Becoming Ghaniyah- A Tale of Bondage and Submission

by Paul Blades

  The man behind the desk asked Leslie’s captor a question and he responded curtly. He raised Leslie’s head so that the man behind the desk could see her face. He asked Leslie a question in Arabic. “My name is Leslie Harrington,” she started to say in French. The men looked at each other quizzically.

  The man behind the desk repeated his question.

  “Please! Please!” Leslie blurted out in English. “I’m an American. I work for…”

  The man who was holding her slapped her viciously across the face. She screeched in pain.

  “Pleeeeeeease!” she shouted again. The man holding her gave her another blow and yelled back at her.

  Weeping disconsolately, Leslie decided that she best keep quiet. The men had a further conversation and some decision was reached.

  Leslie was dragged over to the door that led to the area behind the caged window. It was opened on the inside and she was hauled past some desks to another door. This was made of steel and a man standing next to it opened it with a large, steel key. When the door swung open, Leslie saw that she was in a cell block. There was a long hallway with a shiny concrete floor. Larger heavy, wooden doors lined it. Each door had a huge lock on it and a small trap door on the top so that someone on the outside could peer into the cell. Leslie was dragged down to the fourth or fifth door on the right. The man who had been standing by the outside door fumbled with some keys and opened it. Leslie was pushed inside.

  She fell to the floor of the five by ten foot cell. There was a grungy, old, narrow pallet along the right wall and a disgusting looking bucket in the corner. The two men who had arrested her followed her in. The door closed behind them. Leslie’s stomach went sour as she anticipated what was to come next. What happened was not calculated to reassure her.

  One of the men jabbed her with his stick and yelled at her, using his free hand to indicate to her that she wanted her to stand up. Frightened beyond all belief, Leslie complied immediately. He jabbed her with the stick again and gave her a command. She didn’t understand it and he jabbed her harder. She fell back, clutching her stomach in pain. Tears were streaming down her face. The man stepped forward and took hold of her skirt, pulling on it and repeated his command. Leslie understood at once that he wanted her to take it off.

  “Please, don’t do this,” she moaned. “Please!” The man raised the stick over his head as if to strike her a mighty blow and Leslie at once gave up her objections to stripping. Her hands were sweaty; she had a hard time undoing her belt and loosening the buttons on the back. When they were free, she hesitated for moment and then quickly stepped out of her skirt. She proffered it to the man, who took it and handed it to his companion. He then repeated his command and pulled at the tail of Leslie’s blouse. She obeyed at once, unbuttoning the front and then pulling it off of her shoulders and arms. Shaking, she handed it to the man who passed it on.

  Things happened fast after that. The man grabbed her arm and made her turn around. Her arms were drawn behind her back and she felt cold steel being applied to them. She was handcuffed. The man turned her around again and produced a long chain. There was a hook in the ceiling above her and he clipped one end to it. The other end he ran under her handcuffs and then brought it back up. He kept pulling it until Leslie was standing on her toes. He then clipped it to one of its links. When he stepped away, Leslie realized that she could not lower herself to her feet without putting a strain on her confined arms. It was a position that would become tortuous very quickly.

  “Please don’t do this,” she uttered meekly. All she earned was another viscous slap across her face. The force of the blow made her totter on her toes and her arms pull up behind her. She moaned from the pain.

  The men seemed satisfied with what they had done. For the first time since she was arrested, they seemed to relax. They took the time to examine her near naked body. The man who had been driving reached out and took hold of her left breast, squeezing it and saying something humorous to his companion. The other man laughed and made some kind of suggestion. The driver laughed back and he took the cups of Leslie’s lacey, pink bra and pulled them up over her breasts, exposing them. There was a moan of appreciation from both men. They took turns cupping and squeezing them.

  Leslie recoiled at the offensive contact of the hot, rough hands. She tried to back away, but the chain holding her wrists aloft wouldn’t let her. She was only able to back off a few inches and one of the men, taking hold of her nipples, dragged her back. He gave them a mighty pinch until Leslie called out in pain. The men laughed.

  At that, they seemed satisfied. One of the men produced a black hood and it was pulled over Leslie’s head and drawn tight at her neck. The other leaned over and removed her remaining shoe. The men walked away and she heard the door open and slam shut behind them. Then the lock turned with a heavy sounding, ‘clank!’

  The unhappy American girl realized that she was in deep shit. No one knew where she was and she had no way of relating to the men who held her captive who she was. They didn’t really seem to care. That was the worst part. The slamming of the door when it shut had seemed so final. It took her moment to realize that she was sobbing uncontrollably. Her sobs were muffled by the hood which covered her head. It was pitch black inside. Her shoulders ached from the chain pulling her wrists toward the ceiling behind her and her toes were already becoming cramped. She could feel her loose breasts swaying as she tried to keep her balance.

  She heard the trap door on the upper portion of the door open and then men’s voices. There was laughter. She realized that the men were staring at her naked breasts. It shamed her to be seen by unknown men this way. By any men. She thought of her long, shapely legs bared for the men’s view and the slight bulge that her pubic hair made on her loins under her panties. Chagrinned, she tiptoed until her back was to the door, depriving the men of their show. She knew that they were looking at her firm, plump ass, but that was better than having her breasts exposed to them. She heard one of the men make an unhappy comment. The trap door closed and a moment later, the door opened up again. Men, she believed there were two of them, came into the cell. They were laughing. They grabbed her ankles and pushed them together. She felt a pair of handcuffs being applied, locking them to each other. She was turned around to face the door again and she felt something tugging on the cuffs as if they were being affixed to something on the floor.

  When the men stepped back, Leslie realized that she had been anchored in place. She could no longer turn her body to hide her breasts. She whined in unhappiness. The men played with her soft mounds for a little while, squeezing and caressing them. One of them placed his mouth on a nipple and suckled it until she felt an unwanted pull in her loins. The other man said something in Arabic and they made as if to leave. Then one of the men, as if he had forgotten something, returned. She felt his hands on her hips take hold of her panties and pull them down past her knees to her ankles. Both men laughed again. Then they left.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Leslie stood that way for it seemed like hours. Every once in a while the trap window to her cell would open and she could hear the snickering of the men. Each time a wave of humiliation passed through her, bringing on a new cascade of tears.

  Nothing in her life had prepared her for such treatment. Hers was a middle class upbringing where all significant problems occurred to other people. She had never been in trouble and never even known anyone who had. Life was supposed to be a progression from one safe, comfortable environment into another. Standing virtually naked, her arms tortuously held up behind her back, her feet cramped and swelling, being the object of the lewd leers of unknown, foreign men was not the way things were supposed to be.

  The men had not gagged her, and her moans and cries were able to overcome the black hood that encapsulated her head. She pleaded for mercy, for forgiveness, for an end to her torment, but there was no one to hear her and no one to reply except the faint echo of her supplications on the cold, stone walls.

  Lesl
ie wondered what Mrs. Moussa would do when she was found to be missing. Since Mr. Moussa was out of town, she was the only one who could help her. Leslie remembered her disdainful looks, her haughtiness, and realized that if she found out that Leslie had been arrested by the morals police, she would probably do nothing. When Mr. Moussa returned, she would tell him where she was and how wrong he had been to employ an American, an outsider. She would undoubtedly lose her job and have to return to America in disgrace. She would eventually be released from the prison, she knew that. What could they really do to her except expel her from the country? She was an American citizen after all.

  But then she thought about some of the stories she had heard about women being beaten for dressing immodestly. A shiver went through her body when she thought of that. It would be horrible to be struck by a cane. She prayed that that would not happen to her. She would do almost anything to avoid it.

  It was about three hours later that the door to her cell finally opened. The pain in her shoulders had become a dull ache. The pain in her distended feet was becoming excruciating. The door shut again right away and Leslie sensed the presence of another person in her cell. A male person. She heard him walk around her as if on an inspection. She whined in fear and in supplication. Then she felt a large, rough hand on her naked ass. It caressed it gently as if appreciating its delicate curve, its soft firmness. The hand was hot. It traversed both of her rear globes and flitted between her thighs. She had pressed her thighs together as closely as she could, but she knew that her compressed vagina, due to her posture, would be visible to the man. She felt a finger trace a line along her love lips. It followed up over her perineum, up between her soft rear cheeks and halted at the little brown star. She felt the finger begin to probe her there. She mewed in protest and tried to move away, but her confinements left her little room for maneuver. The finger penetrated her rear opening, just dipping slightly past her pursed, brown tinted ring, and she gave out a little squeal. “Please don’t,” she managed to plead from beneath her hood.

  The finger left her back passage abruptly to her relief. But a second later, the hand descended forcefully on the tender skin of her rear. It made a loud, ‘smack!’ and an immediate, harsh fire erupted there.

  “Oooooooowwwww!” Leslie shouted.

  A second later, the hand descended again. “Smack!”

  “Ooooooowwwwww!” Leslie shouted even louder. “Please don’t hit me! Please!” she begged. The hand came down again, harder still.

  “Smack!” and then repeated itself five times quickly in a row. Leslie began to howl. “Oh stop! Stop! Please stop!” she yelled. “Ooooooooooowwww! Oooooooooowwwwwww!”

  There was a pause. Her cries of pain still reverberated in her ears. Her ass seemed to be glowing with heat from her assault. Then the hand touched her again. A finger traced a line from the middle of her lower back, down, down, down, until it had regained her smaller portal. A moment later, it had penetrated her once more.

  Leslie moaned and cried as the finger explored her anus. There was nothing she could think of that could be more humiliating. The finger moved back and forth, penetrating her small ring deeply and then running back until its tip was just inside and then in deep again. It was like the finger was fucking her there. It felt offensive and wrong. She tried to clamp her rear cheeks shut, but the man’s other hand held them open. There was nothing she could do about it. She knew better now than to utter a protest. She didn’t want to be spanked again. Whatever the man was going to do, he was going to do and she was powerless to prevent it.

  The finger finally pulled out and she thought that her ordeal was at an end, but she was wrong. Within a second, she felt two fingers now probing her sphincter. The presence of the single finger had been humiliating, but now two stretched the tender tissue just a little bit more than was comfortable. She moaned as the fingers began a slow, steady rhythm back and forth. Her rear channel felt strangely filled and the abrasion of the fingers across the tender ring of skin at the entrance was producing an unfamiliar tingling in her loins. She mewed and cried again. She wanted it to stop. Needed it to stop. Begged God to make it stop. But the fingers continued their remorseless journey back and forth, in and out. It was a weird sensation, to be utterly sightless, the hood extinguished all light, and yet have her body subject to some strange, unknown man’s casual use. It was like her body and her mind were in two separate places.

  It was when the third finger joined the two that had been exploring her small, rear opening that Leslie began really to worry. That brought the man’s actions way beyond the teasing stage. He was definitely preparing her for something. The addition of the third finger stretched her anal ring, creating little, tiny cracks in the membrane, cracks that stung and hurt.

  “Ohhhhhhhhh!” she moaned. She yearned to call out for pity, to protest her treatment, but she could still feel the heat where her rear cheeks had been struck so harshly a little while ago.

  The force of the fingers going back and forth caused her body to shift backwards and forwards in her bindings. Her bound arms were pulled more tightly upwards behind her as she moved forwards, making her moan with pain. Her breasts swung back and forth, free beneath her chest. “Oooooooooooooh!” she moaned.

  And then the fingers left her. She could feel her anal ring gaping. She heard the sound of a zipper lowering. A hand took hold of her hip as if to hold her steady.

  “Oh, noooooooooooo!” she screamed. “Please don’t do that! Please! It’ll hurt! I know it will! Please! Please!”

  Despite her now vociferous protests, she felt something hard and soft at the same time probe at her rear entrance. It was thick and round. It pressed against the stretched but still small opening. Its progress halted for a moment, having encountered resistance, but then pressed slowly, inexorably forwards, expanding her anal ring and filling her like she had never been filled before. She screamed in pain as it gained entry. And then, remorselessly, it sank itself fully within her.

  Leslie cried and moaned as the man fucked her rear passage. He was in no hurry. He had hold of both of her hips now and pushed and pulled her in time with his slow, steady thrusts. “Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhhh!” she cried as the cock crossed and recrossed her tender anal ring. She could feel the man’s immenseness in her bowel each time he thrust himself home. She cried and shook and moaned. Her mind refused to believe what was happening to her even though her body told her unmistakably that it was. Was she really a helpless prisoner in an Arab jail being butt fucked? Could this really be happening to her?

  An arm snaked its way around her waist, pulling her rear more tightly against the huge belly of the man who was fucking her. She could hear him now, grunting and groaning his satisfaction. His other arm went past her hip and grabbed one of her dangling, flopping breasts, squeezing it tightly. His fingers pulled and pinched fiercely at her teat until she howled with pain. He was pounding away frantically now, his belly slapping against her rear cheeks, his fat cock pistoning within her. He began to groan, “Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!” each sound timed to match a fierce inward thrust of his cock. She felt his body tense and he emitted a loud, almost mournful groan. His cock began to throb within her and she felt the hot splash of his come. She moaned and cried out in frantic disgust.

  When his cock’s explosions were at an end, he kept leaning against her, his prick firmly lodged in her ass. His body was hot against her back. She could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly from his exertions. He massaged her breasts and laid his fat, sloppy lips on the back of her neck, murmuring some word in Arabic over and over.

  Finally, he released her. His softened cock slid free. He gave her an appreciative slap on her ass and laughed. She heard his zipper being pulled up. He stepped over to the door, opened it and left. It closed again with a loud, heavy thud.

  Leslie sobbed and sobbed. This was the worse experience of her young life by far. It was worse than anything she had ever reasonably expected to suffer. She had been raped, in the ass, by a man she c
ould never identify other than by his groans. How many more men would come in and fuck her like that? How long would they keep her prisoner? How long would she have to be so cruelly confined?

  And yet, to her shame, there was something exhilarating about being fucked in the ass and being unable to prevent it. It had not been a wholly disgusting procedure. The scraping of the cock along the ring of her rear entrance had sparked heat in her loins. The man’s firm hands, his casual use of her had seemed oddly right. But what was she thinking? She had always considered ass fucking to be disgusting and dirty. She had never let any of her boyfriends, and there had been more than one, go near there with their hands, never mind their cocks. It was demeaning and unsanitary, and worst of all, it had been against her will, without her consent. She had been used worse than the lowest whore. And on top of everything else, it still burned back there where her anus had been stretched.

  It was not long after that the door opened again. Two men entered. She felt the chain that held her wrists high being lowered. She moaned with relief. The other man unlocked her ankles. Her hands were freed. The bag was pulled off of her head.

  Before her stood a tall, dark haired man. He was dressed in what looked like a military uniform. His khaki blouse had red epaulettes and there were gold bars on his collar. He looked maybe forty or so, a very young forty. His face was clean shaven and he carried himself with an air of authority. The other man was one of the jailers, dressed in Khaki as well, but obviously an underling. It was the tall man, the officer, who spoke to her.

  “Dress yourself, you pig!” he spat at her. “What do you think parading yourself naked like that?”

  “But, I…..” Leslie started to protest.

  “Silence!” the man screamed. “Prisoners are to remain silent!” he yelled.