by Ann Jacobs
Her hot, wet sheath, squeezing his cock as only a woman's pussy could.
Jamil lay helpless, deprived of the sight and taste of his phantom lover, able only to feel the touch of her hand on his scrotum and her vagina contracting around his cock. He lay back, savoring the sensual motions of a female body cloaked head-to-toe in all-concealing black.
His nostrils flared at the almost forgotten smells of musk and sex. Her quickened breathing and his own reverberated, their faint sounds mingling with the monotonous drips of falling water droplets in the silence of the bunker.
He had to taste her. Yet he couldn't move, and he dared not ask her to bend down and give him her lips. He dared not chance waking the guard again. He surely would end this fantasy fuck ere it truly began.
Jamil deliberately slowed his breathing, kept it quieter than the constant drip, drip, drip of water onto his legs, arms, and upper chest where she did not shield him with her robe and veil. Quieter than the occasional moans from the American in the cubicle next to his.
His fingers itched to cup her breasts, feel a woman's softness in his hands for the first time since his enslavement. He strained at his bonds. But the chains held fast.
Was she beautiful or ugly? The slight weight of her, balanced as it was above his cock, hinted that she was slender beneath the all-encompassing abaya. Beyond that he could tell nothing but that her pussy knew exactly how to clench his long-deprived cock.
It didn't matter. Heat radiated through his body, from his cock that she squeezed and drew on so sweetly, from the sensation of her gentle fingers kneading his balls.
Jamil concentrated on what he could feel, savored each subtle undulation of her vaginal muscles as she moved up and down, taking him deeper and then withdrawing. The tug of her fingers when they tangled in the coarse mat of pubic hair that surrounded his balls-hair he'd not been allowed to remove during his incarceration but whose presence humiliated him now.
Her juices gushed over him, dripped back onto his anus. She caught it on her finger and rubbed it around the puckered opening where Dubaq had violated him so regularly before the women arrived in camp.
Better a woman's finger than a man's cock. Still, being touched there brought back nightmarish memories.
"Not there. Please. Katha ath nan," he whispered in Arabic, hoping she would understand and caress his genitals but leave his ass alone. Apparently she did, because she slid her hand up until her nails raked his scrotum and her fingers grasped his testicles painfully as though to remind him who was slave, who was master.
"No. Nek ni. Fuck me," he repeated in English, for he realized his command of colloquial Arabic left much to be desired since he'd spent years being schooled in the States before returning to Kuwait to defend his country.
"Kul khara!" she hissed, ordering him to shut up while she fondled his sac. At the same time she sank onto his cock again, taking all of him into her pussy this time and clasping him with inner muscles that seemed determined to wring every drop of semen from his tortured balls.
Her grip on his balls became lighter, more sensuous than painful. His control gone, he felt his cock swell further. With each orgasmic spasm of her pussy around him, she sped the inevitable explosion that had him in its grasp.
First, a kaleidoscope of color. Then total blackness. Jamil lay chained, ejaculating his milky semen into the body of a stranger-a woman he'd never touched, never tasted. A woman he'd never heard shout her pleasure, even during the fierce orgasm that had triggered his own release.
A woman who disappeared as suddenly as she'd come, taking the best part of him with her.
Chapter Two
Were it not for the ball stretcher lying between his legs and the dried love-juices he noticed on his cock and balls when the guard unchained him the following morning, Jamil would have dismissed his nocturnal visitor as the prime player in a strange erotic dream.
Surreptitiously, he wiped away the evidence that could earn him a beating or worse and refastened the brutal device lest Dubaq notice its absence and make good on his latest castration threats. Then he pulled a tattered dishdasha over his head as though he thought he was to leave immediately to work in the oilfield.
This morning his captors would have to strip him down if they wanted to play.
* * * * *
The prisoner's long, thick cock had more than filled her. It had shot her full of his thick, milky seed while she'd enjoyed an orgasm more intense than any of those embedded in her distant memories.
Jamil al Hassan had fulfilled long pent-up needs that, once Leila had acknowledged them, refused to stay satisfied.
She wanted more. She wanted to stroke his skin, feel his hands and mouth on her cheek, her nipples. Her clitoris. Thinking about how sweetly Saqr used to suckle her yoni while she took his lingam deep into her throat had her wet and aching again.
Saqr's much less impressive lingam had been smooth, hairless.
A thicket of coarse, curly hair had surrounded the prisoner's cock and balls. And an unkempt beard obscured the mouth she soon would have tasting her most tender flesh.
The hair must go.
It was unfitting for a Muslim, which Jamil almost certainly must be. More important, Leila found it distasteful to touch and look upon.
Dubaq might well like the idea of taunting his prisoners with possible dismemberment at a woman's hands. He might even welcome her offer to divest them of their disgusting body hair.
Congratulating herself for coming up with a plan, Leila slipped into one of the high-necked, long-sleeved tunics that hid the ruined flesh on her arm and neck. Very carefully she wrapped a purple silk hijab around her head, arranging it to conceal the worst of her facial scars as well as her hair before tucking its ends into the neckline of the tunic.
"Good morning, my sister." Mernoosh looked up from the table where she and Dubaq were feeding each other dates and flatbread. Fragrant steam escaped from a small pot of coffee on the stove.
"Good day," Leila said as she joined them.
When Dubaq grunted after finishing off the last of the dates, Leila seized the opportunity to put her plan in action before he left to attend his duties. "My brother, I would do my part to intimidate our enemies."
His beady eyes glittered. "And what might you do that I cannot?"
"You have threatened to take their manhood, have you not?"
"I plan to take the older Kuwaiti's balls this morning if he yet lives. Stubborn dog. He refuses to die, yet he does nothing to make me wish to allow him to live. He steadfastly refuses to admit his country's crimes against Iraq. He refuses even to assist us in the oilfields now, though he must know his aid there is what has kept him alive all these years. Do not tell me, little sister, that you wish to be the one to make him a eunuch."
"No. That is a pleasure I will gladly leave to you."
Leila suppressed a shudder. Asad, the gaunt Kuwaiti who had apparently decided a fortnight ago that a slow and painful death was preferable to continuing his enslavement, had appeared near death when she'd crept past his cot in the hour before dawn. Obviously he had borne the brunt of her brother-in-law's most recent sadistic torment.
Still, the potential castration of Asad offered her a perfect opportunity. She forced a smile when she met Dubaq's interested gaze. "Allow me to remove the body hair from all three prisoners while you and your men assure them that one of them is about to lose his balls," she said, taking care to sound casual. "I would make the experience suitably painful in payment for what they did to Saqr."
Mernoosh, who Leila was beginning to believe possessed a sadistic streak to match her husband's, clapped her hands. "Mohammed. I beg you allow my brother's widow her vengeance."
"I will, my jewel. But I would take it further."
Dubaq's evil smile chilled Leila's heart. What if he decided to castrate all three men? Her yoni clenched at the thought of never having Jamil's magnificent cock inside her again. Her mouth turned dry when she imagined it soft and flaccid against her to
ngue, unable to harden and spurt its potent load.
Then he stood and tugged at his short beard. "Yes. Remove their hair. But not with the sugar paste. You will shave them, allow them to feel and fear the blade. But you will make it the most sensual-" He laughed, a fiendish sound that began deep in his barrel chest "-and the last sexually arousing thing one of them will ever experience."
Mernoosh bit into a juicy date, then looked up at her husband. "What will happen to the other two?"
"They will die, too. In much the same way as the others."
"When?" Leila asked, alarmed that she might not have time to accomplish her goals.
"When I receive my orders to abandon this outpost and rejoin the main Republican Guard troop in Baghdad. As long as I must guard the oilfield, Lieutenant al Hassan and the American must be kept alive and healthy enough to supervise necessary repairs to the wells. The so-called engineer the colonel sent from Baghdad is an incompetent, but I dare not insist upon a replacement from the army now, with the Americans snapping at our borders."
"Will you take away their manhood first?"
Dubaq laid his sticky fingers on the exposed part of Leila's cheek. "Not if you choose to avail yourself of it, little scarred one. Is that your wish?"
"No-"
"Do not lie. You're as hot-blooded as Mernoosh. Yes. I know. Saqr was quite the braggart." Shrugging, he pulled his hand back and shook his head. "I would take you to my couch and ease your lust, but your scars repel me," he added, cupping the bulge in his uniform pants as though taunting Leila with what he would not share with her.
Not that she would welcome his carnal attention.
"If you wish, you may enjoy al Hassan for as long as he is whole. I will have him bound in such a way that you may ride him to pleasure, if that's your desire. And I will provide you a key in case you wish to free parts of him to pleasure you."
Leila smiled and nodded.
Perfect.
She might never again experience love, but she would feel the willing touch of a lover.
Even if it took the imminent threat of castration and death to make him willing.
* * * * *
Asad still breathed, though Jamil doubted his countryman was long for the world. He lay, naked, blood still dripping from the charred stub of his thumb that Dubaq had crudely amputated yesterday afternoon. The American, Brian Shearer, had recovered sufficiently from his own brutal beating to stand by his cot on shaky legs at the barked command from a fat, greasy guard.
"Remove your clothing, " one of the regular day guards ordered when he noticed Jamil had dressed.
Then he busied himself removing bloody blankets from Asad's unconscious body while Jamil watched, sickened that Dubaq would order further torture for a man obviously so near to the death he apparently had sought.
"Now!" the guard barked, louder this time.
Startled, Jamil lifted off the dishdasha he'd put on earlier and let it drop to his feet.
"What the fuck?" The American's mouth had dropped open, his expression making the awful bruises on his pallid skin almost unremarkable.
Jamil followed Shearer's gaze to his crotch. "A ball stretcher. Courtesy of those who guard us," he said in English, hoping this guard would not understand.
"Remove that, too, al Hassan," the other guard said, gesturing toward the leather as he roughly spread Jamil's legs and clamped his ankles into leg irons that had been chained to iron eyelets embedded in the wall.
Jamil struggled to maintain his balance while he unbuckled the ball stretcher and handed it to the guard. A grin on his ugly face, the guard grabbed one arm at a time, shackling them to the wall at ninety-degree angles from Jamil's body.
Used to the procedure, except that this time he was shackled with his back instead of his face to the wall, Jamil bent his head from force of habit when the guard moved to position a heavy iron collar and clamp it tightly around his neck.
Another guard had shackled the American in a similar pose by the time Dubaq strode into the bunker pushing a battered stainless steel cart. Jamil squelched an oath when he guessed the probable purpose of the wicked-looking tools laid out on its surface.
Straight razors. Scalpels of various sizes and shapes. Needles and suturing materials. A brazier filled with glowing coals and a selection of bandages.
"Your grooming has been sadly neglected," the jailer said, picking up a razor while focusing his beady gaze first on the American, then on Jamil. "That will be remedied. I'd not want any of you to die of infection before learning what it feels like to be a eunuch. Leila, you may begin by shaving the unconscious one," he concluded when a heavily veiled woman joined him by the cart.
Jamil's balls tightened when the woman lifted another one of the razors. It was as though they sensed danger, the way they drew up toward his body. A chill spread from the iron shackles that bound his ankles, wrists, and neck through skin and flesh sensitized by exposure and daily beatings.
Razor in hand, Dubaq approached Jamil. "Do you not beg, Kuwaiti dog?" he jeered, taking a swipe down Jamil's body with the naked blade, stopping when he reached the base of his flaccid cock. "Perhaps I shall cut off your lingam as well as your seed sac. Yes, I believe I will. "
Laughing, Dubaq grasped Jamil's genitals in one beefy hand and tugged them, hard. Though tears stung Jamil's cheeks, he refused to grant the jailer the satisfaction of hearing him cry out at the excruciating pain.
Blood dripped from yesterday's wounds that the razor swipe had reopened. Jamil swallowed reflexively and felt the bite of the collar on his throat. He spat at Dubaq. "I will never beg, Iraqi pervert."
Dubaq's fist came up hard and drew blood from a cut on Jamil's cheek. "Were you not chained as you are for a purpose, I would adjust your position and use your Kuwaiti ass to ease my lust. Or your mouth. But you will be more docile once relieved of your balls. Perhaps then I will no longer need to chain you in order to have you serve my pleasure."
"Come quickly, Dubaq. I believe this man is dead."
Jamil turned his head, followed the jailer's path to Asad's bed where the woman stood, the razor in her hand still dripping with shaving foam. Seeing him lying still and pale as death, Jamil realized Asad could not survive more torture. Insha'Allah, his countryman would soon find paradise.
It was as though something had broken in Asad's mind these past weeks, from the way he had abandoned his docile manner and begun taunting his captors far beyond the insults Jamil had spat out in futile defiance since the day of their capture. Asad had seemingly invited them to accelerate their torture.
They had. Dubaq had kept Asad chained to the wall by his cot for days at a time, subjecting him to hourly beatings while allowing him only occasional sips of water to assuage his thirst. Then, ten days ago, he'd begun hacking off Asad's fingers one by one.
The jailer stood over Asad's body, letting out a stream of vicious Arabic curses.
"Do you wish to take his manhood now?" the woman asked.
"Stupid woman. I'd not unman a corpse." Dubaq yelled for one of the guards. "Dispose of the body," he said, eyeing Asad's earthly remains in apparent disgust.
The woman glanced first at the American, then at Jamil. "Who would you have me prepare first?"
"Al Hassan." Dubaq shot a chilling look Jamil's way.
The woman came to him, her movement flowing beneath an ankle-length tunic that skimmed her slender curves. A purple silk hijab hid her face and neck except for dark eyes that Jamil found hauntingly familiar.
Kneeling between his legs as she was, she was out of his range of vision while she brushed foam over his calves and thighs and scraped it off with her blade. But he felt her callused fingers when she stroked his newly denuded skin and the damp warmth of a cloth she used to cleanse the areas where he'd been shaved.
She had gentle fingers. Too soft a touch for a woman who was calmly preparing him to lose his balls.
Apparently Dubaq had chosen to refine his torture by letting this woman graphically remind Jami
l of the capacity for carnal pleasure that he was about to lose forever.
He braced himself for the tug of the blade on the sensitive skin around his genitals, but it didn't come.
Instead, she stood and began using scissors to clip his hair and the scruffy beard he hadn't been allowed to shave or trim for months. Lather followed, and then the blade.
His head and neck. His arms, chest, and belly. Each in their turn, they were lathered, shaved, and wiped clean with a hot, wet towel.
No woman had cleansed his body for eleven long years. Rarely allowed to bathe himself during his enslavement, he reveled in the sensation of warmth, smoothness-the cleanliness he'd dreamed of many times as he lay shackled on his cot, wishing he could scratch away caked-on grime that made him itch and filled his nostrils with the stench of his own unwashed flesh.
His cock rose, as if defying the jailer.
"Eager, are you?" she murmured in Arabic, taking him in her hand and rubbing the pad of her thumb over his cock head. "Your slit weeps. Could it be you would like to put this juicy plum inside my yoni?"
"No."
She held his cock first to one side and then the other, using the scissors first before taking the razor up again to rid him of his pubic hair. "Liar. Your lingam says you would."
Trussed to the wall as he was for all to see, Jamil could hardly deny his obvious arousal. With each stroke of the woman's blade against his crotch, he wondered if the slash from Dubaq's knife would immediately follow her ministrations. He heard but could not see the jailer taunting the American prisoner while someone-another woman from the sound of her-apparently prepared him similarly to become a eunuch.
Desperate now, Jamil realized that if he didn't escape soon he would die painfully here in this hell, the same as Asad had just done. He had no choice but to approach Maktoum.
Then he must free himself and the American from their chains. Overpower their guards, perhaps steal a truck, and drive nearly seventy kilometers to safety in Kuwait, over roads so close to the borders that they were certain to be heavily patrolled.