'96 Months' VI

Days after returning to prison, I was taken to the doctor and given a full examination. He also carefully measured various areas of my body with a tape measure and recorded the circumference of my neck, wrists, biceps just above the elbow, ankles, thighs just above the knees and waist. He commented on how much he would miss me, as the trimmed Arab girls were no where near as much enjoyment as a full lipped European. I kept silent and made a note to thank the Princess for my deliverance from the cruel doctor.

That night Solana squatted over my face and I tasted her flesh for the last time. I would miss her.

The next morning I was taken from the prison and placed stripped naked into a limousine with my wrists tied in back of me. Princess Rosanna was in the back seat and guided me to the floor of the car.

"Kneel. We have an appointment and then we’ll go right to the farm. Your sentence has been commuted from eight years in prison to time served. However, you’re on lifetime parole in my custody. As discussed, the 500 lashes stand."

I kissed her feet in gratitude.

"Remember. If you violate parole, I will send you back to prison. None of the time spent at the farm will count toward your sentence."

It was an interesting situation. I would never see England again unless I went back and completed my sentence. Thoughts of escaping from the farm entered my mind. How secure could it be compared to the prison?

The limousine stopped on the outskirts of the city in an industrial area. The driver, a black woman, honked the horn in front of the overhead doors of a warehouse. The doors slowly opened and the car drove into a dank, hot, dust covered steel hut.

Princess Rosanna helped me from the car. A large, burly, Arab stood staring at me, then motioned me to a table. For whatever reason, I immediately got up on the table and knelt, fully displaying my genitalia. The Arab laughed. Princess Rosanna smiled and released my wrists.

"I’m having you shackled, Little One. The farm is 100 miles from the nearest city, so escape is difficult. But I have a certain proclivity for restraint. Severe and complete restraint."

She nodded to the Arab. The powerful black woman who was driving stood on the opposite side of the table. She also smiled.

"These trinkets cost a lot of money. Custom made of tungsten steel. You’ll find them quite heavy."

The Arab slipped a broad manacle over my right wrist, then closed it with a clasp.

"Almost impossible to cut without special tools."

The manacle was somewhat lose and could be slipped up and down my forearm about three or four inches. The Arab slid a protective piece of leather under the manacle and touched the clasp with a welding rod. The quick, bright spark frightened me.

"Mohammed has spent much time crafting these items. You’ll find the surface to be smooth and it won’t irritate your skin."

The left wrist was quickly encircled. Then my biceps, ankles, thighs, neck, and finally my waist. All were welded shut Each band of steel had several eye hooks attached to it. The number of different ropes, cords, thongs and chains etc. that could be used to secure the bands and therefore my body was countless. When finished, I stepped off the table as commanded, but fell to the floor. The added weight of the "trinkets", as the Princess referred to them, was enormous. All laughed at my struggles.

"You’re 110 pounds and are carrying about 30 pounds of steel. I can attach additional weights to the eye hooks, if necessary. So, any plans to escape across the desert will be very tiring. Also, you’ll find that the steel gets very hot in the sun. Don’t think about long walks in the desert."

We got back into the car for the two hour trip to the farm. Princess Rosanna clipped the steel arm bands together connecting my elbows behind me. This caused me to thrust out my breasts and the Princess toyed with them as I knelt. We watched miles of sand pass by the window and she talked about herself and the farm.

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An oasis is a most unusual place. Water makes all the difference between sand and dust and lush green vegetation. Princess Rosanna had inherited the oasis/farm from her father. It was not the most valuable asset he had owned, but in the Islamic culture to bequeath anything to a daughter is very rare. It seems the Princess’s father knew of her odd propensities and felt it better that she be isolated. And, she had never married. This was odd for Saudi royalty. But as I learned more about the Princess I understood her celibacy.

The twenty acres were filled with palm trees and dense reeds and grass. Paths had been cut through but from where the large black woman parked the limousine, no buildings could be seen.

We stepped out. Princess Rosanna walked ahead. The black woman, I later learned her name was Lantita, snapped a leash on my collar.

The Princess paused and looked back.

"Just until you get used to being here we’ll keep you carefully restrained. After you have learned the rules you’ll have more freedom when I’m not present."

Lantita led me through the tall grasses. Within minutes a house appeared. It was white stucco. One story. A thatched roof, presumably made from the grasses grown at the oasis. Modest in design but large. Another building a short distance away was taller but not as spacious. Lantita referred to it as the stable.

As we approached the house two young teenagers ran toward us from the porch. They were naked with blond hair shaped in the style of a page boy. Similar in appearance from a distance, I was surprised to see that one was a girl and one was a boy. Except that as I looked closely, the boy had been gelded. Both smiled and ran to the Princess with open arms. They were short in stature and the top of their heads only reached to the Princess’s shoulder. They both hugged her.

"Well, children, we have someone to play with."

She introduced me as Nurse Hopkins. I hadn’t heard my name in a long while and it sounded foreign. She put her arms around the necks of the two and we all proceeded to the house.

'96 Months' V

The entertainment factor was indeed an important element of the floggings. Abdul took to hanging me upside down with my ankles well spread by a steel bar. Facing the spectators I received five short but sharp strokes to my labia. Other times it was my breasts. He obviously restrained himself, but the pain was unbearable and the audience thoroughly enjoyed watching me lose control of my bladder in such a position. Abdul referred to the scene as turning on my fountain.

"Don’t turn on your fountain too soon," he would admonish.

After an upside down beating, I would be quickly dosed with water before being led back to the preparation room. Abdul had stopped fingering me and my frustration was building with the featherings at the prison. I begged for relief. But he reminded I was to be punished, not afforded pleasure.

Finally, on one occasion while he vigorously sodomized my back passage, I broke down and asked for more strokes of the cane.

"Yes, Little One. You may have more. But it will not count toward your sentence."

Abdul then produced a short thin cane and from that time on, he would stroke the front and sides of my thighs, breasts and stomach while I knelt on the table and he used me anally.

On the third occasion of these extra blows, I climaxed as his massive organ stretched my rear passage and he delivered a short crisp stroke to my right breast. It was a strong orgasm and I actually squirted some clear liquid on the table. The months of built up frustration and the constant torment had taken its toll. It seems that psychologically, for me pain had become some form of pleasure and I gratefully tightened my sphincter around Abdul’s thrusting manhood. He grunted with the new sensation and unloaded his semen while striking my left breast. I in turn climaxed again. When he withdrew, I collapsed on the table.

"So, Little One. It has finally happened. We have transformed you into a true masochist. From now on that is how you will have it. You will bring yourself to orgasm under the cane."

And so it was, until one month, I believe it was after some 180 strokes, a well dressed Arab woman was waiting in the preparation room after my punishment. This short time after the caning and before being put on display was special to me. A monthly private meeting with Abdul where, under his experienced hand, I would be allowed relief, however painful. I was therefore apprehensive about her presence.

"I have read about you in the newspaper and came to watch close up. You put on quite a show. I’m Princess Rosanna."

I climbed unto the table as she spoke. The guards no longer had to give me any instructions and I lowered my head and spread myself very wide to await Abdul.

The woman was strongly built. Handsome. About 35. A hint of gray hair glinted in front.

"My, you are subservient for a European girl. Leave us for a minute. Tell Abdul I’m with her."

She spoke sharply to the guards. The authority she commanded surprised me.

The guards left and the Princess moved closer to the front of the table. She wiped the remnants of tears from my cheeks. What followed was a thorough interview concerning me, my education, training, how I felt about my trial, sentence, punishment, etc. I surprised myself by answering even the most intimate questions honestly and completely. I didn’t know whether it was because of my new found subjugation, or her regal manner. As she asked questions, she circled the table, smoothing her hands over my naked flesh, squeezing, kneading, pinching. Abdul had caned my labia and she marveled at his skill and my ability to withstand the torment. She parted my buttocks and probed with two fingers.

"You have been well used here. I’ve felt Arab whores who are tighter. Is it Abdul who services you here? I don’t think you can receive such treatment in prison, unless the women guards are using a bottle on you."

I reluctantly told her of Abdul’s proclivities, hoping that my acknowledgment would not cause my only recreational activity to cease.

"It’s a common practice for Arab men to use a girl in such a manner. To use boys, too. So it is of no concern."

She returned to the front after washing her hands.

"I run a breeding farm about two hours from here. It’s in the desert at an oasis. Twenty acres of lush green palm trees in the middle of hot barren sand. It’s a lonely life style. I have servants, my livestock, an occasional visitor. But I need entertainment. I’m not a lesbian. But someone like you could be very amusing. I have influence. I am confident that I can have your prison time commuted. Your canings would continue. I don’t know if you realize it but you’ve become quite infamous. No connections that I have could curtail the monthly spectacle of you being caned naked before the public. The people have come to look forward to your monthly travails. But I can have you removed from prison. You’ll be driven here from my farm every month, caned and then returned."

She paused. I thought. The prison was unbearable. I was in solitary confinement most of the time except for showering and the examinations from the sadistic doctor.

"I need your permission. The British consulate is very interested in your welfare. Though due to the nature of your crime they have been publicly silent. But any change in your status is reported to them. They’ll be checking on both you and me if you’re moved."

I readily agreed to the arrangement. I could not face five more years of prison.

"Good. I’ll make the arrangements. In a few days you’ll be taken from the prison and specially prepared for the farm."

Abdul entered and bowed to the Princess. She must have been very influential. I couldn’t recall Abdul ever bowing to any one. They talked while Abdul lubricated me. I was afraid the Princess was going to watch Abdul take me. I was relieved when she left.

'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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

'96 Months' III

I waited in the preparation room kneeling naked on fours. A guard kept giving me water to drink. Finally, Abdul entered.

"Good afternoon, little one. I’ve just finished flogging a boy. He screamed and wriggled vigorously and I enjoyed excoriating him. So, I am ready for you."

Once again he toyed with my pussy. It had been a month of sexual abstinence and his touch felt good. He knew a woman’s anatomy surprisingly well.

"Remember the rules. Stay still. Point your buttocks."

He motioned to the guard for more water. It was my fifth glass.

"Today you will be completely naked. It is very hot. You will be more comfortable."

I finished the water as the ankle cuffs were attached. Neck collar next. Then after I finished the water the wrist cuffs. The wrists were hooked together and the long strap attached. No cape covering my torso. No belt to protect my kidneys. I was completely nude when led off the table down the hall. I entered the chamber. It was packed full. I stared straight ahead in fear.

I was later to learn that the execution of floggings are announced in the local newspaper. And when readers see the name of a European women they flock to the chamber and in some instances fight to get a seat.

Abdul did his thing. Reading my sentence. Showing me the instrument of punishment. He was harsh. I screamed into the leather gag. On the fifth stroke my bladder opened. The crowd cheered. The guards released me.

Back in the preparation room I resumed my position on the table without any direction from the guard. The cuffs and collar were removed and Abdul returned. A salve was applied to the welts as Abdul inspected his work.

"You were very good today, little one. Better than the boy."

Again his fingers played but this time after lubricating them on my feminine wetness they moved up and poked my sphincter. He worked his fingers in. One then two. I gasped when he attempted a third.

"Open for me. Be good or our next meeting will be very difficult."

Did I have a choice? His other hand began to work my pussy and I surrendered. I put my head down on the table, moved my knees even further apart and pushed my cheeks up. He worked both my passages and although my buttocks flamed I felt myself moving to the rhythm of his magical fingers. He detected my impending climax and stopped.

"No, little one. You will remain without gratification. It will focus your thoughts."

He carefully withdrew his hands and moved to my front. Again his robe parted. More deliberate this time and his manhood poked through the opening. It was fairly erect and becoming stiffer.

"I have been quite reasonable with your floggings. I do have complete discretion over you. The cane to your buttocks is painful. But you should consider if I indeed demonstrated its use on the bottom of your feet as I have suggested."

I needed to hear no more. His erect penis was within two inches of my mouth. I took it between my lips and sucked gently. He grabbed my ears and gave me a long lesson in fellatio.

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Back to my prison cell. The guard placed a red "X" through the second "5" on the poster. Only 490 more strokes. Abdul gave special instructions for me to remain with my wrists cuffed behind me all day. He knew I was quite excited and wanted to make sure I did not masturbate.

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The following day the guard placed the pillory in my cell. I put it on but was confused since it was not shower day. The guard opened the large door. I crawled out and was led me down the hall where I lined up behind the other prisoners. We stood very close together and I pushed my mound against the buttocks of the girl in front of me. Her smooth warm skin felt good. She must have been equally frustrated for she pushed back and wriggled against me. A guard walked by and we curtailed our movement.

One by one the prisoners were called into a room. It was finally my turn and a door was opened and I was directed into a room. It was the prison infirmary. A doctor was checking the prisoners in a standard medical examination.

As a nurse I knew the routine. The urine sample was somewhat humiliating. The doctor held a beaker between my thighs as I concentrated to comply with his request. Otherwise there was a breast examination, eyes, nose, throat. Many questions. A thorough pelvic examination where I became noticeably aroused. Then, with my feet on the floor and bent over the examining table, a rectal exam.

"Spread widely please."

He pinched my buttocks and commented on Abdul’s expertise with the cane.

"No scars. Some welts. When were you last caned?"

I told him yesterday and he seemed surprised.

"You heal quickly and your flesh withstands the strokes nicely. I’m going to recommend to Abdul that he can increase the severity. He’s probably overly concerned about your fine white European skin."

As he spoke his gloved fingers probed my rectum. As with Abdul, the doctor began with one finger, then two, then began working in three.

"You are too tight here. In the Arab world that is not good for a woman. If a man wants to use your backside, you may be torn. As a nurse you know that such an injury can be very painful and difficult to suture."

His three fingers were fully inserted. He worked them back and forth, then twisted. I grunted with discomfort, although I did feel some twinge of excitement in my pussy. We both understood that a fourth finger would not be possible.

"We will work on this. Abdul wants you opened and it will be better for you."

The doctor withdrew his fingers, walked to a cabinet and withdrew some equipment. While he was working to adjust some odd device, I decided to attempt a ploy. I complained of vaginal itching. Normally some type of cream lotion is prescribed which when applied to the genitalia of many women, becomes medically sanctioned masturbation. The doctor listened and smiled knowingly.

"We occasionally get such complaints from new prisoners. I have just the solution."

He returned to the table where I remained standing with feet well spread, bent at the waist and my stomach on the table.

"This is a standard insertion that we use to the begin the process. The guards will help you with it when you need to the move your bowels."

As he spoke he lubricated a large shiny metal dildo. At its base was a metal flange with three holes. Through the holes were leather straps. It was obvious that the sizable insertion would be well secured after it impaled my backside.

"Relax for me. This will be tight."

It was. I grimaced with the pain as the large cylinder was slowly inserted. It felt like a telephone pole.

"After a week we’ll go with a larger one. Then move up from there. This is the smallest of the set."
It was hard for me to believe it was the smallest. I guess I was tight compared to the Arab girls.

The doctor instructed me to get up from the table. I felt full and bloated with the steel cylinder filling my colon and stretching my sphincter. The three straps were secured. One came up between my cheeks then split around my hips and the ends were tied together at my belly. The others encircled each thigh and the ends tied together just below the hip on the left and right.

"Walk for me."

It was difficult and the doctor watched with amusement. The straps around my thighs caused the insertion to move with each step. An interesting reminder of my submission and new role in life.
Satisfied, the doctor instructed me to carefully lie back on the table.

"We’ll take care of that vaginal itch."

The doctor put on new gloves.

"Feet in the stirrups."

I was spread wide open as he smeared a cream lotion on the fingers of the glove.

"I’ve found this to be very effective. No prisoner has complained of an itch after I’ve applied this lotion."
He gently massaged in the lotion. It felt wonderful. Months of sexual frustration were ending. My juices began to flow, then I felt a burning sensation. The doctor noticed my concern.

"It has some spice in it. Lie back and enjoy."

He strapped my ankles to the stirrups then moved to stand beside me at the head of the table.
"Perhaps your nipples also?"

I pleaded with him but to no avail. The spiced lotion was applied and the sadistic doctor stood over my head holding onto the wooden pillory while I writhed in agony.

"Yes, we have very few complaints about vaginal itching after I apply the lotion. It is an amazing cure, is it not?"

Tears rolled down my cheeks while the doctor calmly watched my reaction to the burning pain.

"You will learn that you are here to be punished and to serve Abdul. All other thoughts, including those of self gratification, should be put out of your mind. Think of how you can best please Abdul. Then be ready for your next caning. He has been very lenient with you. If he chose, he could apply the remaining strokes tomorrow. You know you would not survive. I suggest you think of ways to return his kindness."

The burning slowly subsided. The doctor released my ankles and a guard led me back to my cell.

For the following weeks my wrists were restrained behind me throughout the day. I could not remove the insertion or touch myself. Each morning a guard removed the object so I could use the toilet. At the end of each week the doctor changed the cylinder to the next largest size. By the next scheduled caning I was wearing the fourth largest and was confident that Abdul would be pleased.

'96 Months' II

The Saudi government does not spend much money on prisons. The women’s prison was relatively new but of plain design. Concrete and steel bars. I was relieved of the cape I wore while traveling and placed naked in a solitary cell. The cell was some ten foot wide and deep but very low. I could not stand. Although the ceiling was high, bars had been placed about four feet off the floor across the cell preventing all but the shortest people from standing Three walls were concrete. No window. The fourth wall was comprised of steel bars from floor to ceiling and completely open to the corridor. The entrance way was a three foot high hinged set of bars which allowed the guard to lift so a prisoner could crawl in. Another smaller set of bars also opened to pass in food and a water bucket. There was no western style toilet. Only a hole in one corner which, once a week, was flushed with a bucket of water. I slept on a mat. Uncomfortable at first, but I became accustomed to it. Prison rules required that it be rolled up during the day. Therefore I learned to either sit on the concrete floor or squat.

Abdul was right about masturbation. It was strictly forbidden. The open bars did not provide for privacy and at night my wrists were cuffed. All the guards were female, but I learned that most of them had indeed been trimmed and therefore were envious of western women whose genitalia were intact. Countless times I was commanded to kneel with my backside pushed against the smaller opening so that a curious guard could inspect and play with my labia and clitoris.

Showers came once a week. I pillory device was slipped into the cell and the larger door would not be opened until I put it on. It was very basic but effective. Two boards some three feet long were attached by a hinge at one end. Three areas were cut into the boards, one for my neck, two for my wrists. It was tricky to learn how to put it on, but if I didn’t I would not be allowed out of my cell for a shower. The easiest method was to place the boards open on the floor, lie face up with my neck in the large opening and my left wrist in one small opening, then carefully reach with my right and fold the top board over, making sure the right wrist was aligned with the other opening as I lowered it. I would then remain lying on the floor until a guard reached in and padlocked the two ends opposite the hinge. Only then would the door be opened allowing me to crawl out. I was then allowed to walk to the shower room with my hands locked in the pillory which when I stood upright rested on my shoulders.

The weekly shower was my only recreation. The other prisoners were likewise pilloried and we showered at the same time in a large tiled room. We could touch and rub our bodies together. The human contact was comforting. It was during the weekly shower that we were shaved. Standing in line, one by one the prisoners would lie on a table where a nurse with a straight edge razor removed all body hair. The Arabic prisoners were curious about me. Most had been trimmed and therefore when I spread widely for the nurse the other girls would crowd the table to view my genitalia. When the nurse instructed me lift my knees to my chest and keep my thighs parted my little man would flash its head and the girls would murmur comments in Arabic.

The hair on our heads was also cut short. Occasionally the head of a recalcitrant prisoner was shorn for punishment.

Rules were strictly enforced at the prison. One morning I was late rolling up my mat and a guard merely motioned me to the small opening and placed a cloth sack over my head and recuffed my wrists. I was thus blindfolded, except for feeding for two days. I was exceptionally timely after that.

The food was bread and some rice. Once a day. Carefully rationed.

Yes. Abdul was right. The endless days of boredom would only be punctuated by the short trips back to the court house where I was caned. I counted the days. In an odd way I anticipated the excitement.

During my second week, a guard posted at large sheet on the wall outside of my cell. Printed on it were two long columns. One started with a zero then the numbers 1 through 96. Beside each digit was the number "5" with an occasional "6". It wasn’t until I looked at the bottom and saw the column total "500" that I realized it was to be a record of my canings.

"It’s from Abdul," the guard explained. And she crossed out the first "5" with a red marker. 96 months. 495 more strokes. When I realized how long the column was, I became depressed.

0    5
1    5
2    5
3    5
4    5
5    5
6    5
7    6
8    5
9    5
10  5
11  5
12  5
13  6
14  5
15  5
16  5
17  5
18  5
19  6
20  5
21  5
22  5
23  5
24  5
25  6
26  5
27  5
28  5
29  5
30  5
31  6
32  5
34  5
35  5
36  5
37  6
38  5
39  5
40  5
41  5
42  5
43  6
44  5
45  5
46  5
47  5
48  5
49  6
50  5
51  5
52  5
53  5
54  5
55  6
56  5
57  5
58  5
59  5
60  5
61  6
62  5
63  5
64  5
65  5
66  5
67  6
68  5
69  5
70  5
71  5
72  5
73  6
74  5
75  5
76  5
77  5
78  5
79  6
80  5
81  5
82  5
83  5
84  5
85  6
86  5
87  5
88  5
89  5
90  5
91  6
92  5
93  5
94  5
95  5
96  5
     ----
     500

It was in my third week that I developed a friendly relationship with a young guard. One evening at mealtime, she appeared with my food and opened the small door with a smile. I discovered the feed pail contained an extra piece of bread. By prison standards that was extravagance! I was grateful. I ate quickly hoping she wouldn’t realize the error. Then I unrolled my mat and waited for her to return to cuff my wrists behind my back for the evening. She spoke politely and I learned the extra food was no error. She offered more bread on a continuing basis for a small "service". I had been slowly starving. How else could I respond?

Her name was Solana. She was young, dark and pretty. She was a lesbian in a country where engaging in homosexual practices was illegal. She was sexually frustrated and thus became a prison guard. Where else could a lesbian in an Arab country develop contacts? I was not of her persuasion but did need food. The arrangement was useful to both of us. Late in the evening she would open the small food door and awaken me. I would silently crawl to the bars and push my head through lying as best I could on my back. Solana would lift her skirt and calmly sit on my face. At that hour there is no one else of authority in the prison and therefore Solana would squat and I would service her for hours with my tongue. Night after night. She was insatiable.

As many evenings as possible she would encourage my ministrations. And don’t, dear reader think that I grew fat from her largesse. A single extra slice of bread was delivered the evening following each encounter. Nothing more.

My first month came to an end. A guard placed the pillory in the cell. I lied down and closed it over my neck and wrists. She reached in and padlocked it and opened the door. I crawled out and the guard draped a cap around me. I was scared and a second guard was needed to assist me to the truck for the short ride to the courthouse.

'96 Months' To be Finished?

By the way, I am not sure I will be able to finish the story. I have very brief notes as to the intended direction, but I am not sure I can replicate the writing style... my own writing!

It's changed that much over the years... hopefully for the better.

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.