Cathy stared up at him, acutely aware of the hard cock bobbing there inches from her face as she looked into the Arab’s dark, cruel eyes. She was very afraid.
She did not dare to tell him the truth, that she was no whore, that she was simply a woman with as much right to seek and give pleasure as a man. In abandoning resistance for submission, Cathy had for the first time really looked at the man who was her captor. That had gained her enough insight about this man who she now called “Master” to realized that the Arab wanted to hear “his” truth, not the truth. He wanted to hear her say that she was a whore. So, that is what she must tell him.
To avoid another gang rape, she would become anything he wished her to be. But before answering him, she had to guess what kind of whore it was that he wished her to be. The frightened, confused young female Captain had to decide whether he wished her to be a common whore who fucked men for money or a whore who fucked her superiors for promotion before she responded. She chose the later.
” I was a whore for my senior officers, Master.
I fucked colonels and a general.”
The Arab smiled at down at her, apparently pleased with her response. He continued to hold her head still with his left hand while he took his erect cock in his other hand. He slowly rubbed his cock’s head over Cathy’s cheeks and then across her lips, stroking her face with it, the strong scent of his cock filing her nostrils. Holding it at the base, the Arab began to strike Cathy’s face with its fleshy head.
The sound of his rock hard cock flesh slapping her cheeks echoed in the absolute silence of the small room as he spoke.
” I am pleased to hear your words, Cathy. Kehalis will not be so pleased though. I understand a woman servicing the man in authority over her. It is God’s will that women submit themselves to men, even in your degenerate land. But a women.. a whore.. who trades sex for money disgust me. She is an abhorrence to the eyes of the righteous.
If you had been such a whore, I would have given you to him and his men. The same men who raped you last night. Given, not just allowed them to use your body without really hurting you as was I did last night. Given you to them to do with as they wished. You are most fortunate that I chose to take you under my protection, slave.
If I were not here to protect you, do you know what those men would do to a Western whore like you? A beautiful , blonde Western whore who wore the uniform of their enemy. ”
Cathy shuttered, the images of what they had already done last night filling her mind. She could only numbly shake her head in response. Ignoring her lack of response, the Arab continued speaking.
He also continued rubbing his cock head across her face as he spoke.
” Another rape like last night would be only the beginning. It would be much worse for you without me there to protect you. They would all use you, all ten of them. First again like before like a boy and then, when your bottom was no longer tight enough to please them, they would take you like a woman. Once you were too used to stir even their desire any longer, they would certainly kill you. But not quickly.
They are a cruel people, as cruel as their land, even if they are a people of the Book. In their minds, an enemy God is so gracious as to deliver into their hands, especially an infidel like you, is one meant to be slowly tortured to death. They would find as much pleasure in torturing you, in seeing your pain, as they would in raping you.
At night, around the fire, these men enjoy telling stories of how their grandfathers and great grandfathers used to torture Englishmen they had captured long ago when this land was ruled by the English. I think that the Pashtoons miss the English. Their fathers’ had the occasional Russian to torture, but according to the Poshtoons they were not of the same….. quality. These men have never had any opportunity to use their skills on Westerns. Until God delivered you into my hands.
If I allow them, they would be very imaginative in how the killed you. Very imaginative!”
As he spoke, he continued to rub his cock head over her face, now rubbing it against her soft cheeks and parted full lips, pressing his cock firmly against her face, its flesh warm and pungent.
” There was the story they told me about one Englishman, a Captain like you once were, Cathy. Once they had finished taking their pleasures from him, he was staked out naked on the rocky ground.
It was summer here, a time of great heat I am told. Besides the stakes holding his hands and feet, two stakes were driven into the ground, one on each side of his head, to force him to stare up, into the sun. Then they carefully cut away his eyelids without harming his eyes themselves, so that he could not close his eyes to protect them from the sun, but had to stare endlessly into its brightness. When they had done that, they had one more thing to do. They forced his mouth open very wide.
The Poshtoons carved a stick forked at both ends which they wedged one end against the teeth of his upper jaw and the other end against the teeth of his lower jaw, so that he could not close his mouth. Then they sat and watched him, watching the sun burn his eyes away, watching it burn his naked body to a dark red and beyond, listening to his moans as they would to a musical instrument.
They sat around him all this time, drinking tea and talking among themselves, comfortable in the shade, as they watched him suffered. After a while, perhaps the second day, perhaps the third, after he became quiet, they would kick him in his manhood. They would compete to see whose kick could provoke the loudest scream from the bound Captain. As they tortured him, they were careful not to let him die of thirst. That would have been too quick for the Poshtoons.
Nor did they simply give him water to keep him alive. That would have been too merciful. To keep the Englishman alive and aware of his pain, they gave him liquid by relieving themselves in his open mouth, the forked stick keeping his mouth open, forcing him to swallow their foul urine. No doubt his own people have long forgotten the Englishman since this happened 70 or more years ago.
But the Poshtoons have kept his memory very alive in their stories, or at least kept alive the memory of his long and painful death. I wonder how long you would last under their torture , Cathy. If I allowed them to have you. Would their grandchildren still tell and retell the story of your death in 70 years?”
Thoroughly terrified by the man’s words, Cathy could not keep back her tears.
They streamed down her face as the horrible image of suffering the dark man had described came alive in her mind’s eye. But it was not the male body of the English Captain she saw being tortured. She saw herself in that Englishman’s place; saw her naked body staked out in the sun, saw herself cruelly blinded by the burning sun, saw her female body – the body she was so proud of – slowly burned beyond recognition by that relentless sun.