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 The Bezistan Chronicles Chapter 8: Ten Strokes of the Cane

   This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age
of eighteen years

   Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) An archive of my stories can be found
at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

   "The characters and ideas contained in this story are the writer's and
shouldn't be used without permission.  Please respect the integrity of the
story and don't do rewrites, alterations or add pictures"

   Chapter 8: Ten Strokes of the Cane

   I am terrified.  I have displeased my Master and I'm to be punished.  In
his anger, he has ordered his major domo to deliver me to the whipping-yard
where I'm to receive ten strokes of the cane.

   Locked in my holding pen, I've just witnessed the cruel flogging of two
palace slaves who had also angered my Master.  As a stable slave I've only
ever seen my Master at a distance and I prefer that it stays that way.

   To me, a mere slave, he possesses godlike qualities that keep me in awe
and fear of him.  My fear, like that of all his slaves, is justified; among
us he has a fearsome reputation.  Many times, I'd overheard my overseers
discussing his cruelty and the dreadful punishments he routinely hands out
to any slave unlucky enough to have angered him.

   Of course, there is a difference of opinion as to how we slaves view our
owner's wrath and how an overseer regards it.  We slaves see it as cruel
torture, whereas our overseers recognise it as a legitimate punishment for
a crime committed or as a necessary correction to a slave's bad behaviour.
To an overseer, the whipping or caning of a slave is routine and not
considered anything out of the ordinary - it is all just part of the daily
routine of a slave`s existence.

   This constant fear of punishment hangs over us; it keeps us on our toes
and it goes without saying that fear makes us dutiful slaves.  How then
could I have been so foolish as to anger my Master?  Why hadn't I spread my
legs as he required when I was under his inspection?  I ask myself, was it
silly shyness of false modesty that kept me from opening my body to the
full view of my Master?  The answer is neither - wilfulness made me do it
and it was a deliberate act of defiance on my part.  I'm guilty of
disobedience and now I'm to be punished for it.

   As a slave, I know I have offended my Master and that I deserve my
punishment.  I have sinned and now I must do the penance.  Yet I am
terrified as I contemplate my imminent caning.

   I look out in horror through the bars of my holding cell at the two
recently flogged slaves.  They are still strung up in their whipping frames
and will remain there until inspected by our Master when he returns.  If
he's not satisfied that they have been punished enough, then no doubt,
he'll order a further whipping.  I can only guess at the fear they must
feel as they await their Master's inspection.

   With their bodies stretched taut, they are unable to move or relieve
their cramped limbs.  Their torsos, ringed with the vivid red stripes of
the whip, are testimony to the strength of Mustapha's whip arm.  And I
quake at the thought of my own looming punishment.  I nevertheless feel
sympathy for my fellow slaves.

   With their heads bowed, they whimper as flies and insects feast on their
discomfort.  It is obvious they are in pain and, suspended as they are,
they can do nothing to alleviate their agony.  As I watch the two African
slaves begin to wash their bodies which only add to their torment.  This
none too gentle scrubbing causes the slaves to cry out.

   I'm appalled at the inhumanity of Daoud, the major domo and Mustapha,
the whip-master.  Both are laughing and joking as they share a drink and
watch as the blacks wash the two slaves.  The tent poles in their trousers
indicate that both men are sexually aroused and obviously enjoying the
slaves' sufferings.  Even the two black attendant slaves are sporting
erections; their massive cocks, encircled by their genital rings, are
engorged and thrust out obscenely from their naked bodies.

   "Well Daoud, what's your re-action to seeing these two slaves whipped?"
Mustapha asks as he wipes the sweat from his bare chest and belly.  "YOU
KNOW!  It's hot work whipping slaves.  But tell me, what was your
impression?"

   "It was interesting, very much so, Mustapha.  And it was also very
informative.  As you said earlier, my duties in the palace normally prevent
me from witnessing such punishments.  I found it very instructive.  I
didn't realise there was so much involved.  It simply isn't just a matter
of applying the lash to their backs, is it?  I haven't ever thought of the
`protocols of a whipping' you mentioned earlier."

   "Ah, Daoud, it's a necessary part of a slave's punishment.  A slave
needs to know why he is being whipped.  He needs to acknowledge both his
guilt at having caused offence and his gratitude to his master for his
correction.  This makes him a better slave; more submissive, more obedient,
and most willing to please.  To my mind, a slave should routinely suffer
whippings as part of his training.  Floggings such as these two slaves have
just experienced will remain with them for the rest of their lives.  In
future they will do all in their power to avoid a repetition of today's
whipping.  The caress of the whip on their bare backs, like their
brandings, is now firmly burned into their minds and will serve to remind
them of what they are -mere slaves.  After all a slave is like any other
dumb animal; his wilfulness needs to be curbed.  A slave, like a dog or a
horse, must be trained hard to serve in its Master's interests.  And the
whip is an excellent teacher."

   "I share your views on the way a slave should be handled, Mustapha. 
They are, after all just soulless animals lacking those qualities of
intellect and resourcefulness that distinguish a man from the beasts.  They
truly are beasts of burden and they should be treated as such.  Luckily for
us, His Highness ascribes to this view of his slaves and treats them
accordingly.  No one can say that the prince pampers his slaves."

   "You are quite right, Daoud.  I believe Prince Rashid serves as a role
model to all slave owners on how best to train and keep a slave.  After
all, his family have had centuries of practice in turning out the perfect
slave.  They have never spared the whip or any other punishment deemed
necessary when handling their slaves.  After all, one has only to consider
the price that an al-Bahr slave commands at auction to know his methods are
sound.  But enough of this idle chatter.  I now feel refreshed and ready to
continue"

   "As you wish, Mustapha.  It is getting late and after you have finished
caning him, I still have to prepare my slave for his appointment with
Prince Rashid."

   "Tell me, Daoud.  What needs to be done to make him ready for His
Highness?"

   "First of all, I and my slave helpers will need to douche him.  This
usually takes about three or four flushings before the water runs clear. 
Then we will remove any hair below the eyes.  Although his body appears to
be smooth we need to check for any stray hairs growing in places where they
shouldn't be and pluck them out.  The prince is very particular about this
and he mostly enjoys fucking a slave with a smooth body.  We will remove
any stray hairs from between his buttocks - we have to take extreme care in
that area of his body.  His Highness gets very angry if the nether regions
of a slave haven`t been prepared properly.  The prince regards body hair as
a status of manhood and he certainly doesn't regard slaves as men; for that
reason he won't allow the palace slaves to wear hair on their bodies; it
offends his sensibilities.  The exceptions, of course, are His Highness's
two body slaves who, for some unknown reason, still have their body hair; I
don't know why but I suspect it has something to do with his attachment to
the English estate manager, who does have a delightful hair covering on his
body.  The other exceptions are the draft slaves and those slaves employed
in heavy labour.  It simply isn't possible to groom them as we do the
palace slaves."

   "Those slaves are miserable wretches; truly they are beasts of burden. I
hear they are dipped once a week to kill any lice or other vermin.  Is that
so, Daoud?'

   "That's correct, Mustapha.  Once a week their slave-masters submerge
them totally in a special solution that kills any vermin on their bodies.
It is also the only washing they receive.  The unworthy wretches have to be
driven into the bath under the whips of their overseers.  I understand
there is some discomfort as the solution stings the whip marks they wear on
their bodies.  But, surely this is a small price to pay for a lice free
existence.  You'd expect that they would truly appreciate this benevolence
on the part of Prince Rashid - but they don't.  Ungrateful swine that they
are!"

   "You would think so, Daoud.  But slaves are such ungrateful wretches. 
Would it be expecting too much from them to show appreciation for their
Master's kindness to them?  But back to the slave you have to prepare for
His Highness.  Once you have determined is body is free of hair, what
follows?"

   "Next, we need to clean and cut his finger and toe nails.  Then, we will
thoroughly clean his body to remove the stink of the stables from whence he
comes.  Once he has been washed and dried, we will then massage sweet
smelling unguents into his body and apply perfumed slave oil so that his
musculature is displayed to perfection.  Then we will grease him and
because he's still a virgin, we'll insert a dildo into him to stretch him
all the better to accommodate his Master's cock.  My African helpers always
enjoy this part of a slave's preparation."

   "The slave is indeed fortunate that his hole is greased before use.  I
didn't realise Prince Rashid showed such consideration for a slave's
comfort?"

   "He doesn't, Mustapha.  The slave's feelings are of no consequence.  The
reason he is greased is entirely for the comfort of His Highness.  You will
agree that thrusting into a well-oiled hole is preferable to a dry one. 
However, any discomfort or distress caused to the slave is of no
importance. His only purpose is to provide pleasure to his Master.  After
all, it doesn't matter whether or not he enjoys the experience, does it? 
Slaves exist to please their Masters in all things."

   "I find all that very interesting, Daoud.  However, as I said my
whipping arm is fully recovered now.  Flogging a slave can be very tiring
and I generally confine my whipping sessions to two slaves.  Any more than
that and I find my whipping arm tires.  I usually allow time for it to
recover its strength before continuing with any further whippings.

   "You two, have you finished preparing the caning trestle?" Mustapha
shouts to the two African slaves.  "THEN GET OVER HERE, NOW!"

   Both slaves hasten to do Mustapha's bidding.

   As I see the two slave-masters and the black slaves walking towards my
cage, I know my punishment is about to begin.  I am to be dragged out,
fastened down on the trestle and caned.  Panic-stricken, I back into a
corner and begin to plead.

   "PLEASE Sirs, please, please don't cane me."

   Even though I know nothing can save me, I continue to plead and I hear
myself crying.

   "Get him out and take him over to the trestle." Mustapha commands the
two slaves as he unlocks the door of my cage.  As they move towards me, I
sink to the floor and curl myself into a ball in the corner.  Desperately,
I grab hold of the bars and hold on grimly.  I hear myself screaming and I
struggle violently.  As I do so, I feel my fingers being roughly prised
free from the bars but still I continue to fight the inevitable.  Then, I
hear Mustapha's order to the Africans to stand clear.

   They move away from me and for a brief moment I have the vain hope that
I'm to be spared.  I don't notice Mustapha unclip the small, leather quirt
from his belt.

   Through the fog of my confusion and fear, I hear Mustapha's angry shout.

   "ON YOUR FEET, SLAVE.  NOW!"

   My terror has detached me from the reality of my situation and I'm
unaware that it is me that he is shouting at.  I hear the swish of
Mustapha's quirt moving through the resisting air and hear the loud thwack
as it lands on my shoulders.  For the second time today, my body tastes
leather and I hear myself screaming at the sudden explosion of pain.

   I scramble to my feet and without showing any pity, the two Africans
drag me out of the cage and towards the waiting trestle.  Desperately, I
continue to struggle and my screams reverberate around the walls of the
courtyard.  The commotion stirs the two recently whipped slaves out of
their misery and they raise their heads to watch my punishment through
their own pain-filled eyes.

   The trestle that awaits me has been purpose designed for caning slaves.
I, of course, do not take in the finer details of its construction; my mind
is elsewhere uselessly fighting the tight grip of my captors.

   Had I done so, I would see it consists of a single wooden rail at waist
height which is padded on top to prevent damage to its hapless victim's
body.  At the back of the rail, at ground level, there are metal rings at
differing widths to which the slave's ankles are fastened and out in front
there are manacles attached to pulleys for stretching the body.

   Once bent over the rail the slave's ankles are fastened to these metal
rings and his wrists locked into the manacles and his body drawn taut.  A
thick leather belt attached to the top of the rail is then tightly fastened
around the waist to completely immobilise the body.  All this ensures that
unfortunate slave's arse is elevated and properly presented for caning.

   Whether it is fear or an acceptance of the inevitable I don't know; but
I am strangely detached from what is now happening to me.  Vaguely, I'm
aware of being roughly forced, belly down over the trestle, and I feel my
feet being pulled apart and my ankles fastened to the rings; then as the
manacles are attached to my wrists; I begin to wince as one of the African
slaves tightens the pulley.  I hear myself grunting as my body is stretched
out; and I feel the tension travel up my legs, through my buttocks and into
my torso as my arms are pulled out in front of me.

   Mustapha's hands move up my legs, across my buttocks and along my back
as he tests my body for the correct tautness.  He calls for more tension
and then, reaching underneath me, he tests the tightness of my chest and
belly.  Still not completely satisfied, he calls for more tautness and my
stretching continues.

   "More yet!".....  "Stretch him out, I said".....  "More, more yet" .....
"Just a little more!"

   He instructs his assistants and then finally.

   "Good, that'll do.  Fasten the strap around his middle and make sure he
is securely tied down."

   As the blacks fasten the belt firmly around my waist I'm suddenly
aroused by their touch.  I feel my balls tighten as they hang suspended
between my thighs and I'm aware of my hard, throbbing cock pulsing below my
belly.  I suffer the indignity of their hands moving all over my body; no
doubt they are giving the whip-master and the major domo the impression
they are testing the tension in my body.  But I know differently!

   Vainly, I struggle as I feel hands groping at my cock and squeezing my
balls.  I'm aware of other hands playing with my arse and I feel a finger
moving into the cleft between my buttocks seeking out my hole.  I cry out
in protest and pain as a finger is cruelly thrust through my sphincter.

   Suddenly, I hear a series loud `thwacks' and cries of pain as Mustapha
viciously applies his whip to the slaves' backs.

   "YOU, stop playing with his ass and YOU leave his cock and balls alone."


   Once more Mustapha lashes the backs of the two slaves with his whip.

   "As you can see Daoud, I can't trust these two slaves.  The moment my
back is turned they cause trouble.  They know they're not to touch another
slave's body without permission.  Yet, as you can see, they can't help
themselves.  Just a glimpse of an ass-hole and they're powerfully aroused.
Just look at their hard cocks.  Get them stirred up and they're ready and
rearing to go."

   "I like your colourful description, Mustapha." Daoud laughingly replies
as he begins a `hands on' examination of my body.  "However, I must say
seeing a young slave stretched out like this is a temptation too hard to
resist.  His taut body is truly a delight to the eyes and even more so to
the touch."

   "Indeed.  The slave is magnificent.  He has a glorious body and a most
delightful rump.  I particularly like the way his flanks quiver like a
nervous, unbroken colt as he breathes - most delightful, don't you think?
What breed is he, I wonder?  From somewhere around the Mediterranean I
should think.  He is most probably an Italian"

   "I don't know for sure, but my guess is that he is Greek, Mustapha.  The
black curly hair and tanned, olive hide suggests to me his breeding is
Greek.  Greek males make superb slaves.  They have stood the test of time
over the centuries ever since the fall of Constantinople."

   "That's very true, Daoud.  But some of the newer breeds from Europe,
North America and Australia show great promise.  I believe we have quite a
few of these newer breeds in service.  Is that so?"

   "Yes that's correct.  As you know the al-Bahr family has only ever dealt
in white, European and black, African, male slaves.  I remember His
Highness once expressed the opinion that female slaves aren't worth all the
effort required to bring them up to the high standard he requires of a
slave as it stands on the auction block - he'd much prefer to work with
male slaves.  The exception to this, of course is the small herd of
isolated, female slaves he keeps purely for his own specialised, breeding
program.  He does of course use some of these white, male slaves as
stallions.  However, returning to your comment about the newer breeds of
slaves, Prince Rashid is always willing to experiment with new ideas.  We
have a number of these breeds serving in the palace as pleasure slaves; a
task they are eminently suited to.  All, without exception, are showing
great potential.  "

   "Rumour has it; Daoud that His Highness also has some of these newer
types working in the stables.  Is that correct?"

   "Indeed he has, Mustapha.  The prince recognised their potential as
harness slaves very early on and is actively recruiting from those areas.
Already he has a number of these new breeds serving as ponies in his
stables.  They are strong, robust animals possessing great endurance and
pulling power in harness.  Because of their stamina, the prince is
interested in developing these breeds as `pony' slaves.  He is most eager
to develop this new market.  The slaves should create a great deal of
interest among those discerning buyers looking for thoroughbred animals to
pull their rickshaws and carry their litters."

   "Indeed.  As you say, there should be considerable interest shown in
these newer breeds.  How much would such a slave cost, I wonder?"

   "It's difficult to say Mustapha.  I estimate the cost of such slaves at
somewhere between fifty and a hundred thousand Euros - but I`m only
guessing.  For a rich man, this is a small sum to pay for a slave bearing
the al-Bahr brand when you consider they don't think twice about spending
millions on a thoroughbred race horse.  I'm sure Prince Rashid would have
done his sums on that score."

   "Who knows Daoud?  Perhaps this slave here could be a potential breeder?
He is an extremely handsome and muscular young slave and I'm sure he would
prove worthy of such a task.  But talking with you Daoud makes me forget
why we are here.  Let us return to the matter in hand, shall we?  But come,
help me choose a cane!"

   Mustapha invites as both men stroll casually over to the bench on which
rests the tools of Mustapha's trade.

   Fearfully, I watch as Mustapha carefully examines each cane laid out on
the bench, and I tremble as he swishes them through the air testing them
for flexibility.  With each swish of the cane, I wince in anticipation of
the cane`s fiery pain.

   Mustapha carefully explains to Daoud the advantages or disadvantages of
each of the canes as he tests it.  Finally he makes his decision choosing a
long, thin cane made of rattan.  Swishing it through the air, he walks back
towards me.  Even though I know my punishment is inevitable, a vainly held
hope makes me plead for mercy.  My tearful pleas fall on deaf ears and are
ignored.

   "CLEAN HIM!  And dry him."

   Mustapha barks at the two chastened slaves who hurry to obey him. 
Retrieving the bucket they begin to scrub my body with the hard brushes. 
Their none-too-gentle application of the brushes causes me to cry out in
pain at this rough treatment.  I am treated with indifference and no one
pays me any attention.

   I listen as Mustapha explains the finer points of the cane he has
chosen.

   "Daoud, you will have noticed I picked this particular cane for the
slave's punishment.  My reasons for doing so are that the cane is very
flexible and will wrap itself around the contours of the slave's buttocks.
Its thinness and length will ensure that the slave feels every stroke.  You
can take it from me that this cane is a most effective instrument of
punishment.  What is the number of strokes he is to receive?  Ten isn't it?
In that case I will deliver five strokes to the left side of his arse and
then five to the right side.  I will take care that each stroke lands on a
new part of his rump.  That way he will truly know the pain of his caning.
Aahh!  It appears that the Nubians have finished.  Let us begin."

   Now Mustapha turns his attention to me.

   "SLAVE, it's customary for a slave being punished to thrice kiss the
instrument of his chastisement and to give thanks to his master for his
correction.  You will also count out, LOUDLY, each stroke of the cane from
one to ten and to thank me for delivering your master's punishment.  DO YOU
UNDERSTAND ME, SLAVE?"

   Filled with terror, I sob out my reply.

   "Yes, Sir, I understand."

   As Mustapha places the cane to my lips, Daoud interrupts.

   "Slave, haven't you forgotten something?"

   "What Sir," I ask in my confusion "what have I forgotten?"

   "Stupid slave, have you forgotten your Master's instruction to beg the
whip-master to apply the cane as harshly as he can?  Weren't you paying
attention to what your Master was saying to you?  Slaves MUST always listen
carefully to their Master's instructions"

   I reply through my sobs to Daoud's admonition.

   "Sir, I'm truly sorry for forgetting my Master's instructions to me."

   Then turning to Mustapha, I beg.

   "Sir!  I ask that you apply your cane to me as harshly as possible,
please Sir."

   "You need have no fears as to that slave." Mustapha laughs as he replies
to my request.  "When I've finished with you, you'll know only too well
that I have acceded to your request.  But let's make a start.  Now kiss the
instrument of your correction."

   As Mustapha once more holds the cane in front of my face, I kiss it
three times before speaking.

   "Sir, I thank my master for my punishment and correction."

   Now, desperately, I try to prepare myself, both physically and
emotionally, for the torment to follow.

   As the whip-master moves behind me, my body is convulsed by an
involuntary spasm and time stands still for me.  I am now suspended between
detached reality and fearful expectancy.  I hear Mustapha swish the cane
through the air to test its flexibility and my body flinches in
anticipation of the cane cutting into my tender flesh.  With each
experimental swish of the cane I cry out involuntarily.

   I'm unaware that Mustapha is `playing' with me that this is all part of
my punishment - I'm left in a limbo of uncertainty.  With each swish of the
cane my body re-acts as though it has been and struck yet my mind is
grateful that this isn't so.  Behind me, I hear Daoud and Mustapha laughing
at my reaction.  My stomach knots up in fear and I feel the contents of my
innards turn to water.

   Desperately, I will my bowels not to disgrace me in front of my
tormentors.

   Mercifully, my mind seems to `shut down' as I try to focus on what is
happening to me.  Then, suddenly, I hear the now familiar swishing sound of
the cane moving through the air.  This is followed by a loud thwack as the
cane strikes my upraised ass.

   Momentarily, there is no feeling; then suddenly an unimaginable pain
sears itself into every fibre of my being.  It is pain unlike any I has
experienced before and through the fog of my suffering I hear myself
screaming.

   "AARHH!  SIR, O SIR!  AARHH!"

   And I forget to count the stroke!

   "Foolish slave!  You forgot to count the stroke and to thank me for
delivering it.  We will have to begin again.  This time, if you want to
avoid extra cuts of the cane you should remember to count and to thank me."

   Again I hear the swish and thwack of the cane and feel the pain of it
cutting into my body.  Again I hear my scream of agony.

   "UGHH!  AARHH!  NUMBER ONE!  Thank you sir!"

   I shout out between sobs.  This time, I didn't forget to count.  Pain is
a fearful motivator; it exercises the mind wonderfully.

   For a third, fourth and fifth time I feel the cane descend upon my left
buttock.  Then Mustapha changes his position and now the cane is applied to
my right buttock.  After the sixth stroke, i lose control of my bladder and
I'm aware that I am pissing.

   Through my pain, I hear it splattering on the ground beneath my belly.
My humiliation is complete and I cry out in my shame.  I don't understand
that I needn't feel this shame; that what is happening to me is a
spontaneous, bodily response to the pain that most slaves experience under
the whip and cane.

   Mustapha stops the caning long enough for me to finish urinating and
comments.

   "As I said earlier Daoud, most slaves piss under the whip or cane.  It's
just part of their animal natures I suppose."

   As Mustapha waits for me to settle down, I'm thankful for this brief
respite from the cane.  I now feel the acute pain of the seven strokes I
have already received.  Then suddenly, my torture begins anew.  Without
warning Mustapha applies the cane four more times to my suffering body. 
Conscientiously, I continue to count each stroke for fear of it being
repeated and obediently I thank Mustapha for my chastisement.

   I'm unaware that Mustapha, with the experience gained from countless
floggings and canings, times his strokes so that there is sufficient time
for me to feel each individual blow and to savour the pain of that stroke.
Then suddenly, my caning is at an end and I hear myself shouting.

   "NUMBER TEN!  Thank you, Sir!"

   Thankfully, I'm aware that my ordeal is at an end.  Racked with pain, my
sobbing now gives way to a soft whimpering.

   And as Mustapha holds the cane to my lips, I blurt out my `gratitude'
for my punishment.

   "Thank you, Sir for caning me.  And Sir, I thank my Master for the
correction I have received."

   "Slave," Mustapha chides me, "if you are truly thankful to your Master
for your chastisement, then you must kneel before him and tell him so and
then kiss his feet in gratitude."

   Now it is time for me to share in the misery of my two fellow slaves who
are still sweating and suffering suspended in their frames.  Stretched
taut, I'm unable to relieve the awful pain coursing through my body.  My
arse throbs with excruciating agony and it feels as if it is on fire.  My
sweat stings the angry red welts on my body and attracts the same flies and
insects plaguing the other two slaves.  My cock hangs limp and my balls
have shrivelled up into my body.

   Through my misery, I cry out in pain as I feel Mustapha's hands touch my
tortured body.

   "Come Daoud and examine my handiwork?  I'm quite satisfied with this
caning.  It is very neat; one of my better ones, I think.  I'm sure you
will agree that is a very professional job."

   "Mustapha, I'm not an expert in these matters.  However I do like the
way you have administered the strokes to the slave.  The pattern of his
welts is, as you say, very neat.  I guess that didn't just happen?"

   "No, not at all!" Mustapha laughingly replies.  "As you can see each
stroke has been laid down individually so that they don't crisscross each
other but run roughly parallel across his ass cheeks.  Of course, I
couldn't avoid the welt already laid there by Prince Rashid's whip and
subsequently my strokes are superimposed over it.  But, as you said, this
didn't just happen.  It has taken me a long time to perfect my method.  I
have practiced my technique on the naked bodies of many slaves.  At first
it was difficult but with much trial and error, I'm now able to lay the
cane wherever I want to on a slave's body.  I take pride in the neatness of
my canings."

   I scream out in outraged pain as Mustapha begins to lovingly trace out
each stroke with his finger as he invites Daoud to examine them.

   "But do come and look for yourself."

   I hear my agonised screaming as now Daoud's finger begins to examine the
vivid red welts.

   "The welts look to be very painful, Mustapha.  The way the slave is
screaming indicates he is suffering much pain."

   "Rest assured Daoud that he IS feeling much pain," Mustapha laughs. 
"And will continue to do so for some considerable time yet.  I doubt he
will be sitting down for at least five to six days."

   "What about fucking?  As you know His Highness is to use the slave
tonight."

   "I should think that will be extremely unpleasant for the slave, Daoud.
It's to be his first time you say?  I imagine the prince will be none too
gentle with him.  But now let me get the blacks to scrub him down and then
you can be on your way.  I know you still have much to do to prepare the
slave for Prince Rashid.  YOU TWO!  Scrub the slave down and then unfasten
him."

   Hastening to obey, the two African slaves begin to cruelly clean my
body. I cry out as their brushes are roughly used on my naked buttocks. 
Then, after a final inspection by Mustapha, they unfasten me from the
trestle and drag me to my feet.  Once they release their hold of me, I
drop, sobbing, to my knees.

   "There, Daoud the slave is now returned to your control.  I'm sure that
he too, like those two over there," Mustapha points in the direction of the
other two suspended slaves, "is now a better slave after his visit to the
whipping-yard."

   "Thank you, Mustapha.  I hope you are correct and that the slave has
learned an invaluable lesson in obedience.  Now that the chastisements are
finished I suppose you will take a rest."

   "Not really Daoud" Mustapha laughs." I find punishing slaves makes me
horny.  I usually finish my punishment sessions by poking one of my
assistants.  YOU!  Get your ass bent over that trestle." He commands one of
African slaves.  "AND YOU," pointing to the other, "start stretching his
hole ready for my cock."

   "Come along, slave," Daoud orders me as I still kneel, "it's time to
prepare you for your Master."

   "Wait one moment, Daoud, while I get the slave to his feet for you."

   Still on my knees, my sobs drown out the hiss of the cane traveling
through the resisting air; I hear only the loud `thwack' as once more it
cuts across my buttocks.  This is accompanied by Mustapha's shouted
instruction to.

   "GET UP!  SLAVE.  GET UP ON YOUR FEET, NOW!"

   Screaming with the sudden, unexpected pain, I scramble to my feet and
ruefully rub my ass in a vain attempt to alleviate the searing agony I
feel.

   Once more, I hear Mustapha and Daoud laughing at my discomfort.

   I trail after Daoud and find it difficult to walk.  I wince with every
step I take as my ass erupts in pain.  As Daoud and I leave the
whipping-yard, I hear the grunting sounds of the two African slaves as one
prepares the other for Mustapha's cock.

   Chastened and very, very sore, I'm now to be prepared for my Master.

   To be continued................