Gromet's Plaza Boundstories.net
The Camel Race
by Barretthunter
Feedback
© Copyright 2011 - Barretthunter - Used by permission
Storycodes: MMM/f+; kidnap; captive; bond; cuffs; bdsm; spank; susp; petgirls; race; condition; box; delivered; oral; sex; nc/reluct; XX
jpn
The Camel Race Barretthunter MMM/f+; kidnap; captive; bond; cuffs; bdsm; spank; susp; petgirls; race; condition; box; delivered; oral; sex; nc/reluct; XX
story continued from Breaking & Entering

Malcolm Pettigrew thanked the driver, nodded the ghost of a bow to the Emir’s guard and strode down the path to the great man’s tent, the silent, light-stepping Henrietta Courtauld just behind him, her hair duly covered. He had been three months in the United Arab Emirates since his arrival as British Commercial Attache, and this was his first visit to the most obscure and traditional of the emirates, Bhagarem. Henrietta, his assistant, was not quite so new to the job, but she had not set foot here before either.

Bhagarem was well-known for its oil and for its deeply conservative, dictatorial, eccentric ruler. The Emir had a comfortable palace, of course, a new one designed in the neo-classical Islamic style by a favourite architect of Prince Charles, but tradition ran strong in Bhagarem and the Emir always greeted visitors in his tent.

Pettigrew was unsure of the kind of greeting he would receive, and a little apprehensive given the Emir’s reputation – but the hawk-faced, berobed, sternly spare-framed man in his fifties who rose to greet his guests was not only polite but charming, and demonstrated in friendly conversation that he had researched Pettigrew’s background and had heard high praise of Henrietta from the ambassador himself. The English pair had known they were invited to some kind of sporting occasion, after which Pettigrew expected to talk business, with Henrietta’s support if that was allowed. The Emir soon filled in the details.

“You, Mr Pettigrew, are one of my guests of honour and this distinguished lady is your guest. The other guest of honour is a Mr Nielsen of the famous American company Hallitosis. You are both invited to our monthly camel-and-cart-race. I deeply regret, Miss Courtauld, that no woman is permitted to watch the race. My Minister of Trade will entertain you, whether you wish to talk business or not. Gentlemen, there are camel races without carts or frills more often, with less select participants, but this event is out of the very top drawer. You will see!”

Pettigrew was introduced outside to Nielsen, a tall, slim, craggy Texan with an arrogant manner. The man explained he had gone to look at the camels as “I know about horseflesh, and I guess this is much the same.”

Henrietta, showing little enthusiasm to begin talks with the minister, had followed her boss out. “Odd. Did you get the impression he was hiding something?” Henrietta asked him.

“Probably has nothing to hide,” Pettigrew replied. Henrietta did not react at all, leaving him wondering if his joke had failed, or if she had thought it tasteless, or not understood.

The two men were shepherded to a great arena like a Roman amphitheatre. On the wide, bare ground below a quite complicated course was delineated by coloured posts and at the far end an ornate roofed gate was clearly the entrance for the competing camel teams. A large crowd was already present, buzzing with excitement. It was not long before a roar and a ripple of clapping from the crowd nearer the entrance announced the arrival of the contestants. As they reached the edge of the arena a fanfare sounded. They were indeed a magnificent sight, and the four racing appliances were drawn slowly around the circuit with many stops for the crowd to view them.

The carts were high, but otherwise small and of light manufacture. They were coated in silver paint decorated with exuberant abstract designs, one in red, one in blue, one in green and one in orange. At the back of each cart a flag flew in the same colour. Each cart had a driver, an immaculately robed Arab (“All my sons,” the Emir told his guests proudly), who wielded reins and a long whip. Drawing each cart were three camels. The outer two were attached to the cart by ropes made of red and gold strands. These proud animals wore bands and rings from which hung tassels and flags in red, black, white, green and gold together, the colours of Bhagarem. The middle camel in each case was rather different.

It was smaller than the others and shorter-legged. It was a rather different shape, and instead of moving free except for the ropes it was clamped by the back to a kind of wooden trolley with wheels and an object a little like a ship’s wheel which Pettigrew guessed could turn the other wheels right or left. This trolley was roped to the side camels. In fact the middle camel in each case was a naked young woman, her tits projecting over the front end of the trolley, her arse high and her legs, clamped apart just below the buttocks by iron rings screwed to the rear corners of the trolley, reaching down to the ground. These unusual camels were also highly decorated in red, white, black, green and gold, with headbands, colourful bands across their upper backs, multi-coloured tassels and small golden bells hanging from rings in the ends of their breasts. They wore leather collars and from these extended the reins held by the driver.

Pettigrew was stunned and amazed by the sight. He felt a touch on his arm and found the Emir politely offering a pair of binoculars, which he used before passing them to Nielsen, who grunted.

Attached to the red-themed cart was a black girl of extravagant curves, tits in danger of touching the ground and huge, quivering, deeply-parted haunches. In front of the orange cart was a slim, incredibly long-legged graceful-looking girl of Indian subcontinent appearance, with long black hair, big, faintly almond-shaped brown eyes, quite small, firm breasts with an alluring slight upturn, and a pert, tight bottom. Pulling the green cart was a girl with quite short, straight black hair rather in the style of an ancient Egyptian dancing-girl, slightly elfin or Vulcan ears, plump breasts, a large but not enormous pear-shaped bottom and skin of a pale yellowish-brown, perhaps from the Mediterranean or Middle East. The girl attached to the blue cart was white, blonde and plump, with generous breasts a still more generous bottom, both just a little loose and floppy.

“Hey, are these girls slaves, actresses or what?” asked Nielsen.

“Mr Nielsen, no actresses could possibly be permitted in Bhagarem!” the Emir replied. “They are slaves entirely, in my personal possession.”

“Sheeyut!” said the Texan, impressed.

 “I do hope, your Royal Highness, that the blonde white one isn’t British,” Pettigrew ventured. “That would be an embarrassment.”

“Not at all,” he replied, “she is Dutch. I was in Amsterdam on business, I saw her, and I asked my men to collect her. She was some kind of student, of catering and hospitality, I believe, so evidently a whore. The black one Mr Nielsen already recognises – a foolish young woman, a journalist engaged in pernicious feminism and civil rights who came to Bhagarem to investigate women’s rights. I trust she now has the information she needed.”

“Isn’t that playing with fire, your Royal Highness?” said Pettigrew nervously. He did not want to be blown up by a rocket from a drone.

“Not at all!” laughed his host. “In the first place, I pass information to our American friends about certain uncouth people and they are very grateful. In the second place, this foolish kfir has incommoded two CIA operations, so my friend Mr Felix Seeger tells me they are very happy for her to be restrained. In the third place, she is also much disliked by Hallitosis – is that not so, Mr Nielsen?”

“Sure is!” said the American with feeling.

“And against them, who can stand? We need not worry. It is much the same with the green cart girl. She is Israeli, a Mossad operative.”

“WHAT?” For once, Nielsen and Pettigrew were united. Their eyes were wide, their mouths open. Again, the Emir was amused.

“She came here seeking to arrange an assassination, but there was really no need because we possessed film of the gentleman in question which did the job less messily. My friend Major Yaco’ov told me this impertinent girl was always telling them they must do this, for she was the expert, or they must not do that because it was immoral, so they are very happy – unofficially – to be rid of her for three years. Then we will return her, trained to be more respectful.”

“Sheeyut!” said Nielsen.

“Good Heavens!” said Pettigrew. “And the fourth one, with legs all the way to her bottom?” he asked.

“An Indian whore,” replied the Emir dismissively. “But ladies and gentlemen, the race is about to begin!”

Another fanfare sounded, and as it cut off, the carts jerked forwards. The course at first was wide and Pettigrew could see that the four drivers were seeking an advantage before it narrowed and only two carts could be alongside each other. He saw also that each driver was communicating with the girl camels by pulling one or the other rein to indicate a right or left turn of the steering wheel. As the course narrowed, it was the red cart pulled by the black girl that was squeezed behind, and as it narrowed further, it was the blue cart, pulled by the blonde white girl, that fell behind.

Before long it was obvious that the race had resolved itself into two contests. The orange cart of the brown Asian girl had taken an early lead, her long legs working to advantage; but somehow, perhaps through the skill of the driver or the olive-skinned Israeli’s quick reactions to his command, the green cart caught up and overtook. Behind, the blue cart was closely trailed by the red, which eventually overtook it, the extravagant breasts and buttocks of the black girl swaying in extraordinary fashion. The drivers used their whips freely upon the girls’ haunches and the proper camels – which were clearly committed to the race – encouraged them occasionally by biting their bottoms. The noise of the crowd was ecstatic and riotous.

“Whadda they get for racing?” Nielsen enquired.

“Nothing exceptional: it is part of their given work,” the Emir replied.

“Perhaps Mr Nielsen means to ask what inducements there are to win,” Pettigrew clarified.

“Ah! That is clear. For my sons, the pride of a job well done. For the camels, special food treats – tit bits, is that the word? For the girl camels also, exemption for the winner from normal duties for a month, and, of course, while three of them may be thrashed by my guests and myself, the winner is exempt.”

“What are the normal duties?” Pettigrew asked.

“Pulling loads, cleaning toilets, keeping my employees and wives happy, those sorts of things. But ahah!”

The orange cart had been pressing the green one for some time, the brown girl’s legs working with impressive athleticism, and now on an awkward bend it had overtaken. In vain the driver of the green cart used his whip on the olive-skinned girl’s rump. The orange cart had a clear lead.

Then an even more dramatic event occurred. The red cart had made up a little ground on the leaders, but the prospect of finishing a poor last spurred on the blue cart’s driver and camels. On a tight bend they made a spurt round the outside, gained ground but not enough, and turned too sharply so their camels collided with the red cart. In an instant, all was reduced to chaos. The blue cart overran its middle camel. Both carts shattered, proving to be flimsy, which was fortunate for the camels. The wreck stabilised with all four outside camels standing impassively and the drivers clambering from the wreckage. As for the central camels, the black one was trapped under her overturned trolley, her giant breasts sticking out at one end and her legs, clamped apart, rising in a great V on the other, grossly exposing her most private and sensitive parts. The white camel’s front end was hidden by splintered wreckage, but her rear end on the trolley projected into the warm air, faintly quivering.

A sharp, short trumpet blast brought the other two carts to a halt. Pettigrew surmised that this was not only to ensure they did not join the carnage, but also to allow the fascinated crowd to enjoy the spectacle of the crash at leisure without missing the drama of the winning finish. The Emir seemed unaffected by the loss of two carts, though pleased to find both drivers and four-legged camels uninjured. Furious at his exit from the race, the red cart driver lashed his whip twice between his black camel’s legs. Then the wreckage was cleared and the race resumed.

The orange cart got a slightly better start than the green – its middle camel’s long legs helping again – and although the final result was close, it was clearcut:
1: ORANGE
2: GREEN
RED AND BLUE NON-FINISHERS.

The Emir himself placed special hats in the five colours of Bhagarem on the two winning camels and a lightweight crown (much like those worn by beauty queens) with tassels in the five colours on the head of the tall brown girl. His victorious son he congratulated with a very English handshake and pat on the back. Then he returned to accompany his guests on the way from the arena to the palace.

“It is a surprise,” he remarked. “The green cart won the last two races with the same camels, and for the orange girl, it is only her third race.”

“Don’t you worry that someone might spill the beans?” the Texan asked. His host smiled broadly.

“Here are only Bhagaremis who would not dare displease me or even want to, plus of course my special guests. Not all such guests see a camel race, only those with the right inclinations. Your CIA is very good about finding out what people do on the internet, and as I am a good and useful ally, they tell me. I was sure both you gentlemen would appreciate the entertainment.”

“And that tight-assed assistant of yours wouldn’t,” said Nielsen to Pettigrew; but the Emir corrected him: “Oh, but Mr Nielsen, no ladies are allowed to watch the camel race – not even my wives. Now as my honoured guests, both of you can select one of the camels for your pleasure – only excepting the winning team.”

In the palace, the Emir introduced his first wife, who sat with a bored-looking Henrietta. Little could be seen of her, but she was certainly plump, middle-aged and with a self-satisfied smile. She used a few words of English but this was clearly her limit.

The Emir was a good host – and Pettigrew felt it necessary to chat with Henrietta for a while, uncomfortable though he was with her cool gaze, given what he had seen and was to do. So Nielsen had already slipped away before he could. He made a polite enquiry of Henrietta whether she’d be happy chatting with the Emir and his wife, but she looked right through him. Clearly she knew a great deal of what he had been watching and perhaps what he would be doing and he had been pigeonholed in the hole for the very worst pigeons.

One of the Emir’s men led him to the paddocks, each of which was marked with the appropriate colour. They consisted of open, fenced areas with straw and camel dung, a concrete-sided pond and two low wooden buildings, one large, one small. He supposed the latter was for the girl in each team. Passing the orange paddock, he realised he rather wished the Asian girl hadn’t won. He decided to spank the black American, but found Nielsen had beaten him to it. The feminist campaigner was on all fours, squealing and wailing, her big tits flapping about and ringing their bells. The Texan, with a cruel grin, vigorously applied an ornate paddle to her haunches while one of the Emir’s men stood ready to hand him the cane.

The Dutch girl looked a bit boring, Pettigrew thought, so he opted for the Israeli. The memory of Nielsen’s skilfully concentrated fury bothered him, for he had serious doubts if he would come up to the mark. His experience of actually thrashing anyone was restricted to one schoolgirl, six prostitutes and two unsuccessful experiments with his wife (now ex-wife).

He had discovered his propensity for spanking after getting married to a wife everybody agreed was “a good egg” (increasingly hard-boiled and finally, poached by an origami instructor). He had tried to spank her twice, once by agreement and once, when she referred to his “repulsive behaviour”, without. After his wife decamped came the rather unsatisfactory incidents with prostitutes (knowing they were doing it for money spoilt it somehow, and while one or two had admirable bottoms, they were all poor actors. Then came the schoolgirl experience, after which others seemed a pale imitation.

The schoolgirl had been a demure, discreetly curvy, dark-red-haired sixth-former from St Catherine’s School for Young Ladies (known locally as “St Catherine’s School for Old Men” from the number who turned up under various pretexes at the school Sports Day). She had been collecting for Oxfam, and had given him an earnest lecture on the moral duty of all well-off people to help poor people in other lands in any way they could.

“In that case,” said Pettigrew, inspired, “If I put £100 in your collection tin, would you let me give you a little light spanking?”

She had been a young lady of intelligence and moral consistency: she had seen that what she had been preaching pointed to her agreeing. She had blushed, looked at her feet, looked at Pettigrew, and agreed.

Pettigrew too had his standards. After thrashing her tight young posterior in its charming maroon regulation knickers, and then out of them, employing table tennis bat, cane and whip with gusto, and while she was sobbing and searching fruitlessly for her knickers, he had discovered he did not have £100 to hand and had dutifully placed a £5 note in her tin. This was quite proper, he thought, as he would not have donated anything like that amount if she had not agreed to be spanked. He thought for a moment and then placed another £5 note in her bottom crack. When the tearful girl left, she had not even bothered to remove it, looking back at him with an expression he found it hard to interpret.

They had reached the green paddock. The olive-skinned girl squatted idly, perhaps waiting to know if she would be spanked. The Emir’s man opened a gate and waved Pettigrew through. The man spoke a few words of Arabic and the girl stood up. Five camels assembled to watch.

“She is yours to do as you will – yours to order,” the man said. Pettigrew eyeballed the Israeli agent.

“On your hands and knees!” he ordered.

Showing no emotion, she complied. Pettigrew was annoyed: he wanted her to look frightened. She OUGHT to look frightened. What did they call it in the army – dumb insolence? He’d show her! He took the cane from the man and played with it like a swordsman showing off. Then, moving without warning from these extravagant gestures to action, he gave her a stinging cut on her breasts.

The animal wail indicated that she was no longer bored or indifferent. A few words in a language he did not know were probably not complimentary (“this Hebrew is such an expressive tongue!” said the Emir’s man) and Pettigrew felt ready to thrash her plump, well-parted haunches. She was not as noisy under punishment as the American, but he took his time, and as the neatly-spaced red lines came to decorate all her rump, he grew in confidence. He finished with another cut to her tits and stood, with the Emir’s man, contemplating the results.

“Just do that to that prissy, stuck up Brit!” his victim said to him.

“Brit?”

“The orange camel, sir, is of English origin despite her appearance,” the Emir’s man explained. “Please, sir, I have some business here. You can find your own way back?”

Pettigrew politely consented, leaving the man humping the Israeli camel, and made his way back past the other paddocks. Nielsen had completed his thrashing of the black girl, a thorough and stern one indeed, and was now, with a wolfish smile and glinting eyes, screwing her doggy-fashion. Pettigrew had not been moved to screw the Israeli, perhaps because of the company, but now felt slightly jealous.

The last paddock was the brown girl’s. She was waiting for him.

“Please sir, excuse me. They’re saying you’re the British ambassador. Is that true?” she asked. Pettigrew briefly considered saying he was, but dismissed the idea: such a lie could not be maintained for long.

“No, I’m only the Commercial Attache.”

“Right.” There was slight disappointment in her big liquid brown eyes, but also hope. “Please listen, sir. My name is Yasmin Khan. I’m a British policewoman from the Metropolitan Police. I was kidnapped and sold into slavery. Please help me get out. Tell the Embassy or put pressure on that horrible greasy Emir.”

Pettigrew was moved. Something must be done.

He returned promptly to the palace and asked to speak to the Emir one-to-one. He did it with extreme politeness, but he was well aware the request might seem strange, even disrespectful. However, the Emir agreed without any sign of surprise or annoyance. Once they were alone, the great man said, “You can leave out customary effusions. This must be something important. So what is it, Mr Pettigrew?”

“Your Royal Highness, this is a matter of great sensitivity. I don’t quite know how to put it. One of your camels is a traitor. She asked me to help her escape.”

For three seconds the Emir’s face was a rigid mask of anger. Then courtesy and self-control returned. “I am eternally grateful to you, Mr Pettigrew. Which one?”

“The winner of the race – the orange camel.”

“The ungrateful kfir! After all the kindness I have shown her, far beyond the lot of a slave! Kfir! She said she was a Muslim, but she came shamefully dressed and full of irreligious notions, and now I am sure she is no Muslim. She will be punished for her rebellion, and I would like you, Mr Pettigrew, to take the lead. In this matter I am your follower.”

Pettigrew coughed. “I am honoured, your Royal Highness.”

It took under half an hour for the punishment to be organised. Pettigrew looked for Henrietta but she seemed to have disappeared. When he was ushered into a large room, a kind of ornate hall, he found quite a crowd – many of the Emir’s employees and relatives, the other three girl-camels and – to his surprise – a gaggle of the Emir’s wives in their burkas, giggling and pinching one another in high excitement.

But the centre of attention was PC Yasmin Khan. She was suspended from a hook in the ceiling by a thick, rough rope knotted round both her slim wrists, so she dangled, feet about eight inches above the floor, swaying slightly with any movement. She gave Pettigrew a puzzled, reproachful look, which he batted back without any difficulty: in his assessment, she was entirely the authoress of her own misfortunes, and besides, her individual convenience was clearly less important than the national interest which could be served by improved relations with the Emir.

“Take a good look at her,” the Emir advised, and Pettigrew needed no encouragement. She was still decorated with all her finery – band, tassels, rings, bells – and looked like some gaudy, delicate exotic pheasant shot and hung up to mature. But she was not precisely as he had last seen her. Her victor’s crown hung around her left ankle and had been displaced on her head by a British policewoman’s chequered hat, while her torso was decorated by the tatters of a crisp, white uniform blouse, ripped to let her tits stick through.

That she was a policewoman, that the pathetic residues of the signs of her authority had been placed back on her, excited him with fierce, hungry joy. The image of female authority confidently asserted, only to be overpowered and overthrown in a pointless flailing of legs, pompous lectures on the law replaced by squeals, shrieks and foolish pleas for mercy, the guardian of the law reduced to a big bare bottom being mercilessly thrashed, to sobbing and humiliation, the bad girls’ corner and the bad man’s lollipop – this to Pettigrew was the stuff of many waking dreams.

Her big brown eyes conveyed shock and despair. Her long, glossy black hair flowed over her white-uniformed back. Her legs, dangling helplessly, were incredibly long, smooth and lithe; they were crowned at the front by a plump little shaven mound, and at the back by an arse that drew, invited, bewitched, entranced Pettigrew beyond any he had seen before, even that sweet preachy sixth-former’s. It was not large, but gloriously round, firm and pert: the two perfectly-formed cheeks clenched around the deep central crevasse with such youthful vigour that one could imagine if one pushed a credit card into the crack, it would be imperiously pulled in, disappearing only to be ejected once the transaction was complete. Her fearful underbuttocks quivered in anticipation of her fate.

“When you are ready, Mr Pettigrew,” said the Emir, “you have a choice of two implements. Here is a fine cane; and here is our special whip. You will see that the handle is of hardened rubber, giving it the right balance between flexibility and rigidity, and the business part consists of waxed cord, with three ends, each knotted.” Yasmin’s eyes followed each instrument. Pettigrew was fascinated by the strnge whip, but doubted his ability with it unless he had practice; so he agreed with the Emir that he himself would use the cane; the Emir would employ the whip; and then he himself might take a few turns with the whip.

This was announced to the eager crowd in both Arabic and English, to cries of approval and anticipation. Pettigrew had rarely been so much the centre of attention.

“Use this when and if you need it,” the Emir said, waving a man to place before Pettigrew a long, low, short-legged wooden table with a finely decorated cushioned top. Pettigrew assumed it was to stand on, but for the time being he had no need of that.

He walked round in front to gaze into Yasmin’s eyes, to drink in her helpless rage and fear. He made sure she had a good view of the cane. He went behind her and let a whole minute pass (timed by his watch), letting her stew. Then, as noiselessly as possible, he pulled back his arm, took aim and cut in.

The cane struck into the very middle of her cheeks, across the deep divide. He saw her seared flesh recoil and then rebound, heard the divine despairing anguished wail, saw the red line forming and saw her tight young cheeks conducting a lewd dance. Unable, hanging as she was, to kick, she was responding to the pain by a series of jerking motions which caused her buttocks to shift, bobble and push against one another. This he found fascinating and irresistible: he gave her another on the right cheek just below the first. This produced the same reaction and again he struck her while her round brown cheeks were in motion – but this time he miscalculated and landed his third shot along the line of the first. After that he waited for her to go still. He neatly striped her right cheek from top to juicily quivering undercheek – and then, shifting his position slightly, did the same for the left.

He was overjoyed to hear a wonderful sound. PC Yasmin Khan was sobbing. Her arse now looked as if she had pulled on a pair of skin-tight hotpants, striped warm brown and red.

He devoted one cut each to her smooth, athlete’s thighs and looked around him, uncertain whether to hand over now to the Emir. He received a sharp shock. Henrietta Courtauld was in the crowd, standing near to the wives.

“You have not punished her titties, Mr Pettigrew,” the Emir pointed out. “They may be rather small, but I would appreciate you giving them just a little attention.”

For this, Pettigrew stood on the table. Fired by Yasmin’s tearful, suffering eyes, he launched one sizzling cut at her left breast, setting her wailing and the bells ringing. Her hat fell off. One of the wives darted forward, grabbed it and returned to the group, placing it on her own head over the burka and making comical, gyratory hip movements as though to indicate that she thought this headgear fit for a dancing-girl or a whore. The other wives giggled.

His first shot at the right tit was slightly miscalculated, so he gave her another. His arm was aching, so he handed over to the Emir and his whip. The look the great man gave him was full of man-to-man respect and honour.

Pettigrew was fascinated to observe how the strange whip performed in the Emir’s hands. As he had said, it was more rigid than an ordinary whip, but still flexible. The three knotted ends meant punishment was given over an area of two or three inches. The Emir started with a good whipping of her proud little tits, setting the bells ringing madly and Yasmin screaming. Then, recognising her bottom had been punished enough, he whipped the backs of her thighs and her calves down to where the plumpness ceased. He paused, and Pettigrew wondered if he had finished; but instead he summoned a man with a cruel-looking metal hook on the end of a long pole and spoke words of command in Arabic. The man grinned and waved the hook in front of Yasmin’s face, letting her wonder what would be done to her with it. He inserted it in her collar and tugged hard until her blouse ripped and he could tear it right off her. This revealed her lovely, shapely brown back, which the Emir, standing on the table, whipped five times. Getting off the table, he paused in thought, smiled, and gave her one cut on the sole of each foot. Pettigrew noted that the whip left delicate traceries more like Islamic decoration than the straight marks of the cane.

“So now, Mr Pettigrew, try this whip yourself,” the Emir invited, and he handed it over to an aroused and honoured diplomat.

There was not, however, much left unwhipped. He wielded the instrument – clumsily at his first try and then with growing skill – against her trim, well-muscled thighs at the front, just two shots each, and then, as a sweet goodbye, flicked it rather than thrashed it into her mound of Venus twice. From Yasmin came one last scream and then just bumbling, incoherent sobbing and mumbling. Her arse now looked as if she had pulled on a pair of skin-tight hotpants, striped warm brown and red. The Emir shook Pettigrew’s hand to general applause. The crowd filed out, leaving a sorry, sobbing, wobbling figure hanging from the roof.

“She will not rebel again,” said the Emir with quiet certainty. “There is, of course, a further matter to pursue,” the Emir said to Pettigrew, “but it is only fair the wretched girl should have a jolly good shower and the application of soothing oils before she is brought to be mounted. I will remove her crown, as she has shown herself unworthy, and will give it to the green camel. She will recommence normal duties from the day after tomorrow. Are you free, Mr Pettigrew, to attend next Friday afternoon?”

Pettigrew, to his deep regret, had an event at the embassy he could not miss.

“Saturday, then,” the Emir offered. “Excellent. I am honoured. Ah, Mr Nielsen, is all well?” The Texan had appeared nursing a nosebleed.

When Henrietta got into the car with Pettigrew and the driver, there was a great silence. Both passengers avoided eye contact. He noticed, however, that there was a smear of blood on the knuckles of her left hand.

After ten minutes, she said: “Sir – Malcolm – back there – you were magnificent! The way you taught that horrid, bolshie little tart a lesson! Brilliant! The snivelling little oik doesn’t know how lucky she was!” He was taken aback.

“How lucky?”

“Yes – I’d have loved to have been in her place!”

“Ah,” he replied, “then perhaps in a small way you can be.” She grabbed him and began kissing him, her hard breasts pushing against his chest like burrowing animals. He locked his hands round her firm secret cheeks and drew her even closer. The driver kept his eyes on the road. Pettigrew discovered something he had not noticed before, that Henrietta was left-handed.

The course of true lust is sometimes not straightforward. Pettigrew and Henrietta arrived back at the embassy, via an uncomfortable short flight, to the news that a crisis with great potential to disrupt Saudi-British relations had struck. It was being alleged in a British newspaper that British embassy staff had procured call-girls for the Saudi defence minister in return for contracts – a ridiculous charge, as everyone knew the minister preferred freshly-picked nurses, policewomen and girl athletes. But the embassy in Saudi was in crisis mode, the embassy in the UAE was being asked to help out and Henrietta’s calm mastery of detail had been called for.

She was away for nine days. In the meantime, Pettigrew’s second visit to Bhagarem had taken place. He was received into the Emir’s tent with great courtesy.

“I have something you would like to see,” said his host, and made a call on his mobile phone.

A man came into the tent leading, on a rope round her neck, a still naked, betasselled Yasmin Khan. It seemed to Pettigrew the rope was merely for effect, for she seemed docile, looking down demurely when he stared at her. The man removed the rope and she stood up straight, hands by her sides and not presuming to cover her breasts, waiting silently to learn their will.

“Mr Pettigrew, I would be honoured if you would share this slave with me,” the Emir remarked. “Slave – open your mouth for your master and stick your bottom out for my guest!” Yasmin went down on hands and knees and did as she was told. At a nod from the Emir, the man handed over her chequered hat so her master could place it on her head. He lifted his robe and plugged her full-lipped mouth with his male power. Pettigrew examined his options and pushed into her tight, strong-pulling cunt. When he shifted to force his way into the lovely enslaved policewoman’s arsehole, the Emir was still grunting and pumping in her face.

When they changed round, Pettigrew savoured the unfamiliar experience  of the pull of a strong young throat, the teasing of a lively tongue and the soulful , staring, subservient eyes, all capped by that symbol of her defeated authority, her hat.

“Excellent!” said the Emir finally, “and well done, my dear. Your winner’s privileges are restored until the next race. Take her away.”

He turned to his guest and added, “You may be interested to learn that the Dutch girl will be withdrawn from the races. She has not been a racing success. Either she is lazy or she enjoys the thrashings too much. I have ordered a Swedish nurse who will pull the blue cart in future. You are, of course, welcome to visit me again and to make use of the camels. I extend the invitation also to the beautiful Miss Courtauld. We know about her internet activity too.”

“Your Royal Highness,” Pettigrew said, “there is just a slight potential problem about the orange camel. She has of course been properly educated, but she was a genuine British policewoman, and even some compatriot whose internet tastes seem sound may let the cat out of the bag, especially as her disappearance is treated in Britain, where our cultural quirks may seem strange to you, as a serious matter, I might say, a mystery and a tragedy.”

The Emir chuckled. “Thank you, my friend. I had not realised that in your country you took these lewd girls seriously. But no matter – I will tell my CIA friends that I have certain information from people with close links to Al Qu’aida that she was an Al Qu’aida sleeper in the British police and fled when she thought her cover was about to be blown! Then if they find out we have her, they will be happy!”

Pettigrew’s visits to the Emirate of Bhagarem were accounted a great success as he came back with orders for many British manufactures – paddles, canes, table tennis bats, chains, cattle prods, saddles, bulldog clips and others. Two days after his second visit Henrietta returned.

When Pettigrew knocked on her door, there was a moment’s delay before a voice said, “Come in. The door’s not locked.” He came in. For a moment he did not see her. He was looking too high, for Henrietta was a tall young woman. But Henrietta Courtauld was naked, on all fours, and wearing a magnificent camel harness, complete with bells, tassels, brass bosses and a leather collar.

“The man in Riyadh looked strangely at me when I bought this,” she explained. “I think perhaps other girls have the same idea, bitches. Now – mount me. I’m afraid you will find me a lazy and disobedient camel with much need for discipline.”

POSTSCRIPT

Pettigrew and Henrietta continued to visit the Emir from time to time, paying particular attention to Yasmin and the black American had her second triumph; but from then the Swedish girl, being superfit and having even longer legs than Yasmin’s, began to dominate, to such an extent that it was found necessary to handicap her with weights attached to her rings so races could still be exciting and there could be enough occasions for her to be thrashed.

Pettigrew found that the friendship of the Emir and links with Nielsen (despite Henrietta having bloodied his nose) allowed him to make a fortune on the side. He retired to Bermuda, taking Henrietta to manage his business. Shortly afterwards they were married.

On the morning of the wedding a helicopter in the royal colours of Bhagarem landed at Pettigrew’s landing pad. The pilot was one of the Emir’s men and with him was the great man’s second son. They brought with them a large, oblong wooden box intricately carved and decorated with gold, ebony and ivory.

“I hope it’s not gold, darling – we’ve got so much of that,” Pettigrew said to his betrothed.

“It’s not heavy enough for that – I watched them shift it,” she replied.

When they opened the box, Henrietta gasped in amazement and joy. Such a marvellous wedding present no-one had dreamed of. Inside the box, naked but magnificently accoutred, was Yasmin the camel.

Ten months later, Pettigrew was in England on business and decided to have a haircut. There was some delay, and he leafed through the magazines. “Country Life” was not to his taste, and neither was “Nuts”, so he found himself leafing through a women’s magazine. They seemed to have changed a lot since he was a boy: the lingerie and swimwear adverts were still there, a little more daring, the expressions no longer all blank or happy, but sometimes suggesting a tramp had just asked the girl for a blow job and she did not fancy the concept.

But the articles were very different. One heading in particular caught his eye:
“HOW SPANKING CAN IMPROVE YOUR SEX LIFE – BY CATRIONA SUTHERLAND”. There was no picture of this person, perhaps suggesting she wrote regularly for the magazine. He was halfway through reading the article, which was already straying from “a little light spanking” to whips, canes and restraints, when he was called to the chair, walking a little awkwardly.

Back home, he asked Henrietta if she had heard of a Catriona Sutherland.

“Doesn’t she write for the Daily Telegraph and Vogue?” she replied, “or is Catriona Sutherland that classical musician woman who keeps opening her legs at the climaxes?”

Pettigrew looked her up on Google. She had a Wikipedia entry: CATRIONA SUTHERLAND is a British violinist, journalist and columnist.” It did not refer to spanking or BDSM, but did say she had been educated at St Catharine’s School for Young Ladies, Tonbridge, and St Godiva’s College, Oxford.

She also had a blog. It included matters of high culture, news of pets and spanking. It also included photos – not, unfortunately, of her being spanked, but both her beautiful faces were familiar. Catriona Sutherland was undoubtedly the sixth-former he had thrashed all that time ago. So she had been that way inclined all along! Or possibly, just possibly, could he have been the decisive influence? To leave such a mark on a young being would be a little awe-inspiring, he thought.

Ms Sutherland evidently used her blog to promote various charitable causes – the current one was “Save the Welsh” – and this gave Pettigrew cause for thought.

He mailed a payment of £95 using the form on her site, and in the “comments” section said: “I think I’ve owed this since one day in Tonbridge. By the way – agree with you about spanking.”

He had no idea if he’d get a reply, but he did: “Well, well! After all these years! It’s sweet of you to make up the difference. I’m doing Oxfam in a couple of months. Maybe you could give to that too? You taught me a lot, you devious bastard. Woops, I shouldn’t have said that (smack, smack). CATTY.”

Pettigrew shared this with Henrietta and replied:
“I’m delighted to have been of service, Catty. Yes, I’ll give to Oxfam. As for the ‘smack, smack’, would you like to stay for a week or so with us in Bermuda, or longer if you wish? I hope you like camels.”

 

15.07.11

If you've enjoyed this story, please write to the author and let them know - they may write more!
back to
bound stories