by Jack Norman
Twelve months after the cataclysmic events in Moscow, Sara Smithson was a successful young businesswoman based in New York. Wealthy, beautiful, elegant, assured and always impeccably turned out, she was regularly featured on the society pages of the glossier magazines. She lived in a luxury apartment beyond Madison Square Garden, serviced by two faithful Russian servants, Leo and Sasha, who attended to her every need, whether she wanted it or not. Sometimes, not often but frequent enough to reinforce her status, they would confine in the metal box-like room that Borzov had had installed in one of the bedrooms. Also, of course, there would be the occasional summons to return to Moscow, when Sara always found herself briefly reacquainted with her basement cell. She even looked forward to these interludes, which usually involved one of Borzov’s spectacular entertainments for his host of friends.
More often than not, though, the guests would come to her. These were her in-calls, as Borzov called them. And unexpected guests would simply turn up, demand attention, and Sara was expected to drop everything to entertain him. Sometimes it was merely a fleeting visit - a couple of hours, or overnight maybe. Other times, the guest would stay for days on end. Sasha and Leo would merely cancel Sara’s other appointments and remain on hand to assist the guest in any way he desired (it was usually a ‘he’, but not always). It was usually their job to untie Sara when the patron had left, and bathe her and attend to any welts and wounds.
Then there were her outcalls, such as the one that evening. These were the visits that Sara was instructed to make. No ‘ifs or buts’- she was merely expected to obey and do as she was told. Her life was comparatively trouble-free for most of the time, and business success came relatively easily to her, provided that she did as she was told. If not, there was always Borzov’s alternative life for her, and she had no wish to go there.
“I’ll ring me when you I’m ready to be picked up, sir,” she told Leo.
He smiled and nodded. She left the car without another word and her car turned on the gravel circle and drove away. Sara looked up. The artfully-lit statue - a nude Sabine woman being fucked by a helmed warrior - was of no comfort. She recalled when she herself had played the role of the raped Sabine for the pleasure of Borzov’s friends, and tonight was no different.
“Good evening. You must be Sara.”
The woman’s gentle voice startled her. She turned and saw a figure draped in black step from the shadows at the side of the house.
“Yes.”
“Please come with me.”
Sara saw that the woman wore traditional Moslem nun-black robes that covered her from head to foot. Rather than enter by way of the impressive large double doors of the house, the woman led her along a path to the side, round to the rear. She could smell the scents of a perfumed garden in the still night air and water was tinkling in a fountain somewhere. The woman took her to a small back door into a gloomy passage lit by a dim lamp, and then down a steep flight of stone steps and along a wide of underground passage that sloped perceptibly.
“We go to the basement,” the woman said over her shoulder.
Sara swallowed. ‘All of my friends’ houses have basements of some sort,’ Borzov had said, and the thought made her shiver, even though the air was warm enough. However, the fragrance struck her immediately as she descended: sandal oils and incense. And the passage opened into something that resembled a magic cave from Arabian Nights, beautifully lit with concealed lamps and up-lighters. She could see now why the corridor had sloped downwards, for the room had obviously been quarried in the living rock deep beneath the house. It was very high and the rough rock of the roof was shrouded in gloom, lit only by two or three flaming brands held in iron stanchions. Down below, though, all was vibrant and colour. The sumptuous area lined with marble and colourfully-decorated Moorish ceramic tiles. There was a pool at the centre, glistening blue and silver, and a series of alcoves and grottos. Furthermore, in the pool, and on couches and marble benches all around, like exotic decorations, girls of every hue relaxed and disported themselves. Sara smiled. There must have been a dozen or more, some of them naked and others dressed in drapes of brightly coloured silk and lace and laden with matching jewels.
“The harem,” the woman said simply.
“Yes, I can see.”
Sara smiled. So this was another rich man’s equivalent of Borzov’s basement. On the whole, perhaps she preferred it to the Boss’s cold modern dungeon in Moscow but, then again, she instantly realised that this place too would have its dark cells.
“Hey there! Welcome to the mad house.” The young, voluptuous blonde with large breasts, clad in only a wisp of draped chiffon, spoke with a cut-glass English accent, rose from a couch and offered her hand. “I’m Charlotte. They call me Charlie.”
“This is Sara,” the haik-covered woman said. “She is the master’s special.”
“Ah, we heard you were coming.” She turned and called, “Hey girls, this is Sara, Abdullah’s Borzov bitch.”
There was a raucous greeting from the women in the harem. Sara was pleasantly surprised by the warm and friendly atmosphere down there - so different to the cold discipline of Borzov’s basement.
“Come, I must prepare you,” the woman said, slipping the haik from over her head. She was lithe and slender, with nut-brown skin and small, pointed breasts.
“Halmah is a servant,” Charlie explained. “We are slaves. There’s a difference. She can leave if she wants to, we can’t.”
“Yes.”
“Most of us want to be here though. Abdullah is a very generous owner, if a trifle strict.” She paused to half-turn and casually display her ample bare buttocks, each of which was marked by a livid red patch criss-crossed with darker stripers. “It’s all in the game. You’ll get used to it, we all do.”
Sara blinked. “I’m only here for a short visit,” she said.
Sara caught Charlie’s surprised look, but then it was gone. “Oh, I see,” she said with a quick smile. “Lovely. Silly me. Anyway, you’d better get started, Abdullah hates to be kept waiting and of course he’s watching.”
Charlie gestured up towards the roof, and Sara saw a small balcony set in the rock, like an exotic theater box. She could just make out a man looking down, and a golden robed figure stood in the patch of light behind him.
“Please take off all of your clothes,” Halmah said gently.
It didn’t take too long. Sara removed her coat and then her long evening gown. She was naked beneath it. She had learned long ago that it was easier when doing an outcall, unless she had specific instructions to wear sexy lingerie.
Halmah led her to a smaller pool at the side, where a small waterfall cascaded down the rock. The girl stepped into the knee-deep pool and Sara followed, finding that the water was pleasantly warm. Charlie threw off her drape and followed, sitting gingerly in the water.
“Place your hands behind your neck, please.”
Sara stood in the pool as the servant soaped her body, and the girl’s fingers moved with an assured touch that was both calming and erotic. They closed on Sara’s nipples and tweaked them to prominence and then traced down over her belly to the shaved slit of her cunt. She shuddered and leaned into the expert touch. Charlie giggled.
“It’s for Abdullah’s benefit,” she said.
Halmah’s ministrations were like liquid magic on Sara’s erogenous zones. One cupped hand trapped and pressed warm water against Sara’s sex, the pressure somehow deliciously palpating her flesh, while the other hand elicited tiny electric-like shocks in the sensitised clitoris. Spirals of pleasure began to turn in her belly. Sara glanced up lasciviously towards the balcony. Abdullah was staring down at her like a hungry hawk, his dark eyes glittering in the flickering flames of the high-set torches. She knew that she was being warmed for him.
Then, quite suddenly, the hands left her and the girl stepped from the pool. Charlie laughed. Sara looked startled.
“The little bitch always does that,” she said. “Leaves you p
anting for more.”
Sara stepped out of the pool and Halmah quickly dried her with a fluffy green towel.
“Lie here, please.”
Sara lay on the indicated marble slab and allowed the girl to stretch her out on her back, star-like, to facing up at the balcony. Abdullah was standing now, gazing down as his servant massaged scented oil into at the flesh he would soon possess. Halmah burnished Sara’s tanned skin until it gleamed.
“On all fours now, please.”
Sara did as she was instructed. As she knelt on hands and knees, she reflected that Chalie had been correct: as a slave, she was infinitely below the status of the servant girl and must obey her. She gasped when the girl’s hands worked a slick thick lubricant into her anus, packing the rectal channel with the cool gel.
“Relax,” Charlie advised. “You’ll be glad of it later. Abdullah prefers the back door.”
Then Halmah was done. She glanced up at the balcony and saw Abdullah’s signal. “We must hurry, your master is waiting.”
Your Master? Sara was about to correct the girl, but she was astonished when the girl took her hands and pulled them behind her back.
“Reversed prayer, please.”
The order startled Sara. It seemed incongruous that the girl would know the command. However, it wasn’t an uncommon demand. She inhaled deeply and pushed her hands up high behind her, placing the palms together between her shoulder blades, feeling it force her shoulders back and her breasts forward.
“Be good, darling,” Charlie called cheerfully, as Halma led Sara away. “In fact, be excellent, if you know what’s good for you.”
Sara heard Charlie’s giggle and felt the other girls’ eyes on her as she followed the girl to a screen and up a small flight of stairs. She wasn’t surprised to see elevator doors concealed there.
She was silent in the lift as it rose, and seconds later the doors opened. A small, wiry man in a white and gold robe was standing there, carrying a small, multi-thonged whisk whip. Halmah lightly touched Sara’s buttocks, urging her forward. Abdullah nodded and gave a small gesture of his finger, and the lift doors closed, leaving Sara alone with him. She stepped forward and stood statue-like, with her legs together and her heels raised, standing on the tips of her toes, her arms still in reversed prayer. Abdullah stepped around her, surveying her form.
“Let me see how well you have been taught,” he said, his voice imperious. He had not greeted her, or even spoken her name. “Bent over strappado!”
The command took her by surprise. However she immediately changed her pose, straightening her arms and behind her back and pressing them together, bending forward at the waist, and keeping on her toes with her legs straight. He held her like that for a minute or so, stroking her rump.
“Egyptian!”
She gratefully straightened and crossed her wrists over her chest in the fashion of an Egyptian mummy, with her elbows cupping her full breasts and allowing her throbbing erect nipples to peek through. He waited a moment and she held herself ready, alert now. He would put her through her slave paces. The emphasise his control, he lashed the thongs of his whip against her bottom, and they stung here flesh like a angry wasps.
“Stand on tiptoes, legs open, hands on head, head proud.”
She obeyed in a snap.
“Flat on your back, legs open, raised to ninety degrees.”
Sara dropped to the floor and spread her legs in a wide V shape like a pornographic ballerina. Abdullaha was obviously an experienced Dom with a sound knowledge of BDSM poses. Sara had been fully trained, however, like every other Borzov bitch, and Leo and Sasha ensured that she practised regularly. It was her own form of yoga, she rationalised.
“Submissive Forty-five!”
She immediately dropped to her knees, kneeling with torso doubled to touch her thighs, which were at 45 degrees to the floor, arms straight behind her, fingers interlaced, and her forehead lightly touching the floor at his feet. She felt the strain on her thigh muscles, and fervently hoped he wouldn’t keep her like that for long. It is an elegant and attractive position, but hellish to hold for any length of time. However, Abdullah seemed more interested in putting her through the gamut of standard poses.
“Servant Genie!”
Sara smoothly transited to an abject abasement position, keeping her head low, the knees still in 45, and her hands flat on the floor beside the knees. It evoked the feeling of a female genie of the lamp bowing before her new master. At least it relieved the stress of the previous pose.
“Kneel Humble”
And so it went on, for half an hour or more, as Abdullah expertly put her through a choreography of poses. Only once did he have cause to rebuke her when she had lost balance, and he had lashed her tits with his exquisitely spiteful whip. For the rest, she performed smoothly, as she must.
“Model at Ease!” he finally said.
Sara’s breathing was ragged and her oiled skin glistened with added perspiration as she adopted the pose, with her weight on one straight leg, and the other leg tucked over and slightly around.
“I shall enjoy owning you,” Abdullah murmured.
She wanted to protest. She belonged to Victor Borzov. And she had a life of her own to lead. She couldn’t possibly belong to this man. However, her protest was stifled before it emerged.
“C F M!” he snapped, precisely pronouncing each letter.
Sara instantly dropped to her knees and clutched her ankles, spreading her legs widely and leaning forward until her breasts and right cheek lay on the floor, with her bottom obscenely upraised, offering a blatant invitiation: ‘Come Fuck Me.’ She knew that her sexual delta was on offer between her splayed buttocks. She remained like this, scarcely daring to breathe, her mind still racing. What does he mean? He can’t own me! From her abject position she was just able to glance up as he dropped his robe, and she saw a hard, lean body with a large, erect circumcised cock. Then he was crouching behind her, his knees on either side of her raised arse, and the moist bulbous head of his cock nuzzled against the lubricated ring of her anus. Without further ado, he pushed the head inside her. She gasped at the pain, her fingers tightening on her ankles. He withdrew and she gave a start when his fingers trailed over the tight skin of her tense buttocks. Then he pushed forward again, deeper this time, and she felt the cock fill her anal channel. He was as big as any man she had ever taken there, and his cock was only half-way in, albeit slightly unnaturally aligned in his crouching position.
“Relax and open up,” he ordered, “or my black eunuch will whip the skin off your back.”
A black eunuch? My God! He laughed, as if reading her thoughts. The bastard! It’s all meant for effect. Then he thrust forward again, and this time the cock slid forward like a thick-bodied serpent. She wanted to caress herself, to press her fingertips against her clitoris, but this was prevented by the extreme bondage position. So there was just the hard shaft flesh in her anus, pressing inexorably forward, millimetre by millimetre, until his hairy hips pressed against her upturned buttocks. She moaned and ground her breasts against the smooth floor, wallowing in a rapture of humiliation and pleasure. He brutally withdrew his still tumescent cock, dragging at her funnel of tender flesh.
“Very nice but very tight,” Abdullah said. “I shall have you stretched.”
She knew enough to maintain her position but a tear escaped and ran down her cheek. The anal fucking had been so cold and dispassionate. He spoke as if he already owned her. Surely, that could not be? What about her business, her wealth, and her high-flying social life?
“Oh yes, I shall enjoy owning you,” Abdullah said, straightening. “What do you say, slave girl?”
“Thank you, Master.”
“Rocked back!”
Sara Smithson immediately, unquestioningly, adopted a kneeling position with her knees spread apart. Her legs folded back against her thighs as she arched backwards until the back of her head touched the floor. It was as if a heavy blow had rocked her back on her h
eels. Her pussy, the bow of her belly and her straining breasts were exposed to the multi-thonged dog whip which belaboured them. She moaned and looked up at the ceiling as she endured the stinging lashes.
Again, she remembered Vikto Borzov’s words when she had tried to resign all those months ago: ‘There is a ready market for young women like you, and I have a network of friends, any one of whom will keep a slave girl secure.’
THE END
