From dreamx@ultranet.com Fri Mar 28 09:30:31 1997 Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Subject: NEW The Whip Must Win (m/f, f/f, tg, bd, nc) From: dreamx@ultranet.com Date: Fri, 28 Mar 1997 14:30:31 GMT -------- The Whip Must Win by Marlissa (m/f, f/f, tg, b/d, nc) The Warlord Abd el-Kader slammed his AK-47 against his chest, a smile on his cruel, swarthy face. "Here is some fine merchandise for you, Bey Mustapha. Look at them—fine Western flesh worth much gold!" The Arab slaver considered the trembling family in chains. He was excited—but he mustn’t tip off his supplier. If el-Kader smelt his interest, the otherwise stupid and brutal Bedouin chieftain would realize what he held in his hand was truly worth. Westerners weren’t easy to come by these days and these were attractive ones. "Perhaps, Sheik, perhaps." Flatter the brigand—el-Kader was no sheik, but it cost him nothing to address him so. "Bring them forward. Let us see what you have to trade." The North African waved his weapon at the trembling group and his men pushed them forward. Four figures were thrust from the darkness of the Arab dusk into the torchlight, their heads pressed firmly into the sand by the boots of the brigands. Mustapha placed his index finger on his lips, thoughtfully looking over the prone figures of the prisoners. "this one," he nudged a brownish head in the middle, "is a male! Usually you dispose of the males, Sheik," he asked skeptically. "And so I did! There were two—an older one and a guide, both left on the dunes. Do not question my judgment, Bey. This one remains alive for a reason." Angrily, the brigand reached down and hand filled with fine hair yanked the prisoner’s head up. "Look—does this one not fetch a price? He is as comely as the wenches!" Mustapha agreed. The dark haired, blue eyed teen-aged boy was potentially a tempting diversion for buyers interested in such fare. And young enough to train thoroughly to the task. "I beg your forgiveness, Sheik. You know your business—this one has value to certain of my customers. Of course the boys always require so much more training than the women," he added with an apologetic sigh. As if on cue, the thirteen year old gagged and bound Gabriel Kensington began to struggle until the brigand kicked him back to his knees. "Show me the others." The brigand clutched two blonde manes, harshly pulling them up. The two pale, pretty tear-stained faces of Diana and Julia Kensington stared up at Mustapha. "Sisters! The young one says she is sixteen, the other eighteen. Both," he announced proudly, "virgins!" Mustapha gestured for them to stand up. With their hands tied behind their backs it wasn’t easy, but they managed. Despite their ordeal in the desert, Mustapha knew he would be paying el-Kader a pretty penny for these two at least. The pale blue eyes, the delicate snub-noses, and the long golden hair, all of which they shared in common, testified to the fact that they were obviously sisters. While often claimed, this was not always easy to prove to potential buyers, especially the connoisseur. On that point there would be no argument. "And the last? The mother?" It would be too good to be true. Surely he had not merited such grace from Allah on this day as to come into possession of a mother and two teenage daughters! A fortune was possible with such a combination! Mustapha caressed the two sisters’ small breasts through their khaki bush jackets. With a mother between them, to help train them and… The desert warlord clasped the short-cropped redhead tightly, dragging her up even as she struggled like some wild jackal. "Before I shot him, the guide told me this one was the aunt." "Not the mother?" Mustapha had pulled his hands off the squirming girls, much to their relief. But now he could see that the redhead was too young to be the mother of the two blondes, no more than twenty-five herself if he guessed female flesh rightly. Amanda Davis was tall—at least 5’ 10"—with a wiry, coltish frame. "No mother. The guide, that traitorous dog, said the mother was dead—back in England long ago. This is her sister, the girl’s aunt. Some possibilities with an aunt and two nieces Bey? Such wonder would attract many offers from the oil sheiks, would it not?" Mustapha shook his head. "Not the same as a mother-daughter combination, Sheik. The other man—who was he and what was done with him?" "The other man was the father—left in the dunes." The brigand grinned evilly. "No one will miss this group for at least a week, Bey. And even then they will find nothing more than two skeletons. You may purchase this lot in safety. They are no more than tourists who fell into the wrong hands." He waved his hands foolishly, pleased with his simple humor. But Mustapha wasn’t paying the desert thief any attention. Something about the redhead—the angry green eyes, the too-short vibrant red hair, the hard, little mouth—bothered him. The boy and two girls were clearly terrified, but this one glared back at him like a cornered fox! He reached out to ascertain her breast size—behind the Banana Republic jacket it was difficult to tell whether she was flat or just small like the girls. As he did, she swung herself away from him so violent, so instinctively that he knew what had bothered him about the older female captive. Two of Abd el-Kader’s men grabbed the recalcitrant young Englishwoman, which allowed Bey to rip open her jacket and expertly cup the two pointy breasts underneath. "Tiny. Her breasts are tiny, Sheik. Smaller than the older teen’s! She is more boy than girl!" he declared, disgusted. Actually, while the redhead wasn’t well-endowed up top, her figure was firm and tight. She might fetch some bid on the block if it weren’t for… "Still she is a Westerner, My Lord," the brigand objected. "Look at the pale skin, the green eyes! And if she should be more boy, then so much the better for the master that purchases her—if he prefers his pleasure that way!" Mustapha sighed and shook his head. "All true, notable sheik, but alas, there is a disease of the West that this one suffers from making her less than suitable than the others." Abd el-Kader’s eyes darkened. "She carries disease!?!" He brandished a knife. "Let me kill her now before she infects us all!" Before he could act, Mustapha interjected himself between the alarmed warlord and the now trembling redhead. "No! You misunderstand Sheik! She poses no threat—her disease is not biological but social. I fear this one is what is called in the West a lesbian!" When this word made no impact, he added, "a female who prefers the company of another female." The warlord guffawed, slipping his knife back into the scabbard. Mustapha heard an audible shiver escape the woman. "Ah! So she should be worth more to you then! What a delight to watch one woman frolic with another! But you say not?" He was astonished at Mustapha’s apologetic expression. "All you say is true, good Sheik. But in the West, these…lesbians…prefer ONLY other women and will fight a man to the death when he wishes to use her for himself!" "Madness!" "So," Mustapha continued, "you understand why this one is an unattractive purchase for me." Abd el-Kader spit in disappointment. Gesturing to his men, they flung the young woman back to the ground, boots pressing her head against the sand. "Still, these three—they have value?" Mustapha offered him he smile that had made him thousands as a successful trader in flesh. "Oh yes. I’ll make you an offer Sheik. Say, five thousand for the sisters, a thousand for the boy." The brigand grinned. Haggling. Now he knew he was on his way to unloading the merchandise! "Your offer is most generous, but not equal to the goods Bey Mustapha. Let us be fair—say, ten for the sisters and three for the boy. They will make delightful bedmates and are young, so will give pleasure for many years! No to mention their virginity! If your customer wishes to keep them, they might never know of another man’s touch in their entire lives! How sweet and fresh they shall remain!" The four Westerners, heads bowed to the desert dust heard the exchange in Arabic and understood nothing. They waited while their fate was determined oblivious to their new status as chattel. Only Amanda had an inkling. What she had seen in the more polished Arab’s eyes frightened her more than the murderers of her brother-in-law and their innocent guide. She kept her eyes closed, trying to shut out the fear. Above her the bargaining continued. "Ten you say! Six perhaps, but these two shall require training, new clothing, care and feeding. And they appear to be on the small side up top—never a selling point. Oh, perhaps I could spare six. As for the boy…well, certain," Mustapha cleared his throat before going on, "modifications may be necessary to ensure a good selling price. Again, Sheik, high costs are involved before these," he indicated the kneeling figures, "have any real worth whatsoever! Costs I must assume!" The brigand was already growing bored with the game. Too impatiently, he threw out a counter-offer. "Let us settle this amicably. Say seven for the sisters and two for the boy, AND," he added quickly as he saw Mustapha begin to reject it, "I’ll add this one," he kicked the redhead, "as a courtesy." Mustapha did not respond, not wishing to show the thief what a bargain he had handed him. Four for the price of three! Even if the older female was a lesbian as he suspected, she had some residual worth, more than he had let on to the desert rat. After a suitably dramatic self-disgusting minute, he nodded, as if in defeat. "Very well, good Sheik. I accept the offer, if only out of respect." With a clap, his own, better-armed men entered the tent with a briefcase, from which he withdrew nine thousand American dollars. He enjoyed the Sheik’s wide eyed expression at the many hundreds of thousands more overflowing from the Swiss made case. "Here," he handed the brigand a small leather sack containing the bills. "And thank you Sheik. Let us trade together again soon. Your merchandise is impressive—and there is more where that," he flicked his eyes at the sack, "came from." The Warlord Abd el-Kader bowed humbly with true respect and departed quickly to spend this latest windfall. As he and his men disappeared upon their chargers into the purple desert night, he vowed to return again with more slaves soon. Bey Mustapha was a generous man! ********** Several months later. "Welcome Sheik!" Mustapha saluted with the familiar Arab greeting, his intelligent face glowing with the merchant’s hospitality. "Please, enter and have some arak with me." El-Kader ordered his men to remain alert outside the tent with the latest harvest from the desert roads and entered the flowing pavilion gladly. "I have more for you, Bey Mustapha. Good ones too—" He remembered the many pleasures purchased with the profits of his last trade—a good Japanese VCR, a score of new M-16s, and a kilo of hashish—and he was anxious to deal again. But Mustapha was in no hurry. It was usually best to take the opposite state of mind when beginning to bargain. He remained outwardly calm and handed the sand-corroded lizard a small cup of arak, the bitter, thick coffee favored by the desert dweller. But it was only his long experience as a slave trader that held in check—if el-Kader truly had something special as his radio transmission indicated… But he must force the wait for now. "Please drink and relax. We must catch up—it has been several months." Mustapha’s serpentine smile closed over the bitter imbibement and el-Kader politely followed suit. The renegade chieftain could sense the game was on. Very well—he would play too. And it would be the Bey who would bring up the subject of the visit! That way he would get the better of the terms. The memory of all that crisp green American money flowed through his mind like the oil through the great refineries to the north! "Since you bring up our last visit, tell me Bey Mustapha, what can you tell me of my last delivery to you? Did you find homes for them all?" "Oh yes! While I can not disclose the terms of ownership—" Lest I know how much you profited by my work, thought the brigand resentfully. "I can tell you how they came to pass into the hands of their new owners. The sisters for example—" ****************** The groom and his bride, still resplendent in their black and white wedding attire, waved at the orange twi-lit crowd of well-wishers upon the Greenwich dock. As the Odalisque sailed gently out into Long Island Sound, they finally grew small enough so that the newly minted couple felt comfortable enough to leave the deck. "A wonderful idea to be married in America!" noted Crown Prince Ali Hassan. "And your family—wonderful, all of them!" Jasmine Khofri Hassan—now Princess Jasmine—kissed her husband for his kind words. "And thank you for taking an American girl into your’s!" The young Crown Prince smiled. "American on paper perhaps, but an Arab from one of the noblest families of Palestine. If your family had not been forced from your true home some many years ago, it would be I who was the poor relation beyond your notice. But come, I have a special gift for you upon the occasion of our wedding night." Gently he guided the curious bride to the yacht’s master suite and opened the door. He could tell from the delighted expression on her face that the perfidious feminism of the West, her own Harvard degree and all the saturation of the liberal media hadn’t robbed her of the ability to enjoy such a spectacle. The two blondes had been placed in the suite earlier in the day while the wedding ceremony was taking place. They had remained in position since then—on their knees, well-spread, with hands cuffed behind their neck to show off their small, pert breasts, and eyes averted. They were nude but for two items. Each wore a heart-shaped chastity belt and a polished steel collar, from which dangled an engraved metal tag. The two remained linked by a chain of a length of perhaps five feet, which in turn was locked to a bolt in the floor at the foot of the king-sized bed. Crown Prince Ali could almost feel the fear radiate off them. He turned to his new wife, waving at them. "They are yours, Jasmine. Sisters no less, of sixteen and eighteen." The burning kiss of gratitude said more than words. Her soft, giving lips, those beautiful moon-almond eyes, that haughty laugh—he had chosen a princess well! "Ali—I..how did you…how can I—" She was glowing, so happy she was with her new possessions. She realized with a pleasant shock that she was only two years older than the eighteen year old! The Crown Prince gave her a knowing glance. "Remember meeting in the basement of Wordsworth at Harvard? You doing your laundry? And when you noticed I was staring at you saying—" She picked up the thread gaily, "—that it would be nice to have a maid to do all this and you saying you would give me one someday…if only I would marry you! Oh Ali, my own personal maids!" The Crown Prince was beginning to undress, tossing his tuxedo jacket on the divan. "Well I hope you put them to better use than doing your laundry—unless it’s your lingerie with their tongues! These two are trained for a bit more intimate duties." Jasmine was stripping out of her diaphanous wedding gown now too. "Yes Darling Prince—I gathered that from the way the greeted their new mistress!" She hopped on the bed, naked now but for her wedding ring. "Unlock them and let them come greet us both My Lord." He complied with his bride’s wishes quickly. He was captivated by the lewd smile on her delicate dark face as she watched the two teen slavegirls crawl onto the bed and between her spread legs. As he joined her, she yanked one of the blonde manes up and placed it in his hand. "For my Lord’s pleasure as well." It seemed to be the younger of the two, though her tongue was no less experienced than her sister’s. The new couple enjoyed the oral servicing of Jasmine’s new maids until the bride saw the look of release seizing her husband’s mien. "Oh no you don’t!" she warned playfully, kicking her own English serving girl off the bed, then her husband’s. The two splotch-faced sisters, sensing their mistress’s goal, slipped unobtrusively off the bed, and, assuming the slavegirl’s position, waited patiently at the foot of the bed till they were once again bidden to please. Taking her groom by surprise, Jasmine swiveled her hips over his own. Straddling him now, she gently lowered herself down. As she felt his hardness enter her, she whispered, "My new maids seem well-trained. Were they prostitutes?" Enjoying his own easy entry into her already moistened grotto, Ali couldn’t agree more with his wife’s opinion, but violently disagreed with her inference. "Hardly—I’d never let anything so sullied touch your flesh! No—they’re two English schoolgirls, as I said they’re—" But Jasmine had no wish to speak of the maids and pressed a finger to her lord’s lips. For a very long time they forgot the world, least of all the two pale girls kneeling at the foot of their bed. They consummated majestically. An hour later, Jasmine wondered if indeed a royal heir might even have been made that night! Taking charge of her wifely duties at once, she snapped her fingers. "Girls, attend us! Relax my dearest, and let my servants bathe you clean with their talented tongues." Ali gladly stretched out as once again a blonde mane was placed in his hand. He noticed it was the older one. She was trying both out, he surmised, once again congratulating himself for this extraordinary choice of a wedding gift. How many brides received a matching pair of maids, well versed in the arts of pleasing a mistress? "Mmmmm. This one is wonderful! Lick on, my pet! Say, darling, what are their names?" Ali shrugged, drowsing softly as the teen below lapped Jasmine’s juices from his shaft now with exemplary attention to detail. "Uh, their former names? Or their new ones?" "New ones?" "Ummm. I took the liberty—hope you don’t mind. It’s on each of their collars." Jasmine reached between her legs and drew up the pretty English girl’s face, ignoring the pleading if averted eyes. "It says ‘Torrid.’ How delightful! And the other?" Ali smiled with scant-felt guilt. " ‘Shameless!’ But if you wish to change them, it’s no trouble—" Jasmine wrinkled her nose and grinned. "Darling, the names you chose are perfect! Wait—before we made love—did you say they were sisters?" Her eyes had that cat-like look to them he loved. "Yes—I have the files on them right here. Thought you’d be curious. Here they are." He handed the two manila folders his agent had forwarded to him. She took them with glee and began reciting the particulars. "Let’s see—this one is—or was before she became ‘Torrid’—was Julia Kensington. Eighteen years old this past March, a good student bound for university" Jasmine patted her slavegirl’s head contemptuously, "which means she’ll be a smart little helper for her mistress, won’t you, Torrid?" "Yes Ma’am" the girl promised in basic Arabic, blue eyes bright with desperate eagerness. "Let’s see, the orphaned daughter of the Earl of Worcester—a maid of good breeding! Ah—she’s blue eyed, in good health, weighs in at 110 pounds and measures 5’ 7". Her measurements are 34C-26-32. Not bad at all! And her little sister—‘Shameless’—what a naughty thing you must be for your master to name you so!" The younger girl between the Crown Prince’s legs shuddered, gritting her teeth. "She was Diana Kensington, same parents, this one only sixteen. Also a good student and a pianist of some talent. Also blonde and blue eyed, though the eyes have flecks of green if you look closely. ‘Shameless’ is 5’ 4" and 105 pounds, and a trim little package of 32B-27-33—ah, ‘Torrid’ seems to have gotten the boobs in the family, didn’t she Shameless?" Jasmine chucked the girl’s chin, expecting an answer. "Yes, Ma’am," was the simple answer, though there was a hint of anger in it. "Darling, there’s something else," the Crown Prince cooed into his wife’s ear. Jasmine licked her lips. "More? What more could a girl want on her wedding night?" Without answering Ali handed her a wrapped package. "Open it." Jasmine did so like a child at Christmas, pulling out a black hand-crafted— "Is this what I think it is?" she demanded hotly. Her husband had thought of everything—still was this the surprise? Ali chuckled at the surprise on both his wife’s and her two teen maid’s faces. All three were surprised, though the sisters not at all pleased with the kind of surprise it was, what with the pouty frowns they now wore! "Yes—it’s a strap-on dildo to use with your pleasure maids whenever you wish. Now that I’ve had my pleasure this wedding night, I’m content to watch you enjoy them. Here are the keys to their chastity belts—and yes, you have the ONLY copies." Jasmine licked her teeth without knowing it. "And yes—they’re virgins." Her cat-like smile was beguiling as it was cruel. "I want to do them now—both of them," she purred as she strapped on the black beast. "And when I’m done, I’ll have them do each other." The two sisters looked at each other in fear, then broke the stare. They had been trained to do so many unnatural things for the perverse pleasures of their new mistress, things teen virgins should not have to think about, let alone perform. But as surely as they had been made to touch themselves, to dance and strip, to assuming the many positions of pleasures, so too each knew in her heart that they would soon be more than sisters. They would be lesbian lovers as well. It was all so horrible, so unfair. Torrid closed her eyes. Shameless tried to blink away a tear, unsuccessfully. Ali shook his head. "Then you’ll need this." He produced a riding crop. "They’ve been trained, but not that thoroughly." Jasmine unlocked Shameless’es chastity belt, then positioned herself behind the sixteen year old English girl. "Don’t worry Darling. When I’m done training my little maids, they’ll make love like two girlfriends united after a long voyage. And that will be the least objectionable of the naughty games they’ll play together, with me—and with us. Mmmm. I see you’ve had them shorn-- very good!" Rubbing the bare pink sex with her own delicate brown hands, she tingled with glee. "You’ll keep yourself nice and smooth for your mistress, my little English dove. Now play with your pretty puss and make yourself wet for your first lover my dear. Trust me-- you’ll want all the lubrication you can muster with this monster inside you!" Shameless, on her fours, dropped her hand between her legs and began to manipulate her sex. The strap-on was large, so her trained fingers began their work at once. She did not want to lose her virginity with any more pain than she might have to. It was humiliating to be made to perform this way on command, but she had learned, as had her older sister, that the whip had little sympathy for coyness. As her fingers dexterously massaged her teen puss, she watched as her older sister pleasured the new master. Soon the black phallus was pressing against her pink lips. With a small pant, she felt it enter and begin to fill her. As she watched her sibling’s tongue dance over the young Arab’s erect cock, she almost wished she might have at least enjoyed the privilege of losing her once so highly prized freshness to a man, rather than a woman no much older than herself. Shameless was distracted by this wish as the Arab-American bride snapped her fingers. The English schoolgirl spread her knees more widely and soon the deed was done. Jasmine pulled out of the violated slavegirl, allowing her to fall forward upon her stomach and recover as best she might from her first penetration. Torrid was next and her deflowering went much the same way. Now it was she who watched her sister as the sixteen year old worshipped the groom’s cock. As her mistress cupped her breasts and plunged within her, she felt a strange relief. The indignity of being raped by another woman melted in the warm sensation of being so well used by the phallus within her. Though she had kissed boys occasionally and even let them touch her here and there, she had never ever experienced anything like this. Idly, she wondered if losing her virginity to her imperious new mistress would forever change the way she felt about sex. Even as the black ram entered and withdrew and the sweet pain of the rape filled her with odd desire, she knew the answer was, for better or worse, yes. And yet it was only the crop that induced the two sisters to form the humiliating 69 their Mistress commanded upon them. The months of discipline, of slavegirl training in the desert and the purging of the now ancient memories of Western freedom and affluence, could not coax them to make pleasure with one another in the way their Mistress found so amusing. They remained on their knees, arms at their sides and facing one another but making no move to obey the cruel order to embrace as lovers. Jasmine had been bending the crop wickedly, almost in anticipation of such rebellion, thought Ali. "Go on, girls. Your mistress will be most displeased if you continue to disobey her!" he warned. Jasmine remained silent. With a vicious swing of the crop, she broke the silence with a swat on Shameless’s backside. The young teen grimaced and a tear trickled down the cheek. "Go on-- I want to see the two pretty sisters make love for their Master and Mistress!" Jasmine gave a hard crashing crop on the older blonde’s rear. She too began to sob softly, but also tenderly drew her younger sister near. After a few more croppings to further encourage the nude couple, the two sisters found each other in their arms. At first the kisses were sisterly, but Jasmine would have none of this. "Go on-- like lovers! Be lovers! Or you will be whipped and you will only wish for a cropping! Go on-- Torrid, you be the boy and show your pretty sister what is liked to be kissed in the French style!" The red heat of the cropping persuaded Torrid to kiss her sister fully on the lips, then to plunge her tongue within. "And you Shameless-- show your new boyfriend how much you crave his arms around you! Moan and press your little breasts into Torrid’s palms! " The schoolgirl-nee-pleasure maid surrendered at last to her Mistress’s whimsy and obeyed, cupping her older sister’s hands upon her own breasts. At once her nipples shamefully came alive under the ministrations of Torrid’s deft fingerplay. Within minutes, the two were engaged in a hot, breathy lesbian tryst, much to the delight of their Mistress Jasmine. "Your young English ladies seem to like their naughty play a bit too much!" Ali chided his new wife. "You’ll need to keep them separated if they continued to behave this way!" Jasmine sighed as her own Master massaged her breasts. "Nonsense, my lord. They will dally this way only for your or my amusement. The rest of the time they will be kept in their chastity belts. And if they should be found so much as kissing without my express permission, I’ll hide both of them with a bullwhip!" She moaned louder as her husband kneaded her breasts harder. "Uhnn, Darling, I want to watch them do it to each other-- please!" the hot newlywed whined. But Ali had lost interest in the incestuous dalliances of the two pale English girls. As he had feared, Ali realized Jasmine’s interest in directing the command performances of her two new maids might be a bit too intense of a diversion. She was already ignoring her duties to her lord and master. Recognition of the possibility had allowed him to prepare before this honeymoon night. With a chuckle, he snapped his fingers and the two girls, faces smeared with perspiration and enforced passion, separated. With relief, they belted on the dainty chastity belts, tugging at them as trained, to display that their sexes were properly locked away only for future pleasures. He pointed at the foot of the bed and they humbly obeyed, crouching on knees with heads bowed. "But Darling-- I wanted Torrid to use her sister as I did!" Jasmine’s face was flushed with anger and anticipation, though she was careful to keep the maddening irritation absent from her tone. Ali shook his head. "You may play your naughty games with your maids only when I permit it! I had thought your Western ways had made you forget how to obey a husband-- and to watch you with these--" he pointed at the kneeling sisters-- "toys made me realize the danger of being too permissive with you myself. Because my little wife, though you are the Mistress-- I AM THE MASTER!" With mock ire, he took the keys to the young maids’ chastity belts and tossed them on the pile of his clothing. "I’ll keep these on my person till you remember your place, Jasmine. Until that time, you may only have them when you ask sweetly for MY permission." He held her chin firmly as he continued to knead her generous breast. "Do you understand, my wife?" Kittenishly she nodded. Obviously she had overstepped her bounds and her husband was drawing the leash back. With a desire to quickly recover his favor, she knelt before him and began pleasuring him. It was humiliating to service him as a common slave girl, especially with her presents kneeling at the foot of the bed watching her own submission. But Jasmine chased the thoughts away, and concentrated on the task at hand-- ingratiating herself once again with her royal husband and legal master. After he had taken her several times-- even once between her bountiful chest!- he let his young wife slip back onto the bed. Jasmine closed her eyes, grateful both to have been used for, and for receiving such pleasure from, her husband. She sensed him rise from the bed, heard him pat the little English beauties lightly. Umm...perhaps she had put those nasty thoughts out of his head...the ones about her not have full access to the pretty blonde teens. Jasmine stretched on her stomach, then gasped as her wrists were pulled back and cuffed! "What are you doing?! Ali??" No answer. Had the yacht been boarded? Then the terrifying sensation of a small cold plate of metal being fitted between her legs! Then the finality of the click of a lock! Then a collar coolly affixed about her neck! This was an outrage! She was the wife of the Crown Prince! The mystery was at last solved when, as her wrists were uncuffed, she rolled over to face her attacker. It was none other than her husband, Ali! Fiercely with nostrils flaring, she rose from the bed. The two English sisters watched her timidly, though averted their eyes as she glared back at them. Ali pointed at the mirror, smirking. She hesitated till he masterfully patted her bare backside, propelling her finally with a firm spank. Her eyes reddened at the sight. Between her legs was a heart-shaped chastity belt. Unlike the plain steel chastity belt the two white teenagers wore, this one, Jasmine’s, was made of finely-wrought gold. On the small golden plate that prevented access to her most feminine charm was the eagle symbol of Ali’s clan! Around her neck rested the unfamiliar weight of a collar-- also golden. Behind her, Ali toyed with the tag that hung from it. The engraving sparkled in the dim light of the boudoir. "Princess," she read aloud sullenly. Ali patted her bare backside in reward. "I didn’t like the easy way you took to your new slavegirls, Jasmine. I have always thought the West did much to corrupt you. You are in need of training, my flower, and must learn that your pleasure depends on pleasing me. Your bridal puss will remain under my control-- no naughty frigging allowed without permission! Though I may allow you to please yourself should you earn the right! And as far as frolicking with your new servants," at this the two sisters sucked in their breaths, "that now has become an activity reserved solely for my amusement." He stroked her long black hair as his bride understood just how much she had underestimated her masterful husband. "Do not worry-- you shall remain Mistress with them" he waved at the crouching blondes dismissively. "But with me, you shall be as they are to you-- an obedient slavegirl!" Jasmine sighed, already feeling her puss wetten at the newly enforced authority of her husband. And when he pushed her shoulders down, she felt it wetten even more. And as the couple made love in the new way determined by Crown Prince Ali, the two sisters waited to be called to attend the depraved cravings of their Master and Mistress. They soon were. ************************ The slave fussed with the long auburn hair, arranging it into a sleek ponytail with a headband and a blue "scrunchy," and eyeing the image in the mirror. What a little primper she had become in her months of captivity! The blue eyes flashed back boldly, too boldly, and she instinctively batted them to dispel the impression of assertiveness. The eyes were tools to be used for setting the right mood, creating the correct impression. In a matter of seconds, the bold blues had assumed a less assuming, more questioning set to them. In a few seconds more, they could easily drift into a bedroom coziness, with those painfully-plucked brows arching with a barely concealed naughtiness. Oh good. That was good. If they were watching, they would like that. With a casualness that betrayed long practice, she adjusted her little bra— a simple white, though it was trimmed with pretty lace about the dainty 34B cups and around the edges of the narrow shoulder straps. With her hands, she easily hefted the small mounds up and checked the hook between the cups. Wearing a bra that opened in front was a new treat, though one she could wryly suppose wasn’t a treat for her! She’d be meeting her new boyfriend soon and if some heavy petting occurred, well… Without thinking, she hooked a finger in the matching white cotton bikini panties from between her cheeks and pulled them out, to more fully cover her butt. The darn thing was French-cut and rode up between her legs all the time! As she plucked the bikini out, she simultaneously felt the pretty lace trim and, underneath, the metal band of the chastity belt. She sighed. Timothy was a boy. Or had been. Before he had been transformed into a she. Into Tracey, the American cheerleader. Oh well. That was a lifetime ago. She sighed and slipped on the pink half-tee over her chest and stepped into the new flippy denim stonewashed mini-skirt. Lacy white bobby socks and cute black t-strap three inch heels completed the ensemble. It was all very cute, very teen aged and very, very femmy. Perfectly as she had been taught to prepare herself for the Boyfriend. The Boyfriend. She had been bought and paid for just for him. At first, Timothy had been broken physically, then psychologically. Then, with his will crushed, Timothy had been taught of his new identity as Tracey, the name her new Boyfriend found most attractive. Months had followed with lots of teaching and training on how to be a fourteen year old American girl. It had been scary at first, with the threat of punishment hanging of her all the time. It was frustrating to adjust so much-- to the new breasts (small but still weird till she had gotten used to comporting herself properly!), to the clothing (tighter than she had been used to as a boy and leaving her much more vulnerable!), learning to behave like an typical American mallrat (just learning to talk like an L.A. Valley Girl had taken oodles of practice!) and most difficult of all to the new attitudes she was expected to have towards men (they were stronger, smarter, more capable-- they took care of you if you behaved!). But then as she had tried-- really tried to be Tracey-- they had rewarded her with little treats. Fashion magazines to read. New kinds of lipstick and make-up to play with. Perfume. Even pretty panties. Timothy would have scorned these things, but Timothy had been erased. Tracey loved the attention-- any attention-- she received. And her flirting smile had been further rewarded with even more feminine treats. All for her new boyfriend. He must be something dreamy to require so much preparation and primping and prancing on her part. Quite a catch, she had been told, if she could hold onto him. Tracey sighed and unconsciously played with her auburn hair, twirling in between her pink painted nails as she daydreamed of him. From behind a two-way mirror, Prince Rashid pouted. He was fourteen today-- a day so important that it was considered a holiday in the kingdom. He had expected something special and all his father had to give him was this boy in skirts! His father-- who enjoyed one of the largest harems in the Middle East! He glared at his father, who had been somewhat taken aback by his son’s disgust at the pretty Western toy waiting for him in the room beyond. "Father-- really!" The son’s dark eyes furrowed angrily at his father the King. "I don’t understand such ingratitude! Unpardonable-- I give you your first pleasure slave and this is the thanks I receive!" He felt his own face growing crimson. But Prince Rashid was undeterred. "That," he pointed to the primping figure, "is no more than an English boy wearing an American girl’s clothing! I asked for Shannen Doherty, not that! I can’t believe you think so little of your son that you should pass off this instead!" He raised his eyebrows dismissively at Tracey, now admiring herself in the mirror. the King closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Shannen Doherty! Do you know what it would cost to obtain her! Ridiculous!" "But you had Christina Applegate kidnapped!" Prince Rashid snapped back. "She serves in your harem now!" His father waved off the charge. "When you are king you may indulge yourself! Till then, you take what you are given and be grateful! There are good reasons why I am giving you the pretty one there and not a true female!" Rashid had stopped fuming. "Well?" he demanded. Arghh! Teenagers! The King consoled himself and explained. "I do not need you impregnating a real slavegirl for one. Then you would need a replacement whore while the other one prepared to drop her brood. We did not gain our wealth by throwing away money! With this one, there is no danger of pregnancy-- you may indulge yourself as many times as you like." Just as any excited fourteen year old boy would be expected to do with such a delectable pale dish, thought the King. Rashid’s anger was fading to irritation. Even now he was eyeing the feminized slave more closely. "But it isn’t really a girl, Father!" The King nodded. "But she is-- as much a girl as you could possibly want! Look at her face-- can you tell me that is a boy? Look at the silky fine red hair, thinly plucked brows, the painted and luscious lips, the misty eyes! Even the beauty mark, the one your Madonna has, on her soft, pale cheek-- another emblem of her teenage femininity. And down below, right above her soft thigh, you’ll find a darling strawberry birthmark-- artificially applied of course-- shaped like a heart that is a little love secret you shall discover as her new lover. Once you begin to enjoy her, underneath her thin blouses you’ll find a pair of pert breasts-- small but how easily their nipples swell to the touch of a male hand! And her hips-- perfectly formed to be held between your hands. And her backside-- watch how it sways. She moves it constantly though she is scarcely aware how much she must tease men with it! All of it the result of intense training and shaping." The prince was imperceptibly nodding now. "But," he interjected with youthful impatience, "she has a male organ! And when she grows older…" The King smiled. "True. But I doubt she will ever use it again, other than for absolute physical needs. And her chastity belt is designed so that she may do that business without bothering you. Her chastity belt-- which you and I shall both hold the key for-- should never come off. Her masculinity-- which is, I assure you, nothing that required much harnessing!-- is completely under your control. Underneath her little panties, Tracey is securely fitted and locked with a little mesh metal cup that keeps her silly little nothing out of your way. Nor will she ever refer to it-- part of her training. As to her growing more masculine, it won’t happen. Her hormonal balance is that of a fourteen year old female. An internal drip has even been added to simulate a period every month. Oh, she won’t ever actually have a period—meaning no inconvenience to you my son. But she will display all the flightiness and petulance we men find so amusing in our girls at that time of the month. And unlike poor Western men who must put up with their whining, you young Prince may have her caned if she annoys you too much with her silly mood swings! So you see, Tracey has enjoyed whatever masculinity she will ever experience. She will grow taller and fill out. Though there are no guarantees as to her final measurements, even that may be aided by artificial means!" This seemed to content Rashid, who watched the feminized teen flip through a clothing catalog in increasing fascination. "She has been thoroughly trained and shaped to please a young man like yourself. Just look at how daintily she pats down her little skirt while looking at herself in the mirror. Such a silly, vain little thing! All she cares for is making herself look as pretty and pleasing to you as she can! Believe me, Rashid-- you could not hope to be given a more accommodating, a more feminine and a more obedient slavegirl that Tracey. And though I have not given you Shannen Doherty, I have had this little one trained to the same specifications. She is now as American as can be, perfectly up to date as any self-respecting young pretty on such girlish matters as American soap operas, the latest fashions, the newest love songs on the radio-- she has even been trained to do football cheers in a little cheerleader outfit for you if you so wish!" Rashid smiled as his father continued. Then doubt clouded his face. "Still, if everything is done, then it won’t be as much fun, father." "What do you mean son?" "It might have been fun to well, teach her SOME things Father! Rather than have her COMPLETELY transformed, it would have been nice to have let ME do some of the training…" complained the spoiled prince. "Just because," the king interjected sharply, "your present has been turned into a girl, does NOT mean that she is a fully trained pleasure slave! True, I have had the boy trained to dress, move, speak and think as a girl of the same age—fourteen. But that also means that she still has all that lies ahead of a fetching young teenage girl. Tracey is a virgin—she has NOT lain with a man yet. Other than what she has read in her shallow girl’s magazines or heard in the lyrics of the songs she listens to or seen the actors do in those ridiculous soap operas she watches, she has no experience with a man. You will have the pleasure of teaching her these things, Rashid. And whether you are gentle with her or stern, patient or demanding, kind or cruel—all is entirely up to you. After all, she has been taught for months now that her Boyfriend will tell her exactly what to do and how." "But...what if," Rashid swallowed in embarrassment, "what if she doesn’t do what I, uh, tell her to?" The King clapped his hands. "Now THAT’S my son!" He reached into his robes. "This should handle any objections on the part of your virgin plaything," he promised, tossing the object to his son. Rashid smiled brightly as he flexed the crop thoughtfully. "The whip must always win, my son. Teach her that and she’ll gladly pleasure you in the ways you wish," the King promised. "And all for her Boyfriend, whom she has never met. You. And though she has never met you, I assure you she is anxious to please you. If she fails to entice and charm you, her trainers have promised her she will be re-sold to one of the bondage brothels of Beirut." The King smirked. "Trust me, she’ll display the right attitude. Why not go enjoy her now?" With that, the King left his son in fiery contemplation of the indignities he would soon force on the pantied plaything in the room beyond. ***************** Abd el-Kader sucked his teeth involuntarily. "Such a fate to befall any male! So the Prince enjoys his new love?" Bey Mustapha stirred his arak. "Oh yes. I understand that he now favors quite a more wanton look for his little toy. She was last seen when trotted out for a Madonna concert in London. Under heavy security of course—the West is keen to keep good relations with the oil lords!" The warlord grinned. "Which is why perhaps they have never investigated the kidnapping of that actress?" The Bey nodded sagely. "Yes—Christina Applegate, you are referring to. They know the King has her— he offered to pay down a good percentage of the American deficit in return for her, though they foolishly refused. Evidently she is quite a feisty little thing and not all as stupid as you’d be led to believe!" Mustapha sipper his arak. "And the last one-- there was another I sold you, Bey." The host touched finger to temple and smiled. "Ah, interesting you should remember But then she was quite memorable, was she not?" *********** Amanda Davis hung limply by her wrists from the steel cuffs atop her cage, waiting. The slack on her chains allowed her some small measurement of movement, though her ankles were likewise secured by metal cuffs at the base of the metal basket. It made little difference. Even if she hadn’t been bound, she was still confined to the small suspended cage that served as her home most of the time. When she wasn’t being used, of course. Soft sighs of anticipation and dread filled the dark cavern. It was the Time of Inspection, when purchasers were invited to view the available stock of the Arab slaver Ali Khan. The newest additions to the stable shivered. Pretty young teenagers and their more mature sisters of twenty and thirty alike still had refused to come to terms with the realities of their new situation. Though they simpered and bowed to their trainers and possible purchasers, they still dreamed of freedom and hated their captors. And the Time of Waiting was the worst, as they waited in frustration, their future unknown. But those women and girls with a longer tenure under the strictures of Ali Khan’s cruel trainers no longer dreamed of freedom. Amanda no longer loathed the lascivious stares and indecent gropes of the Khan’s prospects. She no longer dreamt of freedom, only escape from the pain and punishment reserved for those unlucky enough NOT to be bought. And little did the new slaves realize, that was a far worse fate. Especially for those like Amanda who hadn’t been bought or even considered for purchase for many months. Her small breasts and imperious looks had tempted none of the men who had sauntered through Ali Khan’s flesh market. Certainly the small sign on her cage hadn’t helped. "Slave #731 Age: 34 Hair: Red Eyes: Green Measurements: 32AA-27-34 Height: 5’10" Weight: 120 pounds Nationality: British Comments: Feisty filly more than makes up for her flat chest with her fiery lovemaking. Note that this slave was exclusively lesbian prior to training. Now accommodates males as well as female lovers quite satisfactorily. Priced to sell. No reasonable offer refused." No reasonable offer had been forth coming though. Just cruel taunting and the twisting of her sore nipples by rude prospective owners. Which had only brought on punishment after punishment by her Arab trainers. "You do not try hard enough!" Then the whip would fall on her backside. "Play with your little breasts! Smile for the men!" She would-- to no avail. Truly, she forced slutty smiles on her lips as the dismissive customers passed by, lewdly rubbed her puss through her little leather slave-thong, toyed with her lemon-sized breasts. None of it made much impact on the flesh buyers. She even tried frowning in child-like desperation to elicit pity, but they passed by nonetheless, eager instead to fondle the younger, more nubile girls. None of it worked, though in her heart of hearts, she wondered if she didn’t prefer her ongoing misery behind the bars to the uncertain and wholly unwelcome caresses of men. Despite her harsh training and the nightmarish rape after rape when she had first been "acquired," the Arabs still hadn’t been successful in their attempts to squelch her natural leanings towards women. There had been moments of tenderness, some permitted, others definitely not, with other slaves, which she very much enjoyed. Despite the gawking and open chuckling of the amused trainers, Amanda felt herself aroused when called to perform with another female-- especially when the partner selected for her was one of the pretty teenagers. In those moments, she almost enjoyed her lowly status as a piece of chattel-- kissing the lips of a prim little brunette or licking the sex of a playful hardbodied blonde. Perhaps she would be called upon today to perform, to "teach" a young teen about the pleasures of all-girl love. The Englishwoman shivered, eager to obey such a command! It was in moments like these when she almost preferred the new, harsh world of her captivity to the tedious life she had led as a financial analyst back in London. Then, romance and physical pleasure had a low priority as a matter of course. Business and career demands took precedence over her own tentative, uncertain desires. But here as a kept possession, she had been encouraged to exhibit her lesbian leanings for her owners. Where other girls and women rebelled and were revolted by the enforced embraces and whip-bought kisses, Amanda finally felt freed. Ironically as a slave, her yearnings had been set in motion, even if her freedom had been lost. She wondered who had got the better end of the bargain. A sharp cry to attention broke the reverie. Amanda peered through the gloom. It was one of the slave traders, come to parade yet another prospect through the cavern of slavegirl cages. She shrugged and pulled herself up. Normally she wasn’t chained up, but she made the best of it and braced herself for a quick grope. "As you see Sir we have many types, many looks available for purchase! Consider the blonde-- only sixteen and very virginal, I promise you! An American girl, separated from a tour group-- quite affordable price considering what pleasure she could provide--" "What about this one?" The voice intrigued her-- so unlike the usually hard-edged voices that demanded she spread her legs or thrust out her chest for them. There was a sophisticated confidence to it that was unique in the slavehall. "Well-" there was some hesitation in the Arab’s voice-- "she IS on special. A price could be arranged. But surely a gentleman such as yourself would prefer more, shall we say, a more full-bodied slavegirl to satisfy your desires with?" Amanda couldn’t suppress a hidden smirk. The bastard was caught between wanting to unload an unpopular item and wanting to sell a higher priced piece of merchandise. But the prospect was pushing-- something about her lit an interest in him. Hmmm. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea. She had grown used to the dark, happy to be ignored by the horrible men who had inspected her. "A flat, sassy thing I must admit Sir." Ah. The trainer was trying to dissuade her new admirer. Good. Suddenly a sharp smack on her backside said he wasn’t being pushed off. "She’s got what I want-- a wonderfully tight ass, Muhammed. How much?" The Arab tossed out a very low figure to which the man quickly agreed. In shock Amanda realized she had just been purchased! Quickly, with head remaining bowed as taught, Amanda was uncuffed and told to kneel. A rough collar was locked around her neck and a leash attached. After attempting to sell yet another slave to the still-anonymous buyer, he finally gave up. "Tell me Sir-- why should you buy one such as this?" he asked, not a little confused. "What will you do with her?" The rich voice chuckled. "Don’t feel as if you might have done better Muhammed-- I tell you honestly this is the only bitch I have seen here that is of the least interest to me." "But then why Sir-- why buy this one?" The Voice responded, even as he stroked his hand through her short cropped hair. "Small breasts, a tight backside-- she’s quite a tomboy, aren’t you my pet?" A newly forced gag prevented even a subservient reply. "Quite boyish. More boy than girl, really. I like that in her, you see." Amanda felt Muhammed shaking his head. "I do not understand Sir. You prefer your women small and flat?" A dismissive laugh, even as hands cruelly gripped the back of her slavethong. "Why I prefer boys to girls any day! And this one seems just that-- a fine young buck ready to be broken by me into a perfect little pageboy, Muhammed." Amanda cringed in horror. Her owner was gay! And she was to be used as a boy! "I shall dress her in tights and a blouse, keep her hair cropped short and she will become a perfect ‘he’ for me-- my own delightfully obedient houseboy! Don’t you think she-- I mean he’ll fit the bill nicely Muhammed? A daring blend of soft lips and curving ass at my disposal twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week! And from the description, I can only assume that her backside is tight and ready to be taken, Muhammed?" "You have no concerns over her- uh, his, natural inclinations, Sir?" the Arab slaver asked craftily. "Hardly!" the Voice boomed. "In fact, it should only add to the pleasure! Imagine the cruelty of forcing a lesbian away from her selfish dallying with herself and other pretty girls to serving only a man who will use her as a boy-- without any regard or interest in her little pink slit!" He slapped her ass hard. "He’ll learn to put this to use in enticing his master-- or be thrashed till he does! I have a fine collection of switches prepared for use on my young lad should he prove unequal to the task of arousing his new master!" Amanda wriggled on the end of her leash involuntarily. Her pleasant dark world of soft female caresses was being swept away. Fear seized her-- never to know the touch of a girl again! And what was worse-- no, unimaginable-- was that she was to be used in the most humiliating way possible. Without any relish, she imagined herself, trotting behind her new master, who was ever interested in bending her over a table or punishing her with a cane. She would be a boy now, for their was no choice. If she had learned anything in her slave training, it was the unshakable truth that the whip always won. Tremulous sighs escaped, her nostrils flaring, as her new owner cut off her thong. A pair of boy’s jockey underwear was tossed down before her. Without being told to do so, Amanda, still kneeling, grasped them and pulled them up. "Time to go, pet," her still-unseen master informed her. With heavy heart, she followed the pull of the leash till they were soon far, far away from the dark womb of Ali Khan’s Slave Cavern. *********************** "A fitting end for one such as her," the Bey concluded. "And now I have bored you with such silly tales, tell me Lord, what goods have you brought to me this day?" The desert bandit leered. "A special surprise, Sir!" He clapped and struggling figures were brought out before them. The Bey considered the squirming females, now forced to kneel before him, with a carefully controlled surprise and delight. "So you see I have brought you what you wished on my last visit-- a mother and not one-- but two ripe young daughters!" Abd el-Kader exclaimed triumphantly. Bey considered the three specimens. A fine lot-- one of the best in recent memory. The mother was still youngish-- not older than thirty-seven-- with a sensible shoulder-length mane of tidy blonde hair. Her oldest daughter, a buxom wench of sixteen with a charged filly’s sense of danger, bucked her own longer dirty blonde wildly. The youngest, the thirteen year old, was absolutely still, her brown eyes darting from underneath her braided light brown locks. The warlord clutched the older teen’s breast, then the younger sister’s. "Fine promise here," he boasted. Then he cruelly cupped the face of the mother and the older daughter together in a forced contact. "They’d make lovely playmates for the right buyer-- one of your discriminating customers I think, Bey. They’d make a fine selling proposition-- a mother for experience, the older daughter for pleasure and the youngest for the pleasuring of deflowering! One could have the mother teach the daughters all her naughty skills-- or even join them as they serviced their master. The possibilities are endless. There is no pleasure higher than having such a trio of slaves available and waiting in your bed, no?" The tearstained older daughter’s eyes met those of her mother, then her sister’s. Then they quickly broke contact. "There is a reticence I detect that would detract from the admittedly high value your merchandise has," the Bey interjected, angling for bargaining power. But the warlord was having none of it. His response was an ugly smile. "Fear not, Bey. Surely, the whip must win." THE END