Pet Slaves

by Mark Andrews

  They spoke in English, no doubt for my benefit but I already knew a few words of Arabic. Language is essential to an anthropologist but in any case, I had a flair for them, learning French, Latin and Japanese at school. At home I had some of those recorded language courses and Arabic was one of them. Listening to them speak over the next few weeks would quickly give me a fair understanding of what was going on around me, I knew.

  Once Masoud had shown me off to his father, I was taken down to the cellars of the palace, where Ondoka practised his horrible ‘education’ of new slaves. Muslim law forbids the enslavement of the faithful but blonde Christian Europeans are a favourite target for Arab slavers.

  An Arab aristocrat likes his women to be either beautiful and voluptuous (softly rounded and with a little fat on her bones), or decidedly athletic. Never anything in between. The former class must always be of classical beauty but the latter, to which I obviously belonged, could be merely attractive. With us, it was the sex that was important. They certainly bedded the other class but there they had to do the work for those women were never trained to perform as we were.

  As I said earlier, I have an athletic type of build and while it was natural in me, it also made me capable of excelling in sports, which I loved, all of them. I played tennis and hockey, rode to hounds, swam and even enjoyed athletics and gymnastics. In short, I would take on any sport and push myself hard to excel in it. My body responded of course and while I wasn’t exactly muscular as a male athlete is, I certainly didn’t have an ounce of fat on me.

  The first stage of my conditioning was to be the removal of my body hair. I kept myself shaved and my vulva trimmed. What they were going to do was to obviate such grooming. It was practised on all harem women, the Arabs (in my understanding, anyway) loathing hair on a woman’s body. They have developed chemicals which do the job painlessly on a wife’s body but they are expensive and deemed unnecessary for a mere slavegirl (or boy, as I was later to discover).

  It involved dipping me into what looked like an old-fashioned well set in the corner of one of the cellar rooms. Over it was a winch from which dangled a chain with a pair of cuffs on the end. He led me over to the rectangular edge of the well and operated the winch until the cuffs were at chest height. He took my hands and the cuffs and snapped the one to the other then reversed the winch, raising my hands up over my head.

  As my feet left the kerbing at the edge of the well, my body swung over to dangle over the dark liquid inside it and I stared down at it in fear.

  “Yes, you may well fear this, slavegirl. It is going to hurt ...”

  I stared at him. He was such a handsome devil and so beautifully muscled and yet he seemed to hate us slaves. I didn’t say anything, though. I was already scared witless of this man who seemed to emanate such power over us.

  He lowered me into the thick liquid, it was almost treacle-like in its consistency, well, perhaps not quite as thick as that but it was certainly soup-like. As my feet disappeared into it and then my legs, I could already feel a burning sensation wherever hairs had been on them. But when it got to my groin (and later my armpits), where the growth was more vigorous, it really was like fire. It felt as if I was in an acid bath - an apt analogy, or perhaps a far too hot bath.

  He lowered me until my armpits were fully immersed and this meant I had to keep my head tilted back in order to breathe. And then he left me, turning off the lights in the small cellar room so that I was now in stygian blackness, alone in the dark to contemplate my future.

  What future, I wondered. Masoud had said I was now his slave and had added the rider, slut, to it. I had no doubt he meant what he said. I was well educated enough to know that slavery still existed in the Middle East, no matter what the various governments there told the US, the UN and anyone else who presumed to tell them what to do with their women (and some men). That I was now one of them, apparently, seemed also inescapable and I realised that my actions in refusing to bed Masoud all those months ago had resulted in this dreadful state of affairs.

  I knew also that while my parents would move heaven and earth to find me and secure my release, it wasn’t very likely. My kidnapping had been most expertly carried out. The two men who had abducted me had been impeccably dressed in western clothes and the case one of them carried (apparently effortlessly) was far to small for a girl to be encased in - wasn’t it?

  No, I was there and apparently a harem slave. They both knew I was a virgin and from my studies, I was aware too that that status in a woman is very highly prized in the Middle East.

  All day and the next he left me in that horrible bath. Yes, the agonising pain at the beginning slowly abated but it never really went away altogether. And so when, late that second evening, he winched me out of the thick liquid, I was just about all in. When he had released me from the winch, I collapsed and he dragged me over the floor (since he didn’t want the liquid on me soiling his spotless pants and bolero) and then hosed me down. That roused me a little, enough for me to get up and precede him into yet another of the stone rooms in the vast cellars under the palace.

  Where were we? I didn’t know - then. I did find out but since it came out that the government really knew nothing about what was going on, so I can’t really accuse them of permitting such barbarities as I endured there. Suffice to say though, I won’t ever be going anywhere near the Middle East. Not ever!

  Well, actually I have to amend that. I did go back once but I will tell of that when it happened.

  I was now to be introduced to the second stage of my conditioning.

  It was to be near enough a repeat of my plane journey. Most of the rooms in the cellars were bare or contained just the instrument of terror they were used for. This room was quite empty and contained nothing at all, except for a kennel-like grating down in one corner. This proved to be a door and Ondoka bent over to undo it. I stared at it in horror. The space behind the door was tiny. It was no more than eighteen inches wide and the same high although it clearly went back into the wall a long way.

  “Get in,” he said. “Feet first. On your belly, slut.”

  He seemed to love to use that word and as yet, not having learned to ignore the barb, I again cringed, at which he grinned triumphantly. He was getting to me and he knew it.

  I got down on my hands and knees in front of the open grille door and backed in but even then it was too low and I had to get right down on my now naked belly and wriggle myself backwards into the so narrow space. As my head reached the doorway, my feet now found the back wall and I knew I was again going to suffer cramps.

  Ondoka closed and locked the door then fetched a hose that was coiled on the wall near the tiny doorway. He pointed its nozzle in at me and then thoroughly wet me, leaving me shivering on the cold and now wet stone floor of the tiny cell.

  And there he left me, again in utter blackness, to think about my slavery and try to sleep off the misery that now enveloped me totally. It was awful. I was naked and cold. My vulva felt so bare, now without the small covering I had formerly allowed down there. I was apparently a slave and was going to be trained as such and then presumably used by Masoud as and when he wished, or given to others for the same purpose.

  I thought of my family and my other life; of the career that appeared now to be in tatters and wept silently as I thought of how wonderful my life had been and how dreadful it now seemed. Yes, I slept, I suppose, but if I did, it was a fitful sleep and it was full of lurid dreams about slaves in an Eastern harem. Horrible dreams in which Ondoka wielded whips and canes constantly on our naked or semi-naked bodies and a naked Masoud, whose penis in the dream was bull-like in proportions and raped me over and over again.

  I was also hungry although not thirsty. I had gulped down water when I had been washed after the day in the depilation tank and recently as well and there were little pools of water I could lap up near my head in the cell but then I re
alised I wanted to ‘go’.

  I couldn’t do it there and yet there was nowhere else. I held it back as long as I could but then I simply had to let it out. I couldn’t even turn on my side to squirt it away from where I was lying, face down on the stone floor - there just wasn’t enough room and so it had to be right there, right under my body and then I felt it, the warm wetness seeping up my belly and I shuddered in disgust at myself and what I had done.

  Some of the urine seeped away through the cracks between the paving stones but they were quite large and so it cooled right there under me and it stank horribly. The next morning, one of Ondoka’s younger assistants came down to hose me down.

  He was dressed identically to the young chief eunuch, although he was of Caucasian origin. I was to discover that he too was a total castrate, lacking penis as well as testes. It seemed Waleed, and his son Masoud as well, delighted in watching as a prospective harem attendant and trainer submitted (if he was an Arab) to the procedure. Of course, if he was a slave himself, he had no say in it and was forcibly de-sexed.

  He made sure the whole area of my tiny cell was hosed out and that I got enough water to hydrate me properly but then he left me. I called out after his retreating body, crying piteously to be allowed out of the cramping cell, even for a few minutes.

  He returned, squatted down in front of me and then, in a real cockney accent, informed me that it would be more than his life was worth to let me out, even if he had a key to do so. I drew some comfort from the fact he was also English but it wasn’t much and then I watched him retreat for good, turning off the light once more.

  I think they kept me in that cell for some three days, without any food but always ensuring I had enough water. I had to urinate under my body and I hated the act and the stench that followed - and stayed with me until Peter came in each morning to hose me and my cell down.

  Then, on the fourth morning, it wasn’t Peter but Ondoka who arrived and he opened the tiny door and curtly gestured for me to crawl out. I did, with alacrity, in case he changed his mind, but getting up onto my two pins was as hard as it had been after the hours trussed up in the suitcase. He half dragged me into an exercise room and there put me through a series of routines that soon had my muscles working again.

  And then he introduced me to that dreadful machine in the Training Room.

  Chapter 2

  On the first day, I was suspended on it as I have already described. I hadn’t been fed although I was given water all the time. When I had to go, whether it was at night, in the tiny stone cell, or during the day, on that horrible machine, it was right there, weeing my water out onto the stone floor under me - and in full sight of whoever was there, Masoud, Peter, Waleed (sometimes), but always Ondoka and they all grinned at my humiliation. All part of the conditioning process, I supposed.

  They didn’t feed me until the night of the first day I spent on the machine. I think it may have been three or four days that I went without food of any kind; only the constant water and after a day or so, I began to feel the pangs of hunger. They got worse and worse until by the final day, I would have eaten anything, even cardboard or grass - anything to fill my ravenous stomach.

  What they did feed me was dog food. Yes, right out of a tin. Before ensconcing me back in my cell, Ondoka produced a dog bowl, the tin and an opener and ordered me to squat down on my haunches, feet wide apart and turned out to expose my vagina and my hands clasped behind my back, while he carefully and very slowly, opened the tin and emptied its contents into the bowl in front of me.

  “Wait!” he ordered, prowling around me with his eunuch’s cane at the ready. He made me squat there, starving, with the mess of dog’s food sending mixed signals to my brain. The smell was unpleasant but I knew it was food and I desperately wanted it. I felt an all-encompassing urge to ignore his order and get down to eat it but I didn’t dare. Already he had me in his sway, you see.

  Then the second order came: “Hands and knees!”

  I obeyed, my head now right over the smelly food and I know I was slavering.

  Again he kept me waiting and then I saw the reason why. Masoud and his father appeared, entering the small room to watch as I ate my first meal in their country.

  “Feed!” came the order and I lowered my head down into the loaf-like mess, trying to ignore the horrible smell and wolfing it down as if it was our Christmas roast. Well, no, not like that for I am a fastidious person and always ate very slowly and carefully. Not that time, though. I was so hungry I couldn’t wait to get it all down my gullet.

  As I ate, Masoud toed my flank with his shoe. “What a pig,” he observed, “a real pig-slut, isn’t she?”

  His companions just laughed but he continued to toe my body, now moving behind me and pushing at my hindquarters with his shoe, forcing my face down into the mess so that my cheeks and nose were now covered with the stuff.

  “What a little tart, she is,” continued Masoud. “Can’t even feed properly. I doubt she’ll even be of much use as a dog, Father.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll find she will train up nicely,” the older man said and I pricked up my ears. ‘Train as a dog?’ What did that mean, I wondered.

  But then I was finished and the pair of them stayed to see me fitted back into my tiny cell and locked in.

  That night, for the first time in days, I needed to go the other way. Of course I had to urinate. I had become used (almost) to weeing on the stones under my body but then, when I felt the foul food in my stomach start to move, I realised they must have laced it with a laxative and sure enough, in short order, I spurted my foul wastes out behind me.

  It was dreadful. Utterly abominable! The stinking slimy mess was half liquid; it mixed with the urine under my body and began to smear over the fronts of my thighs and then up under my vulva and lower belly.

  I tried to steel myself to this new degradation but it was hard. Very hard. My mind went back to what the new regime did to the deposed Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia. I remember seeing a picture of him in a pig sty, shortly before he died. Well, I thought, if an emperor could take it, so could I!

  I forced my mind to ignore the smell and told myself to sleep for I suspected I had another hard day ahead of me.

  Hard day doesn’t begin to describe it. That morning I was hosed down and then fed a bowl of chopped up nuts, fruit and dry cereal - at least it was better than the tinned dog food - and then put through another hour of rigorous exercises by Ondoka. After that, he took me back to the Training Room where I had to face another day on the rods. This time, however, he moved the leg tubes an inch further apart, forcing my hips to an even wider splits position.

  Once more the spiked neck collar held me upright, or at least guided me into doing it myself and of course my arms were again pinioned in that horrible position: wrist to opposite elbow - all day.

  I spent twelve hours on it that second day but then I was let down, exercised once more and fed a sort of mushy soup. I wondered if it was spiked with a laxative but I was still too hungry to care. It wasn’t, for when I passed my wastes that night, they were normally solid. What I now had to cope with was the little pile between my legs as I lay there in that terribly confined space. Remember I had almost no movement at all. Not forward or backwards, but not sideways either. I couldn’t even bring my knees up to my chest. If I moved at all, it was to feel that little pile of my faeces against my crotch and every time it did, I shuddered in disgust at my own weakness at not being able to hold it (or my water) inside me.

  The next two days followed the last: I was taken out, cleaned under a hose, fed from the doggy bowl, exercised and put on the machine, each time the ankle clamps being moved further apart, forcing my legs into a more and more horizontal position.

  Each day Masoud, usually dressed in nothing but the flowing, open (but in any case, transparent) robe, came down to sit on the throne and l
ook at me as I suffered. For suffer I did. The nights were cold and cramped and always ended in me fouling myself, one way or both; the water from the hose was also icy cold and made me shiver uncontrollably for a long time afterwards; the exercise regime forced on me by the clearly skilful Ondoka not only loosened up my cramped muscles but ensured they didn’t atrophy, but it was so rigorous that by the end of the hour, I was a limp rag. The second battering hose blast soon fixed that, however, and then it was twelve hours on the dreaded machine.

  Each day Masoud fucked me. No, never in my vagina. I decided he was reserving that for some special occasion, but always up my bottom. It was no longer the agonising pain I had felt on that first occasion. Indeed, it was more the shame and humiliation of being raped in this, to me at least, so unnatural manner that hurt so much.

  On the fourth day, they introduced another refinement of pain. By this time, my hips had all but accepted the dreadful strain imposed on them and if it wasn’t exactly comfortable to be perched up there on the tops of the two rods, it was no longer the sheer agony it had been at first.

  But they wanted me to suffer. Pain, I was to discover, is one of the best teachers there is and they used it quite shamelessly to condition new slaves into what they had decided for them. Masoud had said I was to be a dog. What that meant I had no idea and neither were my days on the rods any more forthcoming by way of explanation.

  Suffer I did. Ondoka now produced another gadget that plugged into a slot further down the rod that held my neck collar. It was a strange-looking device and, to my unpractised eye, quite unfathomable. Now of course, the more worldly me knows that it was a dildo - but a rather special and very expensive one. Indeed, the whole machine must have set Waleed back tens of thousands of pounds, I was sure, but since his daily income was measured in the tens, if not hundreds of thousands, who cared?

  The machinery under the floor that operated the rods also included an air compressor and a very sophisticated computer that created all manner of electric impulses to various parts of the body. I haven’t yet mentioned it for I wasn’t to be introduced to it for another day or so after the anal dildo day, but there was one last rod that could emerge from the floor, this one aimed squarely at my vagina - specifically, my clitoris. What it did, I will detail later. Right then, I was to discover what that equipment could do to the dildo.