Arabian Playthings Chapter 18
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The room was ornately Byzantine in style, with a mosaic marble floor and slim columns round the walls supporting decorative rounded arches. There were some heavy gold and crimson d****s at one end and the furniture, though sparse, was expensive. It consisted of a low chaise couch with a single high-curving end, an equally low table - on which stood a white urn filled with exotic-looking flowers - a comfortable-looking armchair, a footstool and, finally, a tall inlaid cabinet with cupboard above and drawers below. All the furniture coverings and cushions were of the same crimson and gold as the d****s. A heavy, musky scent hung in the air.
The woman who stood in the centre of this room was exceptionally beautiful. Both of features and body. And she was completely naked.
Her features were finely chiselled; the nose in particular being slim and well-moulded with delicate nostrils which flared wide. It was perhaps this, most of all, which gave her a somewhat proud, almost arrogant look. A typical look of a woman of the English upper classes, except that her lips were fuller and the eyes more wide-set than most women of that breed. Her hair, which hung straight and long, below shoulder length, was astonishingly blonde in colour. So blonde that where it caught a highlight from the chandelier above it looked almost silver.
She was quite tall - five foot eight perhaps - with square shoulders and a straight back. Her breasts, though fulsome, were high and firm; the aureoles and pert nipples were a delicate pink. Her waist was slim and her hips had a curvaceous hour-glass swell; her limbs were long and shapely. She stood straight and well, and her stance was enhanced by the pair of crimson leather high-heeled shoes she wore.
The woman stood in total silence... and her stillness was unusual.
But that was not all that was unusual about this superb specimen of womanhood. We must take a closer look. Let us go first to that face; the eyes in particular. They are blue-green. That, however, is not what strikes one. It is their blankness; as if, almost, they are turned in on themselves. There is a resigned hopelessness there. A look of defeat. It is a strange contrast to the look of inherent pride conveyed by her facial bone structure and the rest of her features.
Now we move down. At once we note an error in saying that the woman was completely naked. It is true only in so far as she wears no shred of garment. For, about the white column of her neck is fastened a silver collar; an inch wide band of heavy silver about a quarter of an inch thick. There is a small silver ring attached to the front of this collar.
Now further down... and we see about her wrists and ankles silver bands of similar weight and thickness. These are some two inches in width and, attached to each of them, is a silver ring similar to the one on the collar.
What else do we notice that is unusual? Ah yes... it is something very obvious. It is that this woman has no body hair whatsoever. The swelling hump of her Mound of Venus is velvety smooth and white. It gives the appearance somehow of having been furbished and polished. The slightly pouting sex lips are clearly defined and visible. This display of her most intimate femininity makes her look even more naked than she actually is.
This woman is a slave.
A slave?
A slave of Roman times perhaps? Of the days of Byzantium? Or maybe of the pirate days of the 18th century Eastern Mediterranean?
No. Quite the contrary. A slave of the present day!
And where, you may ask, is this ornate room in which this woman stands in solitary silence? And how can such a thing be?
All these questions can and will be answered. The room is, in fact, one of many beneath a palace originally built by a powerful Bey in the 16th century. It is in the hinterland of Turkey and he and his ancestors lived there for many generations in pomp and splendour. In those days their slaves came mainly from Arabia and Africa but there was also a sprinkling of Europeans. The exact site of this palace is of small importance. There are many such still in Turkey, which remains one of the most remote and mysterious countries on the verge of Europe, despite superficial attempts at modernisation during the present century. Suffice to say that the name of the place is Quireme and its present-day owner is a woman.
A most unusual woman, to be sure. One, naturally, of immense wealth ... and in her mid-thirties. Her name is Karina-el-Nessim and three strains of blood run in her veins. One half German, one quarter Jewish and one quarter Arab. Largely because she wishes it so, and partly because of the exalted status of her Arabian ancestor, she styles herself as a Princess. Amongst her entourage and acquaintances she is known as Princess Karina... and since, as a general rule, her contact with the outside world is minimal, its opinion of the worth of her titular claim is of scant importance. In any event, whenever the Princess travels outside Turkey, she travels incognito, under an altogether different name. That does not really concern us. What does is the mode of life she maintains at the Palace of Quireme.
It is one designed to satisfy her own desires and particular pleasures. Because she has willed it, and organised it, it exists. It is as simple as that. As to the moral rights or wrongs of it, we need scarcely be concerned. That it exists does, however. For the Princess Karina lives in a style that was commonplace some centuries ago among the wealthy and powerful in the Near East and elsewhere. Then it was not commented upon. Neither today is it commented upon ... for the world at large is not aware of it. All the Princess has done, in fact, is devise a sort of 'time-shift'. Not going into the future as in science fiction, but, as it were, moving the part up to modern times. In this way she has achieved the all-powerful mode of existence of past potentates, yet still enjoys the advantages which present-day technology bring.
Many of a similar temperament would envy the Princess Karina her way of life; few would have the drive and ability to achieve it. There are, of course, others who would not find it to their taste. But we are not concerned with them. Each to his own. We are concerned only with Princess Karina who, within the compass of her Palace of Quireme, wields as much absolute power as any emperor or tyrant of the past.
The door of the room in which the naked woman stood opened and a woman entered. This woman was as dark as the naked woman was fair, her hair being drawn tightly over her head and fastened in a bun at the back. Her features were strong and hard. Angular jaw, high cheekbones, slanting eyes almost as black as her hair. This woman was a Ukrainian, though there was a strong element of Prussian in her ancestry. She was simple garbed - and all in black, as was her custom. She wore a small, tight-fitting bolero jacket which left her midriff bare. Her skirt was equally tight and so short that three-quarters of her powerful thighs were exposed. These garments were of shiny leather. She was shod with a pair of equally shiny black leather boots of calf length which laced up the front. They had extravagantly high spike heels.
This was Vesta, slave mistress to the Princess Karina.
Behind her came another figure. This was a giant of a man, exceedingly handsome and, one would imagine, in his mid-twenties. His features were surprisingly Western in appearance in view of the fact that he was a Nubian. He was naked but for a brief kind of white loin cloth ... scarcely more than a pouch which contained his genitalia ... and his coal black body rippled with muscle. It glistened, too, with a faint sheen of oil. He must have been all of six feet three! His biceps were like those of a sailor, his shoulders were broad, and his barrel-torse tapered to a slim waist and a flat belly. The tightness of the pouch he wore, held only by thin cords, emphasised the size of its contents.
This was Hassan, one of a number of Vesta's assistants.
At once, upon their entry, the naked woman went down on her knees, the quick movement causing her breasts to give a little quivering bounce. Then, placing her hands before her, she bent right forward and kissed the marble floor beneath her. The fine, light blonde hair spread out momentarily over the mosaic... then she knelt erect again, at the same time clasping her hands behind her neck. The faintest shuddering tremor passed over her as her blank eyes fixed on Vesta. They flickered for a second to the massive figure of Hassan and another tremor quivered through her. Apart from that, she showed virtually no emotion. Her features remained impassive... only perhaps in her eyes was there a change. A fractional intensification of that look of hopeless despair.
"This is Belle," said Vesta. "That, of course, is her slave name." The slave mistress's voice was as hard as her appearance. It was a voice of confident authority, so used to giving orders that were obeyed that it came as naturally as breathing. "I am putting her in your charge, Hassan."
The Nubian merely nodded. He seemed unconcerned by this statement... and that this beautiful naked creature should be given to him. His eyes roamed over the woman's body. If they liked what they saw... the fulsome, high breasts, the swelling hindquarters, the long thighs... they made no sign. A little surprising, perhaps, but Hassan had long ago trained himself to display the minimum of emotion. Also, it must be said, Hassan already had five other beauties of similar calibre in his charge. All the same, though he did not show it, Hassan was inwardly pleasantly appreciative of what he had just acquired. He was already aware that this woman was English and that added to his pleasure.
Vesta stood directly before the kneeling woman.
"You heard that?" she asked.
"Yes, Madame..." The voice which answered was low but clear. And cultured in accent.
"That means," continued Vesta, "that from now on, Hassan is your guardian. Your keeper, if you prefer it. And, from now on, you will obey him instantly and absolutely in the manner in which you have been trained. Is that understood, girl?"
"Y-Yes, Madame..." Eyelids flickered briefly; for an instant the lower lip trembled.
"Hassan has authority to punish you, if he thinks fit," said Vesta gratingly. "Or, if he considers the matter warrants it, he will report to me... and I shall punish. Possibly, even, send you for re-training. And I don't think you'd like that, would you?"
The kneeling figure made no answer. But there was no need. The stronger convulsive shudder which shook her body and the sudden flare of pitiful dread which leapt into her blank, despairing eyes, was sufficient in itself.
"You will remain here, in these quarters, in Hassan's charge, until such time as you are required to serve and to please the Princess Karina," concluded Vesta. She smiled briefly, if smile it could be called. For she smiled only with her lips and her eyes were flint-hard. "And, for your sake, I hope we'll have no more of those rebellious, girlish tantrums of former days!"
The kneeling woman's eyes dilated and her lower lip quivered violently. Obviously those words had conjured up a whole host of hideous memories which she would have far preferred to be able to forget.
"N-No... no... Madame..." she managed to say. Her voice was hoarse and fervent.
Vesta turned on her heel, nodding briefly to Hassan. "She's all yours," she said.
"Thank you, Miss Vesta," said the Nubian gravely. Still he appeared to be quite unmoved.
If you had recounted the above, some three months before, to a certain Lady Isabel Dysart, she would probably have given you one of those scornful looks of hers... and told you not to be so absurd. Nor so disgusting. She might even have slapped your face for regaling her with matters not fit for such a ladylike ears as hers.
If, however, you had proceeded and told her that the naked slave in that room beneath the Palace of Quireme was herself... she would either have burst into wild, mocking laughter at such an absurdity or put you in charge and attempt to have you certified as being of unsound mind.
Nevertheless, it is a fact that the slave girl now known as Belle and the woman once known as Lady Isabel Dysart are one and the same person!
As to how this came about we shall in due time discover.
Hassan studied Belle in silence; she gazed directly ahead and avoided looking at him. Though he had five other exceedingly attractive slave-girls in his charge, he was at once aware that there was something special about this young woman. That she was beautiful of face and figure was to be expected... the Princess would accept nothing else. There was, however, an indefinable 'quality' about her. He could only suppose that this stemmed from her breeding and background. Hassan knew of this, of course, and he found it unusually satisfying to have such a woman in his charge. He had heard tell, too, of her pride and stubbornness under training. How foolish of this young woman to imagine she could withstand Miss Vesta. No matter how strong-willed, the slave mistress always broke them in the end. Completely broke them. Like this Belle. In a way, he reflected, it was a pity there was not some of that rebellious spirit left, for he would like to have overcome it himself. Still, you never know, he might conjure some of it up some time!
Hassan strolled over and seated himself on the low Ottoman couch. "Come here, slave," he said.
Belle came to him... on hands and knees. Then she knelt erect and placed her hands behind her neck again. Up came the luscious breasts, thrusting even more proudly. A little shudder went through her. It was as if, looking at him direct now and more closely, she realised just how massive he was. Also, the full truth sank in that this black giant was now her 'keeper'. That also, by definition, made her his plaything. Broken though she may have been... broken, indeed, several times, it seemed... the utter degradation of her situation was an agony in her mind. Dismiss it as she might try, she could not. Nor could she check the quivering of her lips.
To come to this! This! The agony in Belle's mind intensified. She had an aversion for blacks. Yet, now, she was in this one's power!
"Your name is Belle?" he queried.
Belle's throat worked. "Y-Yes... sss..." she managed to say in a low voice.
"You have just made your first error, my pretty slave." Hassan's white teeth flashed at her briefly. "You always address me as 'Master'. Of that you must be aware..."
"M-Master..." broke in Belle quickly.
Hassan ignored her, however. "I shall impress that on you with this," he said. He raised a large right hand, showing the palm; then he patted his tights. "Get yourself across these, Belle," he ordered. "I am going to give you an old-fashioned spanking. It will be as good a way as any to start our new relationship." Once again those strong teeth flashed in a happy smile.
Belle did not delay in obeying the order. She had learnt - the hard way - that she must always obey instantly. She rose and then stretched her white nakedness across Hassan's powerful thighs. Her breasts crushed to one of them as his left hand clasped her waist in a vice-like grip. She felt that he could handle and control her, such was his strength, with the same ease that an ordinary adult handles a two-year-old c***d. In that, she was right!
As she came upon him, Hassan enjoyed that first contact of the lush flesh. He liked, too, the sight of the plumply curvaceous buttocks right before him. Her Ladyship's bottom, he thought with a grin as he ran his hand lightly over the flesh, feeling Belle shiver as he did so. What must be in the mind of such a woman at that moment, he wondered? It was a fascinating field of speculation. But he had more immediate matters to attend to.
"You call me 'Master ... and don't forget it!" he said.
Then he slapped Belle's bottom hard with the flat of his palm and fingers.
For him, as ever, it was a delicious sensation. He enjoyed spanking a new girl almost as much as anything. For Belle it was a spreading-burning pain ... and her bottom jerked under the impact. But she made virtually no sound. Simply a rather heavier expellant of air came from her between her slightly parted lips. To one experienced to an infinite variety of degrees of torment, to be slapped was a relatively easy pain to withstand. Not that it didn't hurt. It hurt plenty ... for Hassan's palm was not only large, it was almost wooden in its hard solidity.
The Nubian's hand fell again. A little lower. Then again. A little lower still.
A half a dozen or so fell across the centre of Belle's juddering nates, until the tops of her thighs were reached. They were measured, unhurried slaps, forcefully delivered. Still Belle remained silent but for those heavy expellants of breath. But her shapely bottom squirmed convulsively at each stinging impact, setting the soft flesh all a-quiver. Hassan's eyes were fastened on the sight and it brought him keen delight.
Then he began to slap each buttock in turn. Right... then left. Right... then left. Right... then left. Little, breathless "Ahh's" and "Ohh's" began to be forced from Belle and her squirmings gradually intensified.
Ssllaapp... Ssllaappp!
Ssllaapp... Ssllaappp!
Ssllaapp... Ssllaappp!
The pink-red blotches spread gradually all over the juddering buttock-flesh. Yet still Belle did not actually cry out; though the "Ahh's" and "Ohh's" became more fervent. And for Belle there was not only the repeated stinging pain. There was also the piecing, inner humiliation of being thus treated by a negro. That thought was something she fought desperately to force from her mind ... for she realised its dangers. A slave must simply obey and submit. How often had not Miss Vesta emphasised this by word and deed!
Hassan's final assault fell across the centre of Belle's bottom again. And now those stinging slaps hurt even more, for the flesh was hot and tender. Belle clenched her teeth fiercely, while her bottom squirmed and her blonde head jerked up and down. She was determined not to cry out and so, she knew, give her new, brute-male custodian even greater satisfaction.
Belle's eyes filled with unshed tears when at last the spanking ended. Her breath rasped and her white shoulders heaved as she battled for control. That was an essential, as she had long since learned. Loss of it only led to even greater sufferings, she was well aware. She felt the Nubian's palm running gently over her burning, and still quivering nates. Oh the never-ending torment! Oh the never-ending degradation!
"How do you address me, slave?" asked Hassan.
"As... as 'Master'... M-Master..." answered Belle.
"That's right," he said. "And don't you forget it, girl. Otherwise I shall be forced to give you a caning!"
Hassan grinned again as he felt the responsive twitch of Belle's nates under his hand at the threat. Then he released his naked victim and told her to kneel before him again. As she did so, Hassan saw the moisture in those petrified eyes and the pinkness that had come to her cheeks. It was of a softer hue than the pinkness of her buttock cheeks, but it was there. That this lovely creature still had some remnants of a once over-weaning pride there could be no doubt. So much the better, he thought.
"How old are you, Belle?" he asked.
"Twenty-five Master..." came the answer.
Hassan nodded. "I have five others such as you," he said. "One is a little older, the others a little younger. One, in fact, is only eighteen. They are all in my charge."
Oh God, thought Belle, this... this... at eighteen! At least, she had some little time to enjoy life.
"Generally," Hassan went on, "they are all good girls and give me little trouble. If they do, they know what to expect. You see, I have to be strict, Belle, for I am responsible to Miss Vesta." He spoke in an almost avuncular fashion ... which was far from his nature. "That is why, for even the slightest fault, they have to be punished. As you will be if necessary."
Belle fought down the sickness that rose within her as she listened to these words and looked upon the glistened blackness of this near-naked Nubian. What could he not make her do? What could he not do to her? She shuddered as she thought of how utterly she was in his power! At the same time, Belle could not but be aware of this brute's striking handsomeness and his sheer a****l-masculinity. Weak and helpless as she felt normally, she felt even more weak and helpless as she looked upon him. I am a true slave, she reflected bitterly. As Miss Vesta had prophesied I would be. How ridiculously absurd it had seemed then!
"From time to time," continued Hassan, "you will be called upon to serve and please the Princess or her guests. That you so do, I earnestly hope, for your sake. There have been times when I have had to punish most severely - upon Miss Vesta's instructions - because of a bad report. I can show no mercy, because I am permitted none. Do you understand, my pretty slave?"
"Yes, Master," answered Belle, finding her voice a little hoarse. She sensed that this implied reluctance to punish was a pretence and that Hassan was as much a true sadist as any of the Princess's entourage. Who could perform such a barbaric task as his if it were no so?
"Good ... good," he nodded. "Let us then hope that your behaviour is exemplary. Both in the Palace and here. For it is here that you will spend most of your time. In my charge. And at my service and pleasure." Belle experienced a spasm of dread as she saw his hand go to the cord which held his white linen 'support'. "Let us begin as we intend to go on," he said. "In your case that means showing proper respect and true obedience to your new master." The cord unfastened and the white pouch slipped away.
He sat there, smiling faintly, quite naked. And Belle saw, for the first time what she would truly have to serve. She saw the solid, black organ, with its pink-mauve head, lying in repose between the tree-trunk thighs. It was in proportion to the massiveness of the rest of the Nubian's body and she stifled an instinctive shudder of revulsion. It was of a size, she thought - surprised by her own method of comparison - of an infant-baby's forearm! A black bady's!
The white teeth were bared in a smile. "Yes... proper respect, my slave," said Hassan. "And you will, I know, have been taught how to give it!"
That was indeed true... and Belle came crawling forward to go between the black thighs as they parted. As so often, Belle strove to shut off her mind from what she was actually doing, and merely behave like an automaton. But that was never easy; and only partially successful. Summoning reserve of will, she bent her blonde head and, with seeming loving devotion, pressed her lips to the flaccid length.
There was always extra pleasure with a new girl but, on this occasion for Hassan, there was an extra special pleasure. As Belle's lips pressed repeatedly up and down the length of his organ, he dwelt on the fact that this girl had once been a real English lady. Spoilt and pampered. Arrogant in her authority. Just the type to whom his ancestors had been in servitude. Now the roles were reversed and he was the black master, she the white slave.
Hassan felt the swirl of lust within him and the thickening of his flesh. Belle's hands rested on his thighs... and the contrast in colours was arresting. He felt her tongue begin to lick him, working assiduously from tip to root and back again. Yes... she had been well trained. He looked down at the bobbing blonde head... the smooth white shoulders and back... the swell of the curvaceous hindquarters. What torments this lovely, proud creature must have been subjected to that she was now so servilely humble and obedient!
With eyes almost closed and delicate nostrils flaring, Belle continued to tongue Hassan until he came to full erection. Ten solid inches of black prick! She felt it throb and jerk as she kissed and tongued incessantly ... and, for good measure, she slavishly kissed Hassan's balls as well!
Then, knowing the moment was right, Belle took the massive root in her hand and slipped the knob into her mouth and began to suck avidly. Hassan grinned. It felt good. Gradually Belle took all she could into her mouth... desperately fighting down sensations of nausea as the knob went to the back of her throat. She knew (had she not been taught?) that half measures were never enough... so she gave all in her efforts to satisfy. Whenever she felt like flagging the ever-present threat of punishment drove her on.
Only at one moment did she falter briefly... when a thought seared through her mind: 'I... I, Lady Isabel Dysart... am sucking a nigger's prick!' Impossible... but true! Oh God... oh God... oh God! Keep on... you must keep on... you must... you must!
And, to recover her will and resolution, Belle thought of being whipped by Miss Vesta. Mercilessly whipped. That was sufficient to give her the strength to continue!
The pleasure in Hassan mounted steadily and, to heighten it, he began to fondle Belle's lush breasts. They felt very, very good.
"You've got a couple of beauties here, haven't you, my girl?" he said.
Needless to say, Belle was too occupied to give an answer. To be mauled and used, that was her fate. As a slave she must accept it.
How long, wondered Hassan, can I let this continue? Waves of lust were rippling through him... and the thought of unleashing himself into this girl's sucking mouth was almost irresistible. But no... no... he must not. Another time... yes... yes. But this time, he wanted to give her a solid fucking. To truly assert mastery. So that's what he would do...
He let his lovely victim continue her ministrations until he was on the verge of an orgasm then, taking her by the blonde hair, he eased her up off him. Eyes a little glazed, she was panting. The wet mouth slack. She was dribbling. Yet still her beauty shone through.
"Not bad, my pretty slave," grinned Hassan. "You have learnt well. Shortly we shall see if you use your other charms equally well. How do you like the thought of having this up you?" He indicated his quivering root.
Belle's throat worked convulsively. "I... I am... honoured... M-Master..." she said hoarsely.
It was one of the required answers to such a question, so Belle, the slave, made it... regardless of her true feelings. Hassan stood up, looking even more formidable.
"Get on the couch, girl," he ordered.
Belle crawled to the couch. There was not a moment's delay, but the tension within her, and the effort required, were evident by the way she trembled.
"On your hands and knees... and backside well up..." came the next order.
Again Belle obeyed, thrusting up her shapely naked bottom abjectly. It was an order she had obeyed often enough prior to getting a thrashing. This time she was to get something different. Less painful, maybe, but scarcely less horrifying for one of her proud temperament. Or should one say once-proud? Not quite, perhaps, for despite everything, there was still some remnants of pride in Belle ... and these flared up cruelly with knowledge that her body was about to be ravaged by this giant black. What was more, she would not be allowed to be just a complacent receiver of his a****l lust; she would have to give herself co-operatively to him to gratify his full pleasure.
Hassan surveyed 'Her Ladyship's' quivering bottom. It lost nothing in charm on account of its pink-red mottled appearance, due to his hearty slapping. Above all, it was delightful to know that it was his. To enjoy as and when he pleased. "Open your legs," he ordered.
The long, tapering thighs parted ... to display even more blatantly the twin passages open to him. What, he wondered, would some of her erstwhile friends have thought if they could have seen her now! They would scarcely have believed the evidence of their own eyes, for sure. Which passage would he enjoy? The decision was his, absolutely. He came up on to the couch and gently fingered the provocatively pouting lips. That would be his way on this first occasion. Belle shivered tensely at his touch and a little whimper came from her. But all the same she kept herself fully proffered. As she must.
"I am going to fuck you," said Hassan. "For the first time. And remember, slave, I shall fuck you again and again whenever the mood takes me. Because, from now on, that is your main function in life. Put simply, it is to please and satisfy those who own you. Is that quite clear?"
"Y-Yes, Master..." answered Belle. She momentarily unclenched her teeth to answer. What a fight it was to control herself... and keep submissive. As she must... Yes... as she must! No matter how vile the demands made upon her. Yes... yes... she must!
Hassan took his massive root in his hands and used it to part the ripe lips. Then he ran his knob up and down between their velvet warmth. It was a delicious sensation ... and he prolonged it for as long as he was able. All the time Belle shivered uncontrollably.
Then, suddenly, Hassan seized the girl's flanks. As he pulled on them, he thrust in simultaneously. He thrust in with a deliberate brutality, his belly thumping against the soft nates, his ramrod penis stretching and filling his victim to the limit.
Belle uttered a gasping-wailing cry as the solid length ravaged her painfully ... and she squirmed and squirmed frantically. Much to Hassan's enjoyment. Grinning delightedly, he remained rammed within her for a full minute, whilst he savoured the delights of possession. How tight she was! How silky smooth! How even more delightful she would be when she was hot!
"How does that feel, your Ladyship?" enquired Hassan. Deliberately, cruelly, in that moment he wished to remind Belle the slave of her former, once-proud status. "How does it feel to have a black man's cock up you?"
"M-Master... M-M-Master..." was all Belle could gasp in reply.
"Yes... I am your Master," replied Hassan, "but I asked you a question, slave."
"M-Master... you... you are s-so... big... so... s-strong," answered Belle in a choking voice.
"Lucky you, eh?" grinned Hassan. Then, at the end of that prolonged minute, he withdrew slowly until only his knob was immersed. He remained poised for a few seconds and then rammed back hard and fast again. There was another high-pitched gasp from Belle, though not so loud this time, and she squirmed convulsively.
Almost immediately, Hassan withdrew slowly again ... before ramming home brutally once more... and in this slow methodical fashion he proceeded for something like five minutes or more. Little gasps and moans came repeatedly from Belle, who never ceased to squirm with each vigorous inward thrust. And all the time the smooth, silky feel of her passage increased. Slowly but surely. And, with it, so did Hassan's lustful pleasure.
Almost imperceptibly he began to increase the rhythm ... and Belle's swinging haunches kept pace. Hassan felt the tight-gripping of her as he withdrew and the yielding succulence as he re-entered. She was, as she must be, fully co-operative; giving all to satisfy him to the limit.
Before long, Hassan heard Belle beginning to pant hoarsely and a grin appeared again on his face. This was one of the supreme moments. When he truly conquered. When it was no longer a case of her submitting slavishly... but when her own roused lust took command of her. When there was no question any more of pride. Just simply sex.
"You love it, my beauty... eh? You love it, don't you?" demanded Hassan, thrusting ever faster and ever more vigorously with his weapon.
"Y-Yer... ess... y-yess... sss... M-Master... yes... sss," panted Belle.
Now the massive organ which had initially horrified and shocked with its ravishment had become something else. A magic shaft which sent her soaring up into exquisite realms! Something she never wanted to stop pounding into her. Something that must not stop.
Hassan, exulting in his complete mastery (first enforced, and now fully accepted, he knew) brought Belle to a jelly-quivering climax. She moaned and whimpered as she twisted and turned under him, gripped by the fierceness of her orgasm. He, however, did not yet release himself and, for three or four more minutes he revelled in the liquid-hot, wriggling-velvet delights of the slave he possessed so absolutely. And, as he brought himself to a thunderous peak, Belle, gasping out joyfully, climaxed for a second time.
She, half-fainting, felt the massive organ jerking in her as Hassan jetted his lust furiously again and again and knew herself to be a true and complete ... slave at last. Crushed by the sweating black nakedness, drained of all strength, she could only whimper her acceptance of the fact.
"M-Master... I... am your slave... your slave... your slave," she kept on repeating.
And, this time, though she may have said it often enough before, she really meant it!
The woman who stood in the centre of this room was exceptionally beautiful. Both of features and body. And she was completely naked.
Her features were finely chiselled; the nose in particular being slim and well-moulded with delicate nostrils which flared wide. It was perhaps this, most of all, which gave her a somewhat proud, almost arrogant look. A typical look of a woman of the English upper classes, except that her lips were fuller and the eyes more wide-set than most women of that breed. Her hair, which hung straight and long, below shoulder length, was astonishingly blonde in colour. So blonde that where it caught a highlight from the chandelier above it looked almost silver.
She was quite tall - five foot eight perhaps - with square shoulders and a straight back. Her breasts, though fulsome, were high and firm; the aureoles and pert nipples were a delicate pink. Her waist was slim and her hips had a curvaceous hour-glass swell; her limbs were long and shapely. She stood straight and well, and her stance was enhanced by the pair of crimson leather high-heeled shoes she wore.
The woman stood in total silence... and her stillness was unusual.
But that was not all that was unusual about this superb specimen of womanhood. We must take a closer look. Let us go first to that face; the eyes in particular. They are blue-green. That, however, is not what strikes one. It is their blankness; as if, almost, they are turned in on themselves. There is a resigned hopelessness there. A look of defeat. It is a strange contrast to the look of inherent pride conveyed by her facial bone structure and the rest of her features.
Now we move down. At once we note an error in saying that the woman was completely naked. It is true only in so far as she wears no shred of garment. For, about the white column of her neck is fastened a silver collar; an inch wide band of heavy silver about a quarter of an inch thick. There is a small silver ring attached to the front of this collar.
Now further down... and we see about her wrists and ankles silver bands of similar weight and thickness. These are some two inches in width and, attached to each of them, is a silver ring similar to the one on the collar.
What else do we notice that is unusual? Ah yes... it is something very obvious. It is that this woman has no body hair whatsoever. The swelling hump of her Mound of Venus is velvety smooth and white. It gives the appearance somehow of having been furbished and polished. The slightly pouting sex lips are clearly defined and visible. This display of her most intimate femininity makes her look even more naked than she actually is.
This woman is a slave.
A slave?
A slave of Roman times perhaps? Of the days of Byzantium? Or maybe of the pirate days of the 18th century Eastern Mediterranean?
No. Quite the contrary. A slave of the present day!
And where, you may ask, is this ornate room in which this woman stands in solitary silence? And how can such a thing be?
All these questions can and will be answered. The room is, in fact, one of many beneath a palace originally built by a powerful Bey in the 16th century. It is in the hinterland of Turkey and he and his ancestors lived there for many generations in pomp and splendour. In those days their slaves came mainly from Arabia and Africa but there was also a sprinkling of Europeans. The exact site of this palace is of small importance. There are many such still in Turkey, which remains one of the most remote and mysterious countries on the verge of Europe, despite superficial attempts at modernisation during the present century. Suffice to say that the name of the place is Quireme and its present-day owner is a woman.
A most unusual woman, to be sure. One, naturally, of immense wealth ... and in her mid-thirties. Her name is Karina-el-Nessim and three strains of blood run in her veins. One half German, one quarter Jewish and one quarter Arab. Largely because she wishes it so, and partly because of the exalted status of her Arabian ancestor, she styles herself as a Princess. Amongst her entourage and acquaintances she is known as Princess Karina... and since, as a general rule, her contact with the outside world is minimal, its opinion of the worth of her titular claim is of scant importance. In any event, whenever the Princess travels outside Turkey, she travels incognito, under an altogether different name. That does not really concern us. What does is the mode of life she maintains at the Palace of Quireme.
It is one designed to satisfy her own desires and particular pleasures. Because she has willed it, and organised it, it exists. It is as simple as that. As to the moral rights or wrongs of it, we need scarcely be concerned. That it exists does, however. For the Princess Karina lives in a style that was commonplace some centuries ago among the wealthy and powerful in the Near East and elsewhere. Then it was not commented upon. Neither today is it commented upon ... for the world at large is not aware of it. All the Princess has done, in fact, is devise a sort of 'time-shift'. Not going into the future as in science fiction, but, as it were, moving the part up to modern times. In this way she has achieved the all-powerful mode of existence of past potentates, yet still enjoys the advantages which present-day technology bring.
Many of a similar temperament would envy the Princess Karina her way of life; few would have the drive and ability to achieve it. There are, of course, others who would not find it to their taste. But we are not concerned with them. Each to his own. We are concerned only with Princess Karina who, within the compass of her Palace of Quireme, wields as much absolute power as any emperor or tyrant of the past.
The door of the room in which the naked woman stood opened and a woman entered. This woman was as dark as the naked woman was fair, her hair being drawn tightly over her head and fastened in a bun at the back. Her features were strong and hard. Angular jaw, high cheekbones, slanting eyes almost as black as her hair. This woman was a Ukrainian, though there was a strong element of Prussian in her ancestry. She was simple garbed - and all in black, as was her custom. She wore a small, tight-fitting bolero jacket which left her midriff bare. Her skirt was equally tight and so short that three-quarters of her powerful thighs were exposed. These garments were of shiny leather. She was shod with a pair of equally shiny black leather boots of calf length which laced up the front. They had extravagantly high spike heels.
This was Vesta, slave mistress to the Princess Karina.
Behind her came another figure. This was a giant of a man, exceedingly handsome and, one would imagine, in his mid-twenties. His features were surprisingly Western in appearance in view of the fact that he was a Nubian. He was naked but for a brief kind of white loin cloth ... scarcely more than a pouch which contained his genitalia ... and his coal black body rippled with muscle. It glistened, too, with a faint sheen of oil. He must have been all of six feet three! His biceps were like those of a sailor, his shoulders were broad, and his barrel-torse tapered to a slim waist and a flat belly. The tightness of the pouch he wore, held only by thin cords, emphasised the size of its contents.
This was Hassan, one of a number of Vesta's assistants.
At once, upon their entry, the naked woman went down on her knees, the quick movement causing her breasts to give a little quivering bounce. Then, placing her hands before her, she bent right forward and kissed the marble floor beneath her. The fine, light blonde hair spread out momentarily over the mosaic... then she knelt erect again, at the same time clasping her hands behind her neck. The faintest shuddering tremor passed over her as her blank eyes fixed on Vesta. They flickered for a second to the massive figure of Hassan and another tremor quivered through her. Apart from that, she showed virtually no emotion. Her features remained impassive... only perhaps in her eyes was there a change. A fractional intensification of that look of hopeless despair.
"This is Belle," said Vesta. "That, of course, is her slave name." The slave mistress's voice was as hard as her appearance. It was a voice of confident authority, so used to giving orders that were obeyed that it came as naturally as breathing. "I am putting her in your charge, Hassan."
The Nubian merely nodded. He seemed unconcerned by this statement... and that this beautiful naked creature should be given to him. His eyes roamed over the woman's body. If they liked what they saw... the fulsome, high breasts, the swelling hindquarters, the long thighs... they made no sign. A little surprising, perhaps, but Hassan had long ago trained himself to display the minimum of emotion. Also, it must be said, Hassan already had five other beauties of similar calibre in his charge. All the same, though he did not show it, Hassan was inwardly pleasantly appreciative of what he had just acquired. He was already aware that this woman was English and that added to his pleasure.
Vesta stood directly before the kneeling woman.
"You heard that?" she asked.
"Yes, Madame..." The voice which answered was low but clear. And cultured in accent.
"That means," continued Vesta, "that from now on, Hassan is your guardian. Your keeper, if you prefer it. And, from now on, you will obey him instantly and absolutely in the manner in which you have been trained. Is that understood, girl?"
"Y-Yes, Madame..." Eyelids flickered briefly; for an instant the lower lip trembled.
"Hassan has authority to punish you, if he thinks fit," said Vesta gratingly. "Or, if he considers the matter warrants it, he will report to me... and I shall punish. Possibly, even, send you for re-training. And I don't think you'd like that, would you?"
The kneeling figure made no answer. But there was no need. The stronger convulsive shudder which shook her body and the sudden flare of pitiful dread which leapt into her blank, despairing eyes, was sufficient in itself.
"You will remain here, in these quarters, in Hassan's charge, until such time as you are required to serve and to please the Princess Karina," concluded Vesta. She smiled briefly, if smile it could be called. For she smiled only with her lips and her eyes were flint-hard. "And, for your sake, I hope we'll have no more of those rebellious, girlish tantrums of former days!"
The kneeling woman's eyes dilated and her lower lip quivered violently. Obviously those words had conjured up a whole host of hideous memories which she would have far preferred to be able to forget.
"N-No... no... Madame..." she managed to say. Her voice was hoarse and fervent.
Vesta turned on her heel, nodding briefly to Hassan. "She's all yours," she said.
"Thank you, Miss Vesta," said the Nubian gravely. Still he appeared to be quite unmoved.
If you had recounted the above, some three months before, to a certain Lady Isabel Dysart, she would probably have given you one of those scornful looks of hers... and told you not to be so absurd. Nor so disgusting. She might even have slapped your face for regaling her with matters not fit for such a ladylike ears as hers.
If, however, you had proceeded and told her that the naked slave in that room beneath the Palace of Quireme was herself... she would either have burst into wild, mocking laughter at such an absurdity or put you in charge and attempt to have you certified as being of unsound mind.
Nevertheless, it is a fact that the slave girl now known as Belle and the woman once known as Lady Isabel Dysart are one and the same person!
As to how this came about we shall in due time discover.
Hassan studied Belle in silence; she gazed directly ahead and avoided looking at him. Though he had five other exceedingly attractive slave-girls in his charge, he was at once aware that there was something special about this young woman. That she was beautiful of face and figure was to be expected... the Princess would accept nothing else. There was, however, an indefinable 'quality' about her. He could only suppose that this stemmed from her breeding and background. Hassan knew of this, of course, and he found it unusually satisfying to have such a woman in his charge. He had heard tell, too, of her pride and stubbornness under training. How foolish of this young woman to imagine she could withstand Miss Vesta. No matter how strong-willed, the slave mistress always broke them in the end. Completely broke them. Like this Belle. In a way, he reflected, it was a pity there was not some of that rebellious spirit left, for he would like to have overcome it himself. Still, you never know, he might conjure some of it up some time!
Hassan strolled over and seated himself on the low Ottoman couch. "Come here, slave," he said.
Belle came to him... on hands and knees. Then she knelt erect and placed her hands behind her neck again. Up came the luscious breasts, thrusting even more proudly. A little shudder went through her. It was as if, looking at him direct now and more closely, she realised just how massive he was. Also, the full truth sank in that this black giant was now her 'keeper'. That also, by definition, made her his plaything. Broken though she may have been... broken, indeed, several times, it seemed... the utter degradation of her situation was an agony in her mind. Dismiss it as she might try, she could not. Nor could she check the quivering of her lips.
To come to this! This! The agony in Belle's mind intensified. She had an aversion for blacks. Yet, now, she was in this one's power!
"Your name is Belle?" he queried.
Belle's throat worked. "Y-Yes... sss..." she managed to say in a low voice.
"You have just made your first error, my pretty slave." Hassan's white teeth flashed at her briefly. "You always address me as 'Master'. Of that you must be aware..."
"M-Master..." broke in Belle quickly.
Hassan ignored her, however. "I shall impress that on you with this," he said. He raised a large right hand, showing the palm; then he patted his tights. "Get yourself across these, Belle," he ordered. "I am going to give you an old-fashioned spanking. It will be as good a way as any to start our new relationship." Once again those strong teeth flashed in a happy smile.
Belle did not delay in obeying the order. She had learnt - the hard way - that she must always obey instantly. She rose and then stretched her white nakedness across Hassan's powerful thighs. Her breasts crushed to one of them as his left hand clasped her waist in a vice-like grip. She felt that he could handle and control her, such was his strength, with the same ease that an ordinary adult handles a two-year-old c***d. In that, she was right!
As she came upon him, Hassan enjoyed that first contact of the lush flesh. He liked, too, the sight of the plumply curvaceous buttocks right before him. Her Ladyship's bottom, he thought with a grin as he ran his hand lightly over the flesh, feeling Belle shiver as he did so. What must be in the mind of such a woman at that moment, he wondered? It was a fascinating field of speculation. But he had more immediate matters to attend to.
"You call me 'Master ... and don't forget it!" he said.
Then he slapped Belle's bottom hard with the flat of his palm and fingers.
For him, as ever, it was a delicious sensation. He enjoyed spanking a new girl almost as much as anything. For Belle it was a spreading-burning pain ... and her bottom jerked under the impact. But she made virtually no sound. Simply a rather heavier expellant of air came from her between her slightly parted lips. To one experienced to an infinite variety of degrees of torment, to be slapped was a relatively easy pain to withstand. Not that it didn't hurt. It hurt plenty ... for Hassan's palm was not only large, it was almost wooden in its hard solidity.
The Nubian's hand fell again. A little lower. Then again. A little lower still.
A half a dozen or so fell across the centre of Belle's juddering nates, until the tops of her thighs were reached. They were measured, unhurried slaps, forcefully delivered. Still Belle remained silent but for those heavy expellants of breath. But her shapely bottom squirmed convulsively at each stinging impact, setting the soft flesh all a-quiver. Hassan's eyes were fastened on the sight and it brought him keen delight.
Then he began to slap each buttock in turn. Right... then left. Right... then left. Right... then left. Little, breathless "Ahh's" and "Ohh's" began to be forced from Belle and her squirmings gradually intensified.
Ssllaapp... Ssllaappp!
Ssllaapp... Ssllaappp!
Ssllaapp... Ssllaappp!
The pink-red blotches spread gradually all over the juddering buttock-flesh. Yet still Belle did not actually cry out; though the "Ahh's" and "Ohh's" became more fervent. And for Belle there was not only the repeated stinging pain. There was also the piecing, inner humiliation of being thus treated by a negro. That thought was something she fought desperately to force from her mind ... for she realised its dangers. A slave must simply obey and submit. How often had not Miss Vesta emphasised this by word and deed!
Hassan's final assault fell across the centre of Belle's bottom again. And now those stinging slaps hurt even more, for the flesh was hot and tender. Belle clenched her teeth fiercely, while her bottom squirmed and her blonde head jerked up and down. She was determined not to cry out and so, she knew, give her new, brute-male custodian even greater satisfaction.
Belle's eyes filled with unshed tears when at last the spanking ended. Her breath rasped and her white shoulders heaved as she battled for control. That was an essential, as she had long since learned. Loss of it only led to even greater sufferings, she was well aware. She felt the Nubian's palm running gently over her burning, and still quivering nates. Oh the never-ending torment! Oh the never-ending degradation!
"How do you address me, slave?" asked Hassan.
"As... as 'Master'... M-Master..." answered Belle.
"That's right," he said. "And don't you forget it, girl. Otherwise I shall be forced to give you a caning!"
Hassan grinned again as he felt the responsive twitch of Belle's nates under his hand at the threat. Then he released his naked victim and told her to kneel before him again. As she did so, Hassan saw the moisture in those petrified eyes and the pinkness that had come to her cheeks. It was of a softer hue than the pinkness of her buttock cheeks, but it was there. That this lovely creature still had some remnants of a once over-weaning pride there could be no doubt. So much the better, he thought.
"How old are you, Belle?" he asked.
"Twenty-five Master..." came the answer.
Hassan nodded. "I have five others such as you," he said. "One is a little older, the others a little younger. One, in fact, is only eighteen. They are all in my charge."
Oh God, thought Belle, this... this... at eighteen! At least, she had some little time to enjoy life.
"Generally," Hassan went on, "they are all good girls and give me little trouble. If they do, they know what to expect. You see, I have to be strict, Belle, for I am responsible to Miss Vesta." He spoke in an almost avuncular fashion ... which was far from his nature. "That is why, for even the slightest fault, they have to be punished. As you will be if necessary."
Belle fought down the sickness that rose within her as she listened to these words and looked upon the glistened blackness of this near-naked Nubian. What could he not make her do? What could he not do to her? She shuddered as she thought of how utterly she was in his power! At the same time, Belle could not but be aware of this brute's striking handsomeness and his sheer a****l-masculinity. Weak and helpless as she felt normally, she felt even more weak and helpless as she looked upon him. I am a true slave, she reflected bitterly. As Miss Vesta had prophesied I would be. How ridiculously absurd it had seemed then!
"From time to time," continued Hassan, "you will be called upon to serve and please the Princess or her guests. That you so do, I earnestly hope, for your sake. There have been times when I have had to punish most severely - upon Miss Vesta's instructions - because of a bad report. I can show no mercy, because I am permitted none. Do you understand, my pretty slave?"
"Yes, Master," answered Belle, finding her voice a little hoarse. She sensed that this implied reluctance to punish was a pretence and that Hassan was as much a true sadist as any of the Princess's entourage. Who could perform such a barbaric task as his if it were no so?
"Good ... good," he nodded. "Let us then hope that your behaviour is exemplary. Both in the Palace and here. For it is here that you will spend most of your time. In my charge. And at my service and pleasure." Belle experienced a spasm of dread as she saw his hand go to the cord which held his white linen 'support'. "Let us begin as we intend to go on," he said. "In your case that means showing proper respect and true obedience to your new master." The cord unfastened and the white pouch slipped away.
He sat there, smiling faintly, quite naked. And Belle saw, for the first time what she would truly have to serve. She saw the solid, black organ, with its pink-mauve head, lying in repose between the tree-trunk thighs. It was in proportion to the massiveness of the rest of the Nubian's body and she stifled an instinctive shudder of revulsion. It was of a size, she thought - surprised by her own method of comparison - of an infant-baby's forearm! A black bady's!
The white teeth were bared in a smile. "Yes... proper respect, my slave," said Hassan. "And you will, I know, have been taught how to give it!"
That was indeed true... and Belle came crawling forward to go between the black thighs as they parted. As so often, Belle strove to shut off her mind from what she was actually doing, and merely behave like an automaton. But that was never easy; and only partially successful. Summoning reserve of will, she bent her blonde head and, with seeming loving devotion, pressed her lips to the flaccid length.
There was always extra pleasure with a new girl but, on this occasion for Hassan, there was an extra special pleasure. As Belle's lips pressed repeatedly up and down the length of his organ, he dwelt on the fact that this girl had once been a real English lady. Spoilt and pampered. Arrogant in her authority. Just the type to whom his ancestors had been in servitude. Now the roles were reversed and he was the black master, she the white slave.
Hassan felt the swirl of lust within him and the thickening of his flesh. Belle's hands rested on his thighs... and the contrast in colours was arresting. He felt her tongue begin to lick him, working assiduously from tip to root and back again. Yes... she had been well trained. He looked down at the bobbing blonde head... the smooth white shoulders and back... the swell of the curvaceous hindquarters. What torments this lovely, proud creature must have been subjected to that she was now so servilely humble and obedient!
With eyes almost closed and delicate nostrils flaring, Belle continued to tongue Hassan until he came to full erection. Ten solid inches of black prick! She felt it throb and jerk as she kissed and tongued incessantly ... and, for good measure, she slavishly kissed Hassan's balls as well!
Then, knowing the moment was right, Belle took the massive root in her hand and slipped the knob into her mouth and began to suck avidly. Hassan grinned. It felt good. Gradually Belle took all she could into her mouth... desperately fighting down sensations of nausea as the knob went to the back of her throat. She knew (had she not been taught?) that half measures were never enough... so she gave all in her efforts to satisfy. Whenever she felt like flagging the ever-present threat of punishment drove her on.
Only at one moment did she falter briefly... when a thought seared through her mind: 'I... I, Lady Isabel Dysart... am sucking a nigger's prick!' Impossible... but true! Oh God... oh God... oh God! Keep on... you must keep on... you must... you must!
And, to recover her will and resolution, Belle thought of being whipped by Miss Vesta. Mercilessly whipped. That was sufficient to give her the strength to continue!
The pleasure in Hassan mounted steadily and, to heighten it, he began to fondle Belle's lush breasts. They felt very, very good.
"You've got a couple of beauties here, haven't you, my girl?" he said.
Needless to say, Belle was too occupied to give an answer. To be mauled and used, that was her fate. As a slave she must accept it.
How long, wondered Hassan, can I let this continue? Waves of lust were rippling through him... and the thought of unleashing himself into this girl's sucking mouth was almost irresistible. But no... no... he must not. Another time... yes... yes. But this time, he wanted to give her a solid fucking. To truly assert mastery. So that's what he would do...
He let his lovely victim continue her ministrations until he was on the verge of an orgasm then, taking her by the blonde hair, he eased her up off him. Eyes a little glazed, she was panting. The wet mouth slack. She was dribbling. Yet still her beauty shone through.
"Not bad, my pretty slave," grinned Hassan. "You have learnt well. Shortly we shall see if you use your other charms equally well. How do you like the thought of having this up you?" He indicated his quivering root.
Belle's throat worked convulsively. "I... I am... honoured... M-Master..." she said hoarsely.
It was one of the required answers to such a question, so Belle, the slave, made it... regardless of her true feelings. Hassan stood up, looking even more formidable.
"Get on the couch, girl," he ordered.
Belle crawled to the couch. There was not a moment's delay, but the tension within her, and the effort required, were evident by the way she trembled.
"On your hands and knees... and backside well up..." came the next order.
Again Belle obeyed, thrusting up her shapely naked bottom abjectly. It was an order she had obeyed often enough prior to getting a thrashing. This time she was to get something different. Less painful, maybe, but scarcely less horrifying for one of her proud temperament. Or should one say once-proud? Not quite, perhaps, for despite everything, there was still some remnants of pride in Belle ... and these flared up cruelly with knowledge that her body was about to be ravaged by this giant black. What was more, she would not be allowed to be just a complacent receiver of his a****l lust; she would have to give herself co-operatively to him to gratify his full pleasure.
Hassan surveyed 'Her Ladyship's' quivering bottom. It lost nothing in charm on account of its pink-red mottled appearance, due to his hearty slapping. Above all, it was delightful to know that it was his. To enjoy as and when he pleased. "Open your legs," he ordered.
The long, tapering thighs parted ... to display even more blatantly the twin passages open to him. What, he wondered, would some of her erstwhile friends have thought if they could have seen her now! They would scarcely have believed the evidence of their own eyes, for sure. Which passage would he enjoy? The decision was his, absolutely. He came up on to the couch and gently fingered the provocatively pouting lips. That would be his way on this first occasion. Belle shivered tensely at his touch and a little whimper came from her. But all the same she kept herself fully proffered. As she must.
"I am going to fuck you," said Hassan. "For the first time. And remember, slave, I shall fuck you again and again whenever the mood takes me. Because, from now on, that is your main function in life. Put simply, it is to please and satisfy those who own you. Is that quite clear?"
"Y-Yes, Master..." answered Belle. She momentarily unclenched her teeth to answer. What a fight it was to control herself... and keep submissive. As she must... Yes... as she must! No matter how vile the demands made upon her. Yes... yes... she must!
Hassan took his massive root in his hands and used it to part the ripe lips. Then he ran his knob up and down between their velvet warmth. It was a delicious sensation ... and he prolonged it for as long as he was able. All the time Belle shivered uncontrollably.
Then, suddenly, Hassan seized the girl's flanks. As he pulled on them, he thrust in simultaneously. He thrust in with a deliberate brutality, his belly thumping against the soft nates, his ramrod penis stretching and filling his victim to the limit.
Belle uttered a gasping-wailing cry as the solid length ravaged her painfully ... and she squirmed and squirmed frantically. Much to Hassan's enjoyment. Grinning delightedly, he remained rammed within her for a full minute, whilst he savoured the delights of possession. How tight she was! How silky smooth! How even more delightful she would be when she was hot!
"How does that feel, your Ladyship?" enquired Hassan. Deliberately, cruelly, in that moment he wished to remind Belle the slave of her former, once-proud status. "How does it feel to have a black man's cock up you?"
"M-Master... M-M-Master..." was all Belle could gasp in reply.
"Yes... I am your Master," replied Hassan, "but I asked you a question, slave."
"M-Master... you... you are s-so... big... so... s-strong," answered Belle in a choking voice.
"Lucky you, eh?" grinned Hassan. Then, at the end of that prolonged minute, he withdrew slowly until only his knob was immersed. He remained poised for a few seconds and then rammed back hard and fast again. There was another high-pitched gasp from Belle, though not so loud this time, and she squirmed convulsively.
Almost immediately, Hassan withdrew slowly again ... before ramming home brutally once more... and in this slow methodical fashion he proceeded for something like five minutes or more. Little gasps and moans came repeatedly from Belle, who never ceased to squirm with each vigorous inward thrust. And all the time the smooth, silky feel of her passage increased. Slowly but surely. And, with it, so did Hassan's lustful pleasure.
Almost imperceptibly he began to increase the rhythm ... and Belle's swinging haunches kept pace. Hassan felt the tight-gripping of her as he withdrew and the yielding succulence as he re-entered. She was, as she must be, fully co-operative; giving all to satisfy him to the limit.
Before long, Hassan heard Belle beginning to pant hoarsely and a grin appeared again on his face. This was one of the supreme moments. When he truly conquered. When it was no longer a case of her submitting slavishly... but when her own roused lust took command of her. When there was no question any more of pride. Just simply sex.
"You love it, my beauty... eh? You love it, don't you?" demanded Hassan, thrusting ever faster and ever more vigorously with his weapon.
"Y-Yer... ess... y-yess... sss... M-Master... yes... sss," panted Belle.
Now the massive organ which had initially horrified and shocked with its ravishment had become something else. A magic shaft which sent her soaring up into exquisite realms! Something she never wanted to stop pounding into her. Something that must not stop.
Hassan, exulting in his complete mastery (first enforced, and now fully accepted, he knew) brought Belle to a jelly-quivering climax. She moaned and whimpered as she twisted and turned under him, gripped by the fierceness of her orgasm. He, however, did not yet release himself and, for three or four more minutes he revelled in the liquid-hot, wriggling-velvet delights of the slave he possessed so absolutely. And, as he brought himself to a thunderous peak, Belle, gasping out joyfully, climaxed for a second time.
She, half-fainting, felt the massive organ jerking in her as Hassan jetted his lust furiously again and again and knew herself to be a true and complete ... slave at last. Crushed by the sweating black nakedness, drained of all strength, she could only whimper her acceptance of the fact.
"M-Master... I... am your slave... your slave... your slave," she kept on repeating.
And, this time, though she may have said it often enough before, she really meant it!
Grace
- 03.11.2022
- 9
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