[Fiction] The Palace on the Beach

[Runesmith]

This is a sequel to my story "The Cabin in the Woods." You don't need to read the first part to enjoy this, but it helps.

Warning 18+: This is a fictional story that contains graphic descriptions of humiliation, degradation and non-consensual sex. If these topics offend you, or if you are under the age of 18, hit that back button now.

Trigger warning: contains explicit rape situations

Trigger warning: this story contains references to foreign countries and cultures, so if you are a Trump voter who knows all about the world because you were at the Epcot resort once, and gets offended by names of foreign places, stay clear. If you are offended by being intentionally offended, don't read this warning, because it intentionally offends some people.

The characters in this story are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, including maybe the royalty of some misbegotten, backwards TPLAC (with the A standing for "Asian" in this instance), is purely coincidental.
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T minus Zero

Foggy, rainy days are not the best kind of days to be driving down the Autobahn in a Neunelfer (the German term for an Porsche 911), and Ingrid wasn't actually enjoying the freedom of tearing down the asphalt at ludicrous speed. It's not that she didn't like fast cars - as a little girl growing up, sharing her dad's interest in cars was one way she could mitigate his clear disappointment at her not being born as a boy. Her interest in cars was what had gotten her her first job, as an intern at Arthur Bechtel's in Böblingen, where she met that customer who would seduce her, and then become her rapist, her lover, her agent, her pimp, her jailer, her torturer, her owner. The man from whom she was keeping a secret that could get her killed if he found out. The man with whom she shared dark secrets that would put them both in jail for life. But if she had learnt anything from her mom, who would serve dinner with a smile to her father after getting a black eye from him, it was that acting was not just a career, it was a survival technique.

Growing up, Ingrid had vowed never to become a porn actress, after coming across evidence of her mother's acting career. Watching the woman who raised her, and whom she used to adore, being used and abused, swallowing semen by the mouthful, oozing creampies, and worst of all - taking cock after cock in anal gangbangs while being heavily pregnant with Ingrid - still made her gag. And when a high school nerd discovered her mother's porn career in an internet archive, she had been forced at the age of 15 to give up her virginity to him (and probably take his) to keep it a secret. For a whole year, until his family moved to Bremen, he had made her practically his sex slave, doing the most disgusting things to her, while making her watch her mother's porn.

And yet, a porn actress was what Alexander had turned her in to.

Part of her irritation stemmed from the fact that her drive to Bochum had been in vain. Alex had got a call from someone claiming to be a casting agent for GGG (German Goo Girls - a bukkake studio), and she had driven 450km for a casting. Arriving in Bochum, she had discovered that the office building whose address she had been given was full of furniture shops and kitchen showrooms. She had driven to several similar sounding addresses with no success, after the "casting agent's" phone didn't answer her calls. Finally, she had called Alex and he had been furious, as if it had been her fault. Too tired to drive back and face his anger, she had spent the night at a hotel and hit the Autobahn early to avoid the traffic.

She wasn't in the mood to enjoy the picturesque valley bridges along the A45, because some fucktard in wimpy little Renault with Dutch plates was hogging the left lane at 130km/h. With the righteous fury that a German driver reserves for showing a foreigner what's "in Ordnung", Ingrid furiously flashed her headlights at him while tailgating at high-speed, until he finally got the message and moved over.

But that wasn't the end of her annoyances. After she had merged in to the A5 heading towards Frankfurt, she noticed a grey car tailgating her in the heavy traffic. The driver of the car would get very close and then move back, and repeat the annoying pattern. So, it was probably a Fat Forties Fuckboy, having noticed that it was a woman behind the wheel, and trying to attract attention. She ignored the car as it followed her all the way south to Darmstadt. She took the exit to A67, and noticed to her irritation that the grey car was still behind her.

Traffic was thin on A67, and once they had passed Darmstadt area, that delightful white road sign with a circle crossed out by three diagonal slashes came in to view, indicating they were entering an area of the Autobahn with no speed limit. Ingrid glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw that the grey car was still taunting her. Time to let the fuckboy dine on her dust.

With a grin, Ingrid floored the perforated metal accelerator pedal with a sneaker-clad foot, with the twin turbos roaring delightedly in response. With deft taps on the paddle shifter, she brought the 911 from a sedate 150km/h to the take-off speed of a Gulfstream jet within just a few seconds, feeling the sweet acceleration pressing her in to the bucket seat.

Throwing a quick glance in to the rearview mirror, she was shocked to see that, instead of being a dwindling speck, the grey sedan was effortlessly keeping pace with her, just about 30 meters from her bumper. Ahead, a series of blinking lights and speed limit signs indicated another annoying stretch of roadworks, and she was forced to reduce speed to a crawl. That gave her a chance to take a better look at the car behind her.

The iconic inverted triangle grill indicated that the car was a latest model Alfa Romeo Guilia. To keep up with her 911, it must be one of those sheep-in-wolf's-clothing Quadrifolgio models with the insane 500 HP Ferrari engine under the hood. That put the fuckboy theory in a bit of a spin. The favored mode of transport for a Fat Forties Fuckboy was, of course, a BMW 3 or 5 series (preferably with a matte paint job). A 150,000 Euro Alfa would be a bit out of reach for a run of the mill fuckboy. Probably a divorced banker fresh from a show-off session at Nurburgring then. The license plate started with an "S" indicating it was registered in Stuttgart. Well, not too unusual in this area, but a strange coincidence. Could it be someone she knew?

The next two letters (which are selectable by the car owner during registration) of the license plate were "EX". Yeah, shouldn't discount the fuckboy theory just yet. The numbers that came after were 346 - a license plate vulgarity, which, when pronounced in German, sounds like an invitation to a threesome. So - a rich fuckboy then.

Realizing that she would be unable to shake the car from her tail, Ingrid decided to do what any German woman harassed by a fuckboy on the Autobahn would do. She took the exit to the next rest area, west of Forsch. She had to pee in any case, and grabbing a coffee wasn't a bad idea either.

As she parked in front of the Serways restaurant, the Alfa rolled in to the vacant parking lot next to her. The passenger door of the Alfa opened and a petite, strikingly beautiful Asian woman, dressed elegantly in a black turtleneck and black leather pants stepped out, casually slinging a tan lambskin Chloe bag over her shoulder, her perfectly styled raven hair blowing in the wind. The fuckboy would have to be very rich afford that kind of girlfriend.

As Ingrid was turning away, trying to avoid the fuckboy, the driver's door opened and the driver stepped out. It was a woman. She was of medium height, slim but with narrow waist, wide hips, large breasts, and nose ring, dressed in a black World of Warcraft T-shirt with "Blood and Thunder" emblazoned in red text, and a pair of stressed jeans. Her pale blue eyes under heavy mascara and dark eye shadow locked in on Ingrid with an expression of pure hate, before the Asian woman walked around the car, took her by the hand and led her towards the restaurant. There was something familiar about the pink-haired woman, but at the same time, Ingrid was quite sure she had never met her before - maybe a minor TV personality perhaps. Well, not a Fat Forties Fuckboy but a Butch Emo-punk Drama-Barbie then. She must have pissed her off on the Autobahn somehow.

Coming out of the stinky, temporary toilet (the usual ones were under repair), Ingrid walked over to the counter and bought an over-priced Latte Macchiato and a Chocolate croissant. She took a bench seat in a vacant corner booth and started reading the angry messages from Alex on her phone.

Suddenly there was a movement to her side, and the Asian woman from the Alfa slid in next to her, trapping her in, while the drama-barbie slid in to the bench seat opposite. Before Ingrid could even begin to voice her annoyance at the intrusion, the drama-barbie slammed a piece of paper in front of her. As her gaze fell on the word written under the crudely drawn symbol on the paper, Ingrid felt the blood draining from her face and her legs going numb. Looking up at the pink haired woman, whose light blue irises had a thin brown border, indicating she was wearing coloured contacts over brown eyes, Ingrid felt the shock of recognition running through her like a jolt of electricity, paralyzing her with raw fear.


To be continued...

[enf]

You are a good writer, please keep this story going im looking forward to reading more of it.

[Runesmith]

T minus 3 years, 3 months and 24 days (13 August 2016)

It was the longest flight she had taken in her life... and it would probably be the last.

The first leg of the journey was very short, about 3 and a half hours. The Learjet landed at an airport in Turkey. She recognized the airport - it was the kayseri Erkliet airport, in to which she had flown in a couple of years ago on a holiday trip to Cappadocia with friends. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had a life other than this. After the flight landed in Kayseri, it taxied to a remote part of the airport away from the main terminals where a set of hangars were located. In front of the hangars was a much larger private jet, with "Gulfstream G650ER" printed near the tail, and the Learjet came to a stop parallel to it, wingtips nearly touching. The two men in black suits disembarked and she was left inside the plane. About an hour later, another man, dressed in similar clothing but dark and Asian looking, boarded the plane and motioned her to come with him.

She was whisked out of the Learjet and immediately led in to the Gulfstream. The aircraft was very spacious, and was luxurious. Four huge, white leather recliner seats sat in two rows facing each other across a polished wooden table. Further back in the cabin was a leather sofa facing a large TV. Behind a wooden divider she could see a galley, and behind that, an area with a closed wooden door.

Sitting on one of the recliner chairs was a small, stern-looking Asian man with leathery brown skin, a thin pencil mustache and swept back salt and pepper hair, clad in an expensive looking navy blue suit. Behind him on the sofa was a plump, balding Asian man, rifling through the contents of a leather briefcase. An attractive tall blonde woman in a sky blue uniform dress was busy in the galley.

The man in the blue suit slowly looked her up and down, and then gestured for her to sit on the seat opposite to him. The man who had accompanied her sat on the seat across the isle her.

A man in a pilot's uniform came out of the cockpit and pressed a button, and the boarding door/stair lifted off the ground and hissed shut. "We are ready to take off, Your Highness," he addressed the man in the blue suit. "Doctor, would you please take your seat?"

The plump man came ambling over, and after a nod from the man in the blue suit, took the seat across from him. The stewardess served them all a brilliant yellow juice in crystal glasses. It was mango, and it tasted like heaven, after the time she had spent in the cabin in the woods.

In a few minutes, the Gulfstream sped down the runway, reaching the speeds at which a Neunelfer would speed down the Autobahn, and leapt in to the air as gracefully as an eagle taking flight.

[Runesmith]

The Gulfstream leveled off above the clouds. Strangely, there was no pressure on the eardrums or the popping of the ears that she associated with normal passenger airliners. The enormous flattened oval windows provided a panoramic view of the rugged landscape below.

The flight continued in silence for the next half an hour, while the man in the blue suit was engrossed in a newspaper that was printed in English alphabet, but were in words that didn't have any resemblance to European languages. The slave had been told by her only friend in the world that she had been sold to a prince from South East Asia, and that was a region of the world she was not at all familiar with. The other two men in the cabin were obviously not daring to break the silence, and the man whom the pilot had addressed as "Doctor" was fidgeting nervously.

The only one to break the silence was the stewardess. She pranced over in her impossibly short light blue uniform skirt and matching high heels and placed napkins, cutlery and porcelain plates on the table in front of them, and proceeded to serve them a salad, taking their orders for main course in perfect English with a slight Swedish accent. The men replied, with the man in the blue suit announcing his preference first. When the stewardess turned to her, the slave remained silent, staring at her lap. A slave should not choose. The stewardess seemed puzzled, but when no reply came after repeating the question, she smiled, tossed her curly blonde hair and retreated to the galley.

When the stewardess returned with a small cart and bent to place the plates on the table, her tiny skirt rode up, exposing lime green panties covered by thin transparent tights. As the stewardess bent over to serve the doctor, the slave could see the man in the blue suit staring at the same sight, licking his lips. The slave was served a spicy rice with beef, similar to what the doctor was having. The slave ate ravenously.

After lunch, dessert (a type of sweet pudding she didn't recognize, but which the stewardess cheerfully announced as sago pudding with gula melaka), and coffee service, the tables were cleared and the cabin lapsed in to silence. After finishing his coffee the man in the blue suit said something to the doctor in a language with short, clipped syllables. The doctor nodded and stood up.

"Come with me," he ordered the slave. She stood up immediately and followed him to where the couch was. Taking several small glass vials filled with liquid from his bag, he pricked her finger with a sharp lancet and squeezed a drop of blood in to each vial, as the stewardess looked on from the galley with a puzzled look on her face. The doctor started a timer, shook some vials, and took some notes. Finally, he seemed pleased. He then handed her a small plastic jar with a screw top. "Go pee in to cup," he ordered in broken English.

The slave stood up, unsure where to go. She walked up to the stewardess, who was now pretending that she wasn't eavesdropping, and asked "Umm... where can I find the toilet, please?"

"Oh, come with me, I will show you the guest toilet," replied the stewardess, ushering her towards the front of the plane, past the reclining chairs, and opening polished wooden door opposite the boarding door. "Is everything okay, madam?" she asked with a note of concern in her voice.

"Of course," replied the slave brusquely, trying to end this conversation. This idiot might get them both in trouble. The stewardess appeared surprised by the reaction. She seemed very young, 23-25 at most. "I am sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to intrude. This is my first flight with His Highness, and I am not very sure how things go." In spite of the slave's hostile attitude, the stewardess was beaming, her excitement at having landed the job opportunity of her life clearly overpowering everything else. "I will be right outside if you need me."

The toilet was unlike any airline toilet the slave had experienced. There was even a (cramped) circular shower cubicle with a rain shower and mood lighting, and all the fittings were from Dornbracht. The toilet seat was one of those crazy electronic ones, which opened as she approached, and was pleasantly heated. After filling the jar halfway, the slave emptied her bladder, feeling the piss drain from her. She wished that the traces of her friend's cunt juice would still linger, while she carefully dabbed away the hanging drops. She couldn't find the flush mechanism, and being too embarrassed to ask, exited without flushing. The stewardess went in and made a gesture with her hand over the toilet seat and it flushed.

The doctor added drops of her urine in to three more test tubes with clear liquid. One turned blue, and the others remained clear. The doctor nodded, went over to the man in the blue suit and whispered something in his ear.

[Runesmith]

The man in the blue suit stood up and walked towards the galley, and motioned to the slave to follow him as he walked by towards the door aft of the galley. The stewardess noticed where he was heading, ran ahead and opened the door for him, pressing herself against the fuselage to let the man pass in the narrow passageway. As the man passed by the stewardess, he reached out and groped her buttocks. The startled stewardess sprang back, hitting the back of her head against the fuselage with a thunk. The man smirked and motioned for the slave to follow him in. The stewardess closed the door behind them.

The compartment behind the door was a small, but fully appointed bedroom. Plush carpeting covered the floor, and a queen sized bed stood in the middle. The bed had small posts at each corner, and tied to each of the posts was a length of black rope. It reminded the slave of how she woke up on that fateful morning in the cabin in the woods.

The man stood near the foot of the bed and pointed to his crotch. The slave understood what he wanted. She dropped to her knees in front of him, and stroked his crotch, feeling a small but hard lump behind the zipper. She undid his belt buckle, fumbled with the clasp of the pants with shaking hands, and pulled down the zipper. The pants slid down the man's scrawny legs, exposing his white underwear, hiding a growing bulge. The slave caressed the bulge, feeling it pulse, and pulled down the underwear, exposing a short but fat circumcised cock surrounded by a mat of greying pubic hair. A drop of pre-cum gleamed on the pink, mushroom shaped head of the cock that was already starting to droop.

The slave felt a wave of revulsion sweep over her. She had never serviced a man this old before. Her dad, if he were still alive, would be younger than this man. Still, she remembered everything that cumrag had taught her. Holding the sagging cock in her hand, she licked the drop of pre-cum, looking up at the man. He had an approving smile on his face. She opened her mouth, and took his cock in.

She serviced his cock the way she had been taught - grip loosely with the lips, no teeth contact, tongue flat with the tip curled up to caress the head and shaft as it slides towards her throat. As she let go of her grip on the cock to take it all in (which was not a challenge, after being used to taking the much bigger cocks of her kidnappers), she could feel the cock hardening again. The man gripped two fistfuls of her hair and forced her head on to his cock, grunting in pleasure.

After a couple of minutes, she felt his cock going limp again. This was not good. She redoubled her efforts in panic, trying to cram as much cock in to her mouth as possible, but to no avail. The man appeared to be quite jaded to the kind of service he was getting.

With a sigh of impatience, he brusquely pulled his cock out of her mouth, trailing ropes of saliva.

[Runesmith]

Without releasing his grip on her hair, the man pulled her towards the bed. The slave tried to rise, assuming that she was to get on to the bed. But the man kept her head firmly down as he dragged her, and laid her shoulders on the high mattress, with her in a half-kneeling position at the foot of the bed. The man took the lengths of rope attached to the foot-end posts of the bed and tied them to her wrists. The position was very uncomfortable, with her arms spread out wide, giving no leeway to adjust her position to assuage the thigh and calf muscles that were already starting to protest.

The man savagely pulled up her black dress, and she could hear a seam giving way. With the hem of the dress piled up at her midriff, the man yanked the black lace thong that Cumrag had put on her that morning, down to her mid-thighs. With her buttocks and thighs exposed, the slave maintained her uncomfortable position, with her muscles protesting.

The man opened the overhead compartment and took out what looked like a black stick with a thin rod extending from it, ending in a small paddle. When he got closer, the slave realized that it was a riding crop. The man swished the crop in the air, his limp cock swaying like a pendulum. As he got in to position behind her, the slave knew what was coming.

She still wasn't prepared for the explosion of pain that followed the man's grunt, the whoosh, and the thwack. She yelped like a started terrier in surprise, and whimpered as tears clouded her vision and her right buttock burned. A second grunt, whoosh and thwack followed, and a searing blast of pain blossomed on her left buttock. The sobs came unbidden, as the man picked up the pace, landing blows on her buttocks, and backs of her thighs that were already screaming with the effort of holding her position. As the man moved back to get a better angle, the slave could see that his cock was erect and throbbing. Despite the pain, the slave felt a sense of accomplishment, knowing that it was the pain inflicted on her body that was arousing the man. This emotion simultaneously surprised and scared her - just a couple of months ago, the idea of being so sadistically used would have horrified her... as it should. If nothing else, this was a very clear sign that she was no longer who she used to be. She had turned in to... no, had been turned in to, a woman whose only goal in life was to pleasure men at any cost.

With deft slaps with the paddle on the insides of her thighs, the man indicated to her that she should spread her thighs wider. Her muscles screaming in pain on top of the searing pain on her skin, she shifted her thighs, but the thongs at mid thigh level prevented her from spreading them more than a couple of inches. With a snort of impatience, the man bent over and with a savage yank, ripped the flimsy thongs apart, leaving the tatters hanging on her left thigh. Without waiting for a further signal, the slave spread her thighs wide, putting the burden of supporting her weight on to her lower back. Even with the spread thighs, if the man wanted to hit her inner thighs, he wouldn't get much of a swing. That wouldn't hurt much.

The sudden explosion of pain caused her to scream out, as the next blow, instead of landing on the inner thighs as she expected, hit squarely with explosive force on the meaty inner lips protruding from her gaping cunt. The pain blossomed blow after blow, causing her to almost black out. She was hardly aware when the blows stopped and the man got on to the bed.

The man had stripped completely, exposing scrawny thighs, a small pot belly and sparse, greying chest hair. He sat at the foot of the bed, his legs resting on the slaves back, with his crotch, with the engorged penis, snug against the slave's face. She could smell his arousal as she opened her mouth and took his cock in, extending her neck at a painful angle. The man shimmied his buttocks closer, burying his cock to the root in her mouth. Grabbing fistfuls of hair again, the man started rocking her head back and forth.

Each time her head was pushed on to his cock, with her nose buried in his pubic hair, she could hardly breathe. When he rocked her head back, her neck was pushed back at an angle that made her think that her neck would break if he pushed it further. The man was obviously enjoying her pain and the tears streaming down her cheeks, as evidenced by the throbbing of his cock inside her mouth.

This time, when the man finally pulled out his cock from her mouth, it was rock hard, with the engorged veins glistening with her saliva.

[Runesmith]

She was barely aware of the man getting his legs off her back and sliding off the bed sporting his proud erection. She heard him opening and closing the overhead bin again, and that jolted her back to full lucidity - what could he be taking out from there now?

Before she could even crane her neck to look, the man was at her side. She felt something being slipped around her neck - something like a belt, and then it started tightening. Panic overcame her and she struggled, changing her position as she felt the upper part of her throat constricting. The man stopped tightening the leather loop, but it was still making breathing an effort and bright spots swam in her vision. With a sharp slap to the back of her thighs, the man indicated that she should get back to the position she was in before she struggled in her panic, and the slave obeyed.

She felt his cock pressing up against her battered and bruised cunt. It hurt badly as the head of his cock pushed ruthlessly against the swollen inner lips, and the cry of pain she uttered came out as a croaky whimper from her constricted throat. Tears of pain coursed down her cheeks as his cock penetrated a couple of inches inside her before his pot belly intervened. As the man started pumping, it felt as if the entrance to her cunt had caught fire, but it did feel good inside her cunt. Due to the shortness of the penetration and the angle, the engorged head of the cock was rubbing against the front wall of her cunt and that was very pleasurable.

Despite the ring of fire at the entrance to her cunt, she was getting wet, and her whimpers changed tone. It became even harder to keep getting the oxygen she needed in to her lungs, as she struggled to breathe against her constricted throat. She was getting light-headed. It felt as if she were somehow separated from her body, yet trapped inside it. She could feel the pain and pleasure, but it felt like something happening to someone else. When the man suddenly pulled out of her, she could feel that cunt spasming, and waves of pleasure following the sharp pain of the cock pulling out through the swollen cunt lips seemed to happen to that someone else. So were the spurts of warm liquid that seemed to erupt from that cunt and gush down those thighs in time with those spasms. The man's laughter seemed to come from a million miles away.

When she felt that pressure against her anal sphincter, she was beyond resisting. The sharp pain as the impatient cock pushed in to her unprepared, unlubricated hole hardly made her squirm. She was oblivious to everything, except drawing in enough air to keep her from blacking out. The man was ruthlessly using her body, and he wouldn't care even if she died. To him, she was simply a toy he had paid for... an object to be used and discarded. The hard, uncaring thrusts ripping through her anus, sending lances of pain up her spine, kept her awake and focused on breathing.

After what seemed like an aeon of breathe... breathe... breathe... there was a sudden eruption of warm wetness inside her, accompanied by a heavy grunt from the man. The painful pressure that had been filling her insides was removed. And then came the blessed relief from the constricting pressure that had been strangling her.

When the man untied her wrists, the slave collapsed in a heap at the foot of the bed. The sleep that enveloped her was a deep as an abyss and dark as oblivion.

[Runesmith]

She awoke to someone shaking her by the shoulder. "Ma'am! Are you alright, Ma'am?"

She opened her eyes. It was the stewardess, with a look of horrified concern on her face. The mood lighting in the cabin was the bright yellow and pink of a fake dawn, and light string music was playing. She realized that she was still lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. The room door was open and a trolley with breakfast on it was parked nearby, unserved, with the smell of freshly baked bread and coffee wafting from it. The stewardess was squatting beside the slave, unintentionally opening up a view of her shapely thighs covered in sheer tights converging towards the neon green patch of flimsy lace covering her intimate areas.

"I.. I am fine," croaked the slave, struggling to get up, as the stewardess held her elbow. Every joint in her body hurt as she raised herself up, and as she did so, she saw the reason for the horrified look on the stewardess' face. Her dress was torn, with the hem of the dress still bunched up around the waist. The tatters of the torn panties still hung from her right thigh, and the bruises from the riding crop were turning purple on her inner thighs. Leaning on to the stewardess, she managed to stand up on shaky legs, her knees screaming in protest.

The man was sitting up on the bed, propped up by pillows and casting an impatient glance at the stewardess. "I...am okay. Serve breakfast," whispered the slave anxiously, fearful of what would happen to them both if the man got angry. The fear seemed contagious, and the stewardess nervously set about serving breakfast.

She took out a tablet, folded out a pair of leg frames and set it up over the man's lap, spread a white table cloth over it, and proceeded to serve breakfast. The slave held on to the overhead bin to keep her balance on her trembling legs. After the man's breakfast was served, the stewardess came over, took her by the elbow and led her to the door beyond the head side of the bed. Behind the door was a large bathroom, bigger than the one she had seen in front of the plane, which seemed to extend all the way to the tail of the plane. The slave staggered towards the toilet seat, which opened and glowed blue as she approached, and sat down heavily on it. The stewardess took a quick look in to the room, stepped in to the toilet and closed the door behind her.

"Hey, are you okay? If there's something wrong, you can tell me. I can contact the authorities when we get back to Europe," the stewardess spoke in a low voice as she leaned forward. "No... please. I am fine," murmured the slave, closing her eyes and letting loose a stream of hot piss, and wincing as it touched her bruised cunt lips. "Look, I do this for a living ok? I'm a fetish escort," she lied, hoping that this do-gooder idiot would let go and not get them both in trouble.

A look of distaste crossed the stewardess' face for an instant, before the plastic, professional look returned. She waited until the slave cleaned up, washed her face, and tried to make herself as presentable as possible, and then followed her back in to the bedroom. Taking out a second tablet from the cart and gesturing to the bed, she asked, "Shall I serve you your breakfast, Ma'am?"

Getting on to the bed with her owner, who was royalty to boot, didn't sound like something a slave would be expected to do. The slave simply sat down on the floor near the entry door to the room, facing the foot of the bed. The man smiled and nodded approvingly. The stewardess hesitated, set the tablet down next to the slave and served a croissant, butter, fruit, yogurt and a steaming mug of coffee on it. As the stewardess bent over, the slave could see the man looking at the girl's exposed rear end appreciatively. The slave wondered whether the goody-two-shoes girl even knew why she had got this job.

Half an hour later, the stewardess returned and cleared the dishes and tablets, placing them neatly on the trolley. As she was about to leave, the man spoke up, "You! There are some crumbs here. Clean up," pointing to his lap.

"Yes, your highness, I am sorry your highness," apologized the stewardess, grabbing a napkin from the trolley. She hurried over to the bed, and bent over the side of the bed, looking for the crumbs. The man's right hand immediately dived under the raised hem of her uniform skirt, and grabbed her nylon covered buttock. The stewardess gave a surprised shriek and started to straighten up, but at that moment, with practiced precision, the man's left hand grabbed the front of her dress, and with a pull from the his left hand and with a push on the buttocks with the right, the stewardess was tossed over on to the bed, landing face down, with her buttocks raised up right on the man's lap.

[Runesmith]

The stewardess uttered a yell of surprise and struggled to get up. The man kept a tight hold on her, grinning triumphantly. "Sir! Please, stop! Stop now! This instant!" yelled the stewardess, both anger and fear raising her voice to the high notes. There were steps down the aisle, and the man in the black suit, whom the slave had tagged in her mind as the "bodyguard", appeared in the doorway.

The slave, still sitting on the floor, looked up expectantly. The stewardess, noticing the figure in the doorway, pleaded, "Help me, help me, please!"

The man came inside, shut the door and leaned against it, watching on silently with a porker face that showed no shred of compassion. Her hopes dashed, the stewardess began to sob, as the old man's right hand brutally yanked down her sheer tights, tearing them in the process. "Do something, please!" pleaded the stewardess, looking directly at the slave. The slave sat on the floor, staring at the bed, not moving, saying nothing. What could she do?

When the fact that she will not get any help from people around her dawned on the stewardess, she began to struggle in earnest, pushing up with her hands and knees and struggling to get off. The man responded by sitting up straighter in bed, pushing the struggling woman off balance, rolling her on to her back. With amazing spryness for a man of his apparent age, he pulled his legs from under her body, and in one fluid movement got on top of her, with his weight pinning her down. "No, no, no...stop it, stop it," screamed the stewardess, as the man secured her wrists at her stomach level and held them with one hand, using his body weight on top to keep her from pulling them out, and yanked at the front of her uniform blouse. Buttons popped and landed on the carpet. The stewardess bucked and rolled, her tattered blouse falling open, but the man stayed on top of her like a rodeo rider on an enraged bull.

Grabbing a bra strap, the man pulled it off the stewardess' shoulder, pulling the cup down with it, exposing a large milky white breast with skin as fine as porcelain, a dark pink nipple crowning it like a maraschino cherry on top of a scoop of vanilla ice cream. The man's lips fastened on the nipple, biting and sucking. The stewardess' face turned bright pink with the Nordic temper finally bursting through her fear, like her Viking berserker ancestors cleaving through a Saxon defense line. "You bastard!" she yelled, "you goddam fucking bastard! Get off me, you dirty fucking asshole!"

With all the force she could muster, the stewardess rolled to her side, nearly pushing the man off the foot of the bed. Her knee crashed against his side with a dull thud, and her manicured fingers raked upwards, seeking to make minced meat out of his face. The man deftly avoided her arms, grabbing and pinning them to her sides. Rolling her back to on to her spine, he sat astride her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. His hands fastened around her neck and squeezed hard.

The stewardess' mouth gaped wide, struggling to breathe, and her hands, now freed, went to her throat, trying to pry the man's hands apart. The slave watched the stewardess' face turning red, veins bulging, and eyes wide open and darting. If this continued, the man could easily kill her.

The slave stood up on her aching legs and stumbled towards the bed. Behind her, she could hear the bodyguard stirring.

[Runesmith]

The slave stumbled over to the foot of the bed, in her torn and tattered dress. She leaned over, grabbed the stewardess' hands and pulled them over the girl's head and held them tight. The man looked at her, gave a faint smile and a nod, and released the stewardess' neck. The stewardess gasped in lungfuls of air, too winded to resume shouting. The bodyguard, who had followed the slave to the bed, relaxed and went back to his post at the door.

While the girl was trying to recover her breathing, the man pulled down her tights and ripped them through the middle, separating each leg, like stockings with tattered rags hanging on top. Hooking his fingers on the waistband of the stewardess' lime green panties, the man started pulling them down.

Jolted back to awareness by this latest violation, the stewardess started struggling again, pushing her thighs tightly together, and trying to bend her knees. She managed to find her voice again, and directed her anger at the woman who was helping her rapist, "You bitch! Why are you doing this? Why are you helping him? Are you out of your mind?"

Despite the stewardess' struggles, the man managed to pull the panties down below her knees, and and pulled one leg out, leaving the panties hanging obscenely on the other. He forced the girl's legs apart, but was having a hard time keeping them apart, due to her struggles.

The slave let go of the girl's hands, and laid herself over her, with her thighs on either side of the girl's head. "You bitch! Cunt! Get off of me!" yelled the stewardess, trying to push her off with her newly freed hands, but failing to find enough leverage. The slave slid forward on the stewardess' body, and helped keep the girl's thighs apart with her elbows. She undid the man's robe with her hands, and teased out his cock from his boxer shorts. It was hard and throbbing, with veins bulging from the short, thick shaft. Squeezing the base hard in her fist, the slave took the circumcised cock head in her mouth and caressed it with her tongue as the girl beneath her squirmed and screamed expletives. But it was clear that the stewardess was weakening, slowly losing the 2:1 battle.

The man pulled his cock out of the slave's mouth and grabbed a handful of her hair, and pushed her head down between the stewardess' thighs. The slave could see clearly from the stubble that the stewardess was a true blonde. She had a small cunt, that was opening up like a dark pink rose as the thighs were being forced apart. It didn't smell like a rose, though. It had a slightly unpleasant odor - smelling of sweat, of clothing worn too long, mixed with the sharp pungency of stale piss and a faint, fishy smell. The only cunt the slave had ever licked belonged to her friend cumrag, but cumrag had always been freshly showered and smelling nice whenever she had come over. Her cunt had smelled faintly of the soap that she had washed the skin around it with. The slave had never smelled the cunt of a woman who had been on duty for more than 12 hours, wearing the same panties the whole time and even napping in them, without the chance (or the need) to clean up.

But it was not her place to refuse. The slave obediently ran the tip of her tongue between the inner lips of the stewardess' cunt. It tasted salty and tangy. It wasn't bad, except for the smell. She started a rhythm of flicking her tongue on the tiny clit, and then moving it all the way over the pee hole to the entrance of the cunt, circling around it, and all the way back - just like how cumrag had shown her. The surprised indignation was evident in the stewardess' voice as she yelled, "Noooo!! What the fuck? What are you doing, you pervert? Stop that! Stop it!"

As the man kept her head in position for several minutes, the slave understood clearly that the reason the man made her do this was not to arouse the girl but to humiliate her. And it was working. "Oh no, oh god no, please stop," sobbed the girl in a defeated voice, "why are you doing this to me? Please, please let me go. I won't tell anyone. Please..."

Finally, the man pulled her head up by the hair, and in one brutal thrust, buried his cock in the stewardess' tiny cunt, glistening with the slave's saliva.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
I had help with this installment, in the form of, "bollocks... you have to re-write that. Her cunt isn't going to smell nice, she's been working for hours in those panties. I've only been on the road for a few hours and I still washed mine before I let you lick it," followed by a vivid description of how it might smell like. I promised to document that help, so here it is.

[Runesmith]

The stewardess screamed. It was a long scream that dissolved in to raking sobs as she gave in to the inevitable. It was a scream of pain, anger, defeat and humiliation. The slave knew how the girl must be feeling, being forced to submit, being violated against her will. The man's shaft was rigid, engorged, and it was stretching the girl's cunt. It had been dry when she licked it, so the girl must be in pain. She would have been in greater pain if it hadn't been for the saliva that the slave had coated the man's cock and the entrance to the girl's cunt with. Gathering some more saliva, the slave spat on to the man's cock as it emerged from the cunt, easing the passage a bit more.

The girl had stopped struggling and was sobbing her heart out and babbling incoherently (probably in Swedish) as she was being raped. One of the words was repeating sounded like "more" with the R being rolled, and that puzzled the slave. Was she really begging for more? (It was only a couple of years later that the slave discovered that "Mor" in Swedish meant "mother." When she had learned that, she had cried.)

At that moment though, the slave had very little emotions. After the "training" that she had been put through in that cabin in the woods, her mind had learned to automatically shut off emotions and simply focus on survival. There was also another kind of conditioning her mind had gone through - abuse and humiliation brought on sexual arousal. Even though the abuse was not physically happening to her, watching the girl being brutally raped, with the man's cock plunging mercilessly stretching the tight pink hole while the girl cried, was making the slave's cunt wet.

The stewardess was almost the same height as her, so as the slave lay to top of the girl with her face at the girl's crotch, her own crotch was at the level of the girl's neck, with her thighs straddling the girl's face. The slave reached back and pulled up her dress. The thongs that she had been wearing when she had boarded the plane had been torn to shreds by the man last night, and her cunt, covered in purple bruises, was bare. The slave slid back a couple of inches, and her cunt came in to contact with something hard, probably the girl's chin. The slave started grinding her clit against the girl's chin, sighing as her bruised cunt rubbed against the girl's lips. With the fight gone out of her, the girl barely resisted. Looking up, she noticed the man smiling at her. She had done well.

After a few minutes, the man motioned for her to get off the girl. The man pulled her cock out of the crying girl, and the slave, following the man's cues, helped the man roll the girl on to her stomach. Without even being told, the slave pulled up the stewardess' crushed uniform skirt up to the waist, and pulled the girl's knees up under her belly. The girl barely resisted, her face streaked with tears and running mascara, the false eyelashes detached and hanging askew, her lipstick smeared across her face and chin. The slave took the man's cock in her mouth, and cleaned it of the whitish streaks of saliva mixed with pre-cum and secretions from the girl's cunt. The initial smell of the cunt had been replaced with something musky, that reminded her of when she sucked cocks that had been in cumrag's cunt. The thought aroused her even more. She did her best to coat the cock in a fresh layer of slippery saliva. She knew what was to come... the girl apparently didn't realize it yet.

When the man pulled his cock from her mouth, the slave straddled the girl's prone body and pulled the girl's buttocks apart. Although her cunt was reddened and gaping, the girl's anus was tightly closed. The slave managed to give the anus a quick lick, laying on a coating of saliva, before the man pushed her head away. He clearly didn't want to make it easier for the girl - his behavior last night showed that he enjoyed inflicting pain and making women go through pain to satisfy him.

The quick lick on the anus stirred the girl, and when she felt the man's cock pressing against her anus, her impending fate finally dawned on her. "No, no, no, not in my ass... please, no. I haven't... no, please, it'll hurt," she pleaded between sobs. That last thing was probably the wrong thing to say. "No! Please! Stop! I'll do anything..." she yelled, as she felt the man's cock trying to force its way in.

The slave held the girl's buttocks stretched out, while the man gripped his cock and guided it firmly at the stewardess' virgin hole. The girl's pleading grew louder and more intense, as her sphincter slowly yielded to the rigid cock. She screamed as one savage thrust buried the mushroom shaped head of the cock completely inside her anus. The man thrust in mercilessly, pushing in his entire shaft without even a slight pause to let the poor girl's anus adjust to the intrusion. The girl was crying in pain as the man's onslaught increased in force and speed, pulling out almost the entire girth before slamming it in, filling the air with the unmistakable earthy smell of an ass fuck. The man started slapping the girl's buttocks with his hands with each stroke, alternating the buttocks for each slap, turning the pale Nordic skin in to a bright peach shade.

It seemed like an eternity before the man grunted and buried his cock deep inside the girl, grabbing her hips and pulling her on to him to receive his sperm deep inside her. Even after what she had suffered so far, the girl had one final cry of pain to mark this final indignity. The man withdrew his cock from the girl's anus, eliciting another sharp cry of pain as it exited, coated in streamers of slime, foamy white, tinged with yellow and pink in places. He grabbed the slave's head and pulled it towards him. The slave opened her mouth and took him in, trying not to gag or retch from the dank, earthy smell, the feel of that wretched slime on her tongue, and the taste of the girl's ass tinged with the coppery taste of blood. She bathed the cock with her saliva, letting it drool out from the corners of her mouth, trying not to swallow.

Satisfied, the man pulled his shrinking cock from the slave's mouth, and walked in to the bathroom. The stewardess lay in the same position, crying. The slave moved off the stewardess' body, picked up the napkin the girl had dropped earlier, and gently dabbed at the girl's gaping anus, leaking semen and blood. Finally, she spat in to the napkin to get rid of the foul taste in her mouth, and threw the napkin on to the trolley. She noticed that the bodyguard had opened the door and gone back in to the cabin.

"Are you okay?" the slave asked the girl, knowing how stupid it sounded. The stewardess had been raped and sodomized, and those words would be as helpful as a cigarette offered to a Hindenburg survivor at Lakehurst. "Get! Away! From me!" spat the stewardess venomously. The anger seemed to focus her, and she slid off the bed on to her feet, wincing in pain. She smoothed down her pale blue uniform skirt, adjusted her bra, and covered the tatters of her white blouse with the uniform jacket. The man they had called "the doctor" entered the room, probably prompted by the bodyguard. He looked at the stewardess, then pointed to the trolley and ordered, "come with me."

The stewardess meekly complied, seemingly relieved at having something to do after the horror that had just happened. As she pushed the trolley out of the door, her legs wide as she walked, the doctor steadied her. The slave wondered whether she should help, but decided these men would "have a protocol" for handling situations like this, which she suspected happened pretty frequently.

Several hours later, the plane landed. As she disembarked the aircraft, the slave saw the stewardess standing at the door, her clothes rumpled, but her face cleaned up, without make up. The stewardess glared at her with undisguised hate, and spat on her as she passed.

The slave didn't expect the girl to understand what she had done. The stewardess simply didn't understand that she was a disposable toy in a world where men could easily pay out a million euros to buy a sex slave, kidnapped from her previously sheltered life, and have her smuggled out of two countries without even a passport. If she hadn't intervened, the stewardess might have been seriously injured or even been killed. And in that event, there would have been a nice cover story created to conceal it - "Swedish stewardess dies in freak swimming accident on a tropical beach" would probably be how it would be reported. If the slave had tried to stop the man, with the bodyguard just a step behind her, they both might have ended up dead - and the death of the slave wouldn't have needed a cover story... Just an unmarked grave or a kilo of thermite would do the job.

The slave didn't expect the stewardess to understand, but she had saved the girl's life. She hoped the girl won't do anything stupid.

It was almost an year later when the slave saw the stewardess again, but the girl didn't even recognize her.

[Runesmith]

The rasping sound of the buzzer woke her up as the single fluorescent bulb flickered on. The bed creaked as she tossed the blanket aside and rolled to her side. The buzzer meant that it was 5:00 in the morning, and if she didn't hurry, the shower stalls would be full. She heard the creaking of the other bed. "Selamat pagi, Salleh," Suri called out in her sing-song voice.

"Selamat pagi," the slave answered drowsily, and proceeded to haul herself out of bed. Suri always called her "Salleh" - from "mat salleh", which means "pale skinned person" in Malay. The name given to the slave was Zaheera. The name had been given to her by the stern, beautiful woman who took custody of her when the guards had brought her from the airport to the palace.

It had been a short drive. After the prince had been driven off in a shining Rolls Royce Silver Phantom, escorted by four black Land Rovers, a small white paneled van had driven up to the plane and picked her up. She was seated in the windowless back of the van with two uniformed guards, and could only see the crowded, narrow, dusty streets through the front windshield. The crowded, traffic-choked streets had quickly given way to a wide road with no other vehicle on it. That road led to the palace.

The first thing that she saw were the tall white walls rising out of the dusty brown fields, shimmering in waves of boiling hot air. The walls were broken by a pair of huge black sheet metal gates, flanked by two guard houses, surrounded by sand bags. The van was waved in. As the gates opened, the stark contrast to the outside was astounding. A lush garden of green surrounded a huge, sprawling white building, built in a mix of styles, combining Moorish domes and minarets with European baroque, like a cross between the Hagia Sophia and the Residenzschloss Ludwigsburg. It was surrounded by four large mansions, a building that looked like an office, and a few other smaller buildings. Glinting far beyond the buildings was the ocean, with a brilliant white sand beach.

It was in the office building that the slave had been received by Madam Li, the woman who introduced herself as the "personnel director of this facility." Madam Li seemed too young to be holding such a position - the slave would have imagined a harem keeper to be a stern elderly butch woman with a crew cut. Madam Li was strikingly pretty, with long narrow eyes, high cheekbones of a pure-blooded Han Chinese, and thick straight black hair cut at the level of her shoulders with bangs covering her forehead down to her neatly shaped eyebrows, framing a porcelain-doll face with a small dainty nose and perfect lips. The kind of etheral beauty that would make other women feel insecure and irrationally jealous at the same time if they ever caught their boyfriends/husbands glancing at her.

Memories of that first meeting still made Zaheera blush. Madam Li had ordered her to strip, and stand on a wooden platform, and inspected her body as if she was a lab specimen, noting things down on an iPad, taking photos of her bruised vulva and breasts to complement the notes. Then, while she stood there naked, she had been subjected to a torrent of intimate questions in Madam Li's tight clipped emotionless voice about her health, her sexual experience before and after the abduction (instead of "abduction" though, Madam Li used the word "recruitment", as if all this was a job contract she had signed up for). When Madam Li came across the infinity symbol branded on the inner part of the slave's upper left thigh, she visibly stiffened - the only time during the interrogation that her cool composure changed. She asked the slave how she had got the brand, and the slave, not knowing how much she was allowed to disclose, and how far she could trust this woman, replied that the person who had trained her after recruitment had given her the mark. Madam Li didn't seem satisfied with the answer, but she didn't press it further. She did, however, take a couple of photos of the symbol using her mobile phone, although she didn't seem to document it on the iPad.

Afterwards, the slave was lead to a different room, where a wizened old Asian crone had measured practically every part of her body with a measuring tape, muttering to herself and not taking any notes at all. The measurements included even the length from her clit to the perineum, the width of each outer cunt lip, and how far each inner lip could be stretched. After the humiliating measurements, she was given clothes to wear, which didn't fit her well at all. They consisted of a short red batik blouse (similar to a bikini jacket), which was fastened in the front, and a length of cloth. The crone showed her how to wrap and secure the ankle length cloth around her waist, leaving her midriff bare. After she had got dressed, Madam Li gave her an approving smile, and informed her that henceforth, she will be called Zaheera.

For the first week, she was kept in a room in that building, and each morning she had "orientation" sessions. Some of these were done by Madam Li, who explained to her the structure of the harem. At the top of the food chain were the four proper wives of the prince, carrying the title Puteri (Princess, in Malay) - Aishah, Raqueema, Suleika, and Tasmia. Each of the princesses had their own residence, which were the four mansions in the compound. Aishah was the first wife, and the other three were by tradition, one step lower in the hierarchy to her. However, Madam Li confided in a conspiratorial tone, Suleika was the prince's favorite. Next came five concubines (with the title, Gundik) - Mayang, Nayla, Tatyana, Rachel, and Anca. The concubines were of foreign birth, and therefore, ineligible to be proper wives, but their children could carry the title prince. The concubines lived in the main building. Zaheera was to be a Pengiring (or, companion) to either a Puteri or a Gundik. Below her level were the servants.

During that week, she was taught the proper etiquette and forms of address by Madam Li, seductive dancing techniques by a young Chinese girl named Siew Ling, and massage techniques by the old crone, whose method of instruction consisted of demonstration, grunting, gesturing, and slapping when the student made a wrong move. That was how she was introduced to Suri, the Pengiring who was to become her room mate. Suri suffered through the sessions as the guinea pig for Zaheera's attempts at learning Malay massage. Several days later, she was informed that she will move in to the main building, with Suri as her room mate and guide. It was also on that day, that the Doctor, whom she met on the plane, injected her with Depo Provera, a long term contraceptive.

Each morning she and Suri had to report to the office building for lessons with the old crone. Zaheera had become quite good at the massage techniques, although at night her hands and shoulders ached from the practice. She envied Suri, who had to just lie there and be massaged.

"Today is special lesson, Salleh," winked Suri as they headed to the showers. "Madam Li teach you today."

"You won't be with me today?" asked Zaheera, with some concern in her voice. Although she didn't consider Suri as a friend (at least not yet), there was something comforting in knowing that this always-cheerful Malay girl was there with her. "Why? You miss me already, Salleh?", laughed Suri, casually tossing her night smock in to the laundry bin. Her large breasts bobbed as she picked up a shower kit from the counter and tossed one to Zaheera. The Pengiring didn't have any belongings - it was forbidden. They brushed teeth with disposable tooth brushes, and washed their hair with shampoo that came in single use sachets. Their towels and clothes were picked up from bins, and tossed in to laundry bins when done. The Pengiring were not allowed to wear bras, and panties were only allowed if they had some menstrual bleeding in spite of the contraceptive.

There were around 15 - 20 Pengiring, as far as Zaheera had been able to keep tabs. Every morning they showered in the communal shower, had breakfast of rice with a spicy beef or fish curry, and went to their assigned duties. Zaheera didn't have duties assigned to her yet, and Suri's duty was to be her guide. As they headed towards the office building, the fresh breeze blowing from the sea smelled invigorating.

Madam Li was waiting for them inside the instructions room.

To be continued...

[Runesmith]

Zaheera almost gasped in surprise.

Instead of her usual white blouse with grey pin-stripe jacket and skirt, Madam Li was dressed in an elegant burgundy off the shoulder dress that went down to her ankles, with high stiletto heels to match. Her perfectly shaped lips, which usually had only transparent lip gloss on them, were now neatly coloured to match her dress. The mascara and eye shadow accentuated her almond eyes and framed her delicate cheek bones making her look like that Chinese model from Estée Lauder that Zaheera couldn't remember the name of (well, not only was Liu Wen a difficult name for a westerner to remember, but she was already even forgetting that she used to have a different life). The transformation of Madam Li from a stern but pretty administrator to a beautiful seductress was breathtaking. How she had not been enlisted in to the harem itself was a mystery, as she looked more beautiful than the princesses and the concubines. Perhaps her business attire was a way to disguise her beauty.

The steely edge in her voice wasn't gone though. "So, I have been informed by Suri here that you think you are ready to fill the new vacancy in Gundik Rachel's entourage that just came up... well, you seem to be in a hurry to climb up, aren't you?"

Zaheera had had no such conversation with Suri, and neither did she even know that there was such a vacancy. She shot a questioning look at Suri, but the Malay girl was simply staring straight ahead, not even glancing in her direction.

"Well, in this case, you will be tested today, and if you pass, I will assign you to Gundik Rachel. If not, when Suri returns to barracks duty, you will go with her. Understood?"

Barracks duty was something assigned to Pengiring who didn't have the right skills or class to make it as part of an entourage. And it was exactly what the job title said - to entertain the guards and make sure that their sexual needs were fulfilled, so that they wouldn't be tempted to "taste the forbidden chicken", as the Malay saying went.

Zaheera hadn't known until now that Suri had been pulled from barracks duty to be her guide, and she still couldn't understand why the girl that she thought was her friend, had put her in this position. She had no idea what she was going to be tested on, and from the hint of irritation in Madam Li's voice, it was clear that she wouldn't have an easy time at it. However, she also instinctively felt that if she mentioned this now, it wouldn't end well for her, and neither for Suri.

"Come with me," commanded Madam Li, and glided gracefully on her stilettos towards a door on the side of the instructions room.

Behind the door was a very spacious, lavishly decorated bedroom, fit for a princess. A huge, gilded four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room. A sitting area with a Divan (an type of padded Malay couch with a padded, rounded arm on one side, and no arm on the other) crested with intricate gilded wood carvings, a tea table with a tea pot and Chinese tea cups, and a large wooden dresser occupied one side of the room, while the other side had tile floors, with a large white and gold enamel bath sitting on four guilded feet styled like lion paws.

"Welcome to my quarters," Madam Li said, her voice softening and acquiring a hint of pride at the look on Zaheera's face. "It's a privilege I get for having to train people like you on serving royalty." Her voice hardened again, as she pointed out, "A training, which you have not had the benefit of having."

"Now, imagine that I am the Gundik, and I am back from attending an official event. Help me relax. Do this well, and you will earn your place. If not, you will learn a lesson in the virtues of patience."

[Runesmith]

Zaheera was expecting something of this sort as soon as she had had a glance at the room, but that didn't mean she was prepared for it. She knew there was some sort of etiquette and services she was supposed to perform, but her training had not gotten to that stage yet.

Madam Li caught her deer-in-headlights look, and added in a quiet voice, "And the other two most important lessons - never to trust anyone here, and never to take the fall for someone else. You have no friends here. Remember that."

Zaheera's mind went in to overdrive. To hell with etiquette - what would a woman want when she comes back to her apartment, tired after a long evening?

She bowed to Madam Li with her right hand over her heart(that much she knew from the etiquette), and led her to the divan. Madam Li lay down on the divan, her head resting on the round padded arm and her feet at the armless side. Zaheera knelt down and removed Madam Li's high heels, and started massaging her feet. Madam Li sighed in pleasure and stretched lower on the couch. Matching her delicate porcelain doll face, her feet were small, dainty, exquisitely pedicured, and very soft to the touch - unlike Suri's rough feet, which Zaheera had practiced massaging on. It was almost a pleasure to run her fingers on such beautiful (yes, beautiful was the first word that popped in to her mind) and exquisite feet. Zaheera had of course heard about foot fetish, and it was only now that she could understand why some men felt so attracted towards them... hmm, maybe not only men.

When she felt Madam Li relaxing, Zaheera stood up, walked to the marble washbasin and washed her hands. She poured some jasmine tea from the tea pot in to a cup, and carried it to the couch. Kneeling at Madam Li's shoulder level, she presented the cup, holding it between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand and with her left palm supporting the bottom. She had seen that gesture before, when Suri had offered tea to the old crone who gave her massage lessons. Madam Li turned her head and sipped from the cup while Zaheera held it, in spite of the heat burning her fingers and palm. After a few sips, Madam Li nodded, and Zaheera, hiding her relief, quickly placed the cup back on the tea table. What should she do next? A bath - of course.

Zaheera quickly crossed the room to the bath. Although the bath itself and the fittings had a vintage look, instead of the usual taps, there was an electronic control panel, where the water temperature could be set. It confused her for a moment, as she didn't know which temperature it should be set at. Then she remembered that at the hot springs she used to visit, the Mineraltherme Boeblingen, her favourite hot pool had a sign saying "41 degrees". She turned the dial to 41 degrees, and pressed the button that showed a bath filling up. Immediately, the water started hissing through the spout.

Squatting at the head side of the divan, Zaheera started massaging Madam Li's shoulders and neck. Sliding her hands behind the back of the dress, she found the zipper and slowly pulled it down.

[Runesmith]

Zaheera's fingers glided under the shoulders of the unzipped dress and found the tense knots between Madam Li's shoulder blades. Like the old crone had taught her, she teased them out, feeling the satisfying crunch under her fingertips. Madam Li sighed, relaxing and closing her eyes, lulled by the sound of water burbling in to the bath tub. Zaheera could feel the weight of the woman's body relaxing down on to her arms. The movements of Zaheera's hands pushed the off-the-shoulder dress even lower, gliding the front of the dress smoothly off the woman's breasts.

Her breasts were small, but perfectly formed. The pale skin framed neatly circular milk-coffee coloured areolae, topped by tiny shy buds that hardly raised their heads above the tops of the mounds. Zaheera's hands moved from under the shoulder blades to the tops of the shoulders, around the neck, and between those exquisite breasts pressing down on the chest bone, eliciting another sigh from the woman. As she leaned forward, letting her fingers curve under the bottom of the breasts, avoiding touching the nipples, Zaheera's own breasts pressed up against the woman's head, cradling it against the softness.

The fingers circled the woman's breasts, kneading them but avoiding the nipples, following the Malayan Urut Jamu massage technique Zaheera had learned from the old crone, originally developed for post-natal care, but modified in the harem to tease and arouse. The teasing and arousal were definitely working, as the woman's breathing became shallower and tiny motions of her body tried to push those nipples on to the path of Zaheera's roaming fingertips, that were studiously trying to avoid them. The tiny buds hardened in to tiny sharp points as the arousal painted the pale nipples in a shade of blush pink. The dainty Asian porcelain-doll sighed again and relaxed in to the massage, with only the flutter of her closed eyelids and the beating of her heart against the chest betraying the nervous excitement she felt.

Teasing only works as long as you deprive the person of what they crave at the moment. So Zaheera deftly moved her hands back to the shoulders, gave them one final squeeze, and rested the woman's head back on the upholstered arm of the divan. Kneeling at the open side of the divan, she started rubbing the woman's feet, pressing on the pressure points as she had been taught, and, moving on to the Achilles tendon and calf muscles. The woman shifted her legs, bending her knees slightly, allowing Zaheera's hands to reach underneath and perform the painful but pleasurable squeezing. When the hands moved to the knees and pushed them apart, the woman complied, letting Zaheera push the hem of the elegant dress above the knees.

The fingers moved slowly up along the inner thighs, caressing, gently spreading the thighs apart, until they met at the point where feverishly warm flesh was covered only by sheer lace, and then the fingertips would traverse along the edge of the lace to the front of the thighs and begin their slow journey back to the knees. Each cycle increased the woman's rate of breathing, and each time the fingers met the lace, an almost involuntary thrust of the pelvis betrayed how aroused the woman was, just as how the increase in warm wetness seeping through the lace did.

A beeping from the bath tub indicated that the bath was ready. Leaving the woman's side, Zaheera walked over to the sideboard, tested the bath water and added rose-smelling bath salts from a crystal bowl. She helped the the woman rise up from the divan, letting the dress crumple down to her ankles. Kneeling in front of the woman, Zaheera slowly peeled down the black silk panties from the woman's hips, letting them join the dress on the floor, revealing a dark triangle of jet black straight pubic hair neatly trimmed on the sides and along the bikini line, the downward point of the triangle ending neatly at the cleft where the soft mound was split in half.

Almost unable to stop herself, Zaheera glided her hands on the woman's smooth skin from the ankles where the panties were lying in a heap, along the front of the calves, veering to the inside of the thighs the moment they climbed over the knees, then circled the woman's hips around, the palms coming to a rest cradling her pert buttocks. Not even thinking anymore, Zaheera pressed her face against the woman's crotch, the thick straight Asian pubic hair pricking her forehead, and inhaled deeply.

Madam Li smelled similar, but yet different from the only other woman Zaheera had known intimately in her life - her fellow captive at the cabin in the woods, the girl who called herself cumrag. Cumrag's cunt smelled of carbolic soap when it had been washed, but when not, it had a strong but alluring musky odour, with a light overtone of urine, and sometimes that wet bark smell of semen indicating that the men had used her. Madam Li's pussy smelled clean, with almost no discernible smell except a light musky tang that was different from cumrag's but just as alluring... maybe even more alluring.

Madam Li sighed as she opened her legs, knees slightly bent outwards, letting the Pengiring better access. Her hands grabbed the harem slave's head and pulled it tightly towards her crotch, pushing her sensitive clitoris against the kneeling woman's face. She was feeling extremely aroused from the massage, and humped herself on the western slut's face almost as if punishing her for awakening the dragon within.

From the time she was a teen, Li Xue Feng had been attracted to women - a desire she had kept well under control. The first person to awaken those feelings had been her cousin, several years her elder, who slept in the same bed as her in her parents' tiny apartment in Suzhou. Mei Zhen, whose name meant "beautiful pearl", had guided her sexual awakening with both passion and patience. After she had lost her beautiful pearl, Xue Feng had had several female lovers, along with some men, who couldn't arouse in her the same passion that a female body could. The men were just the cover story. When she was recruited in to her main job after completing her degree in foreign languages Shanghai, her recruiters knew about her "flexibility" and valued it instead of judging her - like her family did when they found out.

This assignment in this god-forsaken harem did help keep her away from unwanted attention from men, but she had up to now also kept away from the women. A dalliance with a titled woman could damage her neutrality in the fierce harem politics and put her position (and maybe even her life) at risk, and an affair with a harem slave could harm her position of authority. The harem was a veritable swamp of gossip, and one had to be always on guard.

But now, as she brutally mashed her clit against the slave's face, smearing the pale woman's nose, lips and chin with the secretions of her desire, all caution was thrown to the wind. A line had been crossed. After months of deprivation, Xue Feng let her desire take flight, and as she reached the peak of her climax, she whispered the name of her beloved, who had been taken from her, but never gone from her memories.

Later, as she stepped out from the relaxing bath in to the bathrobe the pengiring was holding out for her, Madam Li shot her a cold hard glance, and said, "Well, as I expected, you did everything wrong."

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This part took me the longest to write. I've been stuck here for months. I wanted to convey the interplay of complex emotions, and I wanted to experiment with using certain titles to express the complexity of Li Xue Feng's personality. I refer to her as Madam Li when she is authoritative and powerful, as "the woman" when she lays the mantle of authority aside and relaxes, and use her name when she is most vulnerable and alone. I also shift the point of view from Zaheera to Xue Feng and hopefully the transition was not too abrupt. Out of all the variants I tried, this seems the best, and this will form the cornerstone of what is to come.