by Paul Blades
Mrs. Moussa cut all the way up the back of Leslie’s dress. She took one arm and cut the dress all the way to her shoulder and then did the other arm. Leslie was crying the whole time. This was her favorite dress. She knew that the likelihood of her ever wearing it again was close to nil, but to see it being wantonly destroyed by the cruel Mrs. Moussa was too much to take. And all this on top of having to watch Mr. Martin walk out the door. She started blubbering and sobbing. Mrs. Moussa tore the rest of the dress from her body. She crouched down and pulled her Reeboks from her feet and tore off her socks. Before she got up, she connected the chain from the bracelet on Leslie’s right hand to the one on her left.
Just then, Faraq returned to the room. “Take this pig down to her cell and give her a thorough beating,” Mrs. Moussa said in English so that Leslie could understand her. “She needs to put all the foolishness that took place here today out of her mind. And when you’re done, have Latifah bring her to my salon. I’ll be waiting for her there.”
Faraq snapped his fingers and Leslie jumped to her feet. She was still sobbing. Faraq connected her leash to the ring in her loins and pulled her from the room. She sobbed all the way down the hall, down the stairs and along the corridor. She was till sobbing when Faraq mounted her once more in her cell, her hands pulled far up above her, her ankles anchored to the floor. He took a long, thin whip out of the closet and, without delay, laid into her with a powerful stroke.
When Latifah brought her up to Mrs. Moussa’s salon an hour later, she had been decorated as usual and was wearing all of her accouterments. Her body was covered with a dozen angry, red stripes.
CHAPTER NINE
As the months went by, Leslie felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into her role as a sexual slave. She got so used to being referred to as Ghaniyah that, at times, she forgot that she once had been called Leslie. All she thought about was sex and, occasionally, her freedom. During the long, boring hours she often spent in her cage in the kitchen, she would begin to yearn to have somebody ring for her. Her pussy would become wet when she saw Faraq or Mrs. Moussa moving through the kitchen. With Mrs. Moussa, it was always tinged with a feeling of revulsion. Faraq took all of his meals there and she would burn as she watched him, hoping that when he was done he would take her downstairs and fuck her or, at least, release her from her cage for a short while so that she could suck his prick.
It was in December, some nine months after her enslavement, that events coalesced that would change her status.
Hajib was home. Mr. and Mrs. Moussa were away in Rome, along with Jana. Faraq had left for a few days to see to some business for Mr. Moussa. To Leslie’s dismay, Hajib had virtual sole use of her, except for Latifah of course. For three days running, he kept her in his room for hours, abusing her, fucking her, whipping her. He brought two of his friends home with him one day and the three of them used her repeatedly in turn, or in pairs, while drinking themselves into a stupor. It was early in the morning that Latifah was able to rescue her.
On the fourth day, Latifah received a telegram from her sister in Tunis that their mother was ill. She was beside herself. Via telephone from Rome, Mrs. Moussa gave her permission to go and see her. It was arranged that the house mistress would take care of Leslie.
She, of course, had little experience with how to handle the house slave, but she did her best. By the second day after her departure, Leslie was pining for Latifah’s return.
It was that night that it happened. The house mistress had dropped Leslie off in Hajib’s room. Normally, Latifah would have parked herself outside of his door and waited until he was done with her. The housemistress had other duties, however, and she left, intending to return in an hour or so.
Hajib was a typical rich man’s son. He was juvenile in the extreme, irresponsible and wild. When he discovered that the housemistress wasn’t there, he telephoned a few of his friends. When he got off the phone, he left Leslie chained to his bed while he went out to get something. He returned with a long, black ayala. He bound her hands to her front collar and made Leslie put it on. He brought her down the stairs to the outside and put her in the passenger seat of his car. He drove her to one of the first class hotels in town and brought her upstairs to the penthouse.
The party had already started. There was loud rock and roll music, laughing, dancing young men and women, and a table full of booze. It was one of the hotel’s largest suites and there were as many as twenty five people there. When Hajib brought Leslie into the room, he made an announcement. The music stopped and everyone crowded around. He lifted Leslie’s abaya up from the hem, whisking it from her body.
Leslie had been frightened when Hajib took her from the house. She was deathly afraid of him. He had no limits as far as she was concerned and he had beaten her very badly a few times, so much that she had to stay in bed the next day to recover. Although he was scolded by Mrs. Moussa, he was not punished.
When she saw all the fashionable young people gathered in the room, Leslie’s stomach fell. She knew that Hajib would make her available to them. There were so many and most of them appeared to be drunk. When Hajib took off her covering, she whined in misery.
They made good use of her. The crowd watched her first few blow jobs, issuing catcalls and witty comments that made everyone laugh. After that, the party resumed again and she was dragged to the bedroom where the real fucking started. Boys and girls had their fun with her. It didn’t take long before she was covered with cum and women’s slick discharge. Her tongue and pussy and rear started to become sore.
The party went on and on. People came and went. Hajib was nowhere to be found. Leslie saw people doing lines of coke and smoking hash. They made her smoke some and she welcomed the dizziness and dullness it brought. They filled her full of booze too. Eventually, someone brought her to the bathroom, gave her a shower and then brought her back to the bed for more fun.
At some point, Leslie passed out. When she awoke, she was on the bed. There was absolute silence in the suite. Bodies of boys and girls, in various states of undress were strewn about the room. It took Leslie a few moments to realize that she wasn’t chained to anything. It was the first time in almost a year. She understood immediately that her chance for escape at come at last.
She went to the bathroom and threw up. After she washed her face, removing her makeup with soap and water, she felt a lot better. She tiptoed out into the bedroom and gathered some women’s clothes that she thought would fit. She selected a nice pink blouse and a black miniskirt together with a pair of black high heels. There were a dozen abayas strewn about the room and she picked one up. Then she looked around for women’s purses. In the third one, she found a passport. The girl didn’t look much like her, but she would have to do. She went through the pockets of some of the pants and found wads of cash. She found Hajib lying in a pool of his own vomit. His pants were around his ankles. Resisting the temptation to piss on his face, she reached in them carefully and found his car keys. A moment later, she was out the door.
She took the stairs rather than the elevator in case she might meet someone coming up who would stop her. When she got to the parking lot, she found Hajib’s car right away. It was a Mercedes sports model, a two seater, brand new. She hopped into the driver’s seat, started it up and roared away.
She didn’t know where she was going at first, but she knew that she needed to get away from the hotel in case Hajib came looking for her. She drove about five miles outside of the city and stopped by the side of the road. Her adrenaline was pumping high. She realized, too late, that she hadn’t anything to eat or drink. She didn’t dare stop anywhere because, even after all these months, she only had a smattering of Arabic and that had mostly to do with spreading her legs, kneeling down or opening her mouth.
She tried to gather herself and tried to envision a map of Tunisia. She knew that to the east was Libya. She certainly didn’t want to go there. To the west was Algeria. That sounded a little better. But which road should she take
? How far was it and did she have enough gas? If she was able to sneak into Algeria, she could find the American Embassy and get a ticket home. They just had to help her. She was still an American, wasn’t she?
She opened the glove compartment and found a map. When she unfolded it, she saw immediately that her options were very limited. Algeria was many, many miles away. And once she reached the border, it was many, many more miles to the coast and the capital city where the embassy would be. Libya was only about 75 miles. She couldn’t remember if there was an American Embassy in Libya anymore, but there had to be something. Tripoli was a huge city and was very close to the border. She had some money. She could call home and her dad would find some way to help her.
So Libya it would be.
She took the car out on the roadway. Fifteen minutes later, she was on the coast highway traveling at 75 kilometers per hour.
She felt so happy she began to laugh. She drew back the hood to her ayala and let the wind from the window blow through her hair. It was about 7 a.m. and chilly. There were a few cars passing the other way, but not many. She turned on the radio and tuned it to an Italian station where she could hear good old rock and roll music. Hajib had left a pack of cigarettes in the console and she took one out and smoked it, even though she had never smoked before. She coughed at first, but then got it down. It made her head feel light and dizzy, but that felt good too.
When she thought that all of her travails were behind her, she started to cry. No more whippings, no more chains, no more Latifah. She could sleep in a bed alone. She could go out for walks. She could sleep all day, stay up all night and watch TV. Go to movies, find a boyfriend, see her family, use the telephone. All of these things were going to happen. No more 20 year prison term looming over her horizon.
After a while, she held back her tears. She would have a good cry and a mental breakdown when she was home and free for sure. Now there was still danger out there. She remembered that she had to cross the border and that she had somebody else’s passport. But she had a huge wad of cash too and, from what she understood, in these Middle East countries, cash talked and bullshit walked.
A little over an hour later, she came up to the border crossing. There was a high gate and customs offices on both sides. She started to get nervous. “This has to work! This has to work!” she thought. She remembered the collar around her neck. She worried whether seeing it might set off alarm bells. But if she kept the ayala up high, covering her neck, she might be all right.
There were three cars ahead of her when she pulled up to the border crossing. Two sleepy guards were manning the actual gate and a thin man in a poorly fitting uniform was checking passports. He had a military style cap on his head and red epaulettes on his shoulders. She remembered the last time she had seen red epaulettes and she shivered.
It only took a minute or so for her car to be next. The man leaned over into her window and said something in Arabic to her. She just smiled and handed him the passport. She had put two 100 Dinar notes in it, about $150.00. His eyes bugged out a little when he saw them and he looked around. Then he looked at Leslie and then back at the passport. He lifted the cash from it and looked at the picture. There was a pause that, for Leslie, lasted a lifetime.
He closed the passport, put the money in his pocket and pointed to his left, saying something in Arabic. Leslie didn’t understand him, but his tone didn’t sound too good. She reached down into the little purse she had stolen and pulled out another wad of cash. It was about 400 Dinar. He took that too, put it in his pocket and repeated his motion for her to pull out of the line. Leslie started to panic. She grabbed all the cash that she had and she proffered it to him. “Please! Please let me through! Please!” she said. The she repeated it in French. The man said something angry to her. The men at the gate were taking notice.
Overwhelmed with fear, Leslie considered gunning the motor and running the gate. But then there were the guards on the other side, the Libyans. She would have to run that gate too and then she would be a fugitive in Libya. She realized that she didn’t have much choice. Maybe the man just wanted her to wait until a better time. Maybe he wanted sex or something. Maybe he’d let her go if she could talk to him in private.
She gave the car some gas and pulled over to where the officer had indicated. She pulled the veil over her face and got out of the car. He took her by the elbow and escorted her into the small brick building. There was a small reception area with a number of dirty, worn, yellow plastic chairs and a window behind which sat another officer. The man who had brought her in said something to the man at the window. He pressed a buzzer and the door to the right of the window popped open. The officer led Leslie through the door, down a long hall paneled in faux oak, and to another door. He opened the door, pushed Leslie in and then closed it.
The room was about 10’ by 20’ with an 8’ high ceiling. It had a scuffed up wooden floor and a bench that ran along one wall. Ominously, there were chains bolted into the benches with hand cuffs at their ends. The room had a series of small windows covered by chicken wire about a foot wide along the top of the wall. Its walls too were covered with cheap, fake oak paneling. Leslie realized that she had been detained. She sat down on the bench and cried.
She knew that if she was returned to the Moussa’s she would be in a world of trouble. She couldn’t imagine the punishments she would receive. And then there was the distinct possibility that she would be taken directly to the prison where she could commence her 20 year sentence capped off by whatever they would give her for trying to flee the country. A wave of despair flowed through her so intense that she began to vomit. A thin line of bile and other foul smelling liquids emerged from her mouth and spilled onto the floor. She looked around the room to see if there was anything there she could kill herself with. There was nothing, of course, unless she could break a window and cut her wrists with some glass. But she had nothing to break it with. And she had the chickenwire to contend with too. She bent over and curled up on the bench and sobbed.
She had been cried out for about an hour when the door opened and another officer came in. He was dressed like the first, but without a cap. He looked at the floor where Leslie had puked and made a disgusted face. Leslie looked back at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t help it.”
The man waved for her to come with him. When she reached the door, he took hold of her elbow and marched her deeper into the building. He had a tight grip on her arm. She was led to another door. He knocked and she heard a man’s deep voice answer. He opened the door, guided her through and closed the door behind her.
This room was elegantly appointed. The walls were painted a deep green and there was a plush rug on the floor. On the walls were mounted beautiful watercolors of desert scenes. There were a few official looking plaques. On the far wall was a picture of the country’s ancient dictator and in the corner hung the national flag.
Immediately in front of her was a large, dark oak desk. It was neat, with a small pile of papers to the right and a telephone to the left. It had a large, green desk pad on it. Behind it, sat a broad shouldered man with a full, black moustache and black, wavy hair, neatly barbered. He had red epaulettes on his shoulders too, but also had what looked like golden eagles on his lapel. Leslie’s passport and the wad of cash she had given the border guard were sitting on his desk. He had a scowl on his face. He didn’t look evil, but he didn’t look friendly either. Leslie guessed that he was about 50 years old.
“Please sit down,” he told her.
Nervously, Leslie made her way to a wooden chair in front of his desk and took a seat.
“Now I know that this isn’t your passport. You’re not even Tunisian. So you might as well tell me who you are and why you are trying to sneak into Libya.”
Leslie’s throat constricted and she started to cry. “Please let me go! Please!” she said miserably. “You can have all my money. You can even have the car. I just want to go home!”
“My name i
s Colonel Abib,” he announced. “I am the commander of this border crossing. When a foreigner hands one of my men a Tunisian passport and some cash, the subject is arrested and brought in here to me. Your only chance of crossing this border today is to convince me that you have a good reason to flee Tunisia. So I want the truth. Now. You are an American, no?”
Leslie nodded. She began her tale of woe. She told him everything from her arrest by the police in Dar Al Jamah to her stealing of the car. She showed him her collar and bracelets. Her face was awash with tears and the colonel twice had to give her tissues to wipe it.
“That is a very sad story, Miss Harrington,” he said finally. “Alas it is not too uncommon in our country. There is much corruption. Let me tell you this, the last thing I want is you serving 20 years in a Tunisian prison.”
Leslie’s face brightened. “You mean you’ll help me.”
“Of course,” he said.
Leslie burst into tears again. “Oh, thank you!” she said over and over. “Thank you!”
“For official reasons, I cannot let you cross the border until tonight when I get off duty. This way I will not be committing an official act of misconduct. You will have to wait until then. I assume that this is acceptable.”
“Oh, yes! Yes!” Leslie blurted out. “Anything you say! I can’t thank you enough!”
“It is all right. I will have my reward,” he replied.
He pressed a buzzer on his phone and the office who had escorted her to his office returned. The colonel gave him some instructions and he snapped to attention.
“My man will take you to a waiting room. I assume you haven’t eaten. He will bring you some food and something to drink. The room is air conditioned so that you will be comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Leslie replied.
