Friday, July 8, 2011

'96 Months' IV

Abdul had a heavy hand on my next visit to the court house. The doctor must have briefed him about the condition of my backside. He was merciless and my audience applauded enthusiastically.

Afterward, on the inspection table I gently sucked his erection while he held my breasts.

"Are you ready for me, Little One?"

Without releasing his phalanx from my mouth, I nodded. It was not possible to refuse. I knew he could use me in any manner he wished.

He stepped back and withdrew his penis. He was amazingly large and I cringed with the thought of him impaling me.

"Put your head down on the table. Spread nice and wide. Yes. That’s it. You’re training is going very well."

Abdul smoothed the salve from my buttocks on his fingers and lubricated my rectum. His manhood pressured my backside and, as I had learned over the past few weeks with the anal insertion, I relaxed my opening and took him inside me. He was strong. He grabbed a hand full of hair with his left hand to steady himself and control our motions. His right reached around my thigh and played with my pussy.

"If you are good, Little One, I will bring you to climax. Your caned buttocks are hot and the reddened flesh gives me pleasure. Perhaps I will have a mirror put in here so you can see yourself, a totally subjugated, well caned European woman being rutted like an animal. You’ll come to like it and beg for it. But only after the canings and after you have pleased me. You must earn what little pleasure I will allow you."

His mammoth cock stretched me to the limits. But his right hand expertly worked my pussy. I groaned in pleasure and pain. It had been months since I had touched myself. It was a strangely pleasant sensation. He stroked and stroked. Withdrawing to the point where I could feel the head of his cock at my sphincter. Then he plunged in again. Then he completely withdrew.

"I always like to allow the rectum to relax and shrink a little. Then we start again. Such technique will make your backside very accommodating over time."

During the pause I was in a funk. So close to the orgasm I desperately needed but could not bring off.

Finally he plunged in again and my anus greeted his erection much more easily.

"Oh, yes. You’re going to be quite a toy. Soon you’ll look forward to these sessions and humbly squeeze your cheeks for my enjoyment."

His hand was again working my pussy. Two fingers were inserted. They rubbed, wriggled, frigged. Finally, I could feel his impending ejaculation.

"Squeeze, Little One, and Abdul will repay you."

I did and felt him release his load. Simultaneously, he hooked his fingers and found my spot. Abdul knew a woman’s anatomy better than most women. For the first time ever, I felt liquid squirt from my pussy and an overpowering rush of pleasure. I had read about the ability of some women to ejaculate but had never done it. Now, at the hands of my flagellator, I gushed in the most humiliating position. Abdul withdrew and laughed.

"Don’t think you’ll get that treatment every time, Little One. I save it for special occasions."

My strength gave out. I could not remain kneeling and slipped to my belly on the table. I was in a glow. Abdul picked up my head by the hair and I dutifully licked him clean. I was to learn he considered good it manners after anal penetration.


Abdul gave orders that I was to be constantly blind folded and either cuffed or pilloried. Also, he added to my frustration by having a guard feather fuck me every evening. Just the slightest touching of my lips and clitoris with a small feather. I mentally screamed for relief. Abdul was right. In spite of the brutal canings and the painful stretching of my backside, I looked forward to my future visits with him.


The sheet on the wall indicated that I had been caned 56 times. I dreaded that time passed so slowly, except for the first of the month. Then I wanted it to stop while I knelt on the table before Abdul, waiting to be caned. On that eleventh month, Abdul announced that the "A" frame would no longer be appropriate. As I was led down the aisle with the crowd gaping at my naked body I saw that a brass bar was placed on the stage. It was some three feet high and was positioned between two posts. The guards had me bend over it at the waist and when my ankles were secured to the posts they no longer touched the floor. My wrists were restrained behind my back and my head was pulled downward and the neck collar was secured to a ring on the floor.

Abdul had determined that my skin was toughening from the repeated canings. The new position of being bent over stretched the skin on my buttocks and would therefore provide for more pain. He was right of course. The padding on my cheeks stretched and each stroke seemed to explode with renewed vigor. This new position allowed me to view the audience for the first time. Although upside down, I was shocked to see my caning being videotaped. Abdul was particularly harsh on this occasion. I was humiliated when my bladder released for the camera.

Later, Abdul told me that a complete video archive of all my canings was kept and was a matter of public record.


Abdul did not always use me anally. He began to teach me how to take his entire erection in my mouth and throat. It took great patience and concentration. I was allowed to lie on my back and hang my head off the end of the table to afford the appropriate angle of penetration. But I learned. And Abdul played with my breasts during sessions as I tried very hard to please him.


With the sheet indicating some 113 strokes of the caning, I pondered my situation as I lay secured in the pillory waiting to be taken to the doctor. I was no longer anally impaled, having been opened to Abdul’s satisfaction. Abdul still had me kept blindfolded with hands restrained most of the time. And the nightly torment with the feather continued. About twice a week, Solana visited very late at night. I vicariously received some degree of pleasure by feasting between her thighs. I enjoyed serving her, although her preference for having me perform analingus was becoming stronger.

Abdul had my diet changed. My daily bread was now soaked in some type of oil. The doctor told me it would keep my skin soft and supple and permanent damage from the cane would be minimized.

Tomorrow would be another visit with Abdul. The fear, the humiliation, the pain. All these thoughts were diminished by the pleasurable hope that after the exhibition, Abdul would use my backside and bring me to orgasm with his fingers. It had been months.


The preparation room had been newly outfitted with mirrors. Kneeling on the table I could see my naked, hairless body from several angles. The spectacle of my canings must be quite salacious, I thought. No wonder the chamber was always filled. My flattened stomach accentuated the size of my breasts and kneeling with thighs widely spread and buttocks pointed, as Abdul insisted, caused my nipples to harden as I looked at my reflection from the side.

On this day, I would again be mounted on the brass bar. But first there was the ritual of filling my bladder. The guard held a fourth glass to my lips and I drank. Abdul had told me that the drama of watching my bladder release on stage provided the crowd with great entertainment, and was a good indicator of the severity of the caning. The thwack of the cane violating my flesh and sight of the welts was not enough.

With the local newspaper prominently announcing my scheduled executions, the crowds had become larger and larger. It was apparently part of Islamic law or tradition that citizens were permitted to satisfy themselves that convicts were indeed being punished. So, another step of the ritual was added so that any citizen who could not be seated in the chamber, could inspect me afterward.

After punishment and the meeting with Abdul, I was taken to a courtyard within the judicial building. There, for all to see I would stand on my toes with my wrists strung high over my head. It was a public area and those who could not witness my punishment could idle by and inspect me.

The humiliation was overwhelming, for on many occasions I could feel Abdul’s spendings dripping down the inside of my thigh. Most times the men did not notice these tracings, but the Arab women were quick to point out how I had been used with their laughter and comments in Arabic.

The rules did not allow anyone to touch me. But late in the day when few people were watching, money changed hands and the guards looked elsewhere as a curious hand probed my privates.

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