Becoming Ghaniyah- A Tale of Bondage and Submission

by Paul Blades

  She knew what he was waiting for. He wanted to see her come. That thought itself was enough to stoke her fires. He wanted her to come and she had no choice but doing so. He was making her come, forcing her to come. She would not be liberated until then. As shamed as it made her feel, she had no choice but to let the agonizing vibrations inside her drive her on and on.

  Leslie had gone from dreading it to wanting it. She let her mind accept the pleasures the vibrating instrument was bringing her. She thought of the cocks she had had, Jamilah, who she had made love to in the jail, the many times she had rubbed herself to pleasure. Anything to accelerate her passions. Her pussy began to burn with need. Her hips began to rock, her breathing became deep.

  And then it struck her, another fierce pulse of pain from the invader in her tender recess. She screamed and her body shook. She sobbed and her mind fled into despair. She overcame it quickly, though. She knew what she had to do. She had to please her master, the man who ruled her. She had to let him see her obedience, her abject compliance with his whishes. He was all powerful; she was nothing. It was a paradigm she would have denied a few short hours ago, but three hours of incessant torture had loosened something in her mind. She was desperate to escape her predicament, and abject surrender seemed the only way out.

  Faraq had finished his cigarette and tossed the end in the toilet. He had been amused to witness her reaction to the electrical shock once again. He could watch it all day. Leslie was right. He was waiting for her to come. He wanted to see her confined and helpless body wracked with passion. He closed the lid to the toilet, sat down on a chair and waited.

  It did not take Leslie long to build up her lusts again. She had been resisting them all the time she had laid here, but now wanted to feel her pussy explode more than anything she had ever wanted before. She tried to squeeze the humming device with her inner muscles. She rocked her hips. She tried to grind her clit on the bed underneath her. She thought of huge, disembodied cocks, in her mouth, in her pussy, in her rear. She wanted to be filled by a hundred men, a hundred times a day.

  “Come on! Come on! Come on!” she shouted in her mind. “Make me come! Make me come! Do it! Do it! Come on, now! Do it! Do it!”

  Her pussy’s energies were rising. Her blood was boiling. She felt it coming. “For you, master! For you! This is for you!” she thought madly. And then it came.

  As far as Faraq could see, there was little difference in her reaction to the explosion of her needs to being shocked with the dildo. Her body seemed to swell and then began rocking and shaking. The only real difference was that she was not screaming. She was emitting a loud, low toned moan. It went on for about 20 seconds and then slowly abated. Her body relaxed and he could hear her sigh.

  “She’s had enough,” Faraq thought to himself. He got up from the toilet and approached the bed. He undid the strap holding her feet to her upper thighs and then slowly let them unfold. When they were resting on the bed, he untied them and then released the strap around her thighs. At the upper part of the sleeve that confined her arms, he undid the straps that went over her shoulders. He released the straps that led to the ends of her gag. Then, after unfastening the straps that led from the sides of the sleeve around her arms to the rings on the floor, he slowly, gently, almost lovingly turned her over.

  She was sobbing. He didn’t blame her. They all did. What he had done to her was almost unbearable.

  He could see from her frantic eyes that she was hoping that he would quickly remove the dildo before it gave her any more shocks. He took his time nonetheless. Before doing anything, he unhooked the nipple clamps from her teats. The nipples were red and would be sore for quite a while. Around them, in a little circle were angry puncture wounds, some of them trailing a little blood. Her eyes kept shifting from his face to the direction of her loins. There was a desperate, pleading aspect to them. When he nodded to her to confirm that he was about to relieve her of the infernal instrument, her eyes glowed with appreciation.

  He drew the straps down from her shoulders and then pushed her legs open wide, drawing up her knees. She cooperated easily with him. She shivered with fear as he slid the straps free of the ring on the device. He took hold of the ring, looked her in the eyes and then slowly, slowly, drew it out.

  When it emerged from her puss, she broke out into heavy sobs. He pushed her to her belly again and released the straps from the end of the sleeve. He released the strap at the top and zippered the sleeve open. He pulled it off of her arms, tossed it aside and undid the binding around her wrists. For the moment, he left her gag in place.

  While the poor girl sobbed her heart out on the bed, he meticulously restored the implements of her torture away in the cabinet. He left it unlocked for now.

  Taking a four foot long bamboo cane, he returned to the bed. He tapped her on her rear cheek. She rose from her supine position and looked at him. He pointed the cane at a point on the floor in front of the bed. She scrambled to obey him. She stood before him unsteadily, her body swaying, her eyes pointed down.

  “When I command you to stand in front of me,” he told her, “you are to place your hands behind your back and spread your legs. Do it now.”

  His voice was not loud, but it had the hard edge of command in it. Leslie complied immediately.

  He tapped the floor with the cane three times. Leslie looked up at him. A look of understanding came across her face and she fell to her knees. She kept her hands behind her back and her thighs apart. She looked up at him to make sure she had performed correctly.

  “Very good,” he said. Her face seemed to relax, as if she was pleased with herself.

  He tapped the floor three more times. Leslie looked up at him, perplexed. He just stared at her, the cane pointing to a spot in front of him. After a few seconds, it was like a light had gone off in her head. She leaned over and placed her head on the floor. “Very good,” he repeated.

  Her back and rear were full of red stripes. Just above her kidneys it had started to turn black and blue. Her shoulder length chestnut hair was frazzled and was pressed down where the buckle of the gag crossed it. Her wrists were crossed, palms out.

  Leaving her there, Faraq walked over to the shower and turned it on. While the water warmed up, he stripped himself. He had a lean, muscular physique. Except for head and his loins, there was virtually no hair on his body. When he was naked, he snapped his fingers sharply. Leslie’s head perked up and she turned to look at him. He motioned for her to rise and to come to him. She rose unsteadily, still not over three hours of harsh confinement, and approached him gingerly. He reached behind her head and unbuckled her gag. Then he took hold of her arm and pushed her under the streaming water.

  Leslie blanched when the water struck her wounds. It only stung for a moment though. Once she got used to it, it felt marvelous. She obeyed him when he pushed her head under the water and reveled in the sensation of it running all over her. She had been happy to obey his commands, happy that he showed her how to behave in his presence. She was happy to finally have her mouth free.

  Faraq took hold of a soft sponge and a tube of body wash and began to bathe her. He patted her gently on her wounded breasts. He ran the sponge over her belly and between her legs. He ran it down her long, naked back and over her rear cheeks. He washed each foot separately. Then he had her kneel down and shampooed her hair.

  When he was done, Faraq stepped out of the shower, dried himself off quickly with a towel and then ordered Leslie to stand in front of him. He dried her thoroughly, but gently. He had placed cream rinse in her hair and he took the time to brush it out until it was straight and without knots. He tied it off behind her head.

  It was so strange to Leslie to be treated so gently and with such care by the man after he had treated her so cruelly. There was a gentle rhythm to his actions that was comforting. All she knew was that he was in command now and she would do whatever he said. She never wanted to reexperience the torment she had just been through. Never.

&nb
sp; He allowed her to use the toilet, something she was very grateful for. Then Faraq snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor. Leslie immediately fell to her knees and put her hands behind her back. She had not seen it when he came in because of the brightness of the light, but he had brought a covered, earthenware bowl with him. He uncovered it now and placed it on the floor before her. It was a spicy mixture of couscous and lamb. Leslie eyed it hungrily. She looked up at him. He nodded to her, and without shame, without hesitation, she leaned over and placed her face in it.

  Leslie relished every bite. She gobbled up the meal quickly. She could feel the eyes of her master watching her and felt proud that she was obeying his command. At the same time, she was filled with revulsion at her cravenness. There was not much difference now between her and a slavishly loyal dog. Part of her wondered unhappily if Mr. Moussa’s cruel factotum would make her crawl around on all fours and bark for him. And the worse part of it was that she knew she would do it.

  She got down to the bottom of the bowl and licked the spicy sauce until it was shiny clean. Regardless of the manner of consumption, her belly felt warm and happy to be filled. It felt wonderful not to be tied up and confined.

  She looked up at Faraq. He had a cloth in his hand and he wiped her messy face with it. He put it down and picked up a long, thin green bottle. He put the top to Leslie’s lips and she drank long as the refreshingly cool water passed into her. He brought it back every few seconds so that she could take a breath and swallow and then he gave her more. He let her drink until she had emptied the whole thing.

  Leslie kept wondering what was next. He was still naked and his long, thick cock was dangling in front of her. It wasn’t hard, but it had swelled with the onset of an erection. She knew that it was inevitable that she would have to deal with it before long.

  Faraq snapped his fingers and pointed to the bed. Leslie sprung to her feet and got on it. She watched as he went to the cabinet and then returned with a tube of ointment. He squeezed a dollop onto his hand and, crouching down next to the bed, spread some over the wounds around her breasts. The ointment felt soothing.

  He snapped his fingers once again and pointed to a spot on the bed a little further up towards the head. Leslie took this as an order to lie down on it. She didn’t know whether he wanted her face down or face up. She decided that on her back was probably what he wanted and she lay down on it. Faraq motioned his hands upwards and then out. Leslie lifted her knees and spread her legs.

  “Unless I tell you otherwise,” Faraq told her, his voice emotionless, “when I order you to lie on a bed, this is the position you will assume.”

  Leslie nodded her head in understanding.

  “If I snap my fingers, like this,” he said, “you will turn on your belly, come to your knees, spread your legs and raise your hips. Do it now.”

  Quickly, Leslie rolled to her stomach. Keeping her forehead on the mattress, she came up on her knees, spread her legs and lifted her hips as high as they would go. She was immediately conscious of the exposure of her twin entrances and understood that this was the whole point.

  “When I or anyone else orders you on a bed, either on you back or your knees like this,” Faraq continued, “you will immediately, with your right hand, begin to prepare your pussy for penetration. Do it now.”

  Leslie cringed at the words, ‘anyone else’. It was a reminder that he was training her to be the house whore. She slipped her right hand down between her thighs and up over her pudendum. She began to rub the fleshy button at the peak of her crevasse with her long finger. Her pussy began to moisten right away. She slid her finger inside herself, gathering her fluids, and then smeared them over clit. Despite her earlier, prolonged session of stimulation and completions, her lust began to burn. Having her tormentor, her master, peering at her intimacies while she frigged herself, witnessing her lubrication virtually at his command, sent a message of shame right through her.

  Faraq let her continue for a full minute. Satisfied at her obedience, he walked over to the cabinet and retrieved the instruments of her new confinements. He stepped up to the side of the bed and pushed aside her hair, exposing her neck. “Keep stroking yourself,” he ordered her, as he closed a thick metal collar around her neck. It had rings in front and back. He took another band of steel and placed it around Leslie’s left wrist. It made a loud, “Click!’ when it closed.

  Leslie was frantic. The band around her neck was cold and sinister. She suppressed a sob when she saw the ones that went around her wrists. When Faraq ordered her to give him her left wrist, she had thought momentarily of refusal, but the courage to challenge him fled right out of her as soon as it arose. When the bracelet clicked closed, she looked him in the face, searching for evidence of his intentions. He took hold of her right arm and closed another band around her right wrist. The wrist bands had rings on them too and she watched as Faraq attached a five inch long chain to one of them. He took hold of her other wrist, brought them both up to her neck, ran the chain through the ring on her collar and connected her steely bracelets.

  Her arms were held up on her chest as if in an attitude of prayer. She felt him attach another chain to the back of her collar and, forcing her to move up towards the head of the bed, attached it to a ring in the wall.

  Leslie looked up at him helplessly. He had a ferocious look in his eyes, as if he wanted to consume her. His cock was at full attention, ready to be wielded against her. She knew that he was going to fuck her and an involuntary thrill went through her body. When he knelt on the bed and began to maneuver himself between her thighs, a lump formed in her throat and her stomach quailed. Her loins burned at the thought of her upcoming use. She watched him carefully as he pushed her thighs apart with his hips, took hold of his rigid instrument and addressed it to her slippery slit. He glided its sleek head up and down it several times, tantalizing her. He then placed the head inside, moved up so that his hands were on the mattress on either side of her torso, and then slowly, slowly, slowly, eased himself the rest of the way in.

  Leslie groaned with lust as she felt the cock expand her burning canal. He sunk himself to the hilt, pressing his flat, taut belly against hers. Her eyes were captured by his as if she had been hypnotized. Her thighs were trembling. When he began his motions, a wave of pleasure, tinted by her shame at her slatternly arousal, coursed through her.

  He fucked her long and steady. His motions were slow, rhythmic. Leslie’s heels dug deep into the bed and her hips started to rise and fall to meet his. When he leaned over, pressing his iron chest against her bound hands, and took her mouth, his hands on the side of her head, imprisoning it, a raging thrill went through her.

  His pace was leisurely, but determined. Leslie’s mind clouded with rapture. She came once, and then again, moaning into his mouth, her tongue writhing against his. Her legs circled around his back, pulling him in deeper, her hips thrust up seeking all of his fat, hard length.

  When he came, he grunted loudly. His body tensed. His thrusts became hard and powerful. Leslie screamed and her pussy began another series of wild throbs and contractions.

  He continued to stroke himself inside her well after he was spent. It was only when his prick was fully softened that he allowed himself to slide out. He said nothing to her as he dressed. He was going away again, she knew it. She would be alone once more, imprisoned deep within the bowels of the mansion, alone and in the dark. He tidied up a bit, folding the towels that he had used, closing the lid to the toilet, shutting the doors to the cabinet from whence her instruments of torment had come. As he did, he removed one more object. He brought it over to where Leslie lay and clipped it to the ring on her collar. It was a flogger with 6” long straps and a thick handle. The straps lay across her belly like evil snakes. Leslie shivered at the contact. She looked up at him miserably.

  “That is for my next visit,” he told her. “Think of it while you wait for me.”

  Leslie’s face scrunched up into a mask of misery. She wanted to
beg and plead not to be left alone again, but she knew somehow that any unbidden words from her mouth would trigger a ferocious response.

  When the light went out and the door closed, Leslie uttered a forlorn moan. When she heard the outer door slam shut out in the hallway, she closed her eyes and brought her knees up, shrinking into a fetal position. She fought off her tears. Her pussy still simmered from the fucking Faraq had just given her and she yearned to stroke it, to take possession of it. She realized, though, that her current confinement was by way of a lesson. Her pussy did not belong to her anymore. It belonged to Mr. Moussa.

  She thought of all the people who had used her in the past week, Jamilah, the cruel, heavy set Zarifa, the Queen and Captain Khalil, Mr. Moussa and now Faraq. She thought of how she had come for them all. What demon had gotten inside her, she wondered miserably, that made her succumb to their caresses, made her lusts rise rabidly as they used her. Even now, as she thought of her available, defenseless slit between her thighs, she ached to have someone, anyone touch it. Her confinements, her helplessness, her new status as a virtual sexual slave, made her pussy burn.

  The knowledge that she was to be whipped again was a source of terror while at the same time, the fact that she was now a mere instrument for the pleasures of others, no matter how they obtained it, made her feel more alive than she had ever felt before. Before, her life had been sedate, planned out, serene. Now she was living on a plane of fiery intensity. Her life was out of her control, careening between one highly charged episode after another.

  She castigated herself for her feelings. Although she had experienced thrills beyond her prior imaginings, she still yearned desperately to be freed. The prospect of being whipped again terrified her. Her body chilled when she thought of the agony she would have to endure. And then there was the prospect of being returned to the prison again, of a long, cruel sentence. She rebelled at the injustice of it all.