by Paul Blades
At night, he sometimes had guests in his den. There was a large, 3’ by 3’, leather covered hassock there where Leslie could be placed on her back and used. Or she would be ordered to kneel on it, present her rear haunches and, as Mrs. Moussa had predicted, suffer the use of her rear aperture. Mr. Moussa never used her when other men were present, but would wait until the end of the night when they had all left. He never took her to his bed, never undressed, and used her only in his office or at night in his den.
After a few weeks, Hajib went back to Paris. Leslie was grateful that he had because he was the most callous user of her body. He would slap her around, whip her, make him lick his toes, crawl around the room and fuck her hard. He never lasted long and Leslie rarely experienced an orgasm with him.
The best, or the least worse, depending on how you looked at it because she was still being used as a whore, was Jana, the Moussa’s 24 year old daughter. She missed sorely the marriage bed. She had some suitors, but none of them could compete with the memory of her dead husband. She would treat Leslie with loving affection whenever she used her. She never bound her or beat her. Her kisses were like delicious fruit and her touch soft and caring. Leslie responded in kind and they spent hours in bed together, sometimes drifting off to sleep after their bouts of lust. Jana missed the use of a cock most of all. She had a dildo that she made Leslie wear around her waist and use to fuck her.
Mrs. Moussa caught them lolling about in bed together one evening. She had told Latifah to bring Leslie to her bedroom suite when Jana was done with her and had gotten impatient with waiting. She burst through Jana’s door and saw them lying together exchanging sweet kisses. She gave Jana an intensive dressing down in Arabic and then brought Leslie to her room where she beat her brutally. Leslie did not couple with Jana for a few weeks after that and when they finally resumed their lovemaking, their sessions were brief.
All during this time, Latifah was a constant presence. She would wait outside the room while she was being used and then wash her up when they were finished with her. She fed her her every meal, always on the floor, her hands bound behind her. She washed and decorated her every day, slept with her every night. She would place her in her cage in the kitchen, letting her languish there for hours until someone called for her. Leslie often saw Mrs., Moussa in the kitchen, always elegantly dressed and made up, wearing her imported high heel shoes, but she hardly ever acknowledged her presence, and if she did, it would be with a slight, ironic smile.
There was a lounge room off the kitchen for the female staff and sometimes, when Latifah was certain that no one would call for her, she would take Leslie back there so that she could drink tea and gossip with the other girls. She would have Leslie kneel by her side with her legs spread and her forehead on the floor while she sat cross legged next to her and petted and stroked her while she talked to the other women. She would keep Leslie on a slow burn for the longest time, letting her orgasm every once in a while, to the amusement of the other women, and then begin her casual ministrations all over again.
Every night, when everyone was through with her, she would make love to Leslie for an hour or more down in her cell and then go to sleep next to her, sometimes waking her up later for another session.
She was not overly cruel, but remorseless when she felt that Leslie had erred. She always carried her three foot long, flexible stick and she would give Leslie an immediate, fierce stroke with it when she was hesitant to obey, failed to walk properly through the hallways, her hips swaying enticingly, made a mess at her bowl, whined at any discomfort, stepped out of line in any way. There was a chain dangling from the ceiling in the kitchen and if Leslie’s sin was particularly egregious, she would give her ten or twenty harsh strokes right there.
She gave Leslie lessons too. She had many years of experience with whores. She had a model of a prick and sometimes at night, before they made love, she would give Leslie tips on how to improve her techniques. She showed her how to pleasure a pussy too, showed her where to luck and suck and, more importantly when. It became Leslie’s only source of revenge to have Mrs. Moussa tottering on the edge of release, in near agony, moaning and yearning for completion. She taught her how to use her pussy’s muscles too, showing her how to clamp them around a cock and they engaged in exercises every night until Leslie got it right.
Generally, she saw Leslie as a slightly subhuman creature with all the attributes of a wonderful pet. She would sing to her, caress her tenderly, feed her little scrumptious tidbits from time to time. She loved making her up and varied the colors of her makeup and the jewelry that she wore around her neck and waist. Leslie always wore the belled earrings and the golden flower in her rear. Some nights, she would hold Leslie in her arms after they had finished making love and croon to her, letting Leslie cry and sob from her unhappiness.
Leslie was expressly forbidden to talk. Even the words, “Yes, sayyadati, no, sayyadati,” were eventually forbidden to her. There were only two occasions when she was permitted speech.
Once a month, on a Friday, under Faraq’s direct supervision, and Latifah hovering nearby, she was allowed to call home. This was to prevent her parents from becoming too upset and complaining to the American Embassy. They had been informed of Leslie’s charges and that Mr. Moussa had kindly gone her bail. Leslie’s father was a retired Air Force officer and he was always asking Leslie whether he should do something to help her. Leslie, under the keen eye of Faraq, who listened on an extension, always demurred, saying that she preferred to let justice take its course. She always reassured him and her mother that Mr. Moussa was treating her well although she had to obey the court’s rules as far as phone calls and letters were concerned.
It was so incongruous to be kneeling on the floor in Mr. Moussa’s office, naked and decorated like a whore and talking to her parents, while Latifah idly caressed her coosh. She did her best to sound normal, but some of her bitter disquiet about her treatment inevitably came out and her parents would ask her repeatedly if she was all right.
When she hung up there were always tears in her eyes. Faraq always made her suck his cock while Latifah stroked her to completion before she was returned to her other duties. Each night after a phone call, after Latifah went to sleep, she would cry and cry and cry. If Latifah heard her, she would draw herself up behind her, circle her with her large, strong arms and comfort her.
The only other occasion she was allowed to speak was the day the man came from the American Embassy to talk to her about her charges. It was about a month after her slavery had commenced. Leslie had not known about it in advance. All she knew was that when she woke up, Latifah did not put on her decorations. Faraq came down, and after stringing her up in the chain that dangled from the ceiling, gave her ten vicious swats with a cane. When her miserable sobbing relented, he opened the armoire in the room. It hadn’t been opened since her imprisonment began. He took out one of Leslie’s business dresses. It was cream colored with little brown buttons that went up the bodice. The skirt was knee length and had small pleats. It was one of her favorites.
Leslie was shocked to see all her things in there. She had wondered what they had done with them and now she knew. Afterwards, in the mornings, when Latifah was decorating her, she often stared at the closet dismally, pining for different days.
Faraq had her put on the dress. He installed the blue ball in her mouth, locked her bracelets behind her back and then brought her upstairs. She was led to Mr. Moussa’s office where he was already sitting at his desk. She was made to kneel, her head to the floor, her hips raised while they waited for something. Mrs. Moussa came in to join them. Leslie got a glimpse of her shiny high heels and smelled her musky perfume. When she passed Leslie, she flipped up the back of her skirt so that her portals would be fully displayed. The three sat in casual conversation for a while. A maid brought in a tray of iced tea. Mrs. Moussa and Faraq smoked cigarettes. When the intercom buzzed, Mr. Moussa picked up the phone and received some news. He nodded to Faraq wh
o ordered Leslie to get up and sit in a chair. He released her bracelets from behind her.
The dress had long sleeves that covered her bracelets and buttoned all the way up to the top, hiding her neck. Faraq had dressed her in her Nikes and pulled white socks up over her ankle confinements. So when the man from the embassy came in, there was nothing special to see except a rather prim and proper young lady.
He said his hellos to Mr. and Mrs. Moussa and Faraq and then to Leslie. He said that his name was Tom Martin. He wanted to know how she was being treated. Leslie cast quick glances at Mrs. Moussa and Faraq. They had all moved to Mr. Moussa’s couch and easy chairs on the other side of the room. A mat had been placed over the ring in the floor. Mr. and Mrs. Moussa were sitting on the couch, the same couch on which Mr. Moussa occasionally fucked her.
Mrs. Moussa was, as always, dressed elegantly. Her top was a dark gold color, made of silk. It had large deep green, fabric covered buttons. The vee neck opened to the middle of her considerable cleavage and there were wide lapels. On her ears were small, thick, golden loops. She was wearing one of her trademark, flowing skirts. It was olive green and had abstract designs on it of yellow, blue and red. Her high heels were a very light green as was her eye shadow. Her lips were a soft red. She was wearing her regular rings and had a thick, woven gold chain around her neck that rested near the tops of her breasts.
She was a beautiful woman, refined looking, pleasant in her demeanor, gracious in her speech. How different she was from the Mrs. Moussa that Leslie knew and whose pussy she sucked. Leslie saw that she had picked up the ball from her mouth that had been left on Mr. Moussa’s desk and was holding it in her right hand, squeezing it tightly. It was not a good sign.
Mr. Moussa was, as usual, stiff and correct and wearing a well tailored, pinstriped business suit. Faraq, dressed in khaki pants and a black tee shirt, was standing behind them, his eyes smoldering, his jaw set. Leslie’s throat went dry when she saw him looking at her. Her body ached from her beating, her bruises pulsing. Now she knew why she had gotten it. It was to remind her that whatever happened here today, whatever she said, she would not be leaving with Mr. Tom Martin today or any other day. If she told him that the respectable Mr. and Mrs. Moussa had turned her into a sexual slave, she doubted that he would believe her, but even if he did, there would be nothing he could do but protest to the government. If things got bad, the Moussa’s would just ship her back to prison.
Leslie sat in one of the armchairs and Mr. Martin sat in one opposite her. They were facing the couch and Martin had to turn a little to his left to talk to her. It was strange to be seated in an actual chair after so many weeks. It was strange not to be on her knees in front of her oppressors. She had to fight the urge to fall to the floor and beg forgiveness.
She looked at the American. He was dressed in a cheap, grey business suit. He was wearing a white shirt and a wide, paisley tie. He was young, about 27 or so. He was clean shaven and fresh faced: an America abroad. Mrs. Moussa offered him tea but he declined.
“Ms. Harrington,” he stated formally, “my name is Tom Martin, as I said. I am an undersecretary at the American Embassy in Tunis. Part of my duties is to obtain access to Americans accused of crimes in Tunisia and make sure that they are being afforded their rights and treated well. Are you familiar with the charges against you?”
Leslie looked quickly around the room, then down at the floor and then at Mr. Martin. The thought of speaking in Mr. & Mrs. Moussa’s presence seemed sacrilegious, never mind Faraq. She had to jump start herself. Mrs. Moussa noted her distress. She put the ball in the pocket of her skirt, took hold of the pitcher of iced tea and poured a glass. “She’s very nervous, Mr. Martin,” she said gracefully. She had a deep, melodious voice that flowed like heavy cream. She got up from the couch carrying the glass.
“Here, take a long drink, Leslie,” she said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Leslie’s hand was shaking as she took the glass. She had not been permitted to feed herself or drink anything but the water from a bottle that Latifah gave her for a long time. She brought the glass to her lips and took a small sip. It tasted so good! She drank a little bit more and then a little bit more. Then she looked up at Mrs. Moussa standing next to her and, seeing her patience starting to slip, put the glass down on a small table next to her chair.
She looked at Martin. “What was the question again,” she asked. Her voice sounded funny to her, unfamiliar.
“The charges, Ms. Harrington. Do you know what they are? Has anyone told you?”
“Y,yes,” she replied softly.
“Do you have an attorney?”
Mrs. Moussa interrupted. She was standing behind Leslie and had put her hand on the back of the chair. Leslie felt her dangerous presence behind her.
“We’ve hired the best attorney in Dar Al Jamah,” she said. “He’s very expensive, but cost is no object. We’ve become quite fond of Leslie since she’s been with us. She’s like another daughter to me.” Mrs. Moussa stroked Leslie’s hair. It made Leslie shiver.
“Well, I’m glad of that,” Martin said writing something down on a little pad he had produced from his jacket pocket. He returned to Leslie.
“Are you being treated well?”
A thousand responses rushed into Leslie’s mind. But they only caused a second’s delay. She knew the right answer. “Y,yes,” she said.
“That’s good. It must be nice to have Mr. and Mrs. Moussa helping you. Otherwise you’d be rotting in that awful jail. I’ve heard some very nasty things about it. You’re lucky. Bail on a criminal charge is very unusual in Tunisia.”
Leslie didn’t know whether this called for a response, but she eked out a “Y,yes,” just in case.
“Is there anything that you need, anything that I can help you with?” he asked her.
His voice was so earnest, so desirous of being helpful that Leslie felt like she was going to cry. Then she felt a tear falling down from her right eye. She wiped it away with her hand. “What’s going to happen to me?” she asked timidly.
“Well, these are some very serious charges. It’s hard for me to conceive a nice person like you of having committed them. I’ve checked out your background and you come from a very nice family and have a good education. Maybe you’ll be found innocent.” He looked away from her as he spoke. Leslie knew that he knew that there was little chance of that. Sergeant Malikah had told her in the jail that the courts in Tunisia had a 95% conviction rate, and Mrs. Moussa’s uncle was going to be the judge.
Leslie started to cry. She couldn’t help it. She was overwhelmed. Here, a mere three feet away from her was a fellow American. He was from the American government. It was like having the agent of her liberation right in front of her and him being helpless to assist her.
Mrs. Moussa leaned over and put her arm around her shoulder. “There, there, now Leslie, don’t cry. It will work out all right, I promise you.” She turned to Mr. Martin. “See, you’ve upset her.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to. It’s just my job, that’s all,” the American replied. “I guess I’ll be on my way.”
“Won’t you stay and have some lunch?” Mrs. Moussa asked graciously.
“No thank you. I’ve got to get back to Tunis by dark. It was nice having met you all.” He rose from his chair and extended his hand to Mr. Moussa. They shook and Mrs. Moussa extended hers to his. They shook as well. Martin gave a polite nod to Faraq.
He turned to Leslie who had remained seated. No one had told her to get up.
“It was nice to have met you, Ms. Harrington. If there ever anything I can do for you, please give me a call.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a businesses card. He handed it to Leslie.
“Call anytime. I wish you well and good luck.”
Leslie took it and looked at it. Her tears were gone, but her heart was filled with despair. In a few moments, this little interlude in her new life would be over and she would revert to being the M
oussa’s private whore. Her lips began to tremble. She knew that the likelihood of her ever seeing America again, or even another American for that matter, for a long, long time was very small. She looked up at Mr. Martin. She saw sympathy and helplessness in his eyes. “Thank you,” she said meekly.
Faraq escorted Mr. Martin from the office. A wave of panic shot through Leslie. Her only hope of being freed was leaving! What should she do? What could she do? And then he was out the door and it closed behind him. Mr. Moussa went to his desk and lit a cigarette. Mrs. Moussa poured herself a glass of iced tea and took a long drink. She said something in Arabic to Mr. Moussa and he just waved her off. He picked up the phone to make a call.
Leslie was shaking. Nobody had told her to move. She didn’t know what to do. She knew she should be on her knees, but she hadn’t the power to move a muscle. Mrs. Moussa looked at her like she had forgotten that she was there. “What are you waiting for you stupid whore,” she said coldly. “Take off that silly dress and get on your knees.”
Leslie suppressed a sob and started to move. She still had Mr. Martin’s card in her hand and Mrs. Moussa snatched it away. Leslie had just begun to get off her seat.
“Wait!” Mrs. Moussa commanded. She took the blue ball out of her pocket. “Open your mouth slut,” she said caustically. Leslie complied and Mrs. Moussa shoved the ball home. “There, whore,” she said. “Now get naked.”
Normally, that is in her prior life, Leslie would have gotten to her feet to take off a dress. But she was too afraid to stand. She sank immediately to her knees and started unbuttoning the dress. Her hands were wet with perspiration and the buttons kept slipping out of her fingers. Mrs. Moussa got impatient and she grabbed the two sides of the bodice and tore them apart, causing the buttons to fly off. “Head to the floor!” she ordered. Leslie obeyed instantly and put her arms behind her back. She heard Mrs. Moussa ask Mr. Moussa a question, an affirmative response from him and then the opening of a drawer. Mrs. Moussa stepped closer to Leslie. She felt the hem of her dress being lifted and then heard the sound of a scissors at work.