A Very Old Unfinished Story

In searching for some files, I came across this ancient story, begun in 2001, spurred by real events in Saudi Arabia... a nurse committing some crime and receiving a real sentence of 500 lashes. It predates all my published stuff. I have 'tidied' it up a bit but otherwise left it unedited for the most part. In rereading for the first time in ten years, I am amazed at the style. Choppy... written in past tense... the various genres quite mixed.

This is really not suitable for publication. For no matter the reader's choice of eroticism, there is sure to be something he/she does not like. Probably even some complete turn offs.

Which is a lesson I had to learn in offering stuff for publication, cohesiveness of theme.

You'll see what I mean as the story progresses.

And please... as always... comment. 

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96 Months
Copyright 2011

By Chris Bellows

The legal system in Islamic countries is most interesting. Secretive. Absolute. Harsh. I had an unfortunate education in Islamic law when I was accused of sexually abusing a young female patient. I don’t believe she understood the procedure I was attempting to perform. And in hindsight I should have explained it more. After all she was the daughter of a Prince.

Well, as a British nurse I thought I was insulated from Islamic culture. I was stationed in Saudi Arabia to help and heal the people. Such local customs didn’t concern me. I concerned myself with medical care. So when the young girl made the accusations, I explained it to my Arabian lawyer as a mis-communication. "Let’s just settle the matter as quickly as possible," I suggested.

He drew up a confession for my signature. What could happen? If the Saudi Arabian government no longer wanted my services, I would simply move back to England. I signed it and made the comment, "Let’s get on with it."

It was a mistake. The lawyer did not tell me that under Saudi sentencing procedures, confessions do not receive any more lenient consideration than a contested guilty verdict. I was shocked when the court mandated an eight year prison term and 500 lashes. 500 lashes! I knew very well that no one could endure 500 lashes, and the vision of being flogged to death preoccupied my mind as I was led from the court room. The eight years was meaningless to me at the time.

In a small meeting room in the court house I briefly met with my attorney for the last time. I was stunned and he did most of the talking.

"The 500 lashes will be executed over time," he explained. "Be obedient to all guards and particularly the flagellator. He has complete discretion over the method and timing of the sentence."

It was during this brief last counseling that I learned there was no appeal from a confession, and a confession could not be retracted. Was I set up? I don’t know. Who would do such a thing and why? It was my suggestion to settle as quickly as possible. And the reader can be assured that there is no such thing as legal malpractice in Saudi Arabia. And even if there was, what good would it do me? Such a suit would not ameliorate my sentence.

Two female guards entered the meeting room and I was led away in tears and in a funk. If my attorney was still talking, I can’t remember.

Justice is swift in Saudi Arabia. The guards took me down several flights of stairs to a preparation room. I was stripped and all my cavities searched for drugs, I imagine, or some weapon. It was during this search as I knelt naked on all fours on a table that the door opened and I met my flagellator for the first time. It was very embarrassing for my knees were well spread and one guard was probing my rectum with a gloved finger as this large man stood to my side and silently watched.

He was dark, well colored by the desert sun. He wore the lose, light and flowing clothing that was traditional in Arabic countries. He stood with his arms folded and it was evident that the guards feared and respected him.

"For you, little lady, it will be the cane."

He spoke good English but with an accent. His face was weathered but handsome. Rugged. Seasoned. I looked at his hands. Strong. Callused. He was in his forties and carried himself with self assurance.

"It will not cause scarring but will cause great pain."

He reached out and pinched my left buttock as he spoke.

"You have good flesh. It is important that there not be an abundance of scarring if you are to endure the 500 strokes."

When he touched me, I cringed but simultaneously felt a pleasant twinge between my legs. Kneeling naked and exposed before this swarthy Arab had its effect and although I was very preoccupied with thoughts of my flogging, I somehow was comforted that this large handsome man would be my executioner. He exuded experience and confidence. I remained silent.

"Every month of your sentence you will receive five strokes of the cane. Some times six. But at the end of your eight years the 500 strokes will be applied. There will be no appeals. No pardon. No clemency. It doesn’t matter whether or not you can withstand the pain, you will be caned."

His calm, steady but forceful voice calmed me yet frightened me.

"Prisoners are naked from the waist down when I flog them. I allow a protective belt to cover the area of the kidneys but it provides for a full display of the buttocks. You must follow my instructions to protect yourself. I prefer the "A" frame. Your wrists will be tied well above you at the apex. The ankles secured off the floor at the wide base. You will wear a large neck collar also secured to the frame. The cane will not break the skin if I don’t strike the same area twice. Therefore, you must remain still during the flogging. If you move, I may miss my mark and cause the cane to strike over a previous stripe. This will cause a severe welt and may even result in bleeding. I don’t think you want that. If it keeps reoccurring your buttocks will be extremely scarred at the end of the eight years."

In hindsight, I was somewhat fascinated at the professionalism. The man described my forthcoming execution as a surgeon would describe a delicate operation. It was strangely reassuring to me that he was so knowledgeable. He turned to speak to the guards.

"Fifteen minutes. Make sure she’s well watered."

He left the room. The guards brought a large glass of water. I drank as soft leather ankle cuffs were strapped on. Then a leather collar. Then another glass of water was brought. Then wrist cuffs were secured. Then a broad belt around my waist to protect my kidneys. Then more water.

Then we waited.

I was stunned with the speed of events. Only an hour ago I thought I would be deported back to England. Then, it was a Saudi Arabian prison for eight years.

Just as horrifying as the cane was the prospect of being flogged in public. It had not been mentioned by my lawyer, the court, the guards or my flagellator but I soon realized that the execution of all punishment in Saudi Arabia is open for public viewing. As one guard subsequently explained, the floggings are not so much for the reform of the prisoner as for the enjoyment of the masses. Well, word must have quickly spread within the courthouse as to my fate. For when the guards covered my torso with a cape and led me into a large chamber utilizing a long strap attached to the wrist cuffs, I was to see it half filled with people. I found out later that it was unusual for a woman to be flogged and therefore such an event attracted many viewers. I also learned that all court proceedings were suspended during the executions, allowing numerous lawyers, clerks and other employees an opportunity to survey the spectacle.

Well, the guards led me down the aisle of this chamber to a small stage. I walked passed rows and rows of benches. They were only half filled but that did not lessen my humiliation. I looked straight ahead and realized that I had to urinate. The guards tossed the strap over a pulley at the top of an "A" frame on the stage. My wrists were slowly raised over my head. A guard motioned for me to spread my legs and step up on wooden blocks at each side of the frame. I complied and the ankle cuffs were attached to the frame. Next came the collar, and I whispered to the nearest guard that I had to go to the bathroom. She just smiled.

"Abdul will be here soon."

I was facing away from my audience but realized that my naked buttocks were well displayed. When a guard kicked the blocks away from my feet, the restraints tightened and my weight hung proportionally from my wrists, neck and ankles. Several minutes passed. Strange voices laughed. Oddly, many were female.

Finally Abdul walked onto stage and inspected my restraints, adjusting here and there, smoothing his hand over my naked posterior.

"Point your buttocks toward the audience. It will position your muscles properly and provide me with the best target."

I had no choice but to place my confidence in him. He knew more about the necessary deportment of flogging and I was in no position to argue. I told him I had to urinate. He laughed.

"If you go into shock it is helpful that your body has adequate fluids, particularly in our climate. If you care to relieve yourself, go ahead."

Another taste of Islamic justice. Procedures were not to be altered, particularly at the request of a prisoner.

I began to tremble with fear and anticipation as Abdul turned to the audience and began reading what I presumed to be my sentence. The wait was unnerving. A guard pushed a flat piece of leather into my mouth. Abdul moved to my front cradling some cloth in his arms. He drew back the covering and revealed the cane. It was smaller than I had envisioned but I was soon to learn no less effective. He made me look at it for several moments. A ritual I would undergo time and time again. Finally he grasped the cane in his right hand and handed the cloth in his left to a guard.

"Five strokes today. Remember. Point your buttocks for me. Arch your back."

I complied. What choice did I have?

On many subsequent sleepless nights I think about that first stoke more than any other. The initial shock. The pain. The humiliation. It seared through my body and burned in my brain.

I also recall the timing. Abdul never rushed. He would step back after every stroke and revel in my reaction. It seemed like minutes until the next stroke. How did he know? How is it he knew that any one strapped to such a device would cry and plead to proceed with haste. Get on with it! I dared not spit out the leather bit. I only expelled air which made a strange guttural sound as it passed over my vocal chords.

Finally the second stroke. This one seemed to strike lower than the first and I was surprised to find it hurt as much as the first.

I recall the swishing sound. Seconds before the pain seared the sound came. I suppose I flinched in anticipation but how would any one know, completely restrained as I was. I screamed. I think. If I did, it was muffled by the bit.

The pause. Then the third stroke. Did I hear applause? Encouragement from the audience.

On the fourth stroke I lost control of my bladder. Liquid gushed to the floor of the small stage and I remember laughter, whistles, more applause. Why did that happen?

Abdul waited for the flow to stop and finished with a most powerful swish and loud splat.

I don’t recall how long I remained hanging. I was awake but time became irrelevant to my thoughts.

Reality returned in the small preparation room. The guards had placed me back on the table, kneeling. A position I was to learn very well over time. A salve was smoothed over my welts. It felt good. Smelling salts brought me back further. Abdul entered. The guards left without any words or direction.

"Very nice. You’ll be back here every month for many years. Based on what others have told me, you’ll never get used to it. But then, you’re not supposed to."

Abdul smoothed his hand over my wounds and then shockingly slipped two fingers into my pussy.

"You’re aroused. Don’t be surprised. It’s a natural reaction. But I caution you not to manipulate yourself. It is forbidden in Saudi Arabian prisons. The penalty for such action can be severe and permanent. You know that most Arabian women are trimmed. You don’t want that to happen to you."

He was stroking my pussy as he spoke. In spite of my ordeal I felt myself becoming excited and began to wriggle my hips. I turned and looked back at him and he smiled knowingly. Just before I reached climax he withdrew his fingers and moved to my front.

"We’re going to get along very well. I can tell you with confidence that you will begin to look forward to our monthly meetings."

Little did I realize how right he was.

He brushed his hands over my face. I could smell my own feminine odor on his fingers.

"Lick."

I cleaned his fingers with my tongue.

"There will be certain duties which I will allow you to perform. You won’t be forced. But you will benefit from performing them. Remember, I have much discretion over where and how hard you will be flogged. Today was quite moderate. In the future it can be severe. Your belly, your feet, your breasts."

With this last statement he gently palmed my tits. I cringed at the thought of the cane being applied to such an area of extreme sensitivity. If he intended to frightened me, he succeeded. As he toyed with me his robe parted. Intentionally? I do not know. But I looked down at the tip of his enormous manhood just peeking out. The message was received.

"Your will be taken to prison now. You will return here in a month for five more strokes."

He summoned the guards and left.