by Paul Blades
The insult wounded Leslie deeply. Maybe it was because it had an element of truth to it. She had bartered herself for her safety. She had received and enjoyed gifts for her services, although the world would consider them paltry. Didn’t that make her a whore? She was still repelled by her reaction to having been a sexual thrall. It would take a long time to forget. You never know what you are like deep down under until placed in a position of crisis. She had found out and she didn’t like what she saw.
Faraq kept her moving. Mr. Moussa’s office was off to the left when you came in the door. There was a secretarial station where she usually sat doing her work, at the beck and call of her employer. She tried to make a mental vision of herself as she once was, innocent and carefree. It was hard to do. That person didn’t exist anymore. And while she was free, she understood her freedom to be very tenuous. Sergeant Malikah’s promise to be waiting for her knelled in her head like the bell of doom.
Mr. Moussa was not in his office. Faraq led her over to his large, polished, dark brown desk. It was neat as a pin with only a desk pad and a telephone on it. Mr. Moussa was a very orderly man. He had insisted that the letters Leslie sent out under his signature be perfect. He was correct in everything. Leslie was heartbroken that she had disappointed him.
She thought that Faraq was going to lead her to a chair and release her from her chains. She was wrong. He brought her to the side of Mr. Moussa’s desk. He crouched down and released one of her ankle cuffs and then clipped it closed around the foot of the desk. She was locked in place. “Stay here slut,” Faraq said, and then he left.
A feeling of dread passed over Leslie. She was told that she would have to obey all of Mr. Moussa’s rules. Was one of them going to be that she be always chained up? Was she going to be allowed any freedom? When was she going to be able to call her ambassador? Was Mr. Moussa really going to help her or was he just concerned about the disgrace of having one of his employees charged with a crime?
After about a half hour, the door opened and Mr. Moussa walked in. He had doffed his suit jacket but was still wearing his bright white shirt and tie and black pants. He looked at her briefly and then went to sit in his chair. He leaned back as if in deep thought. Leslie’s heart trembled as she waited for him to speak. Finally, he did.
“Miss Harrington,” he said, his voice low and stern. He spoke English clearly and correctly, with a slight British accent. “I took considerable criticism for hiring an American as my secretary. I was told that American girls were whores, that you would disgrace me. I said, ‘Nonsense!’ I had read your resume and recommendations and they all supported my belief that you were a decent, modest, professional, young woman.”
“Please, Mr. Moussa!” Leslie said. “Please let me explain!”
“Be quiet!” Moussa roared. Leslie took a step back, tautening the chain that held her to his desk.
“I am talking now! There is nothing you can say that will assuage the damage you have done me! I am the laughingstock of Dar Al Jamah! You have involved my family in a terrible scandal! You are a whore and a blasphemer! You assaulted the policemen who arrested you! You seduced a prison guard! And, Sergeant Malikah told me that you engaged in unnatural acts with your cellmate while in the prison!”
“It’s not true!” Leslie whined. “I was raped, repeatedly, by Sergeant Malikah and Captain Khalil too. I never blasphemed! I never said anything. They didn’t let me. And I didn’t assault them. The policemen struck me repeatedly, beat me and dragged me into a car! I’m innocent! You have to believe me!”
Mr. Moussa turned red. “I happen to know Captain Khalil very well. I know his family. It’s outrageous that you make such an allegation against him! I ought to take you back to the prison right now! And as to the unnatural acts, I notice that you don’t deny them!”
Leslie didn’t know what to do. That part was true. Only it wasn’t like that. She had no choice. Jamilah raped her and would have hurt her had she not given in to her. How could she make Mr. Moussa understand? She was at first perplexed at how the Queen knew about that but then realized that Jamilah must have informed on her. She was probably purposely put in her cell so that she could report on everything she did.
“She made me do it,” Leslie blurted out. “My cellmate made me do it! She was stronger than me, a real convict serving a 9 years sentence. I was afraid. The first night the guards tied me up and she raped me!”
Moussa jumped up from his chair. “I’ve heard enough of your lies!” he shouted. “You need to be punished like the whore that you are! Lean over my desk!”
Leslie quailed at the order. “Please don’t hurt me, Mr. Moussa! I’ll be good, I promise! I didn’t do anything!”
“Lean over my desk!” Moussa roared. His face was beet red and a mask of rage.
Sobbing, Leslie did what she was told. She leaned over and placed her torso on the desk. She raised her bound hands over her head. Her breasts were pressing against the brightly polished wood. “Please, Mr. Moussa,” she started again. “Please…….”
Moussa opened a drawer to his desk and he pulled out a thick handkerchief. He stepped towards Leslie and grabbed the hair at the back of her head. He pushed the handkerchief rudely into her mouth. “I’ve heard enough from you, whore!” he ranted.
Then he stepped behind her. He lifted her skirt. There was a pause and then the palm of his hand came forward quickly and landed on Leslie’s tender, naked, rear cheek. It made a loud slapping noise.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmpf!” Leslie moaned. “..eeeeeeeeeeeease! eeeeeeeeeeeease! …….ooooooon’t!” Luckily, the wounds of the other day had subsided. But the hand was brought down so forcefully that it stung like blazes all the same.
Moussa ignored her. He was on a mission of retribution. Unlike the beatings she had received from Sergeant Malikah, which had been instructive, this was vengeful and the tall, broad shouldered man put everything he had into it.
“Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap!” The blows kept going and going. Leslie’s rear end was getting hotter and hotter. Each blow hurt more then the one before. She screamed and yelled, the sounds muffled by the fabric in her mouth. She tried to get up, but Mr. Moussa’s strong hand pushed her down while the other continued to pummel away.
During her struggle to escape her torture, Leslie’s legs spread apart. Suddenly, the hand that had been beating her snuck in between them from behind and took hold of her denuded love lips.
“So, you’ve shaved you pussy just like a whore,” Moussa said menacingly. He gave her labia a fierce squeeze. Leslie moaned and tried to force her legs back together, but the man’s fingers had a firm hold on her sex and wouldn’t let go.
“Okay! You want to be a whore, I’ll treat you like a whore!” Moussa declared.
His hand left her back and she heard the sound of his zipper lowering. “Oh, god, he’s going to fuck me!” she screamed inwardly. She tried to get up, but the hand that had hold of her labia squeezed it again harshly. She moaned and desisted her struggle.
The knowledge that he was going to use her against her will sent a wave of lust through her. She had fantasized about Mr. Moussa fucking her, but it had not been like this. In her imagination, it was sweet and tender and sophisticated. Not raw and angry like this. Nonetheless her pussy began to trill and her body got hot. She closed her eyes and whined. She clenched her bound hands into fists. She bit down on the intruder in her mouth. She knew he was going to do it. It wasn’t just a threat. And she rued what he would find when he went to penetrate her.
Mr. Moussa pressed his knees inside her thighs, keeping them spread while his left hand held her pinned to the desk. He aimed his stiffened cock at her with his right. She felt his cock probing at her entrance. The tip slid right in. “You’re all wet, you whore,” he told her. And with that, he plunged himself in the rest of the way.
He pounded away at her unmercifully. His hips crashed against her rear cheeks, making her torso jolt back and forth along the top of his desk. Leslie’s rationality went into
deep hibernation as her reactive mind took over, relishing the fevered thrusts of her employer. She whined and moaned, She turned her head this way and that. She arched her back. Mr. Moussa’s rigid member plowed back and forth incessantly, remorselessly. Part of her desperately wanted it to stop, even if for one moment. The other part was celebrating the river of ecstasy that was flowing through her body. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” she moaned as her climax drew nearer and nearer. “Please stop! Please stop! Please stop!” she tried to plead even as her pussy relished each determined, powerful stroke.
When her orgasm came, it drove her to delirium. She cried and moaned. Her body shook. Her pussy recorded a rapid series of intense contractions. They had just subsided into levels of tolerance when she heard Mr. Moussa release a loud groan. He fucked her with deep, rhythmic, powerful thrusts. His hands tightened on her hips and his cock began to dance and throb within her. Like the flipping of a switch, her pussy surged and renewed its intense pulses of pleasure. She groaned as she felt him fill her crevasse with his hot load.
When Leslie’s mind returned to conscious thought, Mr. Moussa was bent over her, his cock still lodged deep within her. She could hear his deep breaths as he recovered from his bout of passion. Her pussy trilled with pleasure giving aftershocks.
He brought himself erect and his cock slipped from her crevasse. She heard his zipper ascending. He stood there, watching her for a few seconds. He gently caressed her still burning rear cheeks, turned and left the room.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Leslie was still lying on the table, her skirt flung up around her waist, sobbing bitterly, when the door opened. She just couldn’t understand why she reacted with such violent passion each time she was forced to suffer the exploitation of her helpless body. But her unhappy musings were interrupted by the sound of someone entering the room. She hurriedly rose to her feet. Her skirt fell, covering her raw bottom. She turned to see who it was. It was Faraq, Mr. Moussa’s major domo.
Ever since she had started to work for Mr. Moussa, three short weeks ago, Leslie had been deathly afraid of Faraq. His face was narrow and hard, his eyes a steely gray. He wore his stark black hair short, perhaps a little more than an inch in length. He was tall and lean but carried himself in a way that advertised his strength. His narrow lips were always taut and colorless. He dressed in black shoes, black, finely pressed pants and an off white, short sleeved polo shirt. There was a fastidiousness about him that bespoke a harsh taskmaster. When he looked at Leslie, it seemed to her that he always scowled, as if he detested the very sight of her.
And now, it seemed, she was in his power.
He said nothing to her as he crossed the room. When he reached her, he crouched down and released the chain that had held her fast to Mr. Moussa’s desk and reconnected it to her free ankle. He stood up, took hold of the hair in the back of her head and began to march her towards the door.
Leslie stumbled along as best she could, the chain confining the length of her steps. Faraq kept her at a quick pace as he propelled her down the hall. Leslie was too frightened to say anything or to make any objection as to how he was treating her. Faraq had left in place the handkerchief that Mr. Moussa had stuffed in her mouth, and so there was little she would have been able to say anyway. She had hoped that he was taking her to her room, but they passed the stairs that led to the upper floors. Instead, when they came to the stairs that led to the basement of the building, a place where she had never been, they started to descend them.
Being taken to what seemed to Leslie as the dungeon of the house, propelled Leslie to attempt speech. “P,please, where are you taking me?” she tried to say, but the words came out all muffled and garbled. Faraq ignored her and brought her down, down, down, until they reached the bottom of the stairs.
The stairs emptied out into a long corridor. It was pitch black. Faraq flipped a light switch on the wall and a series of naked light bulbs, some twenty feet apart, lit up. The walls were made of rough stone and the ceilings were slightly arched, giving the corridor the aspect of an ancient passageway. Leslie was still barefoot, and the stone floor was damp and cool. They recommenced their march.
The Moussa mansion was large, consisting of three independent wings. Mr. Moussa’s office, and the reception room to the house, was in a central hub. One wing went off to the left and held the kitchen and the family and formal dining rooms. Above that were servant’s quarters. The second wing contained Mr. Moussa’s extensive library, a salon for entertaining, a gentlemen’s room with lounging chairs for smoking cigars and drinking of whiskey or tea depending on the company, and a regulation sized billiards table. There was also what was called the day room, the private preserve of Mrs. Moussa, often referred to as her salon. The family bedrooms were on the second floor.
The third wing went off to the right and contained a small gym, a recreation room where the children when they were younger used to entertain their friends, a game room full of electronic toys and a private theater. Upstairs were the guest rooms. One of these rooms had been Leslie’s.
The basement corridor under each one should have gone out in unconnected spokes. Therefore, Leslie was confused when they came to near the end of the corridor to see another corridor going off to the right. She could not see down this corridor because, after it went about twenty feet, it was sealed off by ancient looking bricks in the middle of which was a large, solid steel door. The rust covered door looked as ancient as the bricks. Leslie noticed, however, that a new, shiny, heavy duty lock had been installed on it recently as well as shiny, new steel hinges.
Faraq maneuvered Leslie down the hall and brought her up to the door. It was about seven feet tall and five feet wide. When she saw Faraq remove a key from his pocket and move to unlock the door, a chill went through her.
What Leslie didn’t know was that the Moussa mansion had been built upon the former site of a thirteenth century fortress. The still intact chambers of its dungeon had been uncovered when they were excavating for the house. Most of the structures had decayed beyond repair, but this corridor had been preserved. When the rest of the basements were constructed, workmen ran some electric lines down it, some plumbing, had relined the walls with new brick and added a ventilation system. It had been mostly disused for the last twenty five years, but a new use had been found for it.
At the moment that Faraq swung the large door open, Leslie was seized with panic. “Nooooooooooooo!” she screamed through her gag. She began to struggle and tried to twist away from the hand in her hair. Faraq just grabbed it tighter and yanked her along, flicking on the central lights as he passed the switch. Her screams echoed off of the stone walls. She lost her balance and fell. Faraq had to drag her the last thirty or so feet to her destination. There was another door, also made of steel, smaller than the first. It too had a new lock and hinges. Faraq unlocked it. It opened outwards and he swung it open. He dragged the still screaming and struggling Leslie over the transom and into the room.
Faraq pulled Leslie up to her knees. She looked around frantically. The room was large, about 40’ by 30’. The ceiling was high, about 12’. A soft, dark red and black rug had been put down on the floor. A mattress had been placed on the floor with its head into the wall shared by the corridor outside. In one corner of the room was a brand new, white port-a-potty. In the other was an unenclosed shower. Under the shower was tiled, a drain in the middle of it, and a three inch high lip all around a three foot square area to prevent water from escaping into the rest of the room. There was a sink, a dark mahogany armoire and a nightstand next to the bed. An antique, darkly stained, oak dresser stood along the far wall together with some wooden chairs. The armoire was locked with a large padlock. There was a small lamp on the nightstand. A small, dim light bulb on the ceiling lit the room.
Along the wall to the right of the doorway was an ominous looking cabinet, also locked and a few feet down from it, hanging down from the ceiling, about four feet out from the wall was a steel
chain. At the end of the chain was a pair of closely linked, leather handcuffs.
Leslie shivered with fright. It was clear that this was to be her prison. It also seemed clear that this cell her been especially designed for her. Now she knew why it had taken so long to get her out of prison. They had needed the time to get all this together. That they had been able to do this within a few days said much about Faraq’s efficiency.
She wondered how long she would have to stay down here, alone and locked away. There was no way to tell. The presence of the shower and toilet did not comfort her.
Having given Leslie a good, long look at her new home, Faraq yanked her to her feet. He released his grip on her hair and then unlocked her hand cuffs. When he released the chain from around her ankles, Leslie made a mad dash for the door. Faraq was quicker than her, though, and he rose and shot out his hand, taking a hold of her hair and dragged her back. He slapped her twice across the face, vicious, painful slaps that made Leslie screech with pain and then threw her down on the bed. He slammed the door to the room closed, locked it with the key and put the key in his pocket.
While Leslie lay sobbing on the bed, he went to the cabinet and unlocked it. He removed a three foot long leather riding whip. Without announcing his intention, he brought it down firmly across Leslie’s rear end. Her body jerked and she screamed again. She hustled away from him, staring at him with fear and wonder. He remained motionless.
In a cold, calm but stern voice, he told her, “Miss Harrington, this is your new room. I don’t have to tell you by now that your status here has undergone a significant change. You are a prisoner here as much as you were in the woman’s prison, although I might say that your accommodations are a bit more comfortable. If you wish to avoid the whip, you will do as you are told without question and without hesitation. You have proven yourself a whore and you will be treated as one. At the end of every day, you and I shall have a little session where I will administer corrections for your errors. Failure to obey and failure to please will incur the harshest consequences.
