishments. I found it very instructive. I didn't realise there was so much involved. It simply isn't just a matter of applying the lash to their backs, is it? I haven't ever thought of the `protocols of a whipping' you mentioned earlier."

"Ah, Daoud, it's a necessary part of a slave's punishment. A slave needs to know why he is being whipped. He needs to acknowledge both his guilt at having caused offence and his gratitude to his master for his correction. This makes him a better slave; more submissive, more obedient, and most willing to please. To my mind, a slave should routinely suffer whippings as part of his training. Floggings such as these two slaves have just experienced will remain with them for the rest of their lives. In future they will do all in their power to avoid a repetition of today's whipping. The caress of the whip on their bare backs, like their brandings, is now firmly burned into their minds and will serve to remind them of what they are -mere slaves. After all a slave is like any other dumb animal; his wilfulness needs to be curbed. A slave, like a dog or a horse, must be trained hard to serve in its Master's interests. And the whip is an excellent teacher."

"I share your views on the way a slave should be handled, Mustapha. They are, after all just soulless animals lacking those qualities of intellect and resourcefulness that distinguish a man from the beasts. They truly are beasts of burden and they should be treated as such. Luckily for us, His Highness ascribes to this view of his slaves and treats them accordingly. No one can say that the prince pampers his slaves."

"You are quite right, Daoud. I believe Prince Rashid serves as a role model to all slave owners on how best to train and keep a slave. After all, his family have had centuries of practice in turning out the perfect slave. They have never spared the whip or any other punishment deemed necessary when handling their slaves. After all, one has only to consider the price that an al-Bahr slave commands at auction to know his methods are sound. But enough of this idle chatter. I now feel refreshed and ready to continue"

"As you wish, Mustapha. It is getting late and after you have finished caning him, I still have to prepare my slave for his appointment with Prince Rashid."

"Tell me, Daoud. What needs to be done to make him ready for His Highness?"

"First of all, I and my slave helpers will need to douche him. This usually takes about three or four flushings before the water runs clear. Then we will remove any hair below the eyes. Although his body appears to be smooth we need to check for any stray hairs growing in places where they shouldn't be and pluck them out. The prince is very particular about this and he mostly enjoys fucking a slave with a smooth body. We will remove any stray hairs from between his buttocks - we have to take extreme care in that area of his body. His Highness gets very angry if the nether regions of a slave haven`t been prepared properly. The prince regards body hair as a status of manhood and he certainly doesn't regard slaves as men; for that reason he won't allow the palace slaves to wear hair on their bodies; it offends his sensibilities. The exceptions, of course, are His Highness's two body slaves who, for some unknown reason, still have their body hair; I don't know why but I suspect it has something to do with his attachment to the English estate manager, who does have a delightful hair covering on his body. The other exceptions are the draft slaves and those slaves employed in heavy labour. It simply isn't possible to groom them as we do the palace slaves."

"Those slaves are miserable wretches; truly they are beasts of burden. I hear they are dipped once a week to kill any lice or other vermin. Is that so, Daoud?'

"That's correct, Mustapha. Once a week their slave-masters submerge them totally in a special solution that kills any vermin on their bodies. It is also the only washing they receive. The unworthy wretches have to be driven into the bath under the whips of their overseers. I understand there is some discomfort as the solution stings the whip marks they wear on their bodies. But, surely this is a small price to pay for a lice free existence. You'd expect that they would truly appreciate this benevolence on the part of Prince Rashid - but they don't. Ungrateful swine that they are!"

"You would think so, Daoud. But slaves are such ungrateful wretches. Would it be expecting too much from them to show appreciation for their Master's kindness to them? But back to the slave you have to prepare for His Highness. Once you have determined is body is free of hair, what follows?"

"Next, we need to clean and cut his finger and toe nails. Then, we will thoroughly clean his body to remove the stink of the stables from whence he comes. Once he has been washed and dried, we will then massage sweet smelling unguents into his body and apply perfumed slave oil so that his musculature is displayed to perfection. Then we will grease him and because he's still a virgin, we'll insert a dildo into him to stretch him all the better to accommodate his Master's cock. My African helpers always enjoy this part of a slave's preparation."

"The slave is indeed fortunate that his hole is greased before use. I didn't realise Prince Rashid showed such consideration for a slave's comfort?"

"He doesn't, Mustapha. The slave's feelings are of no consequence. The reason he is greased is entirely for the comfort of His Highness. You will agree that thrusting into a well-oiled hole is preferable to a dry one. However, any discomfort or distress caused to the slave is of no importance. His only purpose is to provide pleasure to his Master. After all, it doesn't matter whether or not he enjoys the experience, does it? Slaves exist to please their Masters in all things."

"I find all that very interesting, Daoud. However, as I said my whipping arm is fully recovered now. Flogging a slave can be very tiring and I generally confine my whipping sessions to two slaves. Any more than that and I find my whipping arm tires. I usually allow time for it to recover its strength before continuing with any further whippings.

"You two, have you finished preparing the caning trestle?" Mustapha shouts to the two African slaves. "THEN GET OVER HERE, NOW!" 

Both slaves hasten to do Mustapha's bidding.

As I see the two slave-masters and the black slaves walking towards my cage, I know my punishment is about to begin. I am to be dragged out, fastened down on the trestle and caned. Panic-stricken, I back into a corner and begin to plead.

"PLEASE Sirs, please, please don't cane me." 

Even though I know nothing can save me, I continue to plead and I hear myself crying.

"Get him out and take him over to the trestle." Mustapha commands the two slaves as he unlocks the door of my cage. As they move towards me, I sink to the floor and curl myself into a ball in the corner. Desperately, I grab hold of the bars and hold on grimly. I hear myself screaming and I struggle violently. As I do so, I feel my fingers being roughly prised free from the bars but still I continue to fight the inevitable. Then, I hear Mustapha's order to the Africans to stand clear. 

They move away from me and for a brief moment I have the vain hope that I'm to be spared. I don't notice Mustapha unclip the small, leather quirt from his belt.

Through the fog of my confusion and fear, I hear Mustapha's angry shout.

"ON YOUR FEET, SLAVE. NOW!"

My terror has detached me from the reality of my situation and I'm unaware that it is me that he is shouting at. I hear the swish of Mustapha's quirt moving through the resisting air and hear the loud thwack as it lands on my shoulders. For the second time today, my body tastes leather and I hear myself screaming at the sudden explosion of pain.

I scramble to my feet and without showing any pity, the two Africans drag me out of the cage and towards the waiting trestle. Desperately, I continue to struggle and my screams reverberate around the walls of the courtyard. The commotion stirs the two recently whipped slaves out of their misery and they raise their heads to watch my punishment through their own pain-filled eyes.

The trestle that awaits me has been purpose designed for caning slaves. I, of course, do not take in the finer details of its construction; my mind is elsewhere uselessly fighting the tight grip of my captors. 

Had I done so, I would see it consists of a single wooden rail at waist height which is padded on top to prevent damage to its hapless victim's body. At the back of the rail, at ground level, there are metal rings at differing widths to which the slave's ankles are fastened and out in front there are manacles attached to pulleys for stretching the body. 

Once bent over the rail the slave's ankles are fastened to these metal rings and his wrists locked into the manacles and his body drawn taut. A thick leather belt attached to the top of the rail is then tightly fastened around the waist to completely immobilise the body. All this ensures that unfortunate slave's arse is elevated and properly presented for caning.

Whether it is fear or an acceptance of the inevitable I don't know; but I am strangely detached from what is now happening to me. Vaguely, I'm aware of being roughly forced, belly down over the trestle, and I feel my feet being pulled apart and my ankles fastened to the rings; then as the manacles are attached to my wrists; I begin to wince as one of the African slaves tightens the pulley. I hear myself grunting as my body is stretched out; and I feel the tension travel up my legs, through my buttocks and into my torso as my arms are pulled out in front of me.

Mustapha's hands move up my legs, across my buttocks and along my back as he tests my body for the correct tautness. He calls for more tension and then, reaching underneath me, he tests the tightness of my chest and belly. Still not completely satisfied, he calls for more tautness and my stretching continues.

"More yet!"..... "Stretch him out, I said"..... "More, more yet" ..... "Just a little more!" 

He instructs his assistants and then finally. 

"Good, that'll do. Fasten the strap around his middle and make sure he is securely tied down."

As the blacks fasten the belt firmly around my waist I'm suddenly aroused by their touch. I feel my balls tighten as they hang suspended between my thighs and I'm aware of my hard, throbbing cock pulsing below my belly. I suffer the indignity of their hands moving all over my body; no doubt they are giving the whip-master and the major domo the impression they are testing the tension in my body. But I know differently!

Vainly, I struggle as I feel hands groping at my cock and squeezing my balls. I'm aware of other hands playing with my arse and I feel a finger moving into the cleft between my buttocks seeking out my hole. I cry out in protest and pain as a finger is cruelly thrust through my sphincter. 

Suddenly, I hear a series loud `thwacks' and cries of pain as Mustapha viciously applies his whip to the slaves' backs.

"YOU, stop playing with his ass and YOU leave his cock and balls alone." 

Once more Mustapha lashes the backs of the two slaves with his whip. 

"As you can see Daoud, I can't trust these two slaves. The moment my back is turned they cause trouble. They know they're not to touch another slave's body without permission. Yet, as you can see, they can't help themselves. Just a glimpse of an ass-hole and they're powerfully aroused. Just look at their hard cocks. Get them stirred up and they're ready and rearing to go."

"I like your colourful description, Mustapha." Daoud laughingly replies as he begins a `hands on' examination of my body. "However, I must say seeing a young slave stretched out like this is a temptation too hard to resist. His taut body is truly a delight to the eyes and even more so to the touch."

"Indeed. The slave is magnificent. He has a glorious body and a most delightful rump. I particularly like the way his flanks quiver like a nervous, unbroken colt as he breathes - most delightful, don't you think? What breed is he, I wonder? From somewhere around the Mediterranean I should think. He is most probably an Italian"

"I don't know for sure, but my guess is that he is Greek, Mustapha. The black curly hair and tanned, olive hide suggests to me his breeding is Greek. Greek males make superb slaves. They have stood the test of time over the centuries ever since the fall of Constantinople."

"That's very true, Daoud. But some of the newer breeds from Europe, North America and Australia show great promise. I believe we have quite a few of these newer breeds in service. Is that so?"

"Yes that's correct. As you know the al-Bahr family has only ever dealt in white, European and black, African, male slaves. I remember His Highness once expressed the opinion that female slaves aren't worth all the effort required to bring them up to the high standard he requires of a slave as it stands on the auction block - he'd much prefer to work with male slaves. The exception to this, of course is the small herd of isolated, female slaves he keeps purely for his own specialised, breeding program. He does of course use some of these white, male slaves as stallions. However, returning to your comment about the newer breeds of slaves, Prince Rashid is always willing to experiment with new ideas. We have a number of these breeds serving in the palace as pleasure slaves; a task they are eminently suited to. All, without exception, are showing great potential. "

"Rumour has it; Daoud that His Highness also has some of these newer types working in the stables. Is that correct?"

"Indeed he has, Mustapha. The prince recognised their potential as harness slaves very early on and is actively recruiting from those areas. Already he has a number of these new breeds serving as ponies in his stables. They are strong, robust animals possessing great endurance and pulling power in harness. Because of their stamina, the prince is interested in developing these breeds as `pony' slaves. He is most eager to develop this new market. The slaves should create a great deal of interest among those discerning buyers looking for thoroughbred animals to pull their rickshaws and carry their litters."

"Indeed. As you say, there should be considerable interest shown in these newer breeds. How much would such a slave cost, I wonder?"

"It's difficult to say Mustapha. I estimate the cost of such slaves at somewhere between fifty and a hundred thousand Euros - but I`m only guessing. For a rich man, this is a small sum to pay for a slave bearing the al-Bahr brand when you consider they don't think twice about spending millions on a thoroughbred race horse. I'm sure Prince Rashid would have done his sums on that score."

"Who knows Daoud? Perhaps this slave here could be a potential breeder? He is an extremely handsome and muscular young slave and I'm sure he would prove worthy of such a task. But talking with you Daoud makes me forget why we are here. Let us return to the matter in hand, shall we? But come, help me choose a cane!"

Mustapha invites as both men stroll casually over to the bench on which rests the tools of Mustapha's trade.

Fearfully, I watch as Mustapha carefully examines each cane laid out on the bench, and I tremble as he swishes them through the air testing them for flexibility. With each swish of the cane, I wince in anticipation of the cane`s fiery pain. 

Mustapha carefully explains to Daoud the advantages or disadvantages of each of the canes as he tests it. Finally he makes his decision choosing a long, thin cane made of rattan. Swishing it through the air, he walks back towards me. Even though I know my punishment is inevitable, a vainly held hope makes me plead for mercy. My tearful pleas fall on deaf ears and are ignored.

"CLEAN HIM! And dry him." 

Mustapha barks at the two chastened slaves who hurry to obey him. Retrieving the bucket they begin to scrub my body with the hard brushes. Their none-too-gentle application of the brushes causes me to cry out in pain at this rough treatment. I am treated with indifference and no one pays me any attention.

I listen as Mustapha explains the finer points of the cane he has chosen. 

"Daoud, you will have noticed I picked this particular cane for the slave's punishment. My reasons for doing so are that the cane is very flexible and will wrap itself around the contours of the slave's buttocks. Its thinness and length will ensure that the slave feels every stroke. You can take it from me that this cane is a most effective instrument of punishment. What is the number of strokes he is to receive? Ten isn't it? In that case I will deliver five strokes to the left side of his arse and then five to the right side. I will take care that each stroke lands on a new part of his rump. That way he will truly know the pain of his caning. Aahh! It appears that the Nubians have finished. Let us begin."

Now Mustapha turns his attention to me. 

"SLAVE, it's customary for a slave being punished to thrice kiss the instrument of his chastisement and to give thanks to his master for his correction. You will also count out, LOUDLY, each stroke of the cane from one to ten and to thank me for delivering your master's punishment. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, SLAVE?"

Filled with terror, I sob out my reply.

"Yes, Sir, I understand."

As Mustapha places the cane to my lips, Daoud interrupts. 

"Slave, haven't you forgotten something?"

"What Sir," I ask in my confusion "what have I forgotten?"

"Stupid slave, have you forgotten your Master's instruction to beg the whip-master to apply the cane as harshly as he can? Weren't you paying attention to what your Master was saying to you? Slaves MUST always listen carefully to their Master's instructions"

I reply through my sobs to Daoud's admonition. 

"Sir, I'm truly sorry for forgetting my Master's instructions to me."

Then turning to Mustapha, I beg. 

"Sir! I ask that you apply your cane to me as harshly as possible, please Sir."

"You need have no fears as to that slave." Mustapha laughs as he replies to my request. "When I've finished with you, you'll know only too well that I have acceded to your request. But let's make a start. Now kiss the instrument of your correction."

As Mustapha once more holds the cane in front of my face, I kiss it three times before speaking. 

"Sir, I thank my master for my punishment and correction." 

Now, desperately, I try to prepare myself, both physically and emotionally, for the torment to follow.

As the whip-master moves behind me, my body is convulsed by an involuntary spasm and time stands still for me. I am now suspended between detached reality and fearful expectancy. I hear Mustapha swish the cane through the air to test its flexibility and my body flinches in anticipation of the cane cutting into my tender flesh. With each experimental swish of the cane I cry out involuntarily.

I'm unaware that Mustapha is `playing' with me that this is all part of my punishment - I'm left in a limbo of uncertainty. With each swish of the cane my body re-acts as though it has been and struck yet my mind is grateful that this isn't so. Behind me, I hear Daoud and Mustapha laughing at my reaction. My stomach knots up in fear and I feel the contents of my innards turn to water. 

Desperately, I will my bowels not to disgrace me in front of my tormentors.

Mercifully, my mind seems to `shut down' as I try to focus on what is happening to me. Then, suddenly, I hear the now familiar swishing sound of the cane moving through the air. This is followed by a loud thwack as the cane strikes my upraised ass. 

Momentarily, there is no feeling; then suddenly an unimaginable pain sears itself into every fibre of my being. It is pain unlike any I has experienced before and through the fog of my suffering I hear myself screaming.

"AARHH! SIR, O SIR! AARHH!" 

And I forget to count the stroke!

"Foolish slave! You forgot to count the stroke and to thank me for delivering it. We will have to begin again. This time, if you want to avoid extra cuts of the cane you should remember to count and to thank me."

Again I hear the swish and thwack of the cane and feel the pain of it cutting into my body. Again I hear my scream of agony. 

"UGHH! AARHH! NUMBER ONE!  Thank you sir!" 

I shout out between sobs. This time, I didn't forget to count. Pain is a fearful motivator; it exercises the mind wonderfully.

For a third, fourth and fifth time I feel the cane descend upon my left buttock. Then Mustapha changes his position and now the cane is applied to my right buttock. After the sixth stroke, i lose control of my bladder and I'm aware that I am pissing. 

Through my pain, I hear it splattering on the ground beneath my belly. My humiliation is complete and I cry out in my shame. I don't understand that I needn't feel this shame; that what is happening to me is a spontaneous, bodily response to the pain that most slaves experience under the whip and cane.

Mustapha stops the caning long enough for me to finish urinating and comments.

"As I said earlier Daoud, most slaves piss under the whip or cane. It's just part of their animal natures I suppose."

As Mustapha waits for me to settle down, I'm thankful for this brief respite from the cane. I now feel the acute pain of the seven strokes I have already received. Then suddenly, my torture begins anew. Without warning Mustapha applies the cane four more times to my suffering body. Conscientiously, I continue to count each stroke for fear of it being repeated and obediently I thank Mustapha for my chastisement.

I'm unaware that Mustapha, with the experience gained from countless floggings and canings, times his strokes so that there is sufficient time for me to feel each individual blow and to savour the pain of that stroke. Then suddenly, my caning is at an end and I hear myself shouting. 

"NUMBER TEN! Thank you, Sir!" 

Thankfully, I'm aware that my ordeal is at an end. Racked with pain, my sobbing now gives way to a soft whimpering.

And as Mustapha holds the cane to my lips, I blurt out my `gratitude' for my punishment. 

"Thank you, Sir for caning me.  And Sir, I thank my Master for the correction I have received."

"Slave," Mustapha chides me, "if you are truly thankful to your Master for your chastisement, then you must kneel before him and tell him so and then kiss his feet in gratitude."

Now it is time for me to share in the misery of my two fellow slaves who are still sweating and suffering suspended in their frames. Stretched taut, I'm unable to relieve the awful pain coursing through my body. My arse throbs with excruciating agony and it feels as if it is on fire. My sweat stings the angry red welts on my body and attracts the same flies and insects plaguing the other two slaves. My cock hangs limp and my balls have shrivelled up into my body.

Through my misery, I cry out in pain as I feel Mustapha's hands touch my tortured body.

"Come Daoud and examine my handiwork? I'm quite satisfied with this caning. It is very neat; one of my better ones, I think. I'm sure you will agree that is a very professional job."

"Mustapha, I'm not an expert in these matters. However I do like the way you have administered the strokes to the slave. The pattern of his welts is, as you say, very neat. I guess that didn't just happen?"

"No, not at all!" Mustapha laughingly replies. "As you can see each stroke has been laid down individually so that they don't crisscross each other but run roughly parallel across his ass cheeks. Of course, I couldn't avoid the welt already laid there by Prince Rashid's whip and subsequently my strokes are superimposed over it. But, as you said, this didn't just happen. It has taken me a long time to perfect my method. I have practiced my technique on the naked bodies of many slaves. At first it was difficult but with much trial and error, I'm now able to lay the cane wherever I want to on a slave's body. I take pride in the neatness of my canings."

I scream out in outraged pain as Mustapha begins to lovingly trace out each stroke with his finger as he invites Daoud to examine them.

"But do come and look for yourself."

I hear my agonised screaming as now Daoud's finger begins to examine the vivid red welts. 

"The welts look to be very painful, Mustapha. The way the slave is screaming indicates he is suffering much pain."

"Rest assured Daoud that he IS feeling much pain," Mustapha laughs. "And will continue to do so for some considerable time yet. I doubt he will be sitting down for at least five to six days."

"What about fucking? As you know His Highness is to use the slave tonight."

"I should think that will be extremely unpleasant for the slave, Daoud. It's to be his first time you say? I imagine the prince will be none too gentle with him. But now let me get the blacks to scrub him down and then you can be on your way. I know you still have much to do to prepare the slave for Prince Rashid.  YOU TWO! Scrub the slave down and then unfasten him."

Hastening to obey, the two African slaves begin to cruelly clean my body. I cry out as their brushes are roughly used on my naked buttocks. Then, after a final inspection by Mustapha, they unfasten me from the trestle and drag me to my feet. Once they release their hold of me, I drop, sobbing, to my knees.

"There, Daoud the slave is now returned to your control. I'm sure that he too, like those two over there," Mustapha points in the direction of the other two suspended slaves, "is now a better slave after his visit to the whipping-yard."

"Thank you, Mustapha. I hope you are correct and that the slave has learned an invaluable lesson in obedience. Now that the chastisements are finished I suppose you will take a rest."

"Not really Daoud" Mustapha laughs." I find punishing slaves makes me horny. I usually finish my punishment sessions by poking one of my assistants. YOU! Get your ass bent over that trestle." He commands one of African slaves. "AND YOU," pointing to the other, "start stretching his hole ready for my cock."

"Come along, slave," Daoud orders me as I still kneel, "it's time to prepare you for your Master."

"Wait one moment, Daoud, while I get the slave to his feet for you."

Still on my knees, my sobs drown out the hiss of the cane traveling through the resisting air; I hear only the loud `thwack' as once more it cuts across my buttocks. This is accompanied by Mustapha's shouted instruction to.

"GET UP! SLAVE. GET UP ON YOUR FEET, NOW!"

Screaming with the sudden, unexpected pain, I scramble to my feet and ruefully rub my ass in a vain attempt to alleviate the searing agony I feel.

Once more, I hear Mustapha and Daoud laughing at my discomfort.

I trail after Daoud and find it difficult to walk. I wince with every step I take as my ass erupts in pain. As Daoud and I leave the whipping-yard, I hear the grunting sounds of the two African slaves as one prepares the other for Mustapha's cock.

Chastened and very, very sore, I'm now to be prepared for my Master.


To be continued................








