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Playthings In An Arab World by Victor Bruno

Playthings In An Arab World 
(Victor Bruno)




As was the case with all newly-arrived slave girls who were being broken in, Jessica Winton was kept in a stark, stone-walled cell shackled naked to a rough plank bed. What a contrast to the warm comfortable bedroom she had occupied in her parents’ home in Cheltenham - where she had enjoyed being the pampered daughter of the Colonel and his lady!

Lying there, as the first glimmerings of dawn began to reflect the iron bars of the cell window on to the wall opposite, Jessica sobbed with bitter self-pity at the memories of her former life. All that seemed an age ago, yet it was only a matter of weeks. How could all this have happened to her? It seemed impossible. Unbelievable!

Yet it was happening!

Her burningly sore flesh was ample proof of that. Jessica’s sobs grew louder as the incredible events of the previous day came flooding back into her. What unimaginable agonies she had suffered in that terrible place they called the Training Room!

The breath-taking torment of the leather Paddle blazing again and again over her tautened buttocks ...

The indescribable pain of the cane biting again and again into the tenderest of burning flesh ...

Robbing her of all pride.

Of all resistance.

Making her do what she had done to the bestial Jamil.

Jessica felt sick as she re-lived the moment she had taken that hard bone of male flesh into her mouth. Then sucked and sucked while the cane tapped menacingly, ever ready to contort her in agony. It had been against every natural instinct she possessed. But she had done it. They had made her do it!

Now, at last, Jessica was truly beginning to realise she had to believe what had, at first, seemed unbelievable. That she was a slave! How ridiculous that had seemed to begin with. A kind of sick joke. But the paddle and the cane were realities. So were the obscenities she had been forced to perform. What they had told her was true, then. All true. Scalding tears coursed down Jessica’s soft cheeks. There was only one escape. In death. But I am far too young to die, Jessica told herself. Had she the courage anyway? Hope of some other, less final, outcome was always looming in the background. There could, thought Jessica, be an earthquake. Bringing down all the walls around that dreadful place. Freeing her. Better still the British authorities might uncover the secrets of Shalik-Mir and raid it. Jessica mused happily on the idea of Ibn Fazir, and the two she-devils who had treated her so vilely being sentenced to a life of hard labour.

And Jamil.

The brute-beast Jamil. Jessica began to tremble violently as she recalled what he had done to her when he had brought her back to the cell and chained her up.

First the marauding hands, free to go where they wished ...

Then the rape ...

Weak and helpless, she had been used like an animal. Taken from the rear as she crouched on the plank bed. The pig! The revolting pig! She would have liked to be able to flog him to ribbons. Flog the life out of him.

“Mmmff ... ugh ... mmmff ... ugh...” sobbed Jessica wretchedly. What hope of that?

None, she knew. It was she who would get the floggings if she did not obey these monsters. 

Then, vaguely, Jessica remembered something. Something that the blonde Stella had said. Quickly Jessica corrected herself mentally. The blonde Miss Stella. She must not forget that. What had it been exactly? Something she said about Jamil having some fun, but not too much fun. Ah yes ... the very words came back. ‘You know the Master likes to have them first.’ Sick-making words. But they meant that Jamil had overstepped the mark. So, she would tell Miss Stella. Perhaps that beast would pay for his outrage.

Slowly the light in the cell grew brighter and Jessica became more conscious of the bare crudity of her surroundings. They were positively medieval. Stone walls, stone floor. Then her eyes picked up something on the opposite wall. There was something there. Something hanging there. Suddenly fear shafted through her. What she had seen were a paddle and a cane. They were there to be used on her. Whenever it was thought necessary. Jessica bit her lips and began to sob again.

Her head of rich, dark brown hair drooped down to the planking.

I am a slave, she said to herself. And her long, shuddering moan of despairing anguish filled the cell like an eddying wind.




A key grated and turned in the lock.

Jessica started up. She must have dozed off into a fitful sleep.

Where was she? What was happening?

The canopy of hopeless horror re-descended as she became fully awake and instantly she was aware of the throbbing-burning in her buttocks.

Jamil stood there, grinning evilly. A white burnouse covered him. “Sleep well, my pretty one?” he enquired.

Jessica cringed down. The hideous nightmare was beginning all over again. Another day had begun. She gritted her teeth and said nothing. Almost casually, Jamil gave her bottom a stinging slap. With a gasping-cry, Jessica twisted on to her side.

“You speak when you are spoken to, girl,” said Jamil.

Jessica, her mind disorientated by the sudden, unexpected pain, strove to remember the question. She found her voice. It was a whisper.

“N-No ... o ... no ... I didn’t …”

SSLLAAPPP! Jamil’s hard palm descended again. On Jessica’s so-tender flesh, it felt almost as bad as the leather paddle.

“No ... what, girl?”

“Aaagghhh ... ooww ... n-no ... S-Sir ...” gasped Jessica.

Jamil grinned again. “Better,” he said. “Now let me give you a piece of advice, Jessica. Every morning you wake up, you should say, over and over again to yourself, ‘I am a slave ... I am a slave’. Let’s try that, shall we?”

Jessica gulped. “I ... I ... am …” she began.

“Just a moment, girl, there’s another thing,” said Jamil. “When I, or any of the others, come into your cell, you adopt a certain posture. It is a sign of your submission. You put your nose down to the planks and stick your bottom high in the air, opening your thighs wide as you do so. Adopt the posture, Jessica.”

The degradation of the order burned deep into Jessica. But the consequences of disobedience lent her strength. Sobbing, she positioned herself as Jamil had demanded, feeling the roughness of the planking rubbing against her nose, and knowing the utter humiliation of her immodest exposure.

“You can get your bottom higher than that,” said Jamil. “Come along ... up ... up ... strain at it, girl.”

“Uuugh ... mmfff ... mmfff...”

“That’s better. Now the thighs a little wider.”

“Mmmfff ... uuuugghhhh . . .”

“Good. Now, Jessica, that is the correct posture for a slave to adopt when one of her betters enters. Understood?”

“Mmmmf ... y-ye ... esss ... mmmff ... Sir …” sobbed Jessica.

It is amazing, reflected Jamil, looking lustfully at the display of female charms, before her visits to the Training Room, this well-bred English girl would have rather died than do what she was doing at that moment. And would go on doing. It was amazing what a difference the paddle and the cane made.

“Now, Jessica, what should you say?”

“I ... mmmfff ... I am ... mmmfff ... a s-slave . . . “sobbed Jessica.

“Keep on saying it.”

Between heaving sobs, Jessica repeated the humiliating phrase over and over again. Oh God, how long was she going to have to remain in that disgusting position? Actually, it was about half a minute before Jamil spoke again.

“All right, that will do,” he said.

Thankfully, Jessica lifted her head and closed her thighs.

“No, no ...” said Jamil. “I meant, just stop saying the words. Take up the posture again, slave.”

Jamil emphasised the word and that was not lost upon Jessica. With a groan she resumed her degrading exhibitionism. Then she uttered a shriek and could not help twisting around as some freezing cold substance, or so it seemed, was spread over one of her burning buttock cheeks.

“Get your nose down ... and keep your bottom up,” ordered Jamil roughly. “This ointment is for your own good, girlie. Make you all fit and fresh in no time.” Shuddering, Jessica submitted to the hand which continued to plaster all over her buttock cheeks and the tops of her thighs. Soon, she realised what remarkable cooling effects it was having, and she sobbed with relief.

“Nice?” enquired Jamil.

“0h ... yes ... Sir ...” she replied. Then Jessica shrieked and twisted away as the hand slipped between her thighs and briefly titillated her.

“I’ve told you about that,” said Jamil sternly. “You do not twist away ...  you proffer yourself ...”

“I ... I ... just c-couldn’t h-help it ...” moaned Jessica.

“You’ll have to learn not to do it,” said Jamil. “The easy way ... or the hard way. It’s up to you.”

The hand came back and this time, though she trembled violently all over with the effort of will she had to make, Jessica did not twist away. Jamil grinned lasciviously.

“Cream feels nice on there, eh?”

“P-Pleee ... eeease ...”

Jamil slapped one of the sticky, ointment-covered buttock cheeks. “Answer my question!” he rasped.

Oh God . . . what should she reply? She knew, of course, what he wanted her to reply. Jessica groaned horribly. And made herself do it.

“Yes ...” she whispered.

Another slap.

“Yes ... what?”

“Yes, Sir ...”

Shuddering and shuddering, Jessica submitted to the indecency of it, clenching her teeth till she thought they must snap. She had to submit ... she had to!

“Like me to frig you till you come, girlie?”

It was a repetition of his revolting behaviour of the previous evening. Is he going to rape me again as well, wondered Jessica, feeling the sickness in her belly? She made another unbelievable effort of will.

“Y-Yes ... yes ... S-Sir ...” she whispered, tears forcing themselves from under her tightly-closed eyelids to fall on the planking beneath. Oh the revolting horror of it!

“Say ‘please’,” grinned Jamil.

“P-Plee ... ease ...”


“Oooowww ... please ... S-Sir ...”

The fingers were skilful. They seemed to know the most sensitive spots. Jessica fought ... yet knowing it was useless. Was it not best, in any case, to get it over and done with? The thought, and the fingers delving ever deeper, weakened her resolution. Jessica gave up fighting.

Soon she was hating herself almost as much as Jamil.

“That’s it, girlie ... enjoy yourself. You might as well!” The derision in Jamil’s voice was not lost on Jessica but she was virtually past caring. She realised she had begun to react co-operatively to the playing fingers ... to encourage them ... to aid them, even ... and that her bottom was beginning to squirm and jerk convulsively. I am a slave ... I am a slave ... and, if this is what is required of me, I must give it ... I am a slave ... a submissive slave ...

“Oh you’re getting beautifully warm, girlie …”

“Hhuuuuhhh ... hhhhhuuuuhhhhhhh ...”  gasped Jessica, mouth wide and slavering on the planking.

“That’s it, my beauty ... let go ... let go ... come then ... come ...”

“Hhhhuuuuhhhhh ... hhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaaahhhhh!”

In those moments, as Jessica mounted inexorably to her climax, she realised ... aghast but certain ... that she actually wanted Jamil’s hard length of male flesh to come into her ... Yes ... she wanted to be raped! To be ravaged into complete submission! Whimpering, squirming uncontrollably, Jessica spent herself. It was an orgasm prolonged by the thought of Jamil’s ravishment ... and she finally slumped down on to the rough boards feeling momentarily as weak as a kitten. Jamil looked down at the trembling, naked figure and smiled happily. There was nothing he enjoyed more than making the mask of a girl slip. Especially the mask of a well-bred, respectable girl like this Jessica. He knew he had got her really going ... exposing the strengths of her lusts which she so diligently strove to conceal at other times. He sensed, even, that if he mounted her at that moment, she would be quite unresisting. Maybe co-operative even. It was a most tempting thought, but Jamil put it away. Greta Schwarz would be along shortly and it would have been embarrassing to be caught in the act. If not downright dangerous. He might well be reported to the Master, who would be highly put out at not having first run himself. It had been quite different the previous evening when he knew he had been perfectly safe. What the eye didn’t see, the heart didn’t grieve over!

“Well, that was nice, wasn’t it?” he said, gently tapping Jessica’s still-quivering bottom flesh.

“Mmmm ... uuhh ... y-ugh ... ess ... S-Sir,” answered Jessica. She could not deny the intensity of her pleasure during that powerful orgasm but, now that it had ebbed away, feelings of shame and remorse came creeping back. She was an animal to behave like that, whatever the circumstances! She should have fought harder. Jessica felt her cheeks colouring at the thought of her uninhibited behaviour.

She had really lost ...

Oh God ... oh God! And this lecherous brute had revelled in it! Desperately Jessica fought down the memory of actually wanting Jamil to take her. But it wouldn’t go away. Her shame and self-reproach increased and her cheeks took on a deeper hue.

“If you’re good, I might do that tomorrow as well,” said Jamil.

Jessica said nothing. She knew by now whatever Jamil wanted to do he would do. She, as a slave, would have to submit.

“You may kneel up, Jessica ...”

Slowly, Jessica turned over. The awful throbbing-burning in her bottom was almost non-existent. A lot of her stiffness had gone, too. She could move quite easily again. Whatever Jamil had coated on to her had done a remarkable job. She knelt erect, eyes downcast, conscious that Jamil’s eyes would be feasting themselves on her breasts ... big, firm breasts, held all the higher by reason of the fact that her wrists were still shackled to the iron collar about her neck.

“Bottom feeling better?”

“Y-Yes ... Sir.” Jessica did not even think of what her reaction would have been to such a question only a few days before!

“Good ... good. You will hardly believe it, Jessica, in about half an hour it will be almost back to its normal colour. And the weals will be fading fast.”

Jessica looked at him in disbelief. Then she twisted her head over her shoulder to look down at her hindquarters, expecting to find them still the deep red-purple colour of the previous evening. But, amazingly, they had already faded to a pinkish-red hue. Moreover, now there was hardly any pain. It was like a miracle!

“Very clever ointment that Dr. Hermann ... he bring from Germany,” said Jamil. “Soon make a naughty girl’s bottom all well again.” Jamil winked. “So that, if she’s naughty again, it can be dealt with.”

Jessica shuddered and a pang went through her. She had suddenly realised what this quick-healing ointment meant. It was not for her benefit, but for theirs!

The amount of punishment she could absorb, day in, day out, was virtually open-ended. Always she could be made fit for the torments of a new day. Jessica began to weep silently at the cruel inhumanity of it.

“Why you cry, girlie ... when your bottom’s feeling better?” asked Jamil, but knowing full well, of course.

“I … I don’t know ... Sir ...” Jessica managed to say. Then she was shaken by a paroxysm of sobbing as the desperate cruelty of her fate came crushing down upon her.

Why couldn’t God have left her to live out a simple, easy-going, middle-class life in Cheltenham? She had been good and kind to everyone she had known in her life, so why should she be selected for a life of monstrous servitude?

One day, she would have made someone a good wife. And, maybe, been a good mother. As it was, she had become no more than a pervert’s plaything. A sexual plaything. A mere bauble. There was no justice. None.

At that moment, another key grated in the lock. The door swung open and Greta Schwarz entered. As she so often was, the dark-haired woman with hard, Germanic features, was dressed in an outfit of black leather ... bolero, skirt, boots of calf-length. She gave Jamil a nod and a brief smile and then turned her attention to the weeping Jessica.

“What’s the matter with her?” she enquired. Jamil shrugged.

“Can’t really say, Miss Greta,” she answered. “Not taking kindly to her new life, I expect.”

“Too bad ...” said Greta sardonically.

Jamil gave the kneeling girl a sharp look. “Jessica,” he demanded, “what did I tell you to do?”

Jessica suddenly remembered about the posture she must adopt and swiftly put her nose to the planks and thrust her hindquarters high, thighs parted.

“Mmmm ...” remarked Greta appreciatively, “she’s beginning to learn. Got a long way to go, all the same. She’s healing nicely already, isn’t she?”

“Excellently,” agreed Jamil.

“Unshackle her, please Jamil,” said Greta.

“Sure thing, Miss ...” 

Jamil unlocked Jessica’s wrist from the collar and then removed the collar itself. The girl rubbed her wrists, which had been clamped in iron for so many hours. She had a sudden strange desire to cover her breasts with her hands, but then realised the utter absurdity of it. She would not ever again be permitted any modesty ... and privacy. She was there to be exhibited ... to be used. Understandably, Jessica continued to sob as one wretched thought after another filled her being. Oh God ... what were they going to do to her that day? And all the other terrible days that lay ahead?

Greta’s palm smashed across Jessica’s right cheek and then returned as a back hander across the left. Jessica’s head jerked first one way and then the other and she gasped out in shock.

“Stop that snivelling, girl ...  or I’ll give you something to snivel about!” rapped Greta. Her finger pointed to the instruments hanging mute but menacing on the wall.

“No ... plee ... eease ...” Jessica pressed her hands to her mouth to check the sound of her sobs. But still her breasts heaved up and down and the sounds came through.

“Give her a stimulant, Jamil,” said Greta.

“Right away, Miss ...” Jamil went over to the corner of the room where a beaker and glass stood on a small table. He poured out a measure of the amber liquid. It was designed to clear the head, steady the nerves and add to powers of endurance. This was what Jessica had had the previous evening after her terrible ordeal ... and she had been quickly calmed. “Drink,” ordered Jamil.

Jessica did not delay. She took the glass and swallowed the liquid in one go. After about thirty seconds her sobs had begun to subside. She had the illusion, too, of being bigger and stronger. Less apprehensive. This gave her courage to try and get her own back on Jamil.

“M-Miss ... Miss Greta,” she quavered, “May ... I ... may I s-speak?” Greta’s thin, dark eyebrows went up. “It’s most irregular. Still, you are new. What is it, girl?”

Jessica’s nails dug into her palms. “J-Jamil did something to ... me …” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Arab’s lips give a faint twist. Of amusement.

Did something? What do you mean?” asked Greta. She had a shrewd idea what was coming, but gave nothing away. Personally, she didn’t give a damn what Jamil did in the privacy of the cells, provided it didn’t get to Ibn Fazir’s ears. That was the important thing.

Jessica’s pale cheeks were filling with colour. Had she made a mistake? Surely not - Had not Miss Stella given a definite directive? “S-Something he ... he should n-not have done,” she managed to say.

“For God’s sake, girl, be more specific. What did he do?” bellowed Greta. She gave Jamil a reassuring wink as, momentarily, Jessica covered her face with her hands.

“He ... he ... raped me ... Miss ...

Greta gave Jamil a mock-stem look. “Is this true, Jamil?” she enquired.

“Of course not, Miss Greta” answered Jamil coolly. “The girl must be slightly hysterical, I think. Naturally, I have had my hands on her from time to time. When I’m shackling her and so on. Just in the line of duty. But rape ... oh no, Miss. Jessica is the property of the Master ... and he has her first.”

Jessica’s face was crumpling, her lips trembling uncontrollably. Of course, this vile Jamil would deny it. But it was true ... true! Surely Miss Greta would be aware of that.

“So the girl is lying, Jamil?”

The Arab shrugged. “I’m afraid so, Miss ...”

“It’s true ... true I tell you!” shrieked Jessica hoarsely. “Miss ... Miss ... you must believe me! We were in here, all alone ... there was nothing I could do!”

“Silence!” yelled Greta. “Do you think I am going to take your word against that of one of my most trusted assistants?”

“It’s ... t-true ... oh it’s true,” whimpered Jessica.

“There are dozens of girls here . . . white and Arab . . . just as attractive as you ... that Jamil can have at any time. Why should he want you? Particularly as it was against the Master’s orders?”

“Miss ... Miss Greta ... I swear it ...”

“Silence!” Greta turned back to Jamil again. “You assure me this is not true, Jamil?”

“I assure you,” said Jamil calmly.

“Ohhh ... you swine ... you filthy swine!” Jessica lost all control at the monstrous injustice of it.

“Lying is a serious offence, Jessica,” said Greta above the hubbub. “So is insulting one of my assistants.”

“It is he who is lying!” screamed Jessica, on the verge of hysteria ... and forgetting everything about showing respect and being a slave.

Poor girl ... 

Greta was very right. She still had a lot to learn. “Take her to the Training Room, Jamil,” said Greta coldly. “She can begin the day by being punished for both offences ...”

“NOO ... OOOO ... OHHH NO ... IT’S N-NOT ... MY F-FAULT!”

“Certainly, Miss Greta ...” With swiftness and expertise, Jamil seized the naked figure on the plank bed ... pulled her to the floor ... and twisted her arms up behind her. Jessica was still shrieking as Greta opened the door and Jamil frog-marched her through it.

Now, indeed, the nightmare had truly begun again!