by Paul Blades
Leslie had come out of the stupor she had been in. She shivered at the recollection of how lost she had gotten under its effects. She knew that her initial impression had been right. Jaida was going to capture her mind. “I won’t let it happen!” she thought desperately. “I won’t!”
“Ghaniyah need to eat,” Jaida said. “Good food. You like.”
“P,please….” Leslie started to say.
Jaida put her hand over Leslie’s mouth. “Ghaniyah no talk. Ghaniyah never talk. Ghaniyah silent always.”
A tear floated down Leslie’s face. She wanted desperately to beg and plead for her freedom. She also knew that she was entirely at Jaida’s mercy. Her and the ominous Najib. She knew what pain was, and no matter how many times Mrs. Moussa or Faraq or Latifah had whipped her, it was always agonizing. She never got used to it. Najib looked like he would be merciless with a whip. So did Jaida, despite her outer sweetness.
Jaida fed her spoonfuls of the stew. It had an earthy flavor, slightly spicy. It tasted like yogurt or goat’s cheese had been mixed in with it. There were some spices that Leslie couldn’t place. The carafe held a sweet juice, thick and creamy, like apricots. There was a second carafe full of water, and Jaida made Leslie drink that too. She put the empty bowl underneath her pussy and told her, “Ghaniyah pee.”
Leslie did as directed, happy to release her water. Jaida patted her quim with a soft cloth. Then she knelt back and smiled. She caressed Leslie’s face and then leaned over and kissed her lips. It was a soft kiss, their lips just touching. She pressed her lips down a little harder and slipped her tongue between Leslie’s, just enough for a shiver to go through Leslie’s body. Her hand drifted down her side, over her belly and atop her quim. When the fingers started to dance lightly upon it, Leslie issued a moan of despair. At the same time, her tongue intertwined hungrily with Jaida’s, eager to accelerate her lust.
Her orgasm came quickly. It shook her body. Her pussy throbbed and convulsed. The cream that Najib had placed in and around her crevasse seemed to have brought the tissues to life. It made Jaida’s fingers feel like they were full of electricity. At the end, she was panting like before.
While she was recovering, Jaida placed all the things she had brought with her back on the tray. There was a little bowl with a top on it. Jaida opened it and Leslie saw another one of the sponge like things that Najib had placed in her mouth earlier.
“Please don’t,” she whined. “Please.”
Jaida put her fingers over Leslie’s lips. “Ghaniyah no talk,” she said, repeating her earlier mantra. “Ghaniyah never talk. Ghaniyah always silent.”
Leslie quieted, but she refused to open her mouth to allow the infernal object in. She shook her head this way and that, her lips compressed, little whines escaping them.
Jaida knelt back. There was a sorrowful look on her face. “Ghaniyah bad,” she said. “Make Jaida sad.”
She took hold of Leslie’s harness and began to apply it to her head. Leslie tried to turn her head to avoid it, but Jaida quickly had it in place, her jaw locked closed, her eyes blinded.
“Jaida back quick,” she said.
About two minutes later, she returned. She knelt in front of Leslie and applied two six inch long rods against her labia, one on each side. Leslie desperately tried to move her legs to avoid it, but there was nothing she could do. She had the sensation that Jaida was twisting something and the bars started to move closer and closer together. Very quickly, a fierce pain erupted in her labia. She moaned and whined and twisted her head. Jaida stopped tightening it when the pain became exquisite.
She stroked Leslie’s head. “Poor Ghaniyah,” she said sadly. “I be back not too long. You see. Ghaniyah bad. Ghaniyah get pain. Poor Ghaniyah.” She stroked her head one more time and left the tent.
The pain from her labia was agonizing. The device was crushing her flesh. She swished her hips back and forth, desperate to dislodge it. She cried and whined. In her darkness, the pain became a huge beast that had gripped its jaws on her sex and wouldn’t let go. She howled. Her body shook. She cursed her life, cursed the world, cursed Jaida, Abib, Mrs. Moussa, everybody. She prayed for relief, tried to listen for Jaida’s footsteps on the soft sand outside her tent. Longed for the sound of the tent flap opening.
When it happened, her mind leapt for joy. She trembled as Jaida’s fingers freed her sex. When the blood returned, her pussy ached and she groaned. Jaida removed the harness from her head. Tears streamed down Leslie’s face. Tears of joy and sorrow. Jaida caressed her head. “Poor Ghaniyah,” she said. “Jaida make pain go away. Ghaniyah must thank Jaida.”
“Th,thank you,” Leslie murmured. Jaida placed her fingers on her lips again and repeated her formula. “Ghaniyah no talk. Ghaniyah never talk. Ghaniyah always silent,” she said. “Ghaniyah thank Jaida this way,” she proffered. She lifted her rust red halter top, exposing her coffee cup size breasts. “Kiss Jaida,” she instructed.
She leaned forward so that Leslie could place her lips on her teats. Leslie suckled them gratefully. When Jaida thought she had sufficed on one, she tendered her the other. She leaned back when Leslie had thanked her enough.
Jaida opened the bowl again. Leslie whined. But she opened her mouth, her lips atremble, while Jaida slipped it in. “Good Ghaniyah,” she said happily.
It only took her a few moments to restore her halter, forcing her jaws closed, blinding her eyes. Leslie heard her opening a jar and she felt her swipe the goo over and inside her crevasse. As had Najib, she applied some to her teats and her rear entrance as well. She ran her hand over Leslie’s quim and up her belly and then stroked her breasts. She left without a word.
Leslie tried to fight it, but before long she was asea again. For the life of her, she could not recall why she had put up such a fight. Her body felt wonderful. Her sex purred and her breasts tingled as did her rear. All that was missing was a warm hand to caress her, something to fill her. She tried to imagine her pussy, wet and dilated, her golden ring sparkling. In her mind, she tried to kiss it, imagining her tongue taking a long trip up her divide ending at its crux, lathing the little button atop.
She was startled when the tent flap opened. She knew that it wasn’t Jaida, the size of the body was too big. It smelled of man’s sweat, deep and pungent. It was Najib, she knew it. When she heard him undressing, she imagined his strong, black body, his long, thick cock. A moment later, she felt his hot hands on her flesh and she trembled. It felt so good. He caressed her breasts, plucked and pinched her vibrating teats. He ran his finger along her divide. The sensation was so thrilling, it made her jump. As if he had tested her readiness and found her ripe, he began to untie her from her bonds. When she was free, he released her from her blinding harness. He gently parted her lips with his fingers and withdrew the sponge from her mouth.
Leslie was floating in space as he guided her to the back of the tent, away from the stakes that had imprisoned her. Before he laid her down, he tied her wrists together in front of her and drew a soft, black cloth over her eyes. When she was on her back, eager and moaning, he slipped between her knees. A moment later, his rigid member pushed aside her outer lips and entered her.
What began was a long, intense session of delirium. Leslie moaned and groaned as she fucked her. When his mouth took her breasts, she writhed and squirmed. His strokes were long and sure. Slow and steady. When she came, she felt like her spirit had been touched. He poured himself deep within her, deeper than anyone had penetrated her before. She came again. He rolled her over and pulled her to her knees and entered her bowels. Leslie shook and shuddered. The rasping of his prick along her energized ring sent electrical charges through her. She felt him come and her lust exploded. He remained hard, made her come again and followed suit.
All the while he was fucking her, he kept murmuring, “Good Ghaniyah. Beautiful Ghaniyah. Sweet Ghaniyah.” There was a hypnotizing quality to his voice and Leslie soon joined the mantra, repeating in her mind, “Sweet Ghaniyah. Good Ghaniyah.
Beautiful Ghaniyah.”
When he finished with her rear, he washed himself off and then pulled her mouth to his cock. Leslie subsumed it with joy. She suckled it hungrily. Najib’s strong hand guided her along it, slowly, incessantly, probing it into her throat. Jaida joined them. Leslie reveled in her cinnamon smell. She washed Leslie’s pussy with her tongue, making her body vibrate. Leslie still had Najib’s cock in her mouth and she clamped her lips down firmly on it when Jaida made her explode with passion. When Najib’s cock began to spasm and jerk, she pushed her head down hard so that it would pour directly into her belly.
When they were done with her, they laid her down, retied her hands behind her back, bound her ankles and tied them to a stake. They restored her head halter. Leslie was asleep even before they left.
She awoke much later. Her head was woozy and her body sagged. She tested her bonds languidly. It took her a while to remember what had happened. When she recalled it, she moaned in misery. It was like she had become another person. Leslie had flown away, replaced by Ghaniyah, a creature enthralled with lust. They were doing that to her. They were stealing her. She had to get away somehow before she was all gone.
Jaida came in a while later and after she mounted her again on her stakes, she fed her. This time, after she ate, she did not install one of the fiendish sponges, but instead had her drink a thimble full of the watery, white liquid that the sponges had been soaking in. Leslie did not dare refuse.
She left her there, blinded and silenced. A short while later, Leslie, her mind numbed by the drug, heard the sound of car engines. A little while after that, she heard music. There were drums, flutes, some kind of stringed instrument. More cars pulled up and some left. She heard a man’s and a woman’s laughter outside her tent. It went on for hours. Jaida came by and gave her something to drink, let her pee, made her come and left. One of the old women came in and fed her. Later, after the music stopped, Najib came by and fucked her again, spilling himself in her pussy and in her mouth.
Day after day went by. She never left her tent. Three or four times a day, she would be forced to accept one of the sponges in her mouth. Jaida would come in, tantalize her with her hands and whisper sayings in Arabic in her ear, always following them up with reminders that, “Ghaniyah love Jaida. Jaida love Ghaniyah. Ghaniyah belong to Jaida. Ghaniyah do anything for Jaida.” Then she would make her come.
One of the older women would come by and bathe her. They all seemed to be in milk, and they would feed Leslie from their breasts. There was a strange, spicy taste to it, reminiscent of the milky liquid that the sponges were soaked with. Each time, afterwards, a dizziness would come over Leslie and her loins would burn.
She spent long times affixed to her stakes, her halter affixed to her head, awaiting someone to come to her. There would be long, fevered sessions of sex. Sometimes it was with Najib, other times Jaida. Sometimes both. As Jaida had promised, she came to treasure Najib’s prick. Even when she was not under the influence of the drug, her pussy clenched when he discharged himself in her mouth.
She never had to be punished again. The thought of making Jaida sad was too much to bear. Jaida loved her. She kept telling her. She caressed her, kissed her. Sometimes she just lay with her, for an hour or more, kissing her, stroking her, caressing her, telling her how beautiful, sweet and good Ghaniyah was.
Najib was an overpowering force. When she smelled his flesh enter her tent, a shudder would go through her. He never harmed her, never beat her, never hurt her, but her fear of him was rabid. He emanated a power that pierced her inner self. Her memory of her sessions with him were always sketchy. She would remember his long, thick cock filling her canal, stroking languidly along it. It seemed alive inside her. When he presented it to her lips, she felt compelled to worship it. He had an otherworldly stamina as if he drew his powers from an unearthly source. When he left her bound in her tent after filling her with his seed, she could feel it seeping into her cells, claiming her, marking her as his.
But it was Jaida that she came to love. Her fingers were so deft, her kisses so sweet, she melted every time that she saw her. When she lapped at Jaida’s pussy, making her writhe and moan with pleasure, she felt like she had been given a great gift. When Jaida licked hers, Leslie’s mind and body spun away into space. When they were conjoined, mouths pressed to sexes, one atop the other, and Jaida was always on top, it felt like their bodies had become one, that Jaida had crawled inside her.
The sessions that were hardest to remember were when either Jaida or Najib would light some incense and bring Leslie’s face to it, forcing her to breath in the fumes deeply. She would pass off into a fog and recall only their murmuring words, soft, mesmerizing, enchanting, rhythmic and strange. The words were not Arabic, not any Arabic that she had ever heard and she had been around it a lot since she had been enslaved by Mrs. Moussa. They sounded close to it, but rougher, more guttural. Later, she could not remember a single one. They would use her afterwards, Najib’s cock buried in her body, her face buried in Jaida’s loins, but she would never remember anything once they had begun. The next thing she would know is when she woke up, mounted on her stakes, her halter affixed firmly around her head.
She lost the urge to speak. When the idea entered her head to beg or plead for freedom or forbearance from the potion, or to be able to spend even one day, a few hours, without the steady diet of lips, fingers, cocks and cunts assaulting her, Jaida’s mantra would enter her head: “Ghaniyah no talk. Ghaniyah never talk. Ghaniyah always silent.”
Eventually, they did not have to resort to the sponges. Jaida or Najib would proffer her a cup of the milky white liquid and Leslie would drink it willingly. She lost her fear of losing herself. Or rather, she forgot it. Jaida would ask her every day, “What you name?” It was the only time Leslie was given permission to speak. When she answered that it was Leslie, Jaida would laugh sweetly and contradict her. “No, you Ghaniyah. Beautiful, sweet Ghaniyah. Jaida love Ghaniyah. Ghaniyah belong to Jaida. Ghaniyah do anything for Jaida.”
Finally, one day, when she was mounted on her stakes, Jaida came in and freed her from her halter. There had been a long, intense session the night before with both her and Najib. She had been fed several large cups of the potion. They had used the incense on her several times. When she awoke, mounted to her stakes, it was morning. She could hear the morning birds outside. When her mouth was free, Jaida asked her again, “What you name?” Leslie went to answer and she couldn’t remember. She scoured her brain. She started to cry. She had a name! She knew she had a name! What was it? Jaida saw her tear filled eyes and began to stroke her head lovingly. “You know,” she said comfortingly. “I tell you many times. You remember.”
Then it came to her. “Ghaniyah?” she asked uncertainly. It was wrong somehow, but she knew it was the right answer.
Jaida broke into a broad smile. She gave her a loving kiss. “Yes, you name Ghaniyah. Jaida love Ghaniyah, beautiful, sweet Ghaniyah. Now I think you ready to learn to dance.”
And learn she did. That day, Jaida introduced her to the other girls. There was Falak. She was a tall, buxom Spanish girl who had been sold by her boyfriend for four pounds of hashish. Bahira was a petit French girl originally named Nicole, scooped up off the streets of Marseille. Lama and Rahsa were Germans. They were kidnapped right off a cruise liner in Tunis one night. They were sisters, Lama with fiery red hair and Rasha a blond. Azizah, formerly Veronica, was Italian with jet black hair and olive skin. She was the most voluptuous of the clan, with big breasts, wide hips and plump, pursed lips. They all loved Jaida and Jaida loved them. They greeted Ghaniyah with open arms, kissing and petting her, making sweet sounds in her ears. Jaida’s girls never talked. Jaida’s girls were always silent.
Every day, for hours and hours, Ghaniyah was taught how to move her hips, to shake her bare breasts gently so they shimmered, to move seductively with the music. She was adorned with jewels, given colorful diaphanous, revealing clothes to wear and taught how to shed th
em delectably.
Her sessions with Najib and Jaida continued, although they started spending less and less time with her. There were the other girls to take care of after all. From time to time, Ghaniyah’s mind would falter. She would remember that she had forgotten something. She would cry and sob in Jaida’s arms. But those occasions became fewer and fewer as the weeks progressed.
Soon after her dancing lessons began, at night, after the music had started, Ghaniyah would be given a large draft of potion and bound hand and foot in her tent. The men would come and untie her and use her, several every night. She would fuck them with fury, although, at first, the next morning she would be sad and ashamed. Jaida would comfort her though and would remind her, “Beautiful, sweet Ghaniyah. Jaida love Ghaniyah. Ghaniyah belong to Jaida. Ghaniyah do anything for Jaida.”
When her dancing skills came up to par, she would entertain in the main tent. Her price went up then, of course. She would lead the men she had enticed gaily into her tent and bring them a world of delight.
The girls were all fast friends. Jaida let them make love to each other from time to time. She paired Ghaniyah off with Bahira, the little, black haired French girl, and, for a special price, the men could watch them make love. Ghaniyah loved Bahira’s pretty little breasts, her doll like body. But it was Falak, the Spaniard, that she really lusted for. She and Falak would approach Jaida after a practice dancing session, holding hands, and supplicate her with their eyes. If she allowed it, it would be in her own luxurious tent while either she or Rajib watched.
Rajib was the constant, ominous presence. All of the girls were afraid of him. When he took one of them to his tent, she often stayed there for several days. He would perform his ceremonies; drive the girl to intolerable passion. She would return ever so much more devoted to her duties.