Galley Slaves

by Mark Andrews

  First though, I was displayed to Ali’s guests. Zanda slipped the transparent robe off my shoulders. I don’t know why they bothered with it really for it hid nothing and was not closed at the front anyway. I suppose it was the symbolic stripping of a slave that they enjoyed.

  Then I had to move around to the front of each chair and pose my again naked body for the man’s pleasure. Ali permitted his guests to reach out and feel his brood slaves down and so I had to suffer this humiliating process as well, standing naked before each man, place my hands up behind my head and undulate my body so he could see the muscles moving ... Ugh! It was awful but then, after doing the same to all of the six guests present, Zanda collected me and returned me to the turntable.

  Perhaps I should describe the room in more detail: it was circular, with a dozen comfortable armchairs placed around the wall but with passage behind them. Each chair had a small table beside it on which sat the guest’s drink and other refreshment. There was then another passage three feet wide in front of the chairs but inside this, the floor dropped a foot and in this recessed area was the turntable. It was motorised and as it turned, quite slowly, every guest got a perfect view of what was happening in the centre.

  There, right in the middle of the turntable, was the frame, but I will come to that in a moment. First, as Zanda now announced, I was to be whipped.

  “Excellency and honoured guests,” he began, bowing first to his master and then around the room to each of the occupied chairs, “as you are all aware, my master has invited you here to witness the mating of the male stallion Sadiki with the female galley slave Christine. That will take place shortly. First though, as you are also aware, she must be ritually whipped to get her blood flowing and her hormonal processes as alive and active as we can get them ...”

  I later discovered they really believed this to be true and for all I know, it might be for the Arabs know a lot more about medicine and the human body than we in the West can imagine.

  I now had to stand on the edge of the turntable, which was already moving, while Zanda took up his whip. This was no cat-o-nine-tails but its braided, soft leather tails still stung, especially in the places they were directed at.

  He started with my breasts. I had to stand facing the outside of the turntable with my legs apart and my hands up behind my head with my elbows pulled right back (in the classic slave pose) and then, bowing again to his audience he began to whip me. As I said, it was my breasts first and I gritted my teeth as the soft lashes, all ten of them, attacked the soft fullness of my so sensitive mammary organs. The next stroke was across my belly and then, in short order, my sex, thighs and calves were attacked. Then I had to turn around while he whipped my backside, from my calves right up my body covering the backs of my thighs, bottom, back, lower and upper and then I had to turn around again while he started all over again.

  This went on for dozens of strokes while Ali and his guests sat there, watching me but also chatting amongst themselves, as if the ritual whipping of a nubile, naked girl was the most ordinary thing in the world.

  It hurt. Every stroke stung but as he laboured up and down my front and back, Zanda’s lashes definitely got my blood racing. Perhaps they were right in their ideas. The soft lashes of the whip did not raise welts on my flesh. But they did imbue my whole body with a pinkish tinge.

  Through all of this process, which took about a half hour, Sadiki stood on the opposite side of the moving turntable, posing his magnificent body to the watching guests and grinning foolishly across at them. Andy stood there next to Ali, his face like stone, his eyes never leaving me for one second and I felt a wash of pure love pass over me again and again as I felt his own love reaching out across space towards me. It told me that no matter what they did to me, even to forcing me to mate with and then carry another man’s child, he would always be there for me.

  The ritual whipping was over at last. I was sore but not excessively so. More, every square millimetre of my flesh now tingled and was so sensitive that even the least touch made me jump. Again I thought perhaps they were right in heir ideas of how to best fertilise a girl - or at least a slave girl for a husband could hardly do this to his wife (or could he?).

  Zanda threw down his whip and now led me over to the mating frame. I have deliberately left a description of this until now for you won’t believe it when I do describe it to you.

  In Western eyes, a man makes love to a woman in what is often described as the ‘missionary position’: the girl lies down and the boy covers her with his body. This was so far removed from that as to be laughable.

  The frame was actually a set of stocks or a pillory for the neck and wrists, but it was set right down at floor level. Then, set back behind this set was another, this time for the ankles. They were only two-feet-six apart from the front set and so the knees were forced forward. You might say we brood slavegirls were forced into a kneeling position on all fours but with our heads right down on the floor and our ankles and knees spread very wide apart.

  It doesn’t need much imagination to see where the buttocks, and therefore, our two nether orifices would be when the body is forced into this position: right up in the air, pointing almost skywards - that is where!

  It also meant of course that the vagina was now in a perfect position for mating, the vaginal tube pointing downwards so as to provide an easy passage for Sadiki’s sperm to reach its destination with as little obstruction as possible. Oh yes, these men knew their onions when it came to the mating of a female slave to her stallion.

  But no matter how effective it was in a physical sense, it was also utterly shameful - and humiliating. With my legs and knees spread so wide, my vagina and anus were on open show, more so than in any other position they could have placed me. With my head and neck and wrists locked down at floor level, my back now described a sharp curve and under my body, my breasts dangled almost, but not quite, to the floor.

  Sadiki watched them secure me, standing with his arms crossed over his broad, powerful chest but with his cock still at full mast, as it had been for the whole time since I entered the room. Of course as a galley slave himself he had been trained by the implant and whip to erect his cock at will and just as Andy had told me he could now keep it erect almost without thinking of it, so apparently, could Sadiki.

  I knelt down, lowered my upper body down with my neck in the bigger hole and my wrists in the two smaller ones so they could lock the top board down over them. Then they dragged my knees and feet wide open and placed my ankles in the holes of the back-board, locking its upper part down and securing me firmly into both stocks.

  I was now ready. Zanda led the huge, handsome and so muscular boy up to me and ordered him to “do his stuff”. I couldn’t see him now of course. The boards of the pillory into which my neck and wrists were secured prevented me from seeing anything behind me but as I watched him disappear from my view, I now felt him at my bottom, poking so obscenely into the air and in seconds, his huge pecker was jabbing at my vulva.

  With my bottom up about eighteen inches from the floor and my frontal entrance also staring up at the ceiling, he could neither kneel nor stand to gain entry but had to sort-of squat over me. This wasn’t at all difficult for him however and soon enough I felt his naked groin slamming against my bottom cheeks, now stretched taut of course.

  Once more I felt a stab of shame that Andy was watching this. That I as his wife of only a few months was being impregnated by another man’s cock and one not even of the same race as me. Not, I hasten to add, that I am racially bigoted. I am certainly not and have many black and Asian friends back in Australia. Indeed, if we had been allowed to talk to the other slaves, Sadiki and his wife might well have been our friends. As it was, with Ali’s policy of allowing no social intercourse whatsoever between any of the slave couples he kept in his stable, we had no chance to get to know any of them.

  My skin was
still tingling of course and it was ultra sensitive and so as Sadiki’s big hands grabbed my butt cheeks and then my waist, I squealed; but not in pain. His hands, like all of us slaves, were hard, made so by the constant work with the oars, but as they moved over my flesh, I felt a wash of pure unbridled lust, added to of course by his cock now reaming in and out of my love tunnel.

  He was under the same constraints as I was. While I had been threatened with female castration and a total closure of my sexual orifice, so the male slaves had a radical castration hanging over their heads if they refused to perform this humiliating function or lacked an appropriate zeal in doing so. In case you don’t know what this means, it involves the total removal of his penis (and even its internal root) as well as his testicles so that he would then be as smooth and sexless as Ingrid was. And remember he was under the same humiliation as I was in having to do it before his lovely young wife.

  Ali was clever. He obviously delighted in these little shows and, as I later found out, in watching my belly swelling with the growing child inside me. To us Westerners, the sight of a pregnant woman is faintly embarrassing (perhaps less so these days but still there, nevertheless). To Arabs however, it is a real pleasure to see a woman with a swollen belly and even more so when one actually owns the woman and can have her paraded naked before one. The more pronounced the swelling, the better it is for them.

  And so now I was faced with two conflicting emotions. First, I was terribly ashamed at being raped (what else could you call it) by a just as unwilling Sadiki, especially in front of Ali and his guests and even more especially, my wonderful husband; but then there was the pleasure.

  It was intense. Whether it was the whipping, as Zanda had said, or whether it was my own perverse sexuality, I don’t know. I do know that forced act of love between Sadiki and me was incredibly pleasurable. I am not going to compare it with the lovemaking between Andy and me.

  The two don’t bear comparison. This was rape; it was absolutely without any consent on my part and although it was intensely thrilling in a purely sensual way, I could not possibly begin to compare it with the loving Andy and I did together.

  That was everything loving ought to be between a man and his wife or partner: sensual, yes, but also gratifying and glorious in an emotional and a spiritual sense. In my mind, good sex depends not only on a physical compatibility between the two combatants, but also this other, almost mystical union. This was of course completely lacking with Sadiki’s rape of my body and while I did indeed delight in the physical excitement of the nerves in my sexual organs, that was all it was.

  No doubt it was a good show for Ali and his friends. To me it was utterly humiliating.

  What did I think of Ali now? It’s strange but in my slavery I had come to think of him and his friends in an almost detached way. This was all perfectly normal for them. Arabs had owned slaves from time immemorial and if his non-Arab partners in the island were on a pure sex trip, that wasn’t the case with him and the other Arabs there. Although I hated that conjoining with Sadiki, I felt weirdly benign towards the man who had ordered it.

  Terribly ashamed and humiliated, yes. But I didn’t hate Ali or Zanda or any of the other overseers and guards there. I know it sounds very, very odd, but that is the way it was.

  Three times Sadiki had to rape me. Three times and with intervals of about half an hour between them when he retreated to his position near my head and Ali and his friends came down onto the turntable to examine my swaying bottom and pulsing vaginal opening.

  I could sense Andy’s rage but he kept his face properly neutral as they so intrusively poked and prodded at my so naked vulva and felt under my chest at my now very excited nipples and breasts. I glanced up at Sadiki and he actually slowly winked at me in a way that gave me a great deal of encouragement for it told me how sorry he was to be doing this at all ...

  I suppose we were up there in that terrible room for about three hours in all, including the preparation, the whipping and then the actual rape including the examinations, etc. And then they all departed. All of them except me - and Andy, both of whom were left locked to our respective positions, me to allow Sadiki’s seed to ooze its way down my tubes to its proper destination and Andy to console me. At least they had that compassion for us.

  “How do you feel, Chris?” he asked me, very tentatively. We had a lot of exploring to do with each other after this event for I had no idea then how he felt about it and vice-versa, of course.

  “All right, Andy. Tired, washed out, and terribly ashamed, but all right ...”

  “Don’t feel ashamed on my account, please ... This was none of your doing ...”

  “You mean that?” I said hopefully.

  “I mean it from the bottom of my heart. If we were going to be allowed to keep Sadiki’s child, I would love it just as much as if it was my own because it comes from you ...”

  “Oh Andy, I love you so much ...”

  A week later it was my turn to be locked to the pole next to Ali and forced to watch as Andy raped Ingawa, Sadiki’s lovely wife. Sadiki was of course locked to the pole on Ali’s other side and the pair of us now had to stand there and watch as Zanda ritually whipped Ingawa and then supervised her being secured into the frame so that Andy could impregnate her as Sadiki had me the week before.

  I don’t know which was worse. Being raped myself or forced to watch as my husband did it to Sadiki’s wife. Both were utterly horrible. But after it all, Andy’s and my relationship really blossomed.

  Over the next weeks and months he showed me by act as well as words how much he did indeed love me. A week later, for example, when I was well past my fertile period and Ali had allowed us a day off, he made love to me over and over again in the soft grass behind the beach. And at other times, he whispered to me of his love for me.

  Later, when the evidence of my forced infidelity to him began to show (and when we were allowed time off) he would stroke my growing belly and muse about how we would have had dozens of children of our own given the chance.

  As I’ve said before, my pregnancy made no difference to my workload as a galley slave. I was exercised just as hard as before, even to pulling hard on the oars, an act that really works the belly muscles as well as those of the thighs, arms, shoulders and back. If any Western doctor is appalled at this however, let me say of all the girls I saw carry and then give birth to a little sucker (what an expression!), every single one of them dropped that child with as little fuss and bother as if they were simply taking off a coat.

  And, when it came my turn, I did the same, but more about that a little further on.

  It might seem strange, but Andy and I struck up a friendship with Sadiki and his wife, Ingawa. She too was Nubian of course but she was also very lovely. Slender and petite, she was nonetheless quite perfect in body and demeanour and was a perfect counterpoint to her huge husband.

  Of course we couldn’t converse but after Andy and I had discussed it quietly in our stall and had resolved that Sadiki’s rape of my body was not of his making (and neither was his of hers) and that they seemed to be a very nice couple, we began to smile at them and when possible, to show them we were looking for their friendship.

  This was a somewhat risky ploy, not because we feared punishment if we were found out for we were very careful about that, but from the fact that slaves disappeared from time to time. We didn’t know what happened to them at first but then, after a few more months, I noticed one of the males who had been with us on the oars was now a guard with another master. Until we did begin to understand how things worked there though, we thought perhaps they were shipped away to serve in some capacity elsewhere and to make friends and then lose them wasn’t a very good idea.

  As a result however, whenever we could, we worked at our exercises near them and the friendship, though silent, developed even as our two bellies swelled more and more.
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br />   Another reason for our friendship was the fact that the four of us, of all the slaves in Ali’s stables, were the ones who accepted our lot as galley slaves the best. Andy and I had very early decided that resistance was not only futile but stupid since it brought nothing but pain and hardship and, as we discovered, our acceptance meant we got more days off.

  Zanda noted our friendship but also the fact that we never made any attempts to talk to one another and he gave us a rare privilege. When he rewarded us for good work the next time, he allowed the four of us to take our day off together, something no-one had been allowed at least since we arrived.

  We were excited to be allowed to actually talk to each other and after Andy and I had assured Sadiki that we bore him no grudge for his mating with me and they had done the same to us, we exchanged backgrounds and histories and we were astonished to find that Sadiki had also been a physical education student at Khartoum University and so we now had something else in common. Of course, with his incredible body, it’s no wonder he chose physical education as his career.

  We soon discovered he and Ingawa were very bright people. And by that I don’t just mean intelligent although they certainly were that. No, I mean they were bright and bubbly in manner as well and soon we all came to accept that Andy was going to be the sire of Ingawa’s baby just as Sadiki was mine although we also mourned that we would not do more than just glimpse our babies before they were taken from us.

  We had a great time together that day and no, there was no hanky-panky between us. We touched, yes, but that was as far as it went and that day a real friendship was forged between the four of us.

  Later we discovered Ali had directed Zanda to give us this day (and others, later on as well) for he had seen the signs - a little look here, a smile there and had decided that although the rule would be maintained, in our case a small relaxation might prove beneficial to him. And so it proved, later ...