by Paul Blades
The hallway curved in a semicircle that terminated in a glass atrium doorway, which led outside. There were thirty guest rooms. Across a small courtyard was another atrium style door marked by red and brown stripes along the floor and around the door. Staff areas. We entered the door and were greeted by a guard. Anthony showed him his pass card and we were admitted.
"I'll get you your pass after lunch. First let’s take this slave down to a holding area. We can discipline her after I show you your room and get you fixed up."
We walked past a series of doors and then through a large commons area. Several staff members were there drinking coffee, bullshitting. There were a few girls scattered around the room, some kneeling, some standing and one mounted on a platform in the middle of the room. She had long brown hair, which fell about her face as she knelt there on all fours. There were stripes on her rear. A staff member sitting in an easy chair was absentmindedly caressing the breast of a girl kneeling by his side while he talked to a supervisor across from him.
After we exited the commons area, we approached a series of chains dangling from the wall. Anthony commanded the girl to kneel and he chained her neck to the wall, leaving her only about six inches of play. The girl was facing the wall. Anthony took a small book from his pocket and checked the girl's collar. There was a small disk hanging from the back with a number on it. Anthony wrote it down in his book.
We left the girl and proceeded down the hallway. We stopped at the fifth door. It had the name Harry W. on a small card next to the door. My room. We walked in. "There aren't any locks on any of the doors,” Anthony told me. “What we do here is perfectly open to everyone else. No one has any property, so there's nothing to steal. As a matter of courtesy, no one goes into anyone else's room uninvited unless on official business. But it's the principal that counts."
There was a girl in the middle of the room kneeling with her arms resting on her thighs, just like the girls in the guests' commons. Rest position, I was to learn. "This is your attendant,” Anthony advised me. “As a staff member, you are entitled to an attendant full time. Unlike the guests, you may reserve her exclusively for up to a week. Then she has to go back into the pool. She will tend to your personal needs and show you where your clothes and personal items are kept."
Anthony spoke to the slave, "Have you been given a name?"
"Yes Master" she answered without looking up. She spoke with a distinct accent. Not French. Maybe Dutch?
"Well, what is it?" Anthony demanded.
"Tulip, master." she answered. Dutch it was.
Anthony turned to me. "Of course, you may call her what you wish. She has been instructed to maintain your room and to tend to her own personal needs without further orders. Food will be delivered to her by servants on a regular basis. When not servicing you or the room or attending to personal needs, and unless you give her alternative orders, she will return to this position after doing her duties. It is necessary that you discipline your attendant well. Frequently we use slaves who are in the last steps of their training as body servants. Part of your job is to complete their training so that they will please the guests properly. Come on, drop your suitcase and we’ll go see Rukimo."
I dropped off my suitcase and ordered the girl to put my things away. Not my things really, just some stuff they had given me. But it was all I had.
We left Tulip sitting in the rest position as we departed the room. We walked back out to the commons area, passing the tall girl from before. One of the staff members had put on some music and the girl on the dais rose to her feet and began to move gracefully in time to the luxurious beat of the music. It was a cool jazz number, with a sinewy saxophone riff and a heavy beat.
Anthony turned to me and said, “Watch this.”
I stood mesmerized as the girl rolled her graceful, inviting hips to the beat of the music. All eyes in the room were on her. Her long brown hair flowed around her as she turned and dipped her knees. Her face was aglow with passion as if the music had triggered a burning lust within her.
I watched as the lithe, brown skinned girl began to caress the twin globes of delightful flesh on her chest. She licked her lips with her long tongue and pulled on her nipples, extending her breasts from her body. Her eyes were alight and darted from face to face in the room. She seemed to draw energy from the lust that she was generating. After raising herself to her full height and running her hands down her sides, she slowly lowered her body, her hips gyrating to the now pounding rhythm of the music’s drums. The saxophone wailed as if tormented by the tantalizing movements of the girl.
When her knees reached the dais, the girl leaned back, touching the floor behind her with her hands. Her legs were spread and the lips of her sex glistened with her incumbent passion. She rolled over and pressed her forehead down, raising her ass high, her back curved like the string of a taut bow. A hand snaked between her legs and delved into the wet slit between them. Still moving to the beat of the music, rocking her hips from side to side, she began to stroke herself.
I had to resist pulling out my cock and running up to the stage. I glanced around the room and several of the men had slave girls on their laps, their legs spread wide, and had their hands up the girl’s slits. One girl was on her knees servicing a short, but muscular bald headed guy. His robe was spread open and his eyes were closed, delighting in the mouth that had fastened itself on his prick. Anthony’s eyes were glued to the spectacle of the swaying, squirming brown haired dancer.
She had begun to moan. She rolled onto her back, spreading her legs wide to their extreme and plunged her fingers into her pussy. Her back was arched and she thrust her hips in time with her hand’s exertions. As the song wound down, she began to cry out. Her skin was wet with sweat, sparkling under the overhead spotlight. The song ended, the sax fading to a whisper until the only sound in the room was the girl’s cries of ecstasy as she orgasmed right on the stage. If it was a fake, it was very, very good. I doubted whether even a well-trained girl could make her pussy gush on command. I could see a small puddle of her juices that had dripped from her flushed and engorged pussy lips.
A man rushed up and, grabbing her head, rammed his cock into her mouth. She sucked at it hungrily as another man rose to stuff her soft, dilated sex. The lust generated by the girl had spread through the room like an epidemic, as all around slave girls were being plowed fore and aft. I must have made some involuntary move towards one of the girls when Anthony grabbed my sleeve.
“Whoa, boy,” he said, amused. “We’re on our way to see Rukimo, remember?”
I turned to him, startled out of the trance that the dancing girl had put me in. “Ah, yeah,” was all I could say.
Anthony started to walk away and I reluctantly followed.
CHAPTER NINE
HER NEW HOME
The young French girl had been locked in her mobile prison for many hours. She had been given a mild soporific before she had been packaged for shipment and so, for much of the time, she had floated in and out of consciousness. She had felt it when her box had been lifted from the van and carried by forklift to the waiting airplane. She had noted the unmistakable sensations of taking off. But she had not been able to give them much thought as her mind quickly clouded over. The faint sounds of the plane’s engines and its graceful yawing were lulling.
After a couple of hours, the girl gradually resumed full consciousness. The terrible reality of what had happened to her struck home like the blow from a fist. She had inured herself to her fate through her months of training and service on Klitzman’s island. Her whippings, the rapes, the abusive objectification she had suffered, had driven her emotions deep within her. She suppressed all thoughts of her former life and dealt only with thoughts of how to avoid pain, how to serve her masters. But now the terrible nature of her fate caused her to rediscover her fear and terror as well as the loneliness and despair of someone torn irremediably from their safe and comfortable life.
Tears flowed down her face for t
he first time in many months. She remembered her family, her friends. Did they remember her? Did they wonder at her fate? Would she ever laugh again? Locked and trussed in a box, naked, impaled by steel hard shafts, flying to some unknown destination, it seemed doubtful indeed. Who would her new master be? What cruelties would he inflict on her?
As she felt the airplane begin its descent, the girl knew that her future would soon be known.
When the plane landed, a black van rolled over the tarmac to meet it. The imprisoned girl was quickly off loaded from the plane and placed in the van’s rear. It sped away.
Property of the Emir was immune from customs search. The van turned onto the airport highway and made its way to the Palace compound. Located outside of the busy commercial center of the Emirate, the Palace sat miles into the hinterland. It took forty-five minutes for the van to make the trip at a very high speed. Once in the gates of the compound, the van rolled to the freight dock and the box was lifted out and placed on a dolly. It was rolled inside, through the Palace’s warehouse and directly into the living quarters.
The French girl had another hour to wait before there was any change in her status. She knew that she had arrived at her destination but, of course, still had no clue as to what awaited her. After an hour, the box was rolled down a long hallway, taken down an elevator and then down another long hallway. The girl could sense the opening of her tiny prison. As her hood was removed, her eyes were shocked by the sudden infusion of light. She saw hands reaching in, strong masculine hands, untying the cords that had held her immobile for so long. She was lifted delicately off of the intruders in her sex and rear and removed from the box.
The girl was laid on the floor, her legs delicately extended. She was rolled over to her stomach so that the bindings on her wrists could be undone. Her gag was released. She was stunned by this frenetic activity after so long in stasis. The men who were handling her were dressed in white cotton shirts and khaki pants. Their faces and skin were mauve. Their hands and arms were strong. They worked silently.
After the strong hands had massaged her arms and legs to encourage circulation, the girl was pulled to her feet. Bracelets were quickly affixed to her wrists behind her back and a leather ball shoved into her mouth. A black bag descended over her head.
The men led the girl back down the hall and up the elevator. She was dragged down a hallway, through two sets of doors and then into a large, pushily carpeted room. For ten minutes, she stood there expectantly.
Suddenly she heard a shriek and feminine laughter.
“Oh, she’s here, she’s here!” a voice cried out in Arabic. It was the Emir’s First Wife, Damira, a fortyish, black haired, rotund woman. With her was the Emir’s first Daughter, the Princess Alliyah, a delicate, gracefully formed young girl of 18 years. The French girl, of course, could not understand a word they said.
“Oh, she’s beautiful mother,” the young girl exclaimed. “I want to touch her, may I?”
“Of course, little flower, of course,” the Queen replied. “But let’s see her face; I want to see her face!”
One of the servants quickly removed the girl’s hood. The two women cooed in admiration. “She’s wonderful,” the Queen exclaimed. “Exactly what we wanted.”
Alliyah approached the French girl cautiously. She extended her hand and delicately caressed the French girl’s cheek. The girl was surprised by her reception. She had not expected to see women, and free women to boot. She could see from their arraignment that they were wealthy, important women. The sight of joyful, laughing women was crushing to her. She stood naked, bound, a slave, before women who breathed free air, who had the right to wear beautiful clothes, to talk freely, to express their humanity.
The French girl grimaced at the soft touch of the beautiful, young girl. She began to cry.
“Oh, you’ve frightened her,” the Queen said to her daughter. “She’s been through a lot. Be careful with her.”
“I’ll be careful, mother,” the Princess replied. “But I want to touch her. She’s like a delicate bird.”
As the Queen waved the servants away, the Princess stepped up to the trembling girl. She placed her soft hands on the girl’s shoulders and ran them down her arms. “Her skin is soft, mother. And her breasts are so pretty. I’m jealous.”
“Now let me see her, Alliyah, I’m the one who bought her,” the Queen interjected.
The Princess moved aside to let her mother have access.
“Oh, yes, her breasts are fine,” she said as she reached out to stroke them. She measured their weight and firmness in her hands. “They’re the perfect size.” She grabbed the slave girl’s cheeks with her hand and examined her face closely. She took her time, looking for blemishes, any defect that would mar her new property. Her hand was strong and the girl trembled as she feared for her future. Had she been bought to serve this callous woman? The girl? Would they whip her?
“A lovely face,” the mother concluded happily. “Rashid has a wonderful eye for women. Her eyes are delicate, a beautiful green. I like that.” The Queen released the French girl’s face. With a lightening stroke, she slapped her hard across the face.
“Mother!” the Princess called out as the ‘crack’ echoed throughout the room.
The French girl was startled by the suddenness of the blow. It stung harshly. Losing all memory of what was forbidden, her eyes lit up with resentment and hatred.
“Ah,” the Queen said. “She has spirit. Good.” She swung her other hand around and another ‘crack’ resounded.
“Mother, what are you doing?” the Princess exclaimed.
The girl cringed now, expecting yet another blow. The Queen answered her daughter, “She needs to know what’s what, my dear. You have to be harsh with a slave before you are kind. Kindness has to purchased by obedience. Believe me, I have broken in many a slave for your father.”
“Oh, but don’t hit her again,” the Princess implored.
“I don’t intend to,” the Queen answered. “I just wanted to get that out of the way.”
The French girl tried to shy away as the Queen’s hands returned to her breasts, but the guards held her still. The Queen pulled sharply on her fear hardened nipples. The girl’s face cringed in pain. The Queen smiled. “Oh, she’s a sensitive one. But let’s see the rest of her.”
She ordered the guards to turn her around. The Princess saw the bright red “k” branded on her rear. She reached out and placed her fingers in the depression that had been burned into the slave girl’s skin. “That’s so pretty,” she said. “But I bet it hurt.”
“Like the blazes, daughter,” the Queen answered. She took a handful of the soft flesh on the girl’s rear. “Soft, but firm,” she remarked. She spoke to the guards, “Let her go. We’ll call you when we want you.”
The guards bowed to the Queen and the Princess and withdrew from the room. The Queen grabbed one of the girl’s arms and led her to a long, low, backless couch. Sitting down, she pulled the girl on to her lap and then pushed her down on her back. Grabbing her knees, she spread the girl’s legs.
All of the handling of her breasts and rear had induced the girl’s sex to lubricate. Her body had been trained to prepare itself for invasion when stroked by a master. The tender lips glistened as they were forced open by the spread of her legs. A small patch of black hair perched above her delicate divide and a tiny line of shortly trimmed bristle graced the swelling lips.
“Mama!” the young Princess exclaimed.
“Oh, hush,” she replied. I want to see her pussy. It’s lovely, don’t you think?”
“Mama!” the embarrassed Princess replied.
“Haven’t you ever looked closely at a cunt, my dear? Come, take a good look. If it wasn’t for cunts men would ignore us.”
The Princess giggled. “Can I touch it?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Have a good feel.”
Extending her hand timidly, the Princess knelt next to the prone slave and placed her fingers on the now eng
orged lips. She looked up at her mother.
“Go on, go on,” her mother said. “Have a good feel. Put your fingers inside and tickle her clit. See if you can make her moan.”
The French girl felt the long, slender fingers of the Princess enter her. She sighed as they slid along the walls of her impassioned tunnel. The fingers delved deep inside her causing her to shudder. Alliyah placed her thumb on the sensitive, hardened button at the apex of the girl’s sex and rubbed it gently. The girl moaned.
The Queen laughed. “She’s a hot one!” she exclaimed. “Here, let get her up.”
The Princess stepped back and, grabbing the girl’s arm, helped her mother bring her to a sitting position. The Queen pulled the surprised slave girl back onto her lap, spread her legs and delved into the now hot sex. “Watch,” she told her daughter.
With one arm around the girl’s back, the Queen caressed the slave girl’s wet gash. She watched the slave girl’s face intently, as did the Princess. The French girl’s breath began to shorten as she was induced into a passionate trance. Her skin sparkled with perspiration, her breasts hardened. The Queen brought her to the brink of explosion and withdrew her hand. The girl’s eyes gazed at the Queen imploringly. The Queen smiled.
“Kiss her nipples, my little flower,” she told her daughter. “See how she moans.”
Uncertainly, the Princess leaned over, squatting next to her mother and placed her lips on the tight, hard dart atop the girl’s left breast. She kissed it tenderly, surprised at the salty taste and the pull she felt in her own loins. Encouraged, the Princess sucked at the teat, first softly, and then harder. The French girl moaned, a long, deep, blissful moan.