copyright 2010, Lance Colton
The Slave Market –
Chapter 4
I opened my eyes to the same enchantingly beguiling face that
had been the beginning of my awareness for almost every morning of these past
six months. My whole being did the same
heart-stopping somersault that it did every time I opened my eyes and found
that she was still with me. Six months
and I still couldn’t believe it. Six
months and I was still as hopelessly smitten as the very first instant I saw
her. There, snuggled in my arms sleeping
peacefully, was…my soul mate, Fatima.
She had started out as my slave and I guess, in reality, she
still was but, she was so much more. We
had been together constantly since the night I brought her home. Inseparable, except for the two times I had
foolishly made her sleep in one of the cages in the basement to prove to her,
and myself, that I was her master.
Neither one of us had slept those nights. She didn’t sleep because she cried all night. I had suffered all night because I couldn’t
turn off the torrent of self loathing that my mind heaped on me for treating
her so badly.
In actual fact I’d ended up spending those nights couched at
the bottom of the stairs where I could hear her in case she needed me. Of course she had needed me and had begged
like a child for me to come to her but I was making a point. What the point was of ‘making a point’ had
been lost in my misery. I’d only done
it twice and for the life of me I didn’t understand why it took me two times to
learn my lesson.
I waited until her eyes
opened and then leaned in and kissed her softly. She smiled.
“Good, morning, sire,” she purred.
“Sbah el-khir,” I responded.
She tried not to, but it made her laugh.
“Why did you laugh?” I asked.
“Oh, sire, your accent is so…American,” she giggled.
“Shouldn’t it be?”
“Of course, but you sound so…stilted.”
“Stilted?
“It sounds very contrived, like you are repeating something
from rote instead of speaking it like you understand it,” she explained.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“Stilted? Contrived? Where did you learn those words?”
“In school, of course, sire.”
“You learned those in
school?” I asked.
“Does that surprise you, sire?”
“Actually, yes,” I said.
“I thought they only taught the Koran to girls in this country.”
She smiled and looked at me out of the corners of her eyes.
“That’s true, sire,” she laughed, “but I wasn’t educated in
this country.”
“So where did you go to school then?” I asked.
“Cambridge, sire.”
“Cambridge, England?” I asked disbelievingly.
“Is there another?” she asked.
“Actually, yes, there is,” I smiled, “but you’re right. When someone says ‘Cambridge’, everyone in
the world, except for a few lost souls in Massachusetts, knows you mean
England.”
“I spent four years there,” she said.
“Four years!” I exclaimed.
“Your father must have treasured you and yet…”
“He sold me?” she finished.
“Yes.”
“I told you, sire, he had to repay a great debt to our
family,” she said.
“So you had no choice,” I said dejectedly.
“Actually, sire, I did.”
“You did?”
“Yes, sire.”
“But, why did you…”
“I wanted to,” she said.
“Be a slave?”
“To the right man, sire.”
That didn’t make any sense.
How could she have known that she would end up with the right man?
“How could you know?” I asked.
“Inshallah.”
“What?”
“If god wills it, sire” she said.
“If god wills it?” I asked incredulously. “You let your father sell you to a stranger
and your motivation was inshallah?’
“Yes, sire.”
I shook my head in exasperation.
“So, did you?”
“Did I what, sire?” she whispered.
“Did you end up with the right…owner?” I asked.
She looked at me strangely as if I were asking a question that
I should already know the answer to. I knew
what she expected me to say and I didn’t give it to her. A fleeting hurtful look crept into her
eyes. She looked down.
“I… I don’t know, sire,” she answered.
“You don’t know?” I asked coldly. “You don’t fucking know? Let’s find out then, shall we?”
“Sire?”
“Prepare yourself!”
I didn’t use that command very often. It meant that she was in for a severe session
and that she needed to put herself into some kind of strict bondage that left
me free to explore every part of her without resistance. She leaped from the bed and fled for the
dungeon. I smiled as her lovely ass
bounced away from me. I was about to lay
to rest those fears about whether I was the right man or not.
***
She never failed to surprise me and this time was no exception. She must have known I was angry with her
because in addition to an ankle spreader, ball gag and somehow worming her way
into the wrist spreader, she had attached the nipple and clit clamps which I
knew she hated. She stood motionless in
the center of the room, totally at my mercy.
I thought over what I was about to do and my resolve faltered. It wasn’t going to be fair and I knew it. I hardened my heart and picked up the single
tail whip.
“So,” I said, giving the whip a test flick, “you’re not sure.”
She looked at me but didn’t nod yes or no. We had a misunderstanding going that was
mostly my fault. Well, it was entirely
my fault, but I had a plan. I flicked
the whip so that it hit her on the hip and the end wrapped around and stung her
ass. She tried to move away but the
ankle spreader gave her limited movement.
I easily kept pace as she hobbled away from me around the room, whipping
her just hard enough so that she hated it and yet became more aroused with each
hit.
When I had her cowering in the corner and whimpering out in
desire I reached around her and gently pulled on the center of the triangle of
chains that went to both of her nipples and her clitoris. She had no choice but to turn and face me. I removed the clit clamp and she screamed
into the gag as the blood rushed back in.
I picked up the vibrating clitoral arouser and set it on its lowest
setting and placed it lightly on her crotch.
I knew from past experience that would bring bring her close but keep
her from going over. I watched as her
body worked its way toward a peak and she struggled to mash her cunt into it
hard enough to reach climax. I reached
up and removed her gag.
“So, what do you think now, Fatima?” I asked.
“Please, sire,” she begged.
“Please what?” I said softly, giving her just a bit more
pressure but pulling back before she went over.
“Please finish me, sire,” she gasped.
“Answer my question first, Fatima.”
“Sire, please…”
“The question, Fatima,” I insisted.
“What… do… you …want me… to… tell you, sire?” she panted.
“The truth, girl. Just
the truth.”
“Yes, god damn you!” she wailed.
It was the answer I wanted and I knew it was the truth but I
wanted more.
“Will you marry me then?” I asked.
That almost broke the spell but I was ready for it and ramped
her back up before the abruptness of it could spoil the mood. I had her hovering on the edge again in
seconds.
“M…marry you?” she questioned.
“It’s a simple question,” I said dryly, holding her on the
edge of a precipice that got deeper with each passing moment.
“But…I’m…your slave.”
“Is that a no?” I asked backing her down a little.
“Sire, please, this isn’t fair.”
“You’re right, Fatima, it isn’t, but I plan to keep this up
all day until I get an answer.”
“But…”
“Fatima,” I interrupted.
“You said I was the one and I’ve felt the same way since I first laid
eyes on you so, what’s the problem?”
“Sire, I need my father’s blessing.”
That didn’t make any sense at all. She was my slave. I fucking owned her, didn’t I? It seemed to me that getting her father’s
blessing was a mere formality or perhaps having to part with a bit more money.
“If he gives it?”
“Yes, sire, I will marry you.”
I pushed her over. I
stepped in to hold her as I knew her legs were going to give out. She screamed all the way down.
***
In a more sober moment, after she had recovered from her
mind-blowing orgasm, she had still agreed to marry me but had insisted that we
needed to start with the Wazir. He was
the all knowing, all seeing all powerful man in Marrakesh and clearing the many
hurdles that were involved started with him so that afternoon found us on his
doorstep. We had been well received, as
usual. Fatima had gone off somewhere
else in the house and I had just spent the first ten minutes going through the
ritual greeting that was part of the culture here. Before one talked business, even in a shop
with goods for sale, one had to say hello, remark on the day, ask about family
and how life in general was and drink a cup of tea. It was a very laid back way that was extremely
hard for an American to adjust to.
“So, Greg,” Achmed finally said, indicating that the
formalities were over, “we’ve seen you and your slave very infrequently these
past six months. I’d almost think you
were avoiding me if I didn’t know what’s really occupying your thoughts. What brings you here today?”
“I need you to help me with something,” I said.
“Greg,” he said warmly, “you know that I am forever in your
debt. If it is within my power to help
you, I will!”
“I want to marry Fatima,” I blurted out.
“Why?”
“Because I love her, Achmed.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“She says first I must get her father’s permission,” I said.
“She… did?”
“Yes.”
“But she is your slave.”
“I know but she insists that she have his permission and I
don’t know how to go about finding him and I thought that you…”
“She insisted that she needed her father’s permission?” he
asked wonderingly.
“Yes. Can you help me?”
“Of course, you have but to ask,” he said.
“I did ask…I mean I am asking.
Can you help me find her father?”
“I meant you have but to ask for her hand.”
“Huh?”
“Greg, I’m her
father.”
The whole night at the slave market came back to me. He had been so insistent that I wait for one
more girl. His words had been ‘one more
and we go’. I had been set up. She hadn’t really been up for ‘sale’ except
to me. But how could he have known?
“What if I had picked one of the two girls before her?” I
asked. “They were…interesting also.”
“Those were my other two daughters,” he laughed. “Fatima is with them now. She kind of misses them as you only see fit
to come by about once a month.”
“So none of them were really up for sale, were they?”
“Only to you, Greg,” he said.
It all made sense in a twisted kind of way. I smiled at the absurdity of it.
“So what’s your answer?” I asked.
“Am I allowed to give you a wedding gift?”
“As long as it’s not too over-the-top,” I laughed, knowing
full well I was wasting my breath.
“You have my blessing, Greg.”
I stood up and clapped my hands and damn if Fatima didn’t
appear. I was getting the hang of this hand
clapping thing. I clasped her arm and
moved toward the door.
“Off so soon, Greg?” Achmed smiled.
“Your daughter and I have some…soul searching to do about
being honest with one another,” I said pointedly.
“I see,” he laughed.
the end
