Feature Writer: DStrrbd
Feature Title: BLACK SHEMALE’S BLONDE VICTIM
Published: 16.05.2023
Story Codes: TS, Rape, NC, Sexual Slavery, Religious
Synopsis: Sheltered Christian blonde doesn’t know cocks exist. Abducted, sold a black Muslim shemale who does unspeakable things the appalled captive could never have imagined.
Black Shemale’s Blonde Victim
In stories there’s a fate which threatens captured girls, but Yvette has never understood what it is. It’s referred to as being carried off, but carried off to where, for what?
She grew up on the island of Martinique, where her father owns a slave-worked plantation. She attended a convent boarding school in France. With deliberate care, her parents and the teacher nuns protected her from any such disturbing notions as lascivious pleasure, even between husband and wife.
Her schooling ends when she’s eighteen. She sets sail for her home, expecting to make her début in Martinique’s exclusively white high society. But Barbary pirates seize her ship. Yvette is being carried off, that is beyond doubt, but what will happen when she reaches her destination?
Landed in a North African port, she soon finds herself suspended by her arms. Covered by nothing but a wrapping of diaphanous fabric from her waist to a few inches above her knees, she’s displayed to a room full of swarthy men.
She’s been raised with endless admonitions to hide her flesh from view, that to be seen is unholy. This display of so much that should be hidden scorches her with bitter shame. She twists her abdomen to one side and then another to keep her globes from the sight of the audience, but she can’t turn far enough. She succeeds only in shaking those two lovely baubles from side to side, making them jiggle before the eyes of the onlookers.
A man stands beside her, gesturing at her while speaking an incomprehensible language. There’s no doubt she’s being auctioned.
What could only be bidding ceases. An old man stands amid the crowd with an air of victory. His back is crooked, unsightly growths all over his face. Has he bought her? She has no idea what happens to a girl after purchase, but nothing this wizened old gnome might do with her could possibly be good.
Yvette is whisked away in a palanquin, through the city and into a palace. Several scantily clad young women, of varying complexions but all browner than her, pull her from the conveyance into a large room decorated in oriental splendor.
A tall woman in purple robes looks the slender Christian virgin up and down with an appreciative gaze. She’s as dark as the slaves that work the plantation owned by Yvette’s father. She speaks briefly to the aged hunchback, who retreats bowing from the room.
Unknown to Yvette this is her new owner, Lady Zeinab. She sent the lump-faced manservant in her stead to buy this golden-haired beauty, as women are not allowed to bid at the slave market.
The Muslim noblewoman says a word, and the dusky girls holding Yvette carry her to where two leather thongs hang from the ceiling. They bind her wrists high, and then kneel to tighten similar straps attached to the floor about her ankles. When she’s held in the standing position, unable to move from the spot, they retreat from her.
The tall negress reaches toward the face of her new property. Yvette has only ever known a world where, by unquestionable divine sanction, black slaves defer to white masters. The fair-skinned abductee shrinks in horror from this transgression of the Lord’s will. She jerks her head back and strains with all her might against the bonds that hold her in place, blue eyes wide in fear and disgust. But it’s all in vain. She can do nothing as a dark hand touches the underside of her chin, glides down her distended throat.
“Stop it!” Yvette shouts indignantly. “You may not touch me!”
Lady Zeinab laughs, and replies in strongly-accented but intelligible French. “You’ll find that I can do whatever I like to you. And you will come to regret such insolence.”
Lady Zeinab circles her latest acquisition, caressing arms, back, neck. She brushes a finger across Yvette’s flat belly, then denudes the white body of its only garment. She admires the dainty triangle of thatch where lower torso meets legs, delighted to find it’s as light a shade of gold as that on the girl’s head.
The mistress strokes up the creamy hips, waist and flanks, then runs a single fingertip back and forth along one collarbone. Yvette has no notion of carnality, but physical contact this intimate clearly impugns the dignity of her person. It’s an outrage beyond bearing that she’s in a position of such vulnerability to anyone, her body the object of another’s sport. But one of the race the Almighty has ordained for servitude! That multiplies her disgrace a thousandfold.
Lady Zeinab’s hand trails down the white girl’s sternum to her breasts, where the nipples are growing longer. “You enjoy the touch of woman, don’t you?”
“No! No!” Yvette replies without thinking.
In truth she has always found the round soft shapes of the female form pleasing, in contrast to the unpleasantly blockish physique of man. It warms her to place her hand on another girl’s arm or back, and she often held hands with her schoolmates. But to the sheltered virgin’s mind, these things are merely expressions of friendship. Lacking any concept of fleshly conjunctions, it could never occur to her that there is anything improper in such gentle touching between girls.
The African violator laughs. “These tell a different story.” She lowers her face to Yvette’s bosom, which she smothers in kisses. She rubs one of the stiff buds with her fingers, then takes it between her lips and nuzzles at it with her teeth. She subjects both pink breast-pegs to prolonged torment with her mouth.
Slavegirls of assorted colors stand meekly by as their owner enjoys the new plaything. Lady Zeinab moves to Yvette’s side and caresses her back. She barks an order in Arabic, incomprehensible to Yvette. The watching girls rush to strip off their few garments.
Stroking Yvette’s nether curves, the negress beckons to one of her slaves. This olive lovely approaches and does as her owner did, defiling Yvette’s chest with her fingers and mouth. One after another, their owner calls all of them over by name. They each take a turn with the her bosom, squeezing the luscious globes, tweaking and nibbling the erect nubs.
Yvette’s body bucks and twists under this assault, and tears stream down her face. Being used like this, a toy, helpless as stranger after stranger molests her flesh — it degrades her to the core. Her face is on fire, breath coming in fast shallow gulps. Knowing nothing of the congress of the marriage-bed, much less of whoring or rape, this seems to her innocent mind simply an especially fiendish kind of bullying. She has no idea that the fire in her body is anything but shame at such vile maltreatment.
Lady Zeinab speaks another curt command. The girls take Yvette down and drag her to a huge bed fitted with four shackles. They close two of the cuffs around her wrists, then haul her legs wide apart and do the same to her ankles. She’s splayed, body defenseless. Her girl-flower is in full bloom, as if wantonly offering all that lies within to whatever cruelty might descend upon it.
Lady Zeinab reclines beside her pale captive, robed body pressing against the bare right flank. Her right hand toys with Yvette, running down her belly, then touching the inside of her leg. Bit by bit it inches ever closer to the pink blossom.
Yvette has no idea that the opening between her legs has any function beyond urination. But her prudish upbringing has instilled in her that this above all is dirty: never to be mentioned, seen or touched.
“No no, please! Please don’t touch that!”
Her entreaties win her no mercy. One fingertip touches the delicate folds. At the very first contact Yvette’s every muscle spasms. Her limbs pull on the restraints holding her spreadeagled, but the stout chains won’t yield. An uncouth barking yelp breaks from her. The trespassing digit teases her most intimate flesh, feathering over the convoluted inner surfaces of her blonde-fringed femininity. Though the dark finger’s skin barely brushes against those sensitive parts, the sensations it evokes sear her like red-hot irons.
The mistress speaks commanding words in Arabic. A Moorish girl lies down at Yvette’s left side, and the young Christian is hemmed in between two dark bodies. Lady Zeinab moves her black hand from the open flower and the slave’s deep-olive one takes its place, caressing there.
For some minutes the owner of both girls watches the darker one rubbing the lighter one’s moist love-petals. Then she dismisses her and calls another to take her place, then a third, a fourth. The helpless Yvette can only suffer the indignity of so many touching the most forbidden region of her body. All the while, Lady Zeinab’s fingers make light excursions over the blonde beauty’s inner thigh and belly. From time to time she chews on a nipple.
Nine girls touch Yvette’s pudendum, while three stand by the head of the bed to which she is affixed. This done, one by one the nine kiss the insides of Yvette’s legs. Then each kisses her flaring labia, after which they all lick those same engorged lips.
Over the years Lady Zeinab has bought many girls. But she tires of most of them in a few weeks and puts them into a brothel, where they earn her a tidy income. In the main she only retains those whose bodies respond with excitement to the touch of other females. So most of the nine enjoy this work.
But the lusty black tyrant has kept a few in her harem who don’t relish Sapphism, because their beauty is so great she cannot bear to part with them. Among this minority is one of the three kept back, Eileen, the only other white girl in the room. The mistress now beckons this exquisite green-eyed redhead, who places herself on the side of the bed with her face above Yvette’s left breast. At a gesture from her mistress she starts toying with the virgin’s soft pale bosom.
Lady Zeinab says in Arabic: “Fatima! Drive her close to the edge. But do not allow her release, or I shall lay a thousand and one stripes of castigation across your rear curves!”
A girl with tightly curled black hair kneels on the end of the bed. With one finger of each hand she opens the hood covering Yvette’s clitoris. With the tip of her skillful tongue she tickles it for a couple of minutes until the mistress calls for another girl to replace her.
Yvette’s mouth is open, gasping. Lady Zeinab plants her own over it. Loathing fills the blue-eyed victim. But a stronger force overwhelms her, which she’s too innocent to realize is frustrated desire. Her body isn’t under her own control. Without her willing it, her lips respond with fervor, and her tongue merges with that of her abuser.
As black woman and blonde girl kiss with such abominable passion, the nine slaves not at the bed’s head rotate through the work between Yvette’s thighs. One after another they toy with her pleasure-bud, tantalizing, yet never drawing her to completion.
When the last of the nine is licking Yvette’s most sensitive part, the mistress drags Eileen’s head away from Yvette’s chest to her mouth. Though aware another is on her now, Yvette can’t help but enjoy this new kiss. Eileen feels no desire for female bodies, but harsh thrashings have taught her obedience. She has grown skilled in giving pleasure to female bodies, and her tongue loves Yvette’s with artful cunning.
Lady Zeinab stands, and the other two girls who haven’t worked at Yvette’s loins start nibbling on her erect chest-buds. The prisoner is driven mad by stimulation from four girls, one on each nipple, one on her mouth and one at her clit. She doesn’t see her owner undressing. She doesn’t notice the lady’s trim muscular body, the fourteen-inch manhood projecting from her lower torso, the bulging ball-sack hanging beneath.
The stiff-loined negress grabs the hair of the girl currently teasing Yvette’s little hill, and drags her aside. The slave submits to this without protest, maintaining acquiescent silence in fear of the dreadful punishments which long ago broke her to obedience.
The Muslim man-woman throws herself on her Christian property. She slams the rigid beast in, scattering the slavegirls working at the captive’s mouth and chest. Yvette feels something she could never have imagined, an enormous hot hardness piercing her with brutal force to an impossible depth. The shock of it empties her lungs in an animal howl.
Yvette’s mind races for a moment, trying to understand, but rational thought doesn’t last long. Her owner drives the stabbing-spike in and out at a speed that destroys her ability to think of anything but the onslaught ravaging her insides.
Her femininity is in a state of high excitement from the outrages her body has already suffered. Now, each time her captor drives into her, ever greater pleasure wells up in the lining of her woman-pipe. She was already so close to release than only twenty or so vigorous intrusions drive her to orgasm.
But the mistress has barely started. Her male tusk continues to gouge Yvette, goading her to ever-greater delights. The young Christian thrashes around in the grip of Aphrodite’s raging frenzy. Demented screeching shakes the walls. The blonde head twists from side to side, throwing her tears in every direction.
Eventually Lady Zeinab shoots hot seed deep into her captive. Gradually she slows to a stop. Yvette gulps in air to refill lungs she’s emptied with her cries. When she regains the ability to focus her eyes, the black face is looking down on hers with the self-satisfaction of triumph.
Though Yvette doesn’t know what just happened, it’s obvious to her that she’s broken now, a used and soiled thing. But she doesn’t care. The ecstasy she’s experienced overrides any ideas of decency. She just wants more.
The cruel conqueror presses her mouth to her slave’s, and Yvette opens her own to greedily kiss tongue-on-tongue. This only ends when her the African renews her thrusts. The rest of that day and deep into the night, the despotic Muslim’s male spear enjoys the inside of her Christian toy many times, and Yvette loves every moment of it.
Yvette wakes with a start. There’s a moment without knowledge of her situation before memories flood her mind. Her ship seized. Being auctioned. Chained. Girls toying with her body. But what truly overturned her world, the hot hard length piercing deep within her. Before yesterday, she had no idea such a thing could be.
Self-loathing fills her as she recalls how she responded. How could any upright follower of God take pleasure from being used so?
A girl enters her room — cell? — with a plate of food. It’s not European fare, but Yvette is hungry and eats it all. Later she’s guided to another room with a bathtub full of hot water. She washes the outside of her body. But nothing can cleanse the filth from within her, her own sin at enjoying the handling of her person.
Once she’s dried herself, another door opens and four more of the girls enter. They beckon her, and when she steps back they crowd around and herd her out of the bathroom.
Lady Zeinab stands waiting, more slaves behind her. She reaches to touch Yvette’s face, and the young Christian tries to flee. Girls immediately seize her arms.
“Still defiant, I see. You will come to regret that.” With a sinister smile, the tall African barks an order.
Yesterday Yvette protested in vain, worsening the humiliation. Today, she decides, she’ll stay quiet. She won’t give her captress the satisfaction of extracting a word from her. More — no sounds of any kind.
They drag her into a room with a complex frame, clearly designed to immobilize the human form. They press her collarbones against a horizontal steel bar and pull her arms out to her sides. They buckle leather strap around each arm at the wrist, elbow and near the shoulder, holding her fast to the cold metal.
Though Yvette’s mouth forms a moue of indignation, she holds true to her vow of silence.
In front of her are two things like little benches, about six inches wide and a little over a foot long, with padded tops and fetters. Onto these the girls wrestle her upper legs and tie them down. Yvette ends up clamped in the sitting position, spine upright. Her lower legs are free to kick in empty air.
One of the slavegirls starts to crank a handle, and with a mechanical clattering the leg-rests move apart. Yvette is about to object, but remembers her decision to deny the negress the satisfaction of drawing any such thing from her.
The supports under her thighs pivot about a point beneath her torso, the ends near her knees separating fastest, curving out sideways and backward. They push her legs outward until she is splayed obscenely wide, legs almost 150 degrees apart. Their inner surfaces lack any protection, as does the flower where they meet, which at present is dry and closed.
Eileen, the pale green-eyed beauty, approaches Yvette with a tray on which lie a straight-razor and several other objects. In panic at the cutting weapon, Yvette tugs at her bonds but cannot move. With a brush Eileen lathers up Yvette’s loins, then shaves the blonde hairs from her womanhood. She rinses it with water from a jug and withdraws.
The owner of both girls gazes at Eileen’s handiwork and finds it good, all hairs being gone. She notes with amusement that the outer lips are half-parted simply from the touch of shaving-brush and razor-blade.
Lady Zeinab moves in to kiss Yvette. The blue-eyed captive twitches her head back, provoking an amused smile on her owner’s cruel visage.
“Yesterday you weren’t too proud to kiss me.” She seizes Yvette’s golden tresses in both hands and pulls.
The muscles in Yvette’s neck could resist, but her will is water. Physical contact still upsets her, but her newfound lust for female flesh is stronger. The mistress’s lips press on Yvette’s, their mouths open, and in seconds their tongues are exploring each other. The young Christian feeds greedily until the Muslim breaks off the kiss. She looks down, and to her amusement the girl’s nipples are long, flower open.
She orders her slaves to undress and calls over Fatima, the darkest of her slave-women. “Now kiss her.”
Yvette is reluctant, but there seems little point resisting. She turns her head and merges her mouth with Fatima’s. One after another, Yvette has to kiss every girl. All the while black fingertips lightly toy with the front of the white body, now brushing her belly, now at her chest, now between her legs.
Once Yvette has yielded to her base desires, kissing all twelve slavegirls with tongues, Lady Zeinab dismisses the last of them. She reaches down to rub the captive’s wet and open vulva, making her gasp before she remembers she decided against all sound. Then she crams her middle finger deep into the receptive tunnel, and against her will Yvette squeaks in shock. The digit flexes and Yvette’s body goes into spasm, straining against the restraints that hold her fast to the frame. She can’t move far, although her convulsions are enough to make her breasts bounce in a manner most pleasing to her owner’s eyes.
The blonde head twists from side to side. Yvette struggles to stay quiet but can’t completely suppress her cries. Her abuser has wrested sound from her, triumphing over the young blonde as she has in so many other things.
Lady Zeinab suddenly pulls her finger out, and commands one of her slaves to take her place. All twelve girls probe the interior of Yvette’s womanhood just as their owner did, while the latter rubs inside the cleft between her blonde plaything’s buttocks. Yvette’s face burns with shame and tears run down her cheeks. Shame not only at being so crudely violated, but at the pleasure which mounts higher with each new girl that despoils her.
When the last intruder is withdrawn from her vagina, the open-mouthed Yvette tries to calm her breath. But before she has a chance, she squeals in response to an unexpected and shocking sensation.
Cold.
Something freezing has touched her between the shoulder blades. Her head whips around. Behind her stands her dark abuser, grinning, obviously holding something to her back. She can’t turn her head far enough to see that it’s a two-foot-long wooden stick, half encased in ice — a very expensive luxury here in Marrakesh. It has to be cut in Norway and transported by ship.
The cruel noblewoman runs it slowly down Yvette’s spine. Then she walks around to the girl’s front and touches it under her chin. She moves the freezing tip over Yvette’s throat and chest, between her bosoms. She circles each breast slowly, then keeps it against one nip until that erect bud suffers burning frost.
Then she whips it away and stabs it toward the girl-flower which is still so open from the stimulation Yvette has received on this frame. Her aim is perfect, and she spears her blonde plaything at the first attempt. All thought of quiet is gone now, and the young Christian yelps as her sensitive insides are filled and chilled.
At a word from their owner, some of the slavegirls get to work on the complex frame-system to which Yvette is strapped. They lock another horizontal steel bar in place before her, about two inches below her navel. Then they tip the whole edifice forward until the blonde captive’s spine is almost horizontal. Her weight rests on the two pieces of metal crossing her front.
Lady Zeinab stands in front of the French girl she bought yesterday. She slips off her robe, displaying the rampant fourteen-inch giant that sprouts from her loins. “Last night I taught you the true meaning of pleasure with this. Today you will learn that there are other ways for me to enjoy you.”
She walks behind Yvette, who feels relief when the ice-pole is jerked out of her vagina. But then her innards knot in uncertain trepidation when something very warm presses in between her buttocks. She looks over her shoulder at the athletic negress, who slides the tip of her dark man-spear down the trench until it touches the tight, crinkly hole. Yvette is about to ask why, but catches herself. Though she has cried out, failing in her determination to stay silent, she has not yet spoken a word. I must hold back that, if nothing else. She will not take everything from me.
Lady Zeinab pushes her body forward. Yvette’s ring contracts in an effort to bar the intruder’s way. But the tall muscular African is too strong for her, and forces it inside. The girth of the huge monster, so pleasurable yesterday to the lining of her vagina, now gives pain as it tears her clenching sphincter. The horror of that brutal impalement rips a ragged howl from Yvette’s throat.
The violator presses in deep, withdraws most of the way, drives in again, quickly speeds up. Her rear being used at such a dreadful pace rips agonized shrieks from the young Christian. Her neck twists from side to side, throwing her golden locks around her head like a halo. The gouging continues just as fast until the thick love-weapon sprays hot semen into Yvette’s bowels.
Two of the watching girls kneel beside Yvette and reach under her. One slips a finger into her vagina to locate the knot of pleasure-nerves within. The other finds her little hill. Two more girls approach Yvette from the front and each starts to toy with one breast, finding her pink nips already stiff.
These four girls stimulate Yvette’s body. Lady Zeinab, her rigid maleness still inside Yvette, listens for a short while. It amuses the noblewoman that her newest purchase can’t manage to fully stifle sounds of pleasure.
Then she starts using her pale plaything again. Yvette’s cries grow louder and harsher as the skilled fingers draw her toward completion, while at the same time her anus suffers the renewed pain and indignity of being gored by that savage tusk.
The sensations in her nether cavern are horrific. And the position she’s in, tied up as meat for her black abuser, crushes her with shame. But the touch of pretty girls excites her femininity, and the physical joy in her womanhood mounts until it explodes in a fiery crescendo between her legs. Yvette vents her loudest shrieks so far today. Entertained by this display, Lady Zeinab speeds up and shoots a second bolt.
Slowing after her second release, the mistress claps her hands. The four slaves working on the trussed-up blonde leave her, and four more take their places. These girls bring Yvette to a second orgasm, while their owner pollutes her back-hole with seed a third time. Then the girls change again, the remaining four work on Yvette to bring her off, while the impaler has her fourth masculine release.
Lady Zeinab pulls her cock out of Yvette’s anus, and orders her slaves to return the frame to its upright position. A girl wheels a trolley, on which various tools of castigation are laid out, into the captive’s field of view.
Yvette’s blue eyes lock onto those appalling implements. She’s about to shout her objections, but remembers her determination not to say a word. She mentally prepares herself to hold fast to that, the one thing over which she has a choice.
The tall negress, enormous rod still standing proud from her loins, takes up a whip which tapers to an end less than an eighth of an inch wide. She flicks her wrist and it slices through the air, just catching Yvette’s left bosom about two inches above the nipple, ripping a high-pitched scream from the young blonde. A fiery red line appears, but no blood.
When Lady Zeinab buys a girl, two possible fates await her. She may be kept in this palace, serving for the mistress’s twisted amusement. Or she may be sent to a house of pleasure where she will earn money from men to enrich her owner. In either case, it’s preferable she be free of mark or blemish.
To this end, the noblewoman has acquired correctives carefully designed to avoid leaving scars. This one’s last few inches have been treated with oil to soften it. A skilled whipper can wield it with a light touch, drawing it across the flesh’s surface without breaking skin. But despite the leather’s softness and the meager degree of contact, such an impact inflicts the most dreadful agony.
The second time it whistles down between the globes, slicing one then the other. “Noooo!!! No please, I beg you, please no more!” Only two strokes of punishment, and already this weak girl breaks. Nothing in her pampered upbringing prepared her for this horror. She babbles more entreaties, azure eyes desperately pleading with her owner for mercy.
“Now, child, tell me. What is your position in my household?”
“Please…. please…. I — I am, am y-yours.”
Swoosh! The whipcord flies again. “Aaaaaaaaaaaa!” Another stripe mars a soft breast.
“Use a respectful title when you address me!”
“Please, my lady, yes mistress, I’ll do anything mistress! I’m yours mistress, your humble and obedient servant mistress! Please, mistress, I humbly beg you to stop, noble lady!”
“Your next words will determine how I treat you. What are the stations of the dark and light-skinned races in God’s order of creation?”
Yvette’s father owns a plantation worked by black slaves. Until her abduction, she only ever knew a social order with whites at the top. It’s obvious that her captress wants to hear the opposite, but a mere three strokes are not enough to overturn a lifetime of unquestioning belief.
“God has placed….” She draws a deep breath. “Whites at the top and blacks in servitude!”
Lady Zeinab’s face, up to now showing vicious amusement, takes on a grim expression. “Child, I shall teach you righteous beliefs! Even if it takes a year of thrashings to drive out your sin!” Her hand moves fast, lambasting the twin swellings of Yvette’s pale bosom with rapid cuts of the whip.
The bound victim’s limbs spasm with furious effort, but the many unyielding straps binding her to the frame hold her fast. As her body fights in vain to escape, the muscles in her neck bulge like mooring-ropes. Her head twists madly from side to side, scattering tears all around, and the most demented shrieks escape her mouth.
The rain of burning lashes stops suddenly. Lady Zeinab admires her handiwork, the network of red weals criss-crossing light-pink curves. The girl’s ear-splitting cries subside to a noisy sobbing, soaking her face as she weeps uncontrollably.
The man-woman takes up another whip. This one has a tongue an inch across, the last inch and half divided into ten narrow strips. Just behind this fringed tip the leather has been bent into a tube, its edges riveted together. The result is a circular end with tendrils projecting from it, oiled like the lash which has already tasted Yvette.
The cruel Muslim gauges her distance from her Christian plaything carefully. Then she drives this castigator directly toward Yvette’s right nipple. Her aim is perfect, and tubular section stops just short of its target. The ten tiny tormentors close around that erect bud, crashing into it from all sides.
“Aaaaaaaa!!!!! Please mistress, please your most worshipful highness, I was wrong! I see now — I see that the, the place of whites is to, to s-serve, noble lady! Please, my lady, please forgive your humble servant the error of her sinful ways, mistress!”
“And the place of the blacks?”
“Please, most high mistress, God has ordained that blacks should rule over all, mistress! Especially over the whites, mistress, whites are the lowest my lady! The paler the skin, the lower the place in the almighty’s order of creation, mistress!”
Lady Zeinab whips her broken slavegirl’s other nipple in the same fashion, the ten little tongues scorching it with agony. “What is the proper place of a blonde girl?”
“Please, most majestic ruler, blondes are the lowest and most servile of the pale race, mistress! I deserve the lowest place in your highness’s service because of my blonde hair, my lady!”
Whip — whip — right nipple, then the left — two more howls as the vulnerable buds, standing out in high arousal, each suffer again.
“And the position of blue-eyed girls in relation to other blondes?”
“Puh-please, m-m-mistress…. blue eyes make me even more worthless than other blondes, great and noble one. I am lower than a dog, my lady, lower than a rat! I am the filthiest dregs, high mistress, and I deserve only subjection to your righteous will, mistress!”
“Promise you will obey me without hesitation.”
“Please, I humbly promise I’ll obey you without hesitation, greatest of noble ladies! I promise from the bottom of my heart, glorious one!”
“Since I allowed you the privilege of being mine, you have shown me much disobedience. Tell me that you deserve severe punishment.”
Yvette’s eyes grow huge with terror. “Please, mistress — I — I—”
“Without hesitation, you said! You promised only moments ago, and already you break your vow! Now learn the price of your perfidy!”
Lady Zeinab directs the fringed whip down, straight at the flower that’s half-open between the captive’s splayed thighs. Again the main body does not reach the blonde, but the small fingers slice across the outside of the vulva. Swiftly the terrible Instructor flies, cutting at the Christian’s helpless womanhood.
Under thing bombardment, the blonde’s lust-flower widens further. The outer gates part entirely to expose the delicate flesh they usually hide. The ten lashes scorch the outsides of her lesser girl-petals with hideous torment. At this ferocious assault these dainties open, presenting their inner surfaces to be flayed.
The cruel tormentress lays aside the split whip and again takes up the one with only a single tongue. Yvette’s labia minora are obscenely flared, and between them a shadowy inlet faces her owner. The African launces the lash’s tip at this with unerring accuracy, and the oiled leather clips the inside of that open pipe as it exits.
The pale victim bound to the frame screams louder than she ever has before as her owner plies the lining of her vagina with rapid cuts of that merciless paingiver. She goes on for a long, long time before finally letting the broken French girl rest.
Lady Zeinab lets her rest for the night. But the next day she tests her latest toy’s obedience. Yvette has to grovel at the black woman’s feet, giving thanks for the moral guidance she’s received, expounding on how lowly she is, and imploring the mistress to use her body.
The kneeling blonde kisses her black abuser’s feet, up her legs, kisses her giant black rod. The Christian pathetically begs her Muslim overlord to stab that long thick beast into her worthless anus, and does her best to feign pleasure as she undergoes that indignity. She spends ages pleading for the privilege of cleaning that member with her tongue, and babbles profuse thanks when her goddess finally permits it. She licks her own shit off it with great humility and brings it to orgasm, swallowing the seed as if it were the most delicious ambrosia.
After that Yvette obeys commands to kiss the soles of all the other slavegirls’ feet, then to lick them. Without the slightest rebellion she puts her tongue in between their buttocks and tastes their sphincters.
And despite all Yvette has suffered, despite the injuries to the inside of her cunt, when Lady Zeinab pokes that pink tunnel, Yvette still cannot help enjoying the huge cock.
THE END