The girl froze, even her sobbing stopped. For a long time she stayed clutching the legs of her master. Then, slowly and without complaint, she shuffled back and lay upon the stone, spreading her feet wide apart to offer free access to the penetration of her sex. She looked at no one, but closed her eyes and waited. Without haste, Yousef discarded his shorts. There came into view a phallus so huge that the watching girl quailed at the sight. Sensing the impression he had made, Yousef shook the thing at her like a bludgeon, laughing at her blush, pleased by her apprehension and the tribute of her amazed scrutiny. “One day,” he promised. “One day you too.”
Whether his words were a promise or a threat did not matter. Stacie remembered the statement that under certain unnamed circumstances her body would indeed be delivered to this smiling man. She wondered miserably how so immense an organ could enter any orifice she had to offer. He probably tore female flesh thoughtlessly and without caring while in rut. It would be part of the pattern.
Yousef ravished the naked girl with masterly competence.
Could it be called rape! Stacie thought not. For this girl it would not be the first time. There was no stallion plunging, no sadistic thrust, instead a steady entry under pressure so that the recipient gasped and arched her back, flinging wide her arms to clutch at nothing, emitting a long drawn out moan of acknowledgement when the last of the vast impalement was within her sheath.
It lasted long. Stacie counted three orgasms for the girl before Yousef brought the coupling to an end. When he withdrew the wet and glistening weapon from within her most intimate cleft the girl rose to her knees and, without direction, used her lips and tongue to cleanse and dry it before it was once more housed within the shorts. While she performed the service Yousef’s eyes met Stacie’s. “You next,” he promised vaguely and sardonically. He was childishly pleased by her reaction.
From what happened then Stacie drew the conclusion that the girl had believed the use of her body had bought her immunity. When Yousef produced the wristlets her eyes widened in disbelief and an angry flood of denunciation assailed the grinning man. Whatever he said in reply was evidently more than the girl could bear, she leaped screaming for the door.
Within two paces he had a handful of her hair and was slapping her face back and forth until she meekly and hopelessly offered him her hands. Very quickly she stood as Stacie stood, but on her toes, her young loveliness taut and strained and ready. Helplessness brought with it resignation. She moaned as though to herself but ceased to plead. She no longer looked at the man who would torture her, she expected nothing from him that she would want.
Yousef whipped the girl as methodically as he had ravaged her. First a cane across the curves of the young buttocks and then a short and tapered whip for the rest of her, no female curve or crevice was immune. The girl screamed steadily, fighting her strapped wrists and sometimes lifting herself entirely from the floor in the unbearable cutting of her flesh. There was no lash that failed to evoke from her a mad gyration and peal of anguish, sweat stained her everywhere as the ridges of beaten skin rose one by one.
Stacie had no knowledge by which to gauge the severity of what she saw. To her it seemed the girl was being whipped to death, that female flesh could not withstand such pain or bear such marks. Yet when the whipping was done and Yousef returned the hateful thing to its hook the girl continued to moan and to twist and writhe with a vigour that spelt survival. Stacie had much to learn of the resiliency of the feminine physique. When, again, Yousef leered at her knowingly and said: “You next.” She had no reason to believe other than that he spoke truth.
The torturer, mightily pleased with himself, went away and left the two girls hanging by their wrists. The door slammed.
Stacie was deathly afraid, but she longed to give comfort to the punished girl who stood so close in the same confinement by which she was held. Yet she feared to intrude upon the victim’s inward communion with her pain. The eyes were closed, the cheeks wet with tears, the weight of the slenderness dragged against the straps as though the pain of the bound wrists was needed to balance the agony of the whip, her toes were on the floor, but not in solid seeking for support. The moans gradually sank away, but the panting respirations were as eloquent of suffering as had been her screams.
“I’m sorry.” Stacie felt that so futile a statement was justified to break the silence.
Her companion opened one eye as though seeing her for the first time. “Why sorry? You not whipped.” She relapsed into misery.
Stacie gave her a bit more silence and tried again. “Why did they whip you? What had you done?”
Both eyes opened this time, they were faintly animated.
“Break dishes in kitchen.” A brief pause. “Throw water on cook.” The last words held a trace of satisfaction or humour. The hurt body reasserted itself, toes searching.
“Is that all!” Stacie was aghast.
“Is plenty too much.” This time the humour was definite. “How many times have you been whipped?”
“Many, many times. Cannot remember.” To the girl the question was silly. She eyed Stacie’s unmarked skin in puzzlement. “Why you not get whip?”
“I’m going to be whipped,” Stacie reassured her. “They are making me wait so I’ll be more and more frightened.”
The girl perked up. Her sense of justice was restored. If Stacie was to be whipped she was a friend. “You soon hurt very much,” she informed helpfully. “Is best to make much scream or they do much harder.”
The advice of experience! Stacie wondered if she could follow it convincingly. She did not recall ever having screamed in pain. “Have you ever been . . .” She could not use the word. “. . . Punished with any of these other things?”
“I have had to sit on the horse. It is not nice. Most bad for a girl’s cunt,” she brightened perceptibly. “But I am hearing you are to have proper torture. Yousef do everything to hurt. Is me who is feeling sorry for you.”
Stacie was feeling sorry for herself. She dropped the subject. “Why do they leave you tied after you’ve been whipped?”
“Is same as you. Make feel bad. Cannot use hands,” she giggled. “Cook make Yousef free me soon. Is work to do.”
And thus it was. Untied, the girl sped from the awful chamber as though it was on fire. Yousef chuckled as he watched her go. “Back next week to sit on horse,” he opined sagely. “Is most foolish girl.” As he was leaving he turned and consoled. “Despair not, the whip is always ready.”
Stacie wondered if it was a quote from the Koran.
She felt great weariness, not only from standing straight with her arms in the air but also from the attrition of emotion in the alternating hope and fear to which she was subjected. Stacie had little doubt she had been witness to the whipping by deliberate design. It had affected her cruelly, a preview of her own agony to come. She was distraught by fears and doubts of her ability to endure so awful a punishment. She envisioned herself hanging limp and unconscious as the thong scored her skin.
When the door opened to admit a widely grinning Salim it was no more than in keeping with all else. Looking around cautiously to ensure they were alone the youth came eagerly forward to examine his prize. Positioning himself before the pinioned girl he scanned her nakedness with a fascination both clinical and erotic. Stacie felt the tell-tale blush rise and quelled an instinct to cross her legs.
“Is much better than just tits,” Salim’s voice was almost reverent.
“Please set me free, Salim.” Stacie thought it worth a try.
“My father will make you rich.”
“Mohammad Yasin also make me very dead,” the youth pointed out reasonably, his eyes clinging to the inevitable. “Are all girls having much hair round pee-hole?”
“We all have some,” Stacie sighed.