by Paul Blades
About ten days after Fatima’s ordeal began; she was removed from her cage by Ngomo. She was so far gone that she hardly noticed being carried from the room. She awoke in a bed in a small, strange room. It was plainly decorated, with stark white walls and a small nightstand. Her ankle was chained to the corner of the bed, but otherwise, she was unconfined. A man came in, gave her a pill, and she lapsed back into unconsciousness.
No one spoke to her, and, although she was not gagged, she asked no questions. She spent her days mostly sleeping. Gradually, over a three-day period, her wounds began to heal, the dark purple bruises to fade. Fatima was certain that at any moment she would be dragged back to the Prince’s room. Was she being rested so that she could endure more of his torments? When she thought of what awaited her outside of her room, she pulled the sheets over her head and cried.
On the morning of the fourth day, Ngomo came into to the room. She was finally able to stand without incapacitating pain and he pulled her to her feet. She looked up at him, resigned to being returned to her hellish prison. She stood there listlessly as her hands were tied behind her back. Ngomo turned her around to face him. Her eyes met his, forlorn in aspect. Her lips trembled, her eyes watered. She feared to beg for mercy from this giant, her master’s servant.
Ngomo looked back at Fatima. “No, little one,” he told her, “the Prince, ille mort, dead. You never have to go back there again.”
Tears rolled down the French girl’s face. She started to sob. All of the pain and misery of the last two weeks came pouring out of her. The Prince was dead. God’s justice meted out to him. At the time, the French girl had no inclination to wonder why or how the Prince had died. It was a miracle as far she was concerned and miracles are not questioned. The slave master, whose iron will ruled the Emir’s harem, softly rubbed the sobbing girl’s head, comforting her. As her crying subsided, the tall, chocolate colored man lifted her chin. He proffered a small leather ball to her mouth. Fatima accepted it meekly.
It was the drinking, you see, that finished the Prince. He had bought himself a brand new Harley Davidson Roadster motorcycle and was showing it off to his friends. He had been partying all afternoon and did not see the truck approaching. He and another of the Prince’s dissolute set, who was riding on the back, were literally flattened. There was an investigation, but the truck driver managed to slip from the country. It was rumored that certain of the wealthy merchants and property owners of the Emirate had been sanguine over the prospect of being ruled by the Emir’s son. But nothing was ever proved.
The French girl was escorted through the palace in the normal fashion. She was stopped at the end of a hallway and she was surprised when some kind of hooded garment was draped over her. It was a burkha, which covered her body from head to foot. She heard a door open and then felt smooth, cool concrete under her feet. A car door opened and she was hustled in.
Fatima, although relieved and ecstatic over the Prince’s death, was apprehensive as to her destination. Had she been sold? Who would be her new master? Would he be cruel and sadistic like the Prince? “But who could be as savage as that man?” she thought. In the end, it was all the same. She was a nameless chattel doomed to a miserable life and an ignominious end.
After a drive of about twenty minutes, Fatima felt the car slow and then turn into a driveway. The car stopped and she was removed from it. She was guided up some short steps and then brought inside to a softly carpeted room. She felt the burkha being removed and she was then led by a chain from her collar down a long hallway. There were many twists and turns, but she finally was brought to a halt. She felt the chain released. Her hands were untied, the hood pulled off of her head, the leather ball removed. Standing before her, dressed in a long, silken robe, her face gleaming with happiness, was the Princess Alliyah.
The French girl was overcome with joy. She had never dreamed that she would see the Princess again. She treasured the memories of their night of bliss together. The Princess beamed at her. “Welcome to my home,” she said in French.
The girl’s eyes widened with surprise. The Princess spoke French! How it soothed her ears to hear it. She hardly dared to speak herself. The servants who had brought her discreetly left the room. When they had gone, The Princess embraced her.
“Oh, Fatima, if you only knew how my heart has ached for you. How I cried and cried when I learned of the cruel torments that Rashan had inflicted on you. Please, please speak to me. Tell me that you love me too!”
The Princess embraced the stunned but happy girl. They hugged each other like old school chums. Fatima’s naked body rubbed up against the Princess’s. Alliyah began to kiss her face hungrily. Overwhelmed with happiness, the slave girl reciprocated. They were in a large, finely decorated boudoir and there was a large, four posted bed in its center. Alliyah dragged her lover towards it and pulled her down, smothering the slave girl’s body with her own.
Shedding her delicate robe, the Princess was naked beneath. She delved into Fatima’s mouth with her hot tongue, crushing her lips. Her hand seized the young woman’s sex and caressed it. She ran her hand over Fatima’s tender belly, across her hip, down her thigh. Abandoning her lips, Alliyah kissed the tips of Fatima’s breasts, sucking long and hard on the nipples and bringing a moan to the girl’s lips. Fatima’s pussy was now moistened and soft. She had thought that she would never feel pleasure from her body ever again, but the Princess’s fingers danced tantalizingly on her skin.
Fatima felt the Princess’s lips descend from her breasts, over her belly, and to the top of her loins. Blissfully, she looked down at her royal lover. Alliyah looked up, her face a mask of joy.
“I’ve learned something since we last met, Fatima,” she said as she drew the girl’s legs apart. She stroked the inside of the thighs delicately. Her hands came to rest astride the slave girl’s throbbing mound. Fatima felt hot lips seize her clitoris. The mouth sucked gently on it. Wave after wave of pleasure ran through her. She took the Princess’s hair in her hands, caressing the head that lay between her legs.
Alliyah stroked the tender, pink flesh between Fatima’s distended and engorged labia with her long tongue. Again and again, she ran its hot surface along the gushing slit. Fatima moaned wildly. As the Princess’s mouth again found her point of pleasure, the French girl cried out in ecstasy. She felt her pussy throb and contract. Her mind clouded over, the eager lips and tongue that massaged her rigid clit became the center of her universe. As her orgasm overcame her, she released all of her pain and joy, calling out wildly, “Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhhhh!”
Afterwards, the Princess rested her head on Fatima’s stomach, her body recumbent between the slave girl’s knees. Rubbing her lover’s head gently, Fatima dared to speak. “Oh, mistress,” she whispered, “I can’t tell you how I feel.”
The Princess looked up. “You belong to me now Fatima, but it is I who am the slave. Please tell me that you love me too!”
“I do, mistress, I do,” Fatima replied. She pulled her mistress’s body up close to hers and kissed her. The Princess’s mouth accepted her tongue. The two young women remained locked into their embrace, while their tongues expressed their mutual passion and love. After a moment, Fatima broke off the kiss. She looked deeply into her mistress’s eyes, searching for reassurance. “How can this be, mistress? Can I really stay here with you?”
“Oh, yes,” the Princess told her quickly. “I’m married now. I was married two weeks ago, a few days after the night we made love.” The Princess blushed and cast her eyes downward. “That is how I learned the caresses that I just gave you. My husband is a wonderful lover.”
“But what will become of me?” the French girl asked, nervously.
The Princess took Fatima’s hands in hers. “In my country,” she said, “the men rule the world, the women rule the house. You will be called my servant, but you will be my lover and my companion. You will be constantly at my side.”
“But your husband?”
“He has agreed. He is a k
ind and gentle man. I want to share you with him,” the Princess answered, her eyes glistening with tears. “I want all of us to be lovers. Will you do that? Please say ‘yes’.”
Fatima’s eyes softened, her hand caressed the Princess’s tender, round breast, teasing the pert nipple until the Princess emitted a sigh of incipient lust. The French girl, Fatima, as she now was known, lowered her head to take the Princess’s taut, plump nipple into her mouth. She smiled and spoke as she subsumed it, “It is as my mistress commands.”
CODA
NOTHING LASTS FOREVER
Alliyah kept her promise to the slave girl, Fatima. That night, she introduced her to her husband’s bed and the three of them spent hours in carnal delight. While Alliyah maintained her role as wife and consort to her husband, fourth in line for the throne, managing his household and having his babies, Fatima was permitted to hold sway over the vast gardens that adjoined their estate. Often, Alliyah would come upon her planting new colorful and exuberant delights, only to draw her away to her bedroom where she could drink at the well of her succulent flesh.
In the year following Rashan’s death, the health of the Emir declined. Like many a doting and permissive father, he regretted not taking Rashan in hand during his younger years, not schooling him in the duties of those blessed by nobility. Eighteen months after Rashan’s death, the Emir passed on, to the sorrow of the people and, of course, his family. Dismayed by the seeming corruption of his male line, the Emir anointed Alliyah’s husband as his successor before he died. Fatima reluctantly returned to the Palace, which had been the scene of her former torments.
Alliyah’s husband, the Emir, was a graduate of Cambridge University and had been a vocal advocate of the modernization of his country. He was an adherent of a more secularized version of Islam and vowed to move his country out of the dark ages. Slavery, as soon as he consolidated his hold on power, was to be abolished. This was somewhat of a delicate matter since, for many years, slavery had been confined to the female variety and consisted, primarily, of nubile, young women from various Western countries.
Fatima was happy to be reunited with her former slave sisters. Jamilah and Me Ling were still there. To Fatima’s dismay, her lover Gelela had been sold to a lesser prince the year before. She begged Alliyah to find her and buy her back, but the Princess was unable to discover any information as to her fate.
Nonetheless, life in the Palace for the slave girls became pleasant and, almost, joyful. Due to the formalities of state and the arcane customs of the country, the slave girls, all but for Fatima, were required to serve the Emir’s guests at the various formal and informal dinners necessary to the proper administration of the country, and to the consolidation of political power. The country’s male elite expected the service of willing and accomplished sexual slaves at the Emir’s gatherings.
It was the Emir’s opposition to the building of the American naval base that started the real trouble. As a matter of national pride, the Emir opposed it and the prospective overrun of his country by the immensely powerful commercial interests that would follow. There was a coterie of nobles and wealthy businessmen who deplored the rumors of the prospective banishment of their favorite institution and the coveted the prospect of the river of cash that an American base would produce. To be deprived of the flesh of abjectly serving women was a thing not to be endured.
Ultimately, the combination of strong external interests, the American State Department, and the machinations of an alliance of influential internal conspirators, prompted the coup. The Emir was shot out of hand, as was the dowager Queen. There was a brief firefight between soldiers loyal to the Emir and the rebels, but when word of the death of the Emir spread, the fighting ceased.
The new Emir assumed the property and duties of the old. The bevy of beautiful slaves that had graced the happy Palace was sold off. It would not do to have creatures who had been despoiled by dreams of freedom to be gathered together under the Emir’s roof. Fatima, the ill fated French girl, was among them. Her destination was never revealed to the Princess.
As partial payment to the nefarious organization that had been recruited to surreptitiously supply the rebels with arms to equip their followers, and gold to buy the loyalty of high ranking army officers, the comely and youthful among the wives and daughters of those officials who remained loyal to the Emir were delivered, en mass, to a small island off the coast of west Africa. There they soon found emblazoned on their rear quarters a bright red, two inch high, cursive “k”.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This is the story of the French girl as told to me by a comely, acquiescent female who called herself Alliyah, and who served me as my body slave for a week in the winter of 2003.
Harry Wiggins
End of Book One
Table of Contents
Copyright
Other books
CHAPTER ONE THE FRENCH GIRL
CHAPTER TWO WE MEET HARRY
CHAPTER THREE THE FRENCH GIRL GETS FUCKED
CHAPTER FOUR HARRY MEETS TWO LADIES
CHAPTER FIVE HER ORDEAL CONTINUES
CHAPTER SIX TWO WOMEN TAKE A TRIP
CHAPTER SEVEN A GIRL IS SOLD
CHAPTER EIGHT HARRY’S EDUCATION BEGINS
CHAPTER NINE HER NEW HOME
CHAPTER TEN RUKIMO
CHAPTER ELEVEN A SLAVE GIRL MEETS HER MASTER
CHAPTER TWELVE LUNCH
CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE PRINCE REVEALED
CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE DUTCH GIRL
CHAPTER FIFTEEN ONE WOMAN’S PLEASURE
CHAPTER SIXTEEN A GIRL IS PUNISHED
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN FATE TAKES A HAND
CODA NOTHING LASTS FOREVER