by Paul Blades
Leslie quailed as she took in the cruel factotum’s words. She was to be treated as a whore. Did that mean what she thought it meant? Faraq had said she would be judged by how well she pleased. Pleased who and how? Was Mr. Moussa’s fucking of her just an introduction to her new role as his fuck toy?
“You have already earned a whipping by your struggle to avoid being brought here and your attempt to escape,” Faraq continued. “Do not compound it now by disobedience.”
Tears were flowing down Leslie’s face. “A whipping! He’s going to give me a whipping! Oh my god!” she thought frantically. She began to whine. She pulled at the handkerchief stuffed in her mouth so that she could beg for mercy.
“Get you hands away from that!” Faraq shouted. “Who told you you could take that out?”
Leslie shook her head miserably indicating, no one.
“Get up off the bed and take off those clothes!” Faraq ordered.
Leslie hesitated to obey, but when she saw the fury growing in Faraq’s cold eyes, she hurriedly rose to her feet, unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it on the bed. She reached behind her and undid the button to her skirt and then slid it down her hips. Trembling, naked, she crouched down, picked it up and placed it on the bed next to her blouse.
“Come here!” Faraq ordered.
Cringing in fear, Leslie stepped slowly over towards him. She had to go around the foot of the bed to reach him.
Faraq pointed to the toilet. “Use it!” he spat. “I don’t want you peeing on the floor when I whip you.”
Leslie emitted a miserable moan. She crept slowly to the port-a-potty , pulled up the lid to the seat and sat down on it. And she sat, and she sat, and she sat. Nothing came out. She was too scared.
“Let me tell you, Miss Harrington,” Faraq said menacingly, “if you don’t pee in the next 30 seconds, I will add to your punishment. And if you pee while I’m whipping you, it will be even worse.”
Releasing a sob, Leslie concentrated madly on pushing some water from her bladder. She pushed and pushed and pushed. She felt her blood pressure rise. It felt like her head was going to pop off. Seconds were ticking by at an alarming rate. Having Faraq’s cold eyes on her wasn’t helping matters. She kept pushing and pushing. And then, when she had just about given up hope, she felt the tell tale tingle that denoted the imminent release of water. It came out in a few drops at first. Then a few more. She pushed again and it released in a steady jet.
She breathed a sigh of relief as she listened to the tinkle beneath her. Her heart was pumping hard and she felt dizzy from the strain. Her relief was short lived. For when she looked up, she saw Faraq watching her coolly, tapping the three foot long whip in his hands on his thigh.
When her water trailed off, Leslie took a few sheets of toilet paper and brushed it along her divide. There was a greasiness there that she had not anticipated, but then realized that it was Mr. Moussa’s seed seeping out of her. It was a stark reminder of what it would mean to be the household whore. Who else would she have to fuck? All of them? Surely not all of them!
She tossed the paper in the toilet and pressed the lever that sent the water whooshing into the back tank. Slowly, she got up from the toilet and went to the sink. Slowly, ever slowly, tears of fear running down her face, as if she could delay her appointment with Faraq’s whip forever, she took the bar of white soap and washed her hands. Then slowly, as slowly as she could, she dried them with the little towel that was hanging there. When she was done, she put it back, and then turned to face her oppressor.
All of her wanted to fall to her knees and beg him for mercy. Didn’t anyone in this foul land have an ounce of mercy for her? She couldn’t understand how all this could be happening. How could it be true that within the next minute she would be howling and wailing while this cold, cruel man was belaboring her body with a whip? It all seemed so unreal. And was she really in the bowels of Mr. Moussa’s mansion? Was it all some bad dream?
Faraq didn’t say anything to her. He merely raised his hand and urged her over. Gritting her teeth, suppressing a sob, a chill running through her whole body, Leslie edged herself closer. When she was standing under the chain that led down from the ceiling she stopped.
Faraq placed the whip under his arm and took hold of her right wrist. She did not resist him when he raised it and enclosed it in one of the leather handcuffs. She did not resist him when he imprisoned the other one, although her knees went weak and her stomach turned sour. The chain led up to the ceiling, through a small wheel, to the wall where it went through another small wheel and fell towards the floor. Faraq grabbed the end of the chain by the wall and gave it a tug, pulling Leslie’s hands up over her head. He gave it another tug and she was up on her tip toes. A third tug and her toes were in the air.
Leslie squealed as she felt her weight pull down on her confined wrists. Faraq bent down and she felt a strap going around her ankles. It was tied off and then brought down to a ring in the floor where it was pulled taut and fastened. She was totally immobile and would be unable to dodge or to try and avoid any of his blows. Leslie whimpered and her body shivered. She closed her eyes, not wanting to witness her own torture.
Faraq reached around her head and worked the handkerchief out of her mouth. It was not a very efficient gag anyway and, in moments of extreme distress, a victim could swallow it and choke to death. If he wanted to kill her, he would just do it. He tossed it aside and went back to the cabinet.
Leslie could feel her lips trembling. Faraq had moved behind her and she could not see what he was doing. The answer came when he returned. He carried a wide strap that had attached to it a thick, leather prong. Leslie opened her mouth meekly when he presented it to her knowing that resistance was futile. She mewed while he buckled it behind her head. The strap went under her chin, pulling her mouth closed tightly. It was so tightly sealed that only the most violent screams would emerge, and them as only muted whines. Faraq had no interest, at least today, in hearing her scream.
When Faraq stepped away from her, Leslie knew that her torment was about to begin. “There will be fifteen strokes,” he told her coldly. “The first five are for general purposes, to initialize deep in your brain your duty to be obedient in all things. Five will be for struggling outside the door and then trying to run away. Two is for trying to remove your gag without permission. The last three are for taking your time in washing up. I’m sure you will do better next time.”
“Fifteen strokes!” Leslie screamed inwardly. “Oh my god! I’ll never be able to stand it! It’s too cruel! It’s too unfair!” Faraq was behind her. His disembodied voice, announcing her cruel sentence, was like a harbinger of doom. She did not see him raise his arm. She did not see him move it forward, but she heard the whip buzz through the air. She was about to scream, “Wait!” when a line of fire erupted across her buttocks. Her body shuddered and jerked. She drew in her breath prefatory to a scream. The second stroke landed immediately after the first. It landed across the back of her thighs. It burned so intently that she momentarily lost her ability to breath. Her eyes rolled back and her chest heaved. The next blow scoured her lower back, just above her hips. Its sting went through her like a viper’s bite.
Faraq paused. He waited. Leslie’s body was shaking as she tried to recover her breath. It took her a moment. And then she screamed. The sound barely emerged from behind her gag.
She was still screaming when he crossed in front of her. When she saw him, she began shaking her head. Her eyes pleaded for mercy. Tears were streaming down her face. Her eyes widened when she saw his arm raised backwards. The whip came forward so fast that her eyes could not keep up with it. It struck across her breasts before she even knew it. Her body stiffened again, convulsed in her bindings and again, a high pitched, barely audible squeal emerged from her gagged lips. Two more blows followed in quick succession, tearing across her flat, taut belly and the front of her immobile, defenseless thighs.
Faraq waited until she had fully absorbed the blo
ws. When her body stopped twitching and the squeal subsided, he went around back behind her again.
Although he took especial enjoyment in delivering a hellish suffering to this creature who had defiled his master, Faraq went about his task slowly and without passion. He belabored her back and rear again, and again across the back of her thighs. Her screams renewed. He returned to the front. When she was ready, he gave her three more. Again her body shook and contorted, again the barely audible high pitched screams emerged from her mouth. There were three more to go.
Calmly, he stepped back to the cabinet. He placed the whip on its hook and picked out a heavy, four foot long cane. It had no curve to its top, but was designed with a grip on its end so that it could be wielded more easily. There was no sense in waiting for Leslie’s sobs to expire. She would be sobbing for a long while yet. But he gave it about thirty seconds. Then, he let the cane fly.
It struck her across her lower back, just above her kidneys, impacting the muscles there. It landed with a loud, ‘thump!’ Leslie’s sobs resolved into a deep, heavy moan. He moved to her front. She looked at him, despair and futility in her eyes. Her nose crinkled and her features, those that could be seen above the wide, leather strap across her mouth, sagged. He reared his hand back and delivered the fourteenth blow. It struck right across the front of her thighs. As she sobbed in misery, he crossed back behind her and gave her a blow across her plump, rear cheeks. He made sure he put his all into it due to the nature of his soft target. It made a loud, ‘thump!’ as it landed and Leslie’s body convulsed and shook for the final time.
Leslie continued to moan and sob while he replaced the cane into the cabinet. He stepped behind her and removed a shiny, gold case from his pants pocket. He opened it and removed a short cigarette with a black tipped filter. They were Turkish, the only brand he ever smoked. He tapped the filter end on his cigarette case twice and then slid the case back into his left pocket. He had a gold plated butane lighter in his right. He removed it, pressed it with his thumb, and a short, brilliant flame erupted. He lit his cigarette and put the lighter back from whence it had come.
The cigarette was short but slow burning. He sat down in one of the chairs, inventorying Leslie’s tormented body with his eyes. She was still moaning, although the moans were becoming lower and lower. Her back was to him. There was something eminently satisfying in seeing the American girl’s wounds.
He had detested her the first moment he had laid eyes on her. He despised her easygoing ways, the way she assumed that everyone should applaud her voluptuous frame, her innocent mien. And he despised all that she represented, the presumptuous and proud American nation, its wealth and military power, its arrogance and greed. Not that he had sympathies for any of the Islamic madmen with their so called holy war. Their hypocrisy and affected moral superiority sickened him.
He let out another large cloud of bluish grey smoke and looked upon his handiwork with immense satisfaction. Sweat was dripping off of her in sheets. Her forlorn moans were delightful. Every once in a while, her body twitched once or twice and then came back to rest.
After a few minutes, when the cigarette neared its end, Faraq went to the toilet and pinched off its ash. He stripped the remaining paper away so that any residual tobacco would fall into the water. He placed the filter in his pocket for later disposal.
Going back to the cabinet, he began to remove the things he would need for Leslie’s next lesson in discipline. These were a series of straps of various lengths and thickness, a leather sheath and a seven inch long cylinder with a bulbous head and a ring on its flat base. When they were assembled on the bed, he returned to his victim.
He lowered the chain holding Leslie aloft until her feet were flat on the ground. She looked at him with doleful eyes as he removed her gag. She fell limply against him when he freed her wrists from their confinements. He held her until she was steady and then told her to turn around.
Her body was covered with angry, red stripes, six on each side. Where she had been struck with the cane was more of a scarlet color. “Stand still,” he told her, “or we’ll start all over again.”
Leslie stood there unsteadily. Her body felt limp and her knees were weak. Her wounds burned and her muscles throbbed where she had been struck by the cane. It took all of her effort to obey. All she wanted to do was collapse to the floor.
Before Faraq had joined Mr. Moussa’s service, he had spent five years with the secret police. He was well familiar with all the methods of tormenting the human body. All it took was a call to his former colleagues to obtain the tools for the American girl’s subjugation. He already knew how to use them.
He stepped over to the bed and retrieved a leather strap and the black, leather sleeve. Going behind Leslie, he took hold of her arms and pulled them together behind her. He placed them palm to palm. He ran a strap around her wrists, between them and around them again. Then they went under her thumbs, pressing her palms together, then over her thumbs. After tying them off, he ran the ends over her fingers, forcing them together and tied it off again. The strap was tight enough to hold everything together, but not so tight that it would cut off her circulation. It was a difficult art to master, one that, unfortunately, had required much trial and error.
Leslie stood there docilely, letting him do whatever he wanted. It was when he pulled the leather sleeve up over her hands, up past her elbows and almost all the way to her shoulders that she became concerned. Of course, by then it was too late. Faraq quickly pulled up the zipper that closed the sheath tightly around her arms, forcing them so close that her elbows almost touched. Leslie whined at the pain to her shoulders while he laced together the top and tied it off tightly.
Faraq looked upon his work admiringly. Leslie’s shoulders were pulled back painfully. Her arms were locked straight and true behind her. There would be more to do, but it was time for a little break.
He took hold of Leslie’s shoulders and spun her around. He looked appreciatively into her troubled eyes. Her breasts were jutting out nicely. She was a little over a half a head shorter than him and her breasts were at a convenient level for his hands to reach up and seize them. She whimpered while he caressed and massaged them. He took hold of her stiffened nipples and pulled them upwards, forcing the girl on her toes. He let her whimper there a while and then lowered her slowly. Then he leaned over and one by one, took her teats into his mouth, suckling them, running his tongue over them, giving them bites painful enough to make the girl jump.
She was a beautiful girl with a magnificent body. It had been a long time, two years since he had been with the secret police, that he had had a body as desirable as this at his untrammeled disposal. Her foolish sin had placed her at his mercy. And what was so wonderful about it was that she was not some ignorant Arab girl picked up randomly from the streets as he had done so many times in the past. She was a citizen of the Great Satan, the despoiler of the Arab world. She would pay for her country’s sins. He would see to that.
He reached behind her head and unbuckled the gag. Her lips were trembling when he pulled the thick leather prong from her mouth. He tossed it on the bed. He was not done with it. He put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her to her knees. He lowered his fly and removed his already hardened cock. He did not have to tell her what to do. With a high pitched whine, she leaned forward and took it into her mouth.
That was another thing about those Arab girls. They had to be taught to suck cock. Some of them were so shocked that such a filthy thing would be demanded of them that it took several long sessions of the whip to get them to open their mouths. It often took them weeks to get good at it.
The few American and European girls who had passed through their hands were another story entirely. They were only too happy to engulf the cocks of their tormentors if only to interrupt their agonies. And they all seemed to know how to do it well.
Leslie was no exception. She subsumed his cock between her lips and washed it with her tongue. She began to suckle
it softly as she moved her head backwards and forwards. She was taking her time, making sure she got it right, anxious to please. As well she should be.
Leslie’s gut wrenched when she understood what was being demanded of her. This man had caused her more pain than she would ever have thought her body could tolerate. Her red stripes still burned and her wounds from the cane were throbbing. And she knew, from the binding he had just administered, that he had more torment in mind for her.
Her mind had already formed a separation between all of her prior life and her life to come. One was before her whipping and the other was after. The same person did not exist on both sides of that divide.
Yet she absorbed his cock into her mouth without hesitation. She would give him the best blow job she was capable of. It was not that she thought he deserved it, or was foolish to think that her best efforts would somehow assuage his cruelty. No, it was more basic than that. It was that she feared what he would do if he came to believe that she was holding anything back, being less than enthusiastic, not giving the best that she could give. He had become like a force of nature to her. More than human. A demon who had taken possession of her soul. Her fear of him had become so magnified, that she knew that she had to adore him like a god or face terrible consequences.
Faraq let his hands rest gently on Leslie’s bobbing head. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the moist heat, the active tongue, the pursed lips. He let his need slowly build. He was in no rush. And he knew that the girl would remain at her task until she dropped from exhaustion if he so demanded.
When Leslie heard Faraq moan with pleasure, she took this as a signal to accelerate her efforts. He began a low hum as her lips traversed up and down his stiff pole. His hands grasped her head just a little bit firmer. His hips began to rock in time with her motions. When he released a low groan, she reared her head back and suckled the head of his prick, flicking the tip with her tongue, running it around the sleek head. When she pushed it past the fold at the end and ran it across the tip of the tender flesh inside, his body shuddered. Then she knew it was time.
