|Gromet's Plaza - Richard Alexander Stories|
© 2003 - Richard Alexander - Used by permission
|storycodes: MF/ff; bondage; slave; reluct/cons; X|
|grometsplaza - www.grometsplaza.cjb.net
Monica’s Games – Part I
Chapter Ten: Preparation and Travel – Monica’s Story
by Richard Alexander
Monica’s Games – Part I Chapter Ten: Preparation and Travel – Monica’s Story
Over the next hour, the circumstances in which we found ourselves slowly sank in. We had first managed to remove our gags, then we sat on the straw-filled mattress close to tears, but each striving not to be the first to succumb. It seemed as though my world was collapsing around me, and the chilling words that Zara had uttered about Steven made my stomach turn. I now mentally burned the three volumes of exquisite tortures that I had been going to put him through.
Our prison held little hope of escape. We had a mattress and a bucket covered with a sack for emergency bodily functions, and that was it. We tried the chain attached to the stone but it was solidly locked into the ground.
The night closed in and aside from some fruit brought by Salah the driver, we were left alone. Our sleep was fitful and uncomfortable, curled up like spoons on the mattress, the steel about our necks, wrists and ankles. After the punishment that Megan had meted out under Portia and Madam Wong’s brief rule, I never thought I would have felt so close to her and grateful for her presence.
* * *
I awoke to the sound of the door being unlocked. It opened briefly and some sort of yoghurt concoction was pushed through before it was shut again. We looked at the stuff dubiously, but it turned out to be quite nice, through far from filling. Some time later, faint laughter was heard from outside in the garden. The little window was too high to see out of directly, but with Megan on all fours, I managed to stand on her back and peer over the sill, and I have to confess I was shocked at what I saw.
The window looked on to the back garden and the central pool through which ran the stream. Here I saw Zara and Steven – both butt naked – frolicking in the pool. Zara had an enviable figure – prominent breasts with dark brown nipples that stood out against skin the colour of pale coffee. Her body was lean and strong, as though the product of the best of the harsh desert environment coupled with modern conveniences of a civilised existence. Her jet black hair tumbled about her shoulders, contrasting with the flashing white of her teeth as she and Steven splashed each other like children at play. In any other circumstances it would have been an idyllic setting, had it not been for her ominous words the previous evening.
My astonishment and dread grew even further as the pair began an embrace that was more than a lingering kiss. Standing waist deep in the water, they clung to each other and I watched the expression on the woman’s face turn to one of deep pleasure as they coupled and began to move in unison. My hands gripped the sill as tightly as Zara gripped Steven’s neck, and I saw the red raking scratches her nails left as she finally arched her head back and shuddered in ecstasy, before enfolding him in a tight hug of satisfaction.
I was furious, but at the same time fearful for Steven. I was not sure why my anger was so apparent. Steven and I had had a very strange relationship to that time. I loved him dearly, I admit, but I had never been able to possess him. He had a naivety that was appealing and charming not only to me, but also to the other girls in Bilboes. We all loved him like a brother, and while not being past a bit of incest, so to speak, we had never really been possessive about him. I knew he had had his way with most of the girls. I also knew in some cases it had been the other way round. Jillian had the hots for him, that was certain, and had taken advantage of him before now. But this was different. That Arab bitch was stealing him, and he had no idea what was potentially about to happen. Neither did I, for that matter.
I hammered on the glass, but it was a steel-framed window obviously reused from another building, and the glass had a wire mesh through it. It was like a kind of safety glass, and I couldn’t attract Steven’s attention.
Megan finally persuaded me to change places with her, and caught a bit of the action as well.
“The bitch! The cow!” I was muttering when she finally climbed off my back. “What’s happening?”
“They’ve gone down the path further into the date grove,” said Megan, her face looking pale. “I can’t see them any more.”
“Oh shit! What are we going to do?”
* * *
Maybe half an hour later the door opened and Zara appeared, dressed in a deep blue flowing robe with her still-wet hair secured behind her head with a simple clasp. It was only with great difficulty that I refrained from throwing myself at her, for I knew that was not the moment.
We said nothing, but the atmosphere was thick with tension. Why did I have the feeling that the whole performance we had witnessed had been staged for my benefit?
Zara’s professionalism was evident as she made us lie on the ground and rechained our wrists behind us before releasing the neck chain through the anchor ring. This done, she retrieved the two gags and strapped them in our mouths again. We were allowed to stand up to each have a mask secured in place. The masks were of black cloth with a thin covered board jutting out five centimetres like a rudder running vertically down the centre. The edge of the board sat against my forehead and the end of my nose, and could flip from side to side, slightly obscuring alternate eyes. The mask came down to my chin and was tied in place with thin cords around my head, before Zara draped a long black headscarf over my head, effectively hiding the straps of the mask and the gag.
“There,” she said in a satisfied voice. “You look exactly like the locals,” and I remembered the masked women we had seen in the square the previous day. “Nobody would ever guess we have two gagged and chained foreigners under those clothes,” she laughed. “Now it’s time for further preparation.”
Preparation? Preparation for what? Jesus, this was getting serious. I resolved to make a break for it, but it had to be when the time was right, and with my feet hobbled, my wrists chained, and gagged under the mask, the time was definitely not then.
I looked at Megan, and two dark eyes stared mutely back at me through the eye holes in the sinister-looking mask. If ever there was a case for the eyes being the window on the soul, it was that moment, as Megan’s eyes reflected my own misery and despair. Zara appeared to catch my look.
“Do you know why Arab women wear these masks?” she asked. Obviously not expecting an answer, she continued: “They’re not an instrument for subjugation of women – at least not here, anyway. They’re for the protection of women. Ask any masked woman in this town, and she will tell you that she wears the mask to protect the men from her beauty, so that they are able to control themselves within her presence. Only when she’s in her own house amongst her family will she remove it. The only outward signs of her beauty that you’ll see will be the black kohl she uses to highlight her eyes, and any decorative designs on her hands and feet. Alas, you have none of these. Too bad.”
“Now, come,” said Zara brusquely, gripping each of us by an arm and herding us outside into the bright daylight.
We continued down the path away from the house, past the pool. At that point I saw Steven sitting on a flat rock wearing a towel round his waist. He looked up at Zara and smiled.
“What do you have there?” he asked, obviously knowing full well who we were.
“Just a couple of locals I caught trying to steal some vegetables,” she said blithely.
“Do they speak?” he asked pointedly.
“Not so you’d understand. Go on – say something.” She squeezed my arm.
“Hmmp-en! Mmrph erm hernher!” I mmphed. Steven laughed.
“Is it a local dialect?”
Oh shit, Steven, can’t you see this woman has it in for us all? I stamped my foot and struggled, spluttering around the wad of leather filling my mouth. I tried to tear myself away but her grip was strong.
“I can’t say I understand it,” Zara mused.
“So what are you going to do with these two?” Steven asked, barely able to keep the grin off his face.
“I’m taking them to the Jabrin Fort – that big fort we passed as we came in. It’s under repair and closed to the public. There they’ll undergo some punishment.”
“Sounds suitable. Can I look in later?”
“Of course. We have to prepare them in the meantime.”
There it was again, this preparation thing. I made one last attempt with a series of nasal utterances that made no sense and prompted a further smirk from Steven before Zara dragged us away. God, this was just awful. How helpless I felt with the power of speech taken from me!
We went out of the garden through another heavy wooden gate, into a sandy avenue under the date palms, beside which ran a small irrigation channel. We walked for perhaps ten minutes, occasionally encountering local village women whom Zara greeted politely. I realised that none of my restraints showed beneath the mask and the black robe, and that I had become another anonymous Arab woman.
Jabrin Fort was an imposing mudbrick structure perhaps five stories high with a tower and round-topped crenellations along the battlements. There was a notice in Arabic nailed to the enormous wooden door, which Zara had to use her whole weight to open, before pushing us inside.
Immediately inside it was cool and dark, made more so when Zara closed the door behind us and slid home an enormous timber baulk to secure the entrance. The place smelled of damp earth, dust, and ancient decay.
“We won’t be disturbed here – it’s the Eid holiday. Nobody works, everyone stays home and fasts until sundown. This place has been undergoing restoration for years, but nobody is in any great hurry. That’s the way we work here.”
Zara hustled us along a corridor and across a big courtyard, then through a door that led into a small anteroom of some sort. Set in one wall were several small recesses with iron grilles across them. Zara swung one of the grilles open and pushed me backwards into the recess. It was terribly small – barely wider than my body - and shaped roughly like a seat. I found myself sitting on this seat, but the roof was so low I was obliged to bend forward such that my breasts touched my thighs and my shoulders touched the roof. Zara closed the grille and slid a pin in a hole to keep it closed. There was clearly no need to lock it, for I could barely move, much less get my chained hands anywhere near the grille.
“You’ll be all right there for a bit. We’ll deal with the lovely Megan first,” she said with a smile that could almost have been pleasant, had it not been for the situation we were in.
“Nnnmph!” Megan cried, as she was bundled away through a door into the neighbouring room. I could not see what was happening, but I could hear the sound of several male voices speaking mainly in Arabic, interspersed with Zara’s husky tones from time to time. Sometimes I thought I heard English words, but could not make them out.
After perhaps ten minutes I heard Megan. The wad of leather strapped in her mouth could not stifle the cries of pain and the periodic whimperings, such that I could not help but cry out in response, my garbled utterances achieving nothing, however. I wondered what they were doing in there, and the thought scared me. There was no sound that I might associate with a beating, such as the crack of a whip or the sound of a lash or paddle striking flesh. I thought I could hear what almost sounded like a small tap-tap-tap, but even this was faint, and I could not figure it out.
I stared at my feet protruding from the black robe and tried to ignore the feel of the steel cuffs on my wrists and ankles. I looked around the empty brown-walled room with the timber beamed ceiling, but this gained me no enlightenment as to where this was all leading, and I felt like a patient in a dentist’s waiting room as I listened to the gagged squeals and cries of Megan with sinking heart.
Megan didn’t return. Instead it was Zara alone who came to fetch me, perhaps an hour later, unlocking my cell door and hauling me out. When I entered the room I was taken aback to see three men there, two of whom were Mohammed and Rashid, while the third was a small elderly man with a straggly white beard and piercing eyes. He wore a white dishdash and a white headdress in the Omani turban style.
He was sitting astride a large section of tree trunk about two metres long and perhaps seventy centimetres in diameter. One end of the trunk had been cut at a steep angle such that a board had been screwed to this face, extending to form a sloping seat-back. Or so I found out when my ankle chain was removed and I was made to straddle the log with my back against the reclining board.
My analogy with the dentist’s chair took on a whole new meaning as Mohammed produced some rope, and while Zara lifted my skirts above my waist, the brothers bound me to the board with coils of rope above and below my breasts and at my navel, leaving me naked and exposed from the waist down.
I was determined to be strong and not make any sign of submission or pleading. I did not know what was going on, but I was sure that nothing I did would change what was about to happen to me. The best I could do would be to accept it with whatever dignity I could muster. More ropes were tied to my ankles, pulling my feet back off the earth floor and securing them so that my knees were bent and more weight came on my crotch and the ropes around my torso.
Mohammed picked up a felt pen from beside the log and bent over my crotch. I felt the tip of the pen writing on my flesh just above my little black thatch. Then he leaned forward and smiled at me.
“We Arabs are very possessive of our women. The man to whom you and Megan are being sold wants his property to be identifiable and for anybody trespassing to be aware of what will befall them in such circumstances. You might make a comparison with branding, but that would be very crude. We will instead be making a little tattoo above your pussy, to identify you as the property of Salim bin Aziz. It will hurt a little, so you will remain gagged, for everybody’s benefit. Okay?”
Okay? No it was bloody not okay and how dare they tattoo me and I was not anybody’s damned property! I struggled and mmphed as best I could, forgetting any pretence of dignity at that time, but the ropes held me tight to the board, and my protests were an incomprehensible series of moans and whinings. As my struggles subsided, Mohammed suggested perhaps it would be better if I stayed still for a little while, and the white-bearded man bent to pick up a bowl from where it had been hidden down by his feet. I saw it contained a black inky liquid and some small tools, looking almost like a hammer and an adze, but made out of thin bamboo. I caught a glimpse of what looked like two fine needles protruding from the end of the adze.
A coldness struck my flesh as he wiped it with something, and I caught a whiff of methylated spirits. Then the first pain came, and I learned the meaning of the tapping sound. This was the sound of the small wooden hammer tapping the back of the adze, which drove the needles into my skin. I was still outraged at this treatment, but the outrage became submerged by the fire now spreading from my abdomen as the man concentrated on his work, sending fiery shafts up my nerve endings. I chewed on the gag, determined not to cry out, but could barely suppress further whimpers. I felt the tears running down my face beneath the mask, while Zara and her brothers watched the operation with a critical interest of those ensuring a proper job is done on their asset. I closed my eyes and tried to take myself to another place, but somehow it didn’t work, and the fire above my crotch continued to spread.
Even visits to the dentist’s chair come to an end, although I had no idea how long I suffered the pain of the needles. Eventually the little man wiped the area clean and said something to his benefactors, and there was much smiling and polite exchanges, before the man packed his stuff into a small canvas bag and departed with Rashid.
“The next part of your preparation will be much less stressful,” Mohammed said with the manner of a doctor who has just carried out a rather nasty carbuncle removal. “You will be able to lie back and enjoy things.”
“Fummfft!” I said. “Nggmmnst frmmt ohm!”
“Don’t be silly, my dear,” Mohammed oozed. “A bargain is a bargain. Salim bin Aziz is a very powerful man, and he is looking forward to meeting his new acquisition.”
“Iffm nnhm hern erqhhrrn!” I cried.
“Oh but you are an aquisition,” he said. “It’s too late now. Come, we will prepare you for the next stage.”
The ropes were untied and I was taken to the next room, obviously the route Megan must have followed, since she had not come back past my little grilled niche. In the room I saw a black robe and mask on the floor and that shook me a little. I did not know what they had done to Megan, although I took heart that they would not have gone to this trouble if we were to be somehow disposed of, for that was what was lurking in the back of my mind. Things were way out of control, and I had lost any opportunity to escape, that I knew.
Moments later I was naked myself, with my headscarf and mask also removed. I looked down and saw the neat Arabic squiggles across my abdomen, just above my pubic hair. Bastards!
Mohammed picked up what I had thought on first glance to be just a board leaning against the wall, but I saw it was a yoke that opened into two halves. It was rectangular, about a metre and a half by half a metre, opening longitudinally through a hole obviously designed for a neck. I did not like the look of this at all, but submitted to having the thing clamped about my own neck.
The yoke was heavy and awkward, and with my wrists still chained behind me it needed Zara to stand behind me to control one end of the yoke, with the device initially being in the front-to back position.
I followed Mohammed through a further door and down a flight of steps, with Zara hanging on to one end of the yoke. The stairs were lit by a chain of dim light bulbs that had been temporarily fixed in place presumably for the restoration work. At the bottom of the stairs the doorway opened out into a large vaulted cellar where the sound of water dripping could be heard. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom I realised this must be some sort of reservoir beneath the castle, although the place smelt strongly of something vaguely cloying that I could not identify. I made out several rectangular pools carved out of stone with water shimmering under the light. Then I saw Megan, and my heart raced.
She was suspended in a pool perhaps three metres long by half that width. Like me, her neck was trapped in a yoke, which spanned the breadth of the pool. Two large steel spikes were driven through holes in the end of the yoke to prevent the yoke moving. She was submerged up to the top of her breasts, but it was evident that the buoyancy of her body was insufficient to stop some weight being borne on her chin and jaw resting on the yoke.
I looked closely at the pool and at the pale outline of Megan’s naked body beneath the surface. I had the sudden realisation that this was not water but rather, some sort of oil, which perhaps explained the smell. Megan’s gagged face looked imploringly at me, and at that point I also noticed the knotted rope that poked through the yoke just in front of her face, matched by a further, longer rope poking out through the wood behind her head. The rope seemed to go down between her legs, but I could not fathom the purpose of it.
My curiosity was soon appeased, as my own yoke was twisted into the cross-shoulder position, and a rope was threaded upwards through a hole just in front of my face and knotted by Mohammed.
“Let me explain this to you, “ he said pleasantly, as though about to extol the virtues of a mud facial. “Salim bin Aziz is… how should we say…well proportioned. He is, to use your western terminology, hung like a donkey, and like many Arabs, prefers the rear entrance. In fact we have a saying in Oman, that boys are for pleasure, women are for babies, and goats are for necessity.” He chuckled at his own joke. “We are not all like that, of course, but do not forget that the Arab history of sexual experimentation goes back to Omar Khayyam, at a time when Europe was still in the Dark Ages. The point of all this being that some western women find a big dick up their arse a little difficult to accommodate, and we feel it only proper that you are prepared adequately for this. Which is what this is for.” He flourished a wooden cone in from of my face. It had a base of perhaps six inches, narrowing to a short shaft with a rounded head of perhaps a one-inch diameter. The base was slightly squished, and under it I saw a wooden protrusion with a hole, through which Mohammed now threaded the rope.
“Over a day or two, this rope will be tightened, gradually enlarging your entry hole,” he continued. “You will be immersed in this vat of palm oil, which has remarkable properties in hydrating your skin and making it extremely pliable. It is a technique which originated in Persia, where they used to train young boys by making them sleep with plugs inserted and to grow up with an enlarged capacity, shall we say. Once you have accepted the plug and learned to relax, you will find it very pleasant, just like one of those floatation tanks.”
Somehow I didn’t rate having a big wooden plug up my arse while suspended in a vat of palm oil a very life-enriching experience, but I couldn’t expound on my theory at that moment as a smooth, slippery invader searched out my rectum.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded, and I had no choice but to obey.
“Mmmph!” I grunted as the shaft slid inside a couple of inches. I could feel my sphincter muscles stretching and could not suppress a whine of pain. The rope was pulled tight up my back and passed through the yoke hole behind my head where it was knotted by Zara.
“Now, into the pool with you.”
With Zara and Mohammed each gripping one end of the yoke I could do nothing but go where I was directed, which was to the head of the pool where there were some steps into the shiny liquid. It was pleasantly warm to the touch as I stepped down to the next level. The palm oil rose to my thighs, then my navel, and then below my breasts. Suddenly there were no more steps and for a brief panicky moment I was held dangling by Mohammed and Zara, now both bent to hold the yoke at knee level. With a deliberate movement they pulled me away from the steps and laid the yoke on the stone at the edge of the pool. Now I too, like Megan, was suspended in the oil, its rich smell filling my nostrils. Mohammed hammered a spike through a hole at each end of the yoke to leave it immovable.
With the immersion of my body in the pool the oil level had risen higher, and I saw that the pressure had been taken off Megan’s neck and jaw. I, too, found myself with almost a neutral buoyancy, but not quite, having just enough weight to rest my chin on the yoke, with the weight of the chains on my ankles and wrists keeping me vertical. I was level with Megan’s apparently disembodied head only a metre or so away from me. She had a look of quiet despair in her eyes.
The buoyancy of the wooden cone in my arse seemed to now come into play and it shifted itself upwards slightly, greased further by the lubricating oil in which I found myself.
“Just relax those muscles,” said Zara soothingly, as she squatted sown on the yoke and tugged the rope tighter behind my head, pulling the cone further up inside me and drawing forth a protesting whine. “Oh shush,” she said, smoothing my matted hair away from my forehead in an almost tender manner.
“As a final little incentive to focus on your new future, you will be contained under these pots,” said Mohammed, appearing with a large earthenware pot that he inverted and lowered over Megan’s head until the rim sat on the wood of the yoke. I guessed there was plenty of room such that Megan’s head could not touch it at any point.
I was right, for moments later it was my turn, and I found myself in
darkness with only the sound of my own breathing echoing hollowly inside
the pot as I hung weightless in the oil, conscious only of the great wedge
upon which I was being slowly impaled. It was a moment in which I
now understood Megan’s despair.
* * *
Time passed incalculably slowly. It was pitch dark under the pot, with only my own muffled breathing echoing against the interior. Occasionally I thought I heard a whine or a groan from Megan, or sensed a sluggish movement as she kicked out her legs in a gesture of futile rebellion. On other occasions I was given to a quiet sob myself and found myself also kicking forward, just for something to do to relieve the monotony.
It was on one of these such instances that I kicked particularly strongly, drawing my legs up almost horizontally, and found my toes suddenly touching the soft flesh of Megan’s thighs. It startled me, but not as much as when I relaxed and felt a return touch by Megan with her own legs. Megan was an inch taller than me, and this now seemed to be evident in her legs, and I found that as her toes slid up my own thighs, by bending my legs slightly I could support her feet.
The presence of Megan’s touch was comforting, and I did not now feel so alone. I was surprised, however, when she began to wriggle slightly and abruptly insinuated her toes into my pussy, either side of the rope through my crotch anchoring the wedge inside my arse. I spluttered with the unexpectedness of her toes making little slippery forays between my labia, and tried to swing backwards, but found that the wedge seemed to drive deeper.
Really, Megan, this was not the time and place for personal gratification, I thought. But then I decided that it felt rather good, with those little digits fluttering in the viscous oil. I made a ‘mmm’ sound that seemed very loud under the pot. I wondered if Megan could hear me. When she hit the spot that prompted a sudden climax, I was making sounds through the gag that seemed deafening within the pot, and I was in no doubt that she was aware of my orgasm. I was hot and panting in the humid blackness, chomping on the leather wad filling my mouth and making most undignified sounds, when those wonderful toes suddenly disappeared and the pot was lifted.
Steven was grinning at me. I felt myself redden as another bead of sweat rolled down my temple.
“Having fun, are we?”
“Mmmff! Nnnmp!” I said incoherently, shaking my head in a flurry of tiny drops of sweat. The bastard! What was he playing at? I was torn by relief that he was still alive and well, and by frustration that I could not convey a coherent word to him because of the gag still packed in my mouth. I growled and spluttered, but he only chuckled, then had the audacity to kneel close to me and tighten the rope on the wedge still further. I widened my eyes at him in what I tried to make into a piteous look of desperation, as I ‘hmmmed’ in vain at him. My frustration and reaction to the big invader moving further inside turned to fury as he smoothed my sweat-damp hair behind my ears and promptly put the pot back in place.
“Enjoy your play,” he said. “Soon it will be the real thing.” What did that mean? The bastard! If I ever got free I was determined to get my own back on him in a very nasty way. I didn’t know just what it would be, but I knew I would think of something.
I had plenty of time to plan, as the minutes dripped into hours and I sweated as though in a sauna. Megan managed to bring me to another climax at some stage, as though trying to take my mind off our plight, but I did not return the favour, for I felt my strength was being sapped, and I was becoming depressed. I could not even distract myself with thoughts of revenge against Steven, for I thought he was still in as much danger as we were – if not more .
Twice somebody visited us, but the pot was not removed. I felt a person kneel on the wooden yoke, but no word was spoken. Instead the rope was tightened still further as the wedge was drawn in further and my arse muscles were stretched to their limit. It felt like I was giving birth, but in the wrong channel and in a way that was painful and unending.
I drifted off into a doze at one point, lulled by the darkness and the warmth of the oil and the slow rise and fall in buoyancy that came with each breath. Then I came awake at the sounds of movement and voices. For a moment I wondered where I was, for awaking from a half dream when you are chained and gagged can be a disorienting experience, made more so by the large object still firmly jammed in my rear.
I felt currents in the oil and concluded that Megan was being taken out of the pool for whatever was to be the next stage of this preparation to meet our new owner. My heart began to race at the thought, and a few minutes later the pot was removed. I blinked in the dull light of the crypt and saw Zara and Mohammed looking down at me, and found I was indeed alone in the pool.
Mohammed removed the spikes holding the yoke in place at the pool edges and with himself on one end of the yoke and Zara on the other, I was drawn backwards through the oil to a point where my feet touched the bottom, and I was able to edge carefully backwards up the steps, with the oil slowly running off my body. The pair made no attempt to dry me or to remove the plug from between my legs. Instead they steered me sideways through a doorway into another large underground chamber, and it was here that I saw the fate that had befallen Megan, and no doubt awaited me.
In front of me was a device that might be best compared to a pair of parallel bars, except that the bars were sloping, rather than level. The bars were made of palm logs split down the middle, with the flat surface on top. The upper ends were at about waist level while the lower ends were at knee height, with the two bars around half a metre apart.
Megan now knelt on these bars, leather thongs binding her ankles and calves to the lower part of the bars, forcing her legs wide apart. She still wore her yoke, which spanned across the bars near the top end and was secured to the bars with further thongs. In this position her buttocks were thrust into the air and her head was down below the bars - a victim waiting for a perversion. The plug had been removed from her butt hole, and the rope had been used to pull her chained wrists higher up her back before being tied off to the yoke behind her head. It was a very awkward position, with considerable weight normally being supported by the yoke, had it not been for a further palm log spanning the bars just above her breasts. I guessed much of her body weight was in fact taken by this, since her torso was bound to this by further loops of leather thong. Beside the helpless figure, the second set of sloping bars now awaited an occupant.
“You may rest here,” said Zara, gesturing to the empty bars and smirking at me. I glared at her, for all the good it did, before I was manoeuvred between the bars and the yoke was pulled down to rest across them at the upper end. I was bent at the waist to achieve this, and once the leather thongs had firmly anchored the yoke to the bars, little Monica was going nowhere, and I could do nothing but stare at my bare feet on the earthen floor, now getting sticky as the palm oil residue slowly pooled beneath me.
At that point I was abruptly lifted by Zara and Mohammed, one grabbing each leg and positioning me, kneeling, legs spread, on the bars, my shins resting on the lower portion of each. Moments later the thongs secured me at ankle and just below the knee, and I was struggling and whining as the load of my upper body came on my neck through the yoke. This lasted only a moment or two, fortunately, as Mohammed slid a palm log between my chest and the bars, just above my breasts. The log was tied to the bars and I was then secured to it, but at least the pressure was off my neck.
While all this was going on, the wooden plug remained jutting out of my backside, and I knew I must look a sight. Bending and kneeling had made it doubly uncomfortable and I sighed with relief when Zara undid the rope in front of my chin, and at once I felt the tension ease along with the pressure of the giant plug. Zara pulled the rope out of the hole in the base of the plug, then slowly, almost gently slid the invader out of the hole it had occupied for so many painful hours. I moaned softly and did not care that she then slipped the rope through my wrist chains and pulled my arms up close to my shoulder blades, before tying off the rope to the yoke at my neck. I was thoroughly secured and immobilised. I could do nothing but watch a thin runnel of drool slide down to the ground from the edge of my gag.
Soon, however, even this sense was removed, as Zara bound a long length of black cloth over my eyes. Damn! I hated being blindfolded! At least if you could see your bonds you could plan and scheme and fight them. Being blindfolded took away that last hope and made things ten times as difficult, as well as leaving you wide open to the attack you couldn’t see coming. I garbled my displeasure and was rewarded with just such an attack – two stinging open-palmed slaps on my upraised buttocks, that made me yelp into the gag. I realised at that point exactly how little I really could move, and it scared me.
“Salim bin Aziz will be here very shortly,” I heard Mohammed say. “We will need to prepare you a little, so that you can respond properly to his ministrations.”
Prepare me? Hadn’t I had enough preparation already? The answer to my unspoken question came in the form of the sting of a flogger across my backside, which could not have made a better target if I had given it voluntarily. It was a small flogger – that I could tell – just the type to reach those awkward parts like inner thighs and crotch. I did not know who was wielding it, but they were good. The bite of the thongs was non-stop, stabbing at my taut buttocks, then my thighs, then stinging me in the crotch. Whoever it was even managed to get some shots on to my nipples, which I had thought to be reasonably protected underneath. That really made me jump – if I could have. Of course I struggled and cried out into the gag, but neither effort was effective. About the only thing I could move was my hands, which alternately opened and closed as the pain jumped from one piece of thoroughly exposed flesh to the next.
I heard a second flogger start up on Megan and the sound was supplemented by more muffled cries as together we were subjected to the ‘preparation’. I was sweating with nervous tension when the beating suddenly stopped and all went quiet. My skin was on fire, my nipples and crotch being the worst. I was whimpering into the leather wad in my mouth when I felt two large hands on my buttocks. Oh shit, I thought – himself has arrived.
The hands roved over my body, kneading my breasts and squeezing my nipples until I made a muffled squeal of pain, despite my best resolution not to show any weakness. The hands were strong and firm. A finger slid into my pussy while another roved over my clit, both of which were wet and slippery from the oil and probably a bit of real stimulation as well.
Then the hands were holding my buttocks and he was driving into my arse without so much as a by your leave. God, he was huge! A long moan slipped out before I could help it, and I now understood why I had undergone the trial with the plug. It was as though the plug was back again, not so much in length but in girth. Now he was inside fully, for I felt the flesh of his stomach pushed against me as he began to move back and forth.
I must admit I am quite partial to a little arse rogering, but I had never experienced anything like this. Suddenly, after all the pain of the plug and the flogger, I found myself turned on. The flogger had been a traditional stimulating warm up of a type we frequently employed at Bilboes as a precursor to something more severe. Now my skin was heated and the pain was receding under the hard thrusts between my cheeks. I found myself snorting between each thrust as my body tugged against the leather thongs binding my legs and torso, and without warning there was a warm rush of heat from my loins, causing me to stiffen and shudder, to the accompaniment of an unbidden howl into my gag.
The man continued as though nothing had happened, and I found that the size of his member, after the stretching by the plug, was tolerable to the point of being pleasurable. Shortly the pleasure moved up a notch to the point where I was urging him on with my own gagged grunts. He was beginning to get a head of steam up, his movements in and out becoming faster and faster, accompanied by a noisy slapping of buttock flesh and some strained noises of his own. I knew he was close to coming, and I nearly went into orbit as he slipped two fingers into my pussy just before there was a final phrenetic pumping into my arse and I felt the warm jet spurt into my passage. I was in my own private heaven by then, yelling uncontrollably into the gag as the rush of ecstasy flooded up from my crotch such that I all but passed out.
Then he was gone, withdrawn, vacated the site and left me unhappy and empty, burbling quietly around the leather wad, drooling in my darkened world.
* * *
My memory is a bit hazy after that, such was the exertion I had expended against my restraints, all to no avail. I recall hearing muffled cries from Megan almost immediately after my own treatment was done, and I thought what amazing stamina this guy Aziz must have, after my own thorough screwing. Then my gag was released and I was gasping for air, too exhausted to speak or protest to whoever had removed it. My head was down and the sweat was dripping off me, such that when someone thrust a straw into my mouth and told me to drink, I did so without hesitation, drawing up the cool liquid into my depleted body.
I began to feel a bit woozy after that, putting it down to my strained position and what I had been through, but moments later I knew it was more than that and that I had been drugged. I finally passed out to the sound of a frantic ‘mmmphing’ and stifled cries from Megan as she climaxed a la Monica.
* * *
I regained consciousness slowly, and in a way I had never experienced before, namely being unable to move. By this I don’t mean being paralysed or simply tied up. I mean every fibre of my body seemed locked into place by some all-encompassing medium that was hard and unyielding.
I was lying on my back – that much I could ascertain. I tried to open my eyes, to move my head, but my eyes and mouth had been taped shut and my whole head seemed to be locked solid in a cast of some sort. I slowly explored my body starting at my head, and sensed the presence of plugs in my ears and some sort of rubber cap covering my hair. There were tubes of some sort in my nose, presumably leading to the outside of whatever encased me. The steel cuffs which had previously encircled my wrists and ankles were now gone, but everything else about my body was solidly trapped in what could have been plaster or even concrete, for that matter.
Willing myself not to panic, I became aware of plugs securely lodged in my pussy and butthole, and I groaned inwardly at the thought of more torture of this kind. I did not know how long I had been unconscious, but my arse was still tender from the reaming it had received from firstly the wooden cone, and then from my prospective new owner. Why did they want to further this torment, when they could not even see my suffering, encased as I was in something?
I wondered if this was for transport purposes. Were they intending to smuggle me across the border on the back of a truck? Where was Megan, for that matter? Was she lying beside me? A memory trigger was activated by a faint smell, and then I understood – I had been encased in mud which had solidified. It was the ancient craft of mud brick construction taken to the extreme of encapsulating a woman in what was probably a coffin-sized brick. Shit!
I strained with all my might using all the muscles in my limbs and torso, but could make absolutely no impression whatsoever. I could not move my jaw or mouth, and so was reduced to making a nasal ‘hmmm’ through the nose tubes. Again, the mud seemed to muffle any feedback coming to me, and I had no idea what sound – if any – was making it to the outside world.
I tried to relax and suppress the panic and fear that was lurking in the back of my mind. The fear was of the unknown – for I could not see the point of what was now happening. We had been subjected to a trial run by Mr Aziz, and presumably he had been satisfied with the two white women he was going to take possession of. I did not think further than this regarding the future – I did not trust myself – and a self-pitying crying jag was not recommended in my present situation. I had to stay calm and in control.
I could not work out where this was going – why I – and presumably Megan – was imprisoned in a mud sarcophagus. How long would we be kept like this? How long could we survive? We needed to drink and to perform bodily functions. I had no idea how long had passed since I had eaten. My body felt warm, though not excessively so. It seemed as though the sun had baked the mud solid but now the mud was providing some insulation, although I knew that if I was still lying somewhere in the sun, the mud would absorb the heat further and I would start to bake like a dinner in the oven.
The thought scared me. Where exactly was I? Was I on the back of a pickup in some dusty square surrounded by throngs of unsuspecting locals? I could hear nothing at all through my earplugs and because of the thick mud shell around my head. I strained to feel vibrations through the solid medium, but there was nothing to suggest that I might not be lying atop some deserted sand dune miles from the nearest habitation.
“Nnnnnmmmmrrrr!” I moaned as loudly as I could manage through the nose tubes. It was not a scream or a cry, but a drawn out whine, that achieved nothing, other than to add to my own frustration and slowly rising fear. I tried to wriggle my fingers or toes, but they were locked solid in the embrace of the mud. I could do absolutely nothing but lie there and let my thoughts do their dreadful work.
Again, I must have dozed, eventually lulled by the all-encompassing warmth of my cocoon. My awakening was partly dreamlike in that I thought I detected footsteps – felt, rather than heard. I wasn’t sure if I had imagined them or not, until there was a sudden buzzing in my pussy and clit, followed moments later by the plug in my arse, and then a gently rising vibration on each nipple. I groaned. I did not need any more of this exquisite torture. My arse was already super sensitive from the treatment it had received, and after Megan’s toes in the pool and the continuous state of restraint I had endured, I was feeling enervated and weak. My mental resistance was slipping, too, and I did not know how much more of this I could take.
The problem was, of course, that I could neither move nor communicate with whoever was subjecting me to this. The vibrations were beginning slowly and insidiously, the low frequency seeming to bounce off the hard mud and spread further within my body. I had no way of measuring time, but after only a short while I was feeling very wet and very horny, but could do nothing but let nature take its course.
When the vibrations upped into the mid-range the change was to much for me, and I felt the rush of an orgasm build quickly and flood over me. My total immobility made the episode briefly satisfying, but also unsatisfactory, for I could not even tweak my hips to respond to the devices embedded inside me. I was moaning through the breathing tubes, trying to concentrate on my breathing, for there is an inherent difficulty in trying to breathe and make loud noises at the same time.
When the vibrations inevitably upped a further notch to the highest level I went ballistic and my breathing suffered to the point where I thought I would black out. The waves of glorious fulfilment washed outwards from my loins, to be met with my total rigidity and inability to respond. I was seeing all sorts of bright lights and a roaring filled my plugged ears that I knew was simply my rushing blood. It was wonderful for a blinding moment, before I crashed over the edge in a long protracted moan of ecstasy.
But there was no let up in the mechanical monsters inside of me, that continued to stimulate my well-lubricated and over-sensitive spots. I groaned again, this time with a mixture of resignation and desperation, rather than with arousal, but the stimulation continued unabated. The vibrator on my clit had been positioned to react with the one inside my pussy and between the pair of them pressed against each other I knew I was in trouble. God, I thought, please make this stop – I can’t take much more!
I tried some mind games, thinking of anything at all unrelated to what I was going through – times tables, fish recipes, childhood pets, the most repugnant customers I had ever dealt with, but the vibrations were unaware of these distractions, and my loins and nipples continued sending build-up signals to my brain. I was rapidly heading for a third orgasm, but trying to stifle my noises in a bid to retain coherent breathing when all at once the terrible stimulation ceased without warning. I was stunned for a moment, fearing it was some sort of trick, then I let out a long sigh.
Slowly I regained control of myself, feeling my perspiration insinuate itself between my skin and the smoothness of the mud. It was like a sweat pack, and I knew I would be seriously dehydrated very shortly. I lay there with the pounding of my heart slowly subsiding and my lungs gradually catching up with the work they hadn’t done, when a shudder ran through my solid cocoon. It happened again and I felt myself tilted into an upright position. While the blood redistributed itself, I felt a delicate tapping on the material encasing me, and without warning the front of my sarcophagus was separated. It was prised off me with a sucking sound as it parted along a line running down the outside of my arms and legs and over the top of my head. With some gentle wiggling the front section came away whole, pulling the tubes from my nose, and I felt the coolness of the air brushing against my overheated body. There was a brief moment of pain and I squealed into my gag as the removal of the cover pulled the two vibrating pads from my nipples.
Strong hands disconnected the wires from the inserts on and around my crotch, then prised my own hands and arms free from the remaining clutches of the mud, with voices in Arabic now able to be heard. I was still restricted by the tape over my mouth and eyes, but these inconveniences were irrelevant to the glorious release from that claustrophobic encapsulation. I moaned in appreciation. There was more chatter in Arabic as my head and shoulders were eased free, followed by my legs and torso. It was a tight fit and the material was hard, but I realised I had been coated with some oily substance – possibly more of the palm oil – that made the process at least tolerable.
The hands helped me clear of the casing but I could barely stand, my legs were so wobbly. I was allowed to sit down on the packed earth floor while the tape was cut from my eyes. I looked up to see Zara and her brothers, all smiling down at me. I noticed also that it was nighttime, and we seemed to be in a small courtyard of the castle, the scene lit by several hurricane lamps. An old man – the one who had administered my tattoo – was fussing with the two halves of the mud casing, when Mohammed spoke to him and he turned to a large coffin sized box a metre away.
I saw that the outside was made of rough timber planking and that the interior was of hard mud, with wires leading from strategic points to a black box connected to a power lead which disappeared into the darkness. Further wires ran from the black box to the mud cover that had been removed from me, and which now lay beside me. I knew at this point what had happened to Megan, and the sight of two plastic breathing tubes sticking through the top of the mud surface made me realise the nature of my imprisonment and it scared me even more. I wondered how Megan was coping as the old man stripped off the timber planks from the outside, revealing a horizontal joint halfway up the side, clearly separating the top and the bottom.
I caught a brief glimpse of Mohammad and Rashid now off to one side laughing and doing something that almost looked like exchanging money, but I could not see properly in the half-light of the hurricane lamps. I was interrupted at that point as Zara gave me a shove and I fell on my stomach. She was sitting astride my back before I could react, but I was so weakened at that point that I did not have the strength to fight back as she crossed my wrists behind my back and bound them tightly, then did the same for my ankles, before pulling them into a nasty hogtie. This girl knew her stuff all right, and wasn’t going to give me any chance to escape. Only then did she removed the two vibrators from inside me, easing them out in an action that seemed to be the last straw in underlining how totally debilitated I was, for all I wished now was to sleep.
Zara’s approach in securing me was clear at that point, for it then took all of their efforts to get the top section of Megan’s mud casing separated and removed from the other half, which they did with the mud block propped against the wall in a semi upright position. They obviously did not want to have to watch out for me escaping, though in truth I was so shattered that I couldn’t have managed any decent attempt.
While the two brothers lifted the top off, Zara disconnected the wires underneath and pulled the vibrating pads from Megan’s pale breasts that now glistened in the light, contrasting with the darkness of the mud. The process I had undergone followed for Megan, as her naked body was gradually extricated from the mud prison. Like me, her dark hair had been pushed under a rubber cap and her eyes and mouth had been taped shut. Megan was so exhausted she could not stand, and lay limply on the ground while Zara cut the tape from Megan’s eyes. Her gag was not removed, however, as she lay there, her breasts rising and falling raggedly as she struggled to regain her breath.
While this was happening my ankles were freed and I was made to stand – albeit unsteadily – while Zara once again clothed me in the manner of the village women, with a voluminous dress over the top of my bound arms, then the fearsome black mask and a black shawl, covering the rubber cap and the tape wrapped around my mouth and head. The final security was the hobble chain, and I was then made to kneel while the same treatment was handed out to a slowly recovering Megan. It was all done very efficiently and with only a few words – mostly prompting smiles and chuckles – in Arabic exchanged between Zara and her brothers. The little old man seemed content to fuss over the two opened mud coffins.
When Megan was thoroughly secured and dressed the same as myself, we were led by Zara through the gloomy recesses of the castle to the entry courtyard and out into the dark and silent date groves that surrounded the fort. With the brothers bringing up at the rear, we stumbled in exhaustion behind Zara back to the Zubair residence and through the side gate, ending up in the small lean-to again, where we were once again chained neck to neck via the anchor bolt in the floor. There was food set out on a tray, and Zara left us with the dismissive remark that if we could free ourselves, we could eat, and that we would need our sleep for tomorrow, when we would travel to our new master.
It was easy for her to say. Undoing our wrists took an age, once we had managed to shed our clothes and gain access to the ropes. Undoing a knot with only one hand when your wrists are crossed and tied is a tedious and painful business, made more so by our tiredness. Eventually I managed to undo the knots at Megan’s wrists, and allowed her to undo mine. With much frustration we finally got the tape and rubber caps off our heads and were able to eat the food that had been left to us. We had no way of knowing whether it was nine o’clock at night or four in the morning, but it didn’t matter, for we were totally wrung out and collapsed on the mattress to fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.
* * *
The next day seemed to be upon us before we knew it, as the roosters in the village began their rousing calls. Zara, it seemed, was also an early riser, bringing our breakfast with an order to hurry up and eat it if we didn’t want it to be removed. We did as we were told, still hungry from the long tortuous previous day which had seen us without sustenance for the most part. Megan was looking pale and tired, and I suppose I wasn’t much better. Zara, looking elegant and comfortable in a short black shift over grey silk trousers, brought a bucket of water for us to wash with, which left us feeling a little better, for our experience in the mud coffins had left us horribly dirty.
Now, washed and fed, we had our wrists bound palm to palm in front before the hated leather wads were strapped in our mouths and we once again were dressed as masked Omani village women, to be led outside by Zara into the cool desert morning air.
“We are going into the mountains,” Zara explained. “There you will be handed over to your new owner and final arrangements will be made. This will be your last day with us before you become the property of Salim bin Aziz. I wish I could say he was a kindly person, but I really can’t.” She said all this in a matter of fact way as she tightened our bonds and checked our hobble chains, then she shrugged. “Salim bin Aziz has a rather sadistic streak and rumour has it some of his girls have been crippled under the lash.” She paused. “But then, you two are strong, and I’m sure he will enjoy displaying his western women to his invited guests.”
I caught Megan’s eye as Zara bustled us outside. She looked pale and frightened at the impact of Zara’s words. Like me, she could not believe that this was happening, and that the whole thing was not some sort of nightmare from which we would soon awake. I wondered if Steven was aware of what was happening.
Awaiting us was a small entourage of a number of camels kneeling in the sandy alleyway just outside the gate to the back garden. Mohammed and Rashid were there, along with Steven, all dressed in the typical white dish-dash robes and turban-like headdress. My thoughts on seeing Steven were a mixture of relief that he was still around and safe, and astonishment at his dress. For a moment I thought he looked a poser, then he moved over to a camel and I revised my view, for he seemed comfortable and at ease in that guise. I noticed that he had not shaved recently and displayed a dark stubble that added to this more exotic look. All of which did not help Megan and I as we were led to camels of our own.
“You will notice these saddles are slightly unusual,” Zara said. I followed her gesturing hand and saw to my shock a large rubber prong protruding vertically from the front of two of them. “You can guess where this will go,” Zara said blithely. “You will both be riding behind me, and if and when you find you can take no more of the pleasure this will induce, you may tug on a cord connected to my saddle, and alternative arrangements will be made for your transport. However, there are rules to this. The first one to tug on the cord will dictate that the other is freed for the alternative transport, while the first person will in fact have a further half hour to endure. And let me suggest that the second mode of travel will be even more uncomfortable. So, ladies, you’d better be really sure about when you’ve had enough. And I might add that there are other issues riding on your performance, if you pardon the pun,” she ended enigmatically. “Now, let’s get going, shall we?”
I had only ever ridden a camel once, on a visit to Alice Springs in Central Australia, where there is a particularly pure camel breed introduced by Afghani traders in the eighteen hundreds. My recollection from that event was that the ride was very uncomfortable and very high - and that was in a normal saddle.
My camel was a dark tan one with an irritated expression, who had obviously got up on the wrong side of the camel bed that morning. Zara removed my ankle hobbles and helped me climb into the saddle. This was only done with much difficulty, for my wrists remained bound in front, and my black dress had to be hoisted above my waist to allow me to lower myself gingerly onto the phallus that protruded from the saddle. It had been well lubricated, and initially felt quite comfortable, but I knew all that would change.
Of course I was unable to make comment of protest during this operation. Being gagged has another frustrating side beyond merely being unable to effectively protest in the throes of passion or pain. Small issues cannot be expressed, and once again I was unable to communicate with Steven, who had already mounted his own camel and was watching my undignified performance with a barely-concealed smirk.
The saddle was of leather and sat largely in front of the hump. I was securely impaled on the dildo with my clit nuzzling a kind of pommel that rose up as a convenient hand-hold. In this aspect Zara tethered my bound hands loosely to the pommel, such that I could actually still hang on to it. My legs were crossed around the pommel and my ankles bound in this position before my dress was pulled down demurely over any exposed flesh. I was now immovably secured to my mount and waited with considerable trepidation for what was going to come next. Mohammed and Rashid were now both mounted on their own camels and were observing the procedure of lashing Megan in place on her camel. They talked animatedly, while poor Megan suffered the same indignities I had just experienced as she settled on to the saddle. Behind us were two more camels with various bundles strapped to wooden frames that straddled their humps and hung down on each side.
Zara checked the straps to Megan’s and my camels then urged them up with a harsh cry. The sudden movement caught me by surprise, as first the rear legs straightened, tilting me forward, then the front ones came erect and thrust me back. In both of these movements the dildo plunged deeply inside me, and I knew then that I was in for a seriously stimulating ride, as I emitted an involuntary cry and clutched desperately at the pommel.
Zara smiled sweetly as she expertly mounted her own camel and urged it to rise. My beast – like that of Megan – was tied to Zara’s saddle via a rope through its nose. In my opinion this was a suitable way to make any animal – two legged or four – compliant, though it seemed this was not always the case with camels. Zara held in her hand two blue cords which were linked to Megan’s and my pommel, which we could tug if things got too much for us. But would the cure be worse than the problem? I wondered what would befall us if and when we pulled the emergency cord, and steeled myself to resist the urge for as long as possible. If nothing else there was at least the need to not give in before Megan did.
We lurched off in convoy down the sandy path still in the cool shade of the date palms. We met few villagers, but all we did encounter greeted us with a courteous “Salaam alaikum”, and must have wondered why the two masked women did not respond. The fact that we were bound to the saddles and gagged under our masks would have been beyond their comprehension – another symptom of western moral corruption come home to roost.
The movement of the camels was alarming both in its extent and also what it was doing to the prong jammed inside me. The beast took long strides, inducing a jerking up and down movement, and prompting me to cling to the pommel for dear life with my hands, and to squeeze my legs against the saddle as best I could. This also had the unfortunate consequence of tightening my abdominal muscles around the phallus that seemed to come alive inside me, driving in and out with a strong force that could not help but send me into warm flushes under my mask.
We soon left the village behind and travelled at a steady pace down a wide wadi between two low sets of hills. A few kilometres ahead the mountains rose more steeply, a series of brown and tan waves climbing into the shimmering morning heat. It took some time but I slowly forced myself to relax and move with the animal beneath me. However despite my best efforts, I could not ignore the regular in-out of the rubber prong between my legs, and sure enough the familiar feeling began to rise up, to eventually shoot through my body with a sudden explosion and I clamped down on the leather wad and shut my eyes, unable to suppress a series of muffled snorts as I swayed about above the ground.
I cast surreptitious glances at Megan as she kept pace a few metres away, and I could tell from her posture that she was having the same problem. She was gripping the pommel as though her life depended on it, her body rigid and unyielding, and I clearly heard her first orgasm come closely after mine, accompanied by several stifled squeals. Zara looked round and grinned, as did the men just in front of her. I saw Mohammed give Rashid a high five and knew there was something going on that I didn’t understand.
The morning dissolved in a haze of sexual stimulation and repressed orgasms as I tried to raise myself off the prong and to ease the constant probing in my deepest parts. But the saddle had become slick with my juices and the portion rubbing against my clit began to take over, bringing me to another reluctant climax, the vocal effects of which I did my best to smother. Megan, on the other hand, was losing it, and had three shuddering orgasms in quick succession, each louder than the last. By now the sides of the wadi had closed in, and her gagged cries echoed within the ravine, and the men laughed at her helplessness.
I had just succumbed to a third climax when Megan let loose a long nasal sob and tugged on the blue cord, slumping forward as the camels drew to a halt. The sensation was wonderful as the momentum of the camel ceased and Megan’s and my animals were hauled to their knees by Zara after she and the men had dismounted. Megan and I simply sat there, clasping the pommel and trying to ease our tender loins against the slickness of the saddle and the rubber prongs inside us. Megan was sobbing quietly as Zara untied my ankles and detached my wrists from the saddle, before helping me to dismount after awkwardly extricating myself from the phallic intruder. I felt stiff and sore all over, due to the unaccustomed movement I had undergone and the resistance my body had put up. My crotch was terribly sensitive and sent waves of weird feelings through my body as I moved.
Megan remained impaled on her saddle, making muffled whimpering noises, while Rashid and Mohammed unpacked a large roll from one of the pack camels. It turned out to be a large carpet, around three metres square, which they unrolled on to a level part of the track. I thought at first we were going to settle down for a rest, but I should have been so lucky. Instead, I was stripped of my mask and dress and my hands were bound palm to palm behind me. Naked, I was made to lie on the carpet, and suddenly found myself being rolled up into it. I could see little of what was happening at that point, but I could sense ropes being pulled tight around my wrapped form, before I was hoisted on to the wooden frame, to lie face down along the side of the camel, the top and bottom ends of the carpet drooping off the ends of the frame.
More ropes bound me to the frame and then we were off again. It was like being airborne in the semi-darkness inside the carpet roll. I prayed that I wouldn’t get sick what with the swooping through the air, and decided that being perched high on the saddle, albeit with a rubber prong embedded inside me could have been a marginally better alternative. I wondered how Megan – who obviously had a more sensitive body than I did – was coping with a further half hour impalement as the price of being the first to capitulate and pull the blue cord.
It took a while, but eventually I started to get used to the movement. After half an hour we stopped again and I sensed that Megan was now sharing my fate and was bound horizontally on the other side of the camel’s carry frame. Together we loped along, seeing glimpses of rugged mountains sweeping across our field of vision as the trail became narrower until we were climbing up a small path between rocky outcrops. Here the others dismounted and led their camels, such was the winding nature of the trail. We stopped briefly at one point beside a small flowing stream, where the others slaked their thirst, but not the two prisoners in the carpets. I noticed that the air was so dry up here that any perspiration seemed to evaporate before it appeared on my skin.
The sun was high overhead when we rounded a bend in the trail into a large open depression beside a gorgeous blue pool welling up from a huge cave. I saw this after the carpet had been unwrapped and I finally cleared the dizziness from my head that came with a sudden rolling over and over. I stood up on the carpet, my wrists still bound behind me, and looked around.
It appeared that the servants had arrived here before us, for several large beduin-type tents had been set up in the open space beside the pool. The tents were a little over man-height at their peak, but were spread over a large area with many support poles. Presumably their shape had evolved over generations of resisting fierce sandstorms. Around the right hand side of the pool, threading its way through some large boulders, was a path that lead into the large entrance that was the cave. Here a natural spring had forced its way to the surface through the limestone cliffs that rose above us, creating the pool which had an outlet into the stream that we had followed up the wadi.
Zara was quick to tie a blindfold over my eyes and I was led to one of the tents. I was made to kneel on the carpet inside and my gag was removed long enough for me to drink thirstily from a bottle.
“Your new owner will be here shortly,” said Zara. “We will prepare you for his arrival.”
I was not given a chance to respond, mainly because I was too busy slaking my thirst, and the moment I had done this, back went the leather wad into my mouth with the thong tied tightly behind my head. I was starting to get real tired of being gagged all the time and tried to tell her this, but it was not a productive exercise. The next thing I knew was that I was lying on my back on the carpet with my ankles being spread-eagled and attached by ropes to some sort of anchor points, followed immediately by my wrists. Zara sponged me down with a damp cloth, making soothing noises as I sighed my pleasure as the dust was washed off. And of course I was not surprised when she payed particular attention to my pussy, caressing it with more than just a washing motion, such that I squirmed, despite – or because of – how tender it had become.
So now I lay there stretched out like a star, unable to bend my limbs, nor to see or speak. I was resigned to my fate, and could not think further about my future until I had more information as to where I might end up. I knew I would escape, somehow, whatever the cost. I would not leave Megan, either, and I hoped fervently that we would remain together, as allies to provide moral support. I feared most for Steven, who seemed to be blindly walking into a trap that I could not warn him about.
My fearful thoughts were interrupted by a presence in the tent, which I sensed, as much as heard, through a slight scrunching of the sand, then a footfall on the heavy carpet. I turned my head blindly, trying to make out anything at all, but the blindfold had been expertly applied and my darkened world remained. Then came what sounded like the soft fall of clothes and I felt a calloused hand sliding over my body, down my thighs, over my breasts and through the fluff at my crotch that had been so strenuously tested in the last few days. I tried to remain calm, remembering the size of his member that I had had to accommodate in my rear while bound to the wooden bars, but I could not prevent my heart rate from going up a few notches and my breathing with it. In part this was due to my own fears, but also due to the touch that had begun to arouse me.
He was good, I’ll say that. Unlike the previous time, it was not the charge of the light brigade. This time it was fingers that – for all their strength and roughness – probed gently and confidently at my sensitive spots and started a series of sighs that I couldn’t suppress. I began to sense that maybe Salim bin Aziz might not be such a hard master after all, as my nipples grew rock hard with anticipation. When his tongue abruptly probed my clit I jerked against the ropes and let out a moan of pleasure.
When the main act came I was locked, loaded and primed for take-off, and it took almost nothing to achieve that. He was big, all right – it filled me hugely. I was stuffed at mouth and pussy, unable to move, and he was blessed with an energy that made me his plaything. My first orgasm came with a rush as I squealed and squirmed, helplessly impaled and pinned by his body. There was a strong scent in my nostrils – not unpleasant – a mixture of herbal fragrances that I guessed had been applied immediately prior to his arrival.
He continued his thrusting as though my climax had not occurred, and my ‘mmmphs’ of response went unheeded. I moaned and thrashed to the little extent that I could do, which was really a few shakes of the feet and clenchings of my fingers, while another wave of ecstasy roared through my body and I howled into the gag.
All thoughts of the future, of where I was, what was happening and who was doing this to me had by now been banished from my brain, which was overwhelmed by the sensations of pleasure flowing from my crotch and from the big driving organ thrusting into me. He finally came with a series of cries that were matched by my own gagged efforts as I shook my head and body in a last climactic effort that saw me all but black out in an effort to get my breath around the gag filling my mouth. Then he withdrew, and a minute later I felt his hands untie the blindfold.
I suppose I should not have been surprised to see a naked Mohammed Zubair propped on one elbow watching my expression with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. He did not seem particularly out of breath, as he laughed at my wide-eyed expression.
“Meet my alter ego, Salim bin Aziz,” he said, grinning.
My world seemed to dissolve into confusion at that point, for I was swamped with a flood of thoughts that all began with the words ‘why’ or ‘how’. These thoughts were followed by a realisation that things were nothing like what I had thought, and that I was the victim of a supreme con job. Anger abruptly overcame my exhaustion. I mmphed furiously at him, shaking my head with frustration at the gag and sending a shower of sweat over him. He laughed.
“If you promise to hold your tongue, I will remove the gag,” he said. “And if you promise to behave and not attack me, I’ll untie you. I have to say, Monica Armstrong, that you are a most impressive woman, and you have just won me a considerable sum of money from my brother. I think you and I are going to have a very good business relationship.”
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bondagestories : alexanderstories