Slaver's Bait: The Taking of Cheryl

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  He face was narrow and he had refined features, a straight, long nose, thin lips and dark, brooding eyes. He spoke to the Turk in crisp, sophisticated tones, in English.

  “I see that you have rejoined us, Mr. Temizan. It was nip and tuck. We thought that we were going to lose you.” Nora had obviously been made to talk.

  “Where am I?” the Turk asked.

  “You are in a guest bedroom of the Stoner Mansion,” the elegant soldier replied. “You’ve been out for three days.”

  “The women, Cheryl…”

  “All of the women are fine,” the soldier interrupted. “They’re down the hall in what you might call ‘protective custody’.”

  The Turk made an effort to rise from the bed. The rebel at the foot of the bed stood up, his rifle aimed at the Turk’s head. He was scolded by the tall man in Kengali. He made a short bow to the tall man and left the room. The Turk, sensing that the effort of rising was too much for him, lay back.

  “Now we won’t be disturbed Mr. Temizan. We need to talk. Please relax. No one is going to hurt you or the women. In fact quite the opposite is true.”

  “Who are you?” the Turk asked.

  “My name is Upenyu Matunde. I am the leader of the Katangonese Liberation Army in this province. Some call me General Matunde.”

  “What are you going to do with me, the women? What do you want?” the Turk asked.

  “Well, Mr. Temizan, you see, it is my job to help recover the millions of dollars that Mr. Stoner, may his soul burn in Hell, stole from my country. Unfortunately, the bulk of his money, several hundred million dollars, is tied up in various bank accounts from Switzerland to the Cayman Islands.”

  “So?”

  “Well, contrary to popular belief, these banks will not release the money except to the lawful owners.”

  The Turk closed his eyes. The effort of talking and listening to this well spoken, African general was making him dizzy.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Temizan?”

  “Yes, I’m all right,” replied the Turk. “Cut to the chase, please.”

  “Yes,” the tall man answered. “The chase. Well here it is. The legal owners of the bank accounts are Stoner’s widows, the women Cheryl, Justine and Mary. They are millionaires many times over. I have been, let us say, negotiating with them and they have agreed to cooperate. It was your Cheryl who was the hardest bargainer. It seems that she and the others are willing to return a large portion of the money in exchange for one thing.”

  “And what is that?” Turk asked.

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You see under our laws women can only hold property through men. The Uzoma government has been overthrown; his throat was slit by a recently acquired female slave. However, our tribal laws still govern. Under Western law, only the heirs of Mr. Stoner can gain access to the accounts. Under our law, only a male can own property. Therefore, our new government will not certify the women as the owners of the property until they can claim through a male.”

  “And that male is me?” Turk asked incredulously.

  “Ahhh, Mr. Temizan, you have guessed it. Miss Cheryl and the others have insisted on marrying you.”

  “Marrying me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Temizan. As soon as you are capable, you are to be married.” The tall African started to laugh. “It seems that you will have three new wives. Congratulations, Mr. Temizan!”

  The Turk was speechless. He tried to rise again.

  “Now, Mr. Temizan, please, do not try to get up. If something were to happen to you, you would ruin all of our best laid plans. You see, the deal is this. My government does not want to alienate Western investors by appropriating the former Mr. Stoner’s holdings. You and the women will remain the titular owner of his vast properties. But, you will remain here in Katango. The property will be administered for the benefit of the

  Katangonese people. But you may live here in relative luxury, guided by my administrative authority. The alternative is, well, many people disappear during a revolution. And there is no official record of any of you ever entering the country.”

  Turk looked at the sophisticated soldier. “I want to see Cheryl. I want to see the women.”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Temizan. They will be allowed to see you shortly. But first I must have your consent.”

  “I want whatever Cheryl wants,” the Turk replied.

  “Then it is settled.” Matunde proffered the Turk his hand. Turk shook it.

  Matunde opened the door and barked out a command. A minute later, there was a commotion at the door. Five excited white women streamed into the room.

  Cheryl was in the lead. She knelt by the bed and took hold of the Turk’s hand, kissing it. “Are you really all right? Oh, God, please. Tell me that you’re okay?”

  The Turk pressed her hand firmly. Tears came to his eyes. “Oh, Cheryl,” he said, his voice cracking. “How can you ever forgive me?”

  The other women crowded around. They were all dressed in colorful African kandas. Tears flowed from their eyes. Hands reached out and touched the prone man. Cheryl lifted her head. “I forgive you, Tarðk,” she said, using his real name for the first

  time. “I knew that you’d come. I’m so happy.” Cheryl laid her head down on the bed and sobbed. Turk rubbed his hand in her hair.

  “I love you, Cheryl,” he said. He looked up at the other women. He saw Denise sitting on the bed next to him. He started to speak to her, his voice choking, “I…I…”

  Denise placed her hand over his lips. Tears were running down her face. She leaned over and kissed him.

  Even Nora, tough old Nora, was in tears. Her arm was around Denise. “Oh, Turk,” she said. “I’m so glad that you’re alive.”

  Justine poked her head in, smiling. “Will you do it? Will you marry us?”

  “But how can you want to marry me?” the Turk asked. “After what I’ve done?”

  “But you freed us, you saved our lives,” Justine replied. “You risked everything to save Cheryl. I can’t go home, not after what I’ve been through. I could never live my old life again. I want to stay here with you.”

  Mary had been standing next to the bed and watching. Justine took her hand and pulled her to the bed. “This is Mary,” she told the Turk. “She wants to marry you too.”

  Mary smiled at the dark haired, tear-filled man. “We all want it,” she said.

  Cheryl raised her head from the bed. “We‘ll be good wives to you, Tarðk. Please say yes!”

  Turk looked deeply into Cheryl’s eyes. He still held her hand in his. His eyes brimming with tears, he nodded his head.

  It took about a week for the Turk to recover enough so that he could get out of bed and walk on his own. The women waited on him hand and foot. He was getting to know his future wives more intimately. All of the women refused to have sex with him until the wedding, but that did not stop them from teasing his cock to hardness under the covers or promising lewd delights.

  On the evening before the wedding, Turk sat on the veranda with Matunde. The sun had set about two hours ago. A bevy of giggling native women, some of Stoner’s former slaves, kept running in and out of the house. There seemed to be a celebration going on in the native quarters that lay nestled along the banks of the Kenga River. Deep, melodious male voices could be heard, chanting and singing, followed by an unmistakably female chorus. Matunde took a sip of his drink. “They’re singing about you, you know,” he said to

  the Turk.

  Turk took in the dancing lights of the fires. “About me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Matunde answered. “It seems that the native woman, Dalila, the one who was tied to Stoner’s bed when you killed him, has told the tale of how you defeated the evil Stoner in personal combat. You slew him with a spear, an African symbol of manhood and virility. The people are singing of the great ‘Stone Slayer’, a mighty warrior.”

  Turk laughed. He liked the affable native general. He had learned that Matunde had atte
nded college in the States, UCLA. He had returned to help free his people. He made an excellent martini.

  “The chiefs will be sending you their prettiest wives and daughters to sleep with. They will want to strengthen the blood in their lines.”

  “You’re kidding,” Turk said.

  “No, it’s an old African tradition. Your seed will be a valuable commodity.”

  Nora came out onto the veranda. She smiled and placed her hand on Turk’s shoulder. “I hope that you’re ready for tomorrow, Turk,” she said.

  “I don’t know when I’ve seen a more randy bunch of women.”

  “Well, he is the ‘Mighty Warrior’,” Matunde said, jokingly.

  “I thought that you and the other women have been fucking up a storm for the last couple of weeks?” Turk shot back. “I’ve been pulling my pud every night just thinking about it.”

  “We have been getting to know each other,” Nora said, laughing. “But there’s nothing like a good stiff cock connected to the right kind of man.”

  “I guess I’ll have to try and be that man,” the Turk answered her. “It’ll be a big shift for me.”

  “You’ve always been that kind of man, Turk,” Nora said. “There was just something broken in you. In me too. But you’ve fixed it. Now we can all lead real lives.”

  “But what about the past?” the Turk asked. “How do I make up for what I’ve done, all the misery I’ve caused?”

  Matunde answered him. “You have a chance to do a lot of good here, Mr. Temizan. The people respect you. You will help me to manage the vast Stoner properties. It will be my job to make sure that the central government does not impose its rule on this province to the detriment of the people’s rights. I intend to keep my little army in the field. You will have to implement the program of redistribution of wealth here and make provision for education, health care, social stability and justice that these people deserve. That will make you a better man.”

  “I hope that you’re right,” the Turk answered.

  The following morning, Turk, bedecked in a knee length agbada, a flowing cotton robe with large, loose sleeves, awaited his brides. The garment was ivory white, with a large golden sun embroidered on its front. He wore white cotton slippers and a round, brimless, white hat with a golden stripe around its top. His trousers were baggy, and designed to match the robe and hat.

  “You look like an African chief,” Matunde told him as they waited on the veranda for the women to arrive.

  “I feel like I’m at a costume party,” Turk replied.

  Villagers had turned out from miles around. The cotton workers had organized their native bands and were playing drums and flutes in a seeming myriad of competitions. Matunde was dressed in his finest jungle fatigues, pressed and starched. All of the white overseers had been butchered mercilessly in the days following the revolution, but the new, native foremen, elected by their coworkers, stood in a wide semi-circle dressed in colorful dashikis. The native women who had been serving as the slaves to Stoner’s soldiers were lined up and singing songs with celebratory beats. Turk thought that he caught the song from last night that he had heard, the one about the ‘Stone Slayer’.

  The Imam was present, noticeably chastened by the presence of Matunde’s martial guard. His kraal had been looted by the native soldiers, but his life was spared by Matunde at the last minute. A young, black, female head peered out from around the door and laughed. She said something in Kengali to Matunde. He nodded and signaled a small phalanx of riflemen to his left. The beginning of the ceremony was announced by the firing of a volley into the air. A roar went up from the crowd and they closed in on the broad, raised veranda. Matunde waived his arms until they were silent.

  When the crowd’s noise was reduced to a mere rumble, Matunde signaled the girl. The door was flung open and the bridal procession appeared. It was led by Dalila, draped in a red and gold kanga, a long, matching scarf in her hair. Her white teeth shined brightly in her smiling face. She carried a large bough of flowers. Behind her were three more native girls, similarly attired. Then the three brides emerged. The women were draped in sparkling white robes, their faces were covered, and only their bright, happy eyes appeared. The robes were pulled tight around them and their graceful hips and slender torsos were well displayed. All the women wore white slippers similar to Turk’s. Cheryl was in the middle. She stepped up first and bowed low to the Turk. Mary and Justine followed suit. The Imam raised his hand for silence and attention.

  He spoke loudly in Kengali. Matunde responded. He was giving away the brides. When the Imam spoke again, Matunde nudged the Turk who uttered the only word of Kengali he had been taught, roughly translated as “I do”. The Imam made a pronouncement and the crowd gave a large cheer. The cacophony of music and singing began anew. Turk stepped up to his new wives and, starting with Cheryl, kissed them one by one.

  Not long after began what turned into a three day orgy. The first night belonged to the wives. Stoner’s bedroom had been redecorated and the walls were covered with flowers and painted with large, colorful phallic and other fertility designs. When the new family entered the room, the women were dragging Turk along with them, laughing and teasing him. When they entered the bedroom, they asked Turk to stand in the center of the room. As one, the women disrobed and knelt before him, their hands behind their backs, their heads lowered. Cheryl looked up at the Turk and spoke for them.

  “Before we consummate this marriage, Tarðk, my sisters have asked me to speak to you about our feelings towards you. We are now your wives under Katangonese law. This means that we are your property, to deal with as you wish. Our bodies and our wills belong to you. You should know that all of us have entered into this marriage with full knowledge of what this means.”

  Cheryl paused, a tear running down her face. “We are yours now. We offer ourselves to you completely.”

  Turk was visibly moved by Cheryl’s proffer. He reached out his hand and caressed Cheryl’s face. He looked her into her eyes.

  “There was never a man who deserved such love less,” he said. “I pledge to you that I will do all that I can to preserve your love and protect you from all harm. I love you, all of you. Please, come and kiss me.”

  The women rose as one and kissed their new husband. Then, with expressions of merriment and glee, they pulled Turk over and onto the bed.

  They had him stripped quickly and began to devour his flesh. After several weeks of abstinence, the Turk’s loins burned with desire. He felt a hand on his cock and lips on his stomach and chest. Cheryl appeared above him and merged her lips with his. All of the lust and passion that had built in him for this woman charged through him. The kiss seemed the culmination of his heart’s desire. He felt a mouth engulf his rigid pole.

  Cheryl broke the kiss and placed her hand on Turk’s face, caressing it lightly. “I want to watch your face while you come,” she said. “And then I want you to make love to me, long and hard.”

  Turk could not find any words to respond as Justine’s tongue and lips drew a long, low moan from his lips. Mary was kissing his nipples, her long, auburn hair flowing across his chest. His hand caressed her naked back, running down her graceful torso to her hips. His other hand circled Cheryl’s shoulders as he drew her close to him. When he came, his eyes clouded over and a loud groan came from his throat. Spurt after spurt of creamy fluid pumped into Justine’s hungry mouth. Each throb of his prick sent a wave of pleasure through him.

  When his ejaculations had ceased, Justine released his cock from her mouth and crawled up his body. She laid her body on his and placed her lips on his mouth. She kissed him deeply. When she came up for air, she was crying. “Thank you, Tarðk Tamizan, my husband,” she said. “Now it’s my turn,” Cheryl said. Justine slid off of the Turk’s body and the three women pulled him up. Cheryl maneuvered herself under him. He knelt between her knees. Her hands grabbed his turgid meat and began to caress it. The Turk sighed with pleasure as he felt the delicate touch of her fingers.
Soon he was erect again and he lowered himself onto Cheryl’s expectant body. She directed his hard cock to her soft folds. Her lower lips were engorged and distended in anticipation of his penetration.

  When he entered her, Cheryl moaned.

  It was all that the Turk had dreamt about. His mouth found hers and he began to gently rock his hips, relishing every moment of sensation, as his manhood was caressed by Cheryl’s inner flesh. Mary and Justine lay on either side of the feverish pair, pressing their bodies against them. Their hands extended over Turk’s back and joined. As the Turk seemingly probed deeper and deeper inside her, Cheryl’s lust rose higher and higher. Her hands circled the Turk’s neck as she pulled his lips firmly onto hers. Their tongues wrestled madly together.

  Cheryl held herself back from completion as long as she could. She was waiting for the Turk’s eruption before she would permit her passion to overwhelm her. Finally, she could hold off no more. Wave after wave of ecstasy flowed through her as her pussy throbbed and contracted around the Turk’s thick, stiff manhood.

  Cheryl’s orgasm triggered Turk’s moment of crisis. “Ohhhhh,” he groaned, as his cock released his sperm deep within her womb. Cheryl felt the throbbing cock inside her as her pleasurable contractions continued unabated. She gripped Turk fiercely as she thrust her hips against his. She was laughing and crying at the same time. Turk’s discharge inside her seemed to cleanse her, to wash away the traces of the spunk that had been pumped inside her by cruel and callous men for the last seven months. She felt renewed, born again. As the pulses in her hot sheath subsided, she kissed the Turk once more and thanked him, as Justine had, her voice soft, her eyes brimming with tears. Thank you, Tarðk Tamizan, my husband,” she said.