The sleazy trader had used leather thongs to tie my wrists to a pole. Behind my back. Not that it was necessary. What slave would be crazy enough to escape into this dusty, gritty city wearing only lycra shorts and a slave collar? The black lycra shorts were new and shiny, part of the trader's marketing ploy, a little investment that might pay off if the new owner was interested in more than just a Java programmer. I had also been given a full body shaving, and been oiled up nicely. The lycra shorts were small, so they accentuated crotch and butt.
The slave collar, a stainless steel rim riveted to a brown leather backing, was old and weather-worn. The trader wasn't going to spend money on a new one of those, especially since the client was likely to give me a new one with a standard company look, and maybe the company logo.
The door opened and the trader and client walked in. The client was a dark man of medium height wearing a loose and expensive-looking tunic. My immediate thought was: he's not fat, he's not old, he's not ugly. I felt relief and some delight wash through me.
When I say he wasn't ugly, I don't mean he was good-looking. In the unlit room (there was no proper window) I could make out intense and beady eyes, a round face, a thin line of a beard running like a loop around the bottom of his face, framing it in a way. Not handsome, but okay. And I noticed there was a sexy sternness about him.
The client seemed a bit taken aback, though he tried not to make it obvious. He wasn't going to let his guard down with a slave. But I could see that something had struck him.
His beady eyes glistened in the thick dark air of the stuffy room. He looked me up and down, from head to naked toe, with a tiny curl of disapproval at the corner of his mouth. It was intense. I sensed he was trying to conceal his approval by appearing as disapproving and nonchalant as possible. I was thrilled.
Eventually he snapped out of whatever he'd fallen into.
He couldn't have expected much body-wise from a computer programmer. Most of us are nothing to look at, especially the straight ones. We tend to concentrate on getting good at our job, and in that way to earn the special favours a slave is continuously on the lookout for. A more comfortable sleeping space, protection from other bully slaves, better food, and fewer random whippings. But I've been training for years. Fortunately, my slaveowners have always had some gym equipment lying around, and have allowed me to use it. So I've built up some nice, smooth pecs, firm biceps, muscular forearms with protruding veins, a sixpack, and a couple of sexy legs. Why not? And it's paid off on a couple of occasions.
The two of them left the room, closing the door behind them. They spoke in hushed tones. The client seemed to be negotiating. My ears strained to pick up anything I could about what the next phase in my life might be like. But I heard nothing A lot of slave owners don't want their slaves to know what price they fetch. It's enough for a slave to know he's the owner's property. Why give a slave information he doesn't need to perform his duties?
They returned, and I was untied. The trader told me my new owner was Master Ali. Master Ali took a pair of handcuffs out of his tunic pocket and turned me around roughly, his fingers digging into my biceps in a lingering kind of way. He snapped the handcuffs on like a true professional and frogmarched me out of the slavetrader's shop. He barely said goodbye to the trader, though the trader was bubbling with enthusiasm, and accompanied us out into the street. I wasn't sure whether Master Ali had paid a particularly good price, or whether the slavetrader was always this bubbly on concluding a slave deal.
I was put in the back seat of a rather old but sturdy Mercedes. We wound our way through the city teeming with salespeople, shoppers, slaves, some accompanied by their masters, some not, and schoolchildren. I drank in these images, hungrily. I barely know the city I live in, because I work as a programmer, and not as a messenger or personal assistant slave. Those guys get to move around all the time, but a programmer like myself hardly ever sees anything outside the workplace.
Master Ali pumped me for information about my previous assignments, and my previous owner. Whilst he did, he eyed me through the rear view mirror. I was leaning forward, because my hands were forced behind my back by the handcuffs. I kept my eyes in line with the mirror, so I could continuously catch Master Ali's eyes, which were really intense, now that I could see them better in the bright light of day.
My previous owner had been the competition as far as Master Ali's computer services firm was concerned, at least until my previous owner's firm had gone bust due to total mismanagement. The bank had taken possession of all the slaves, and that's was how I got onto the market again.
Master Ali explained that he had just signed a new contract to supply web-based systems to a US client, and that I was going to be a key part of fulfilling the contract.
The work actually sounded interesting. I was beginning to look forward to this new phase in my life. An owner who was definitely no eyesore. Work that was interesting. I just had to find out about the availability of gym equipment.
I asked Master Ali and he said there was equipment available, that he liked his slaves to stay fit. A healthy mind in a healthy body, he said.
`I can see you keep yourself fit,' Master Ali observed. It was a concession, an acknowledgement, that gave me a small rush.
This was going to be as good a slave life as one could imagine, I told myself. I was even beginning to like Master Ali. He had this sexy matter-of-fact way about him.
`You must be a hard worker,' Master Ali half said, half asked.
`Yes, Master, I work well. I enjoy my work.'
`This contract is important to me. I'm going to make a lot of money. You will need to work long hours, and make sure you do quality work.'
Yes Master,' I said. Long hours are fine if it's work you enjoy doing, and I enjoy my work.'
`If you work well, I will find ways of rewarding you.'
`Thank-you, Master.'
`But my slaves also know me to be ruthless if my slaves don't do their work properly.'
There was that bluntness again. Something stirred in my groin.
`A Master must get what he can from his slaves,' I half said, half croaked.
`I'm glad you understand,' he said, glancing at me through the rear view mirror.
I've got this,' he said, opening the glove compartment. Inside, was a black leather bullwhip neatly rolled up. I use it,' he added.
I looked at the familiar implement of slave control. I'd never known a master to carry it in his glove compartment. I also looked at Master Ali's hand, his right hand. It would be the hand he'd use to wield the monster, to inflict his punishment. It was a broad, sinewy hand. He had a gold chain strung around his thick wrist.
`What do you say slave?'
What the hell was I supposed to say?
Sometimes slaves need to be whipped, Master,' I attempted, obediently, trying to see things Master Ali's way. If they haven't followed the Master's instructions fully.'
`I'm glad you understand,' he repeated.
I wondered whether I should assure him that he wouldn't need to whip me, that I was an excellent worker. That in fact I'd never been bullwhipped ever. I'd been hand-beaten a couple of times, and had tasted some casual swipes from the cane. But I'd never been subjected to a proper bullwhipping. I just made very sure I never put myself in a situation where I might warrant such a thing. I'd witnessed other slaves being bullwhipped a couple of times, wretched slaves too stupid to know how best to behave, or how to perform their work properly. Or victims of unfair and sadistic slave owners. It's not a pretty sight. But it can be a turn-on, especially if they get some muscular, well-oiled whipper to do the job. A whipper who really enjoys the task, because you get a number of them. Yes, it can be quite a turn-on.
But I decided to say as little as possible on the topic to Master Ali. It seemed best.
But, as I was about to discover, there was no getting away from it.
`I'm going to use it today,' Master Ali said, snapping the glove compartment shut. Though the whip wasn't visible any more, its image was perfectly stored in my head. As was the image of Master Ali's hand pushing the glove compartment deftly shut.
I said nothing, started to feel sick. So I was going to witness a bullwhipping this very day, I told myself.
`Have you been bullwhipped before, slave?' Master Ali asked.
No Master,' I responded. There's never been a need. I'm an obedient and capable slave, Master.'
`Well then it will be a completely new experience, slave.'
Was he going to whip me today? My whole body was starting to seize.
`What do you say, slave?' Master Ali was looking at me through the rear view mirror. He must have seen that my eyes had gone wide and very white.
I couldn't imagine what I might say.
`What do you say, slave?' he repeated, this time sternly.
I tried to take hold of myself.
Master, why is Master whipping me today?' I asked, stammering. Master has never known a slave as good and obedient and skilful and hard-working as me.' Maybe there was still a way of talking myself out of this, I thought.
`You need to know what a whipping from Master Ali feels like. Beforehand. I believe in preventative whipping. That way there's a smaller chance that you'll need to be punished for poor work later.'
`I also want to make sure you don't make me bankrupt like you did to your previous owner.'
So that was it. He thought I was part of that.
Master,' I began to explain hastily, the reason why my previous owner went bankrupt...'
Keep you mouth shut, slave,' Master Ali cut me short. I know what I'm doing.'
I'm a good whipper, slave,' Master Ali explained. Maximum pain, minimum damage. Your body will be over it in two weeks. But your mind won't,' he said, pointing to his temple. For the first time ever, I saw Master Ali smile. It was a cruel, intense, highly personal smile. `And I'll have a better slave on my hands.'
I was speechless. My gut was aching with fear.
`What do you say slave?'
What the fuck was I supposed to say?
`Thank-you Master. Thank-you for making me a better slave.' That response seemed to keep Master Ali happy. Anything to keep this guy happy now, I thought, especially since he was going to be slicing me up with a bullwhip before this day was over. His emotional state had to be my prime concern.
The rest of the trip we did in silence.
Master Ali pulled the Mercedes up to a high gate covered completely by steel plating so you couldn't see inside, or wouldn't be able to see from the inside out. There was a high wall around the property, with shards of glass embedded into the top. A guard with military fatigues and a machine gun opened the gate in response to Master Ali's hooting. He saluted as Master Ali drove in along the dusty driveway.
The property was large. It sloped gently downhill towards the back, where tall eucalyptus trees towered above various buildings. We drove past what had to be the main house, Master Ali's residence. It was a house with a long veranda at the front. It looked like it had been extended in bits and pieces. There were a couple of women on the veranda wearing dresses and matching headscarves made of colourful red and green and yellow patterned fabrics. One or two of them were probably Master Ali's wives. There were some children too, playing in the well-tended garden in front of the main house. Probably the Master's children. Walking along the perimeter wall of the property, some distance away, was another guard, also in military fatigues. He also had a machine gun slung over one shoulder. But he was also carrying a whip, which I saw him crack in the air, as if he was trying to hit some flying insect. The sick feeling in my gut intensified, and I wondered where in this property slaves were given their first whipping. A preventative whipping, as Master Ali had put it.
The Mercedes proceeded to the back of the house and stopped. At that moment Master Ali's cellphone rang, and he fished out a hi-tech handset from his tunic pocket. As he spoke, he waved at a slave who was approaching, gestured towards me, and then pointed towards the back of the property. Take this slave away, he seemed to be saying. Take him and prepare him for the induction whipping. Master Ali did not look directly at me though. He was fully engrossed in his phonecall. A business call, it seemed. A call for making more money, getting more profit out of his little slave force.
It couldn't have been a very large slave force, judging by the size of the slave quarters at the back, though some Masters manage to squeeze an incredibly high number of slaves into limited living quarters.
The slave who led me to the slave quarters was wearing loose white linen trousers that took him down to just below his knees. He was also wearing sandals. But nothing else. In the back of my mind I registered that he was good looking, with a fine, sculpted torso, but I was barely aware of that, because foremost in my mind was the thought of the whipping my body was going to be subjected to.
That thought occupied my mind as the slave, whose name was Moosa, showed me my room, where the showers were, where the gym equipment was, where the slaves ate.
I was still in the grip of my impending punishment as I was introduced to another slave, Mustafa, who managed the workshop. Mustafa wanted to get me onto a job as soon as possible, and started explaining things to me. He took me to the programmer's workshop. I hardly heard a thing Mustafa said, such was my terror over the impending whipping, but somehow I managed to begin work very gingerly on my first programming task. In fact, I told myself that if I concentrated hard enough on the task, the whipping would somehow go away.
Actually, it did.
A couple of days went by, and there was no whipping. I didn't see Master Ali at all. I began to suspect it had all been a game on the part of Master Ali. But I didn't ask any of the other slaves about it. I thought it might be bad luck to even mention Master Ali's promise. Maybe one of the slaves, maybe Mustafa, was meant to do the whipping, but didn't believe in whipping fellow slaves.
I decided there was no harm in keeping absolutely quiet about the reason for the terrible fear that had accompanied my arrival at Master Ali's.
I started loosening up, focussing on other aspects of my new slave life.
I soon realised that Moosa was the kind of man I could easily fall in love with. Not only was he absolutely beautiful, and sexy in an un-selfconscious kind of way, he was intelligent and kind. He was very good to me. We bonded over the gym equipment. In fact, it was clear that of all the slaves, we were the fitness freaks.
We quickly became gym partners. He would exercise in these very sexy white lycra shorts, which would make his bulge clear and, for me, very enticing. I would use my black cycling shorts the slave trader had put me into.
Moosa had a woman, though, and two children. So I wasn't too sure what to make of things when he started insisting that I feel his torso, the hardness of his pecs, the roundness of his biceps (as he flexed them). He wasn't showing off. He wasn't that kind of man. He was just interested in his own bodily development. He felt my own body, commented on it, admired it.
One day I decided I couldn't take the uncertainty any more. After our weight training, when I felt his pecs to gauge how hard they where, I let my fingers slip across his smooth skin, and onto his nipple. I let my forefinger play lightly with the nipple, which seemed rock hard to me.
Moosa stopped me by grabbing my hand, asked me whether I liked men. I said I did. He said he didn't, but also that he thought it was fine if I did.
Moosa then looked at me, as if he wanted to say something.
`Watch out for Master Ali,' he said.
`Why?' I asked.
Just be careful with him,' Moosa said. I'll tell you some time. Not now.'
I was disappointed, infuriated, intrigued. My move on Moosa hadn't paid off. But there was some issue around men and Master Ali which Moosa was not willing to share with me.
More or less from that time I started seeing more of Master Ali. He would come into the workshop quite frequently, where we slaves would be sitting at our computers. An important deadline for a big project that we were all working on was drawing near. Master Ali would speak only to Mustafa, and Mustafa would convey orders to the rest of us, and check our work.
On one particular day, Master Ali came in to the workshop, highly agitated. We had just handed over a product to the overseas client. One module in the software was not working properly. Master Ali was shouting, asking Mustafa who was responsible for the module in question. Mustafa lied, he said we'd all been working on it, and that he took responsibility for all the work. It was a lie, because we all knew it was Moosa's module. He'd done nearly all of the work. He would have been responsible if something was not working.
`I want to know who is responsible for this fuck-up!' Ali screamed, banging a fist into one of the workbenches, so a computer mouse jumped.
Mustafa stood frozen, not a muscle in his body moving.
Moosa broke the silence by standing up off his swivel chair. I remember noticing how the sunlight that succeeded in penetrating the oily window panes lit up a few beads of sweat sprinkled across his torso. It was hot, so he had been working shirtless. I thought of how these pearls spoke of my desire for this man, his body, his whole goodness. I suppose I latched onto these observations in the vain hope that what was obviously about to occur, would not occur..
`That was my module,' Moosa announced, with a steely look on his face.
The rest of us gasped within, in unison, in admiration of Moosa, and in fear over what would happen next.
What happened next was not the most gruesome act I had ever witnessed, yet it sickened me to the core like nothing that had ever come before. Seeing a man that you love being whipped must be akin to a mother's seeing her own child abused. It shakes you, sickens you, to the core.
Master Ali told us to wait for him. He left, and came back some ten minutes later with two of his guards, armed with machine-guns. Master Ali himself had changed from the ???? he had been wearing earlier to a vest with a military camouflage pattern, khaki trousers, and brown leather military boots, tied up with a long lattice of laces. I had never seen Master Ali like this before. It was disturbing, and added to my trauma over what was to follow. What was disturbing was that Master Ali looked sexier than ever before. With his military vest on, I got a chance to see Master Ali's arms properly for the first time ever. His upper arms were surprisingly developed. His biceps were of the type that retained a prominent bulge, no matter what the position of the arm. His shoulder muscles, sprouting out of his upper arms in clear ridges, created a pair of bulbous shoulders.
Master Ali was carrying a snake whip in his one hand, and a few other stringy items in the other.
He cracked the whip so it emitted a sharp crack through the tense air. I remembered reading that a whip crack is actually a sonic boom, caused by the fact that the tail of the whip swipes through the air at a speed faster than sound. The cracking of the whip created a small cloud of leather dust in the spot where the crack had occurred.
Slave-whipping time!' Master Ali shouted, with sinister glee. It is time that you slaves were reminded of the consequences of disobedience.'
`Master Ali, I have not been disobedient,' Moosa pointed out, with a fearlessness that exuded complete human beauty for me.
Keep quiet, you slave!' Master Ali ranted, slicing the snake whip through the air once again and producing a new sonic boom crack. I am the Master here. If I say you have been disobedient, then you have been disobedient. That module you did had mistakes in it. I could loose a lot of money. I need to teach you slaves a lesson. All of you!'
The nervousness in the workshop went up one notch. It was not impossible that this madman was going to whip the lot of us.
Now Master Ali began busying himself with the contents of his other hand. He handed leather thongs to one of the two soldiers, and pointed to a workbench. It was clear that Moosa was to be tied up for the whipping. The other soldier understood that his job remained to maintain the general order, a role he now assumed with greater earnestness, given that he would be alone. He had his machine gun on the ready, and maintained a continual scan of everyone in the room, paying special attention to every movement, every shuffling of a foot, every glance of an eyeball from one slave to another.
But there was something else that had to happen before Moosa was tied up.
Master Ali held out what looked firstly like a bunch of white shoelaces, though I quickly realised it was a white G-string.
`Slave, you will need to get that body of yours into this.'
I detected a slight change in Master Ali's tone of voice. His dark eyes assumed a slightly distant look, though ostensibly they moved from the G-string to the slave he was about to whip. It was as if he was already picturing Moosa in the G-string.
To someone with my sexual tastes, it became clear in an instant that Master Ali was operating at two levels. On the one hand he was a slavemaster disciplining his slaves. On the other, he was a man possessed by the sensation of taking his sexual fantasies into the realm of reality, bit by bit.
Moosa had to remove his cotton slave trousers in front of everyone. As he stood there naked, the camera within my head clicked away at the images of his perfect body for eternal preservation. My sexual thirst for him was the best photographic fixing agent I could ever have.
As he climbed into the little cotton cage of the G-string, Moosa's muscles rippled silently but dramatically beneath his smooth skin.
With his loins caged by the thing, Moosa stood up straight and looked at Master Ali with the detachment of someone able to escape from his own miserable predicament, and find refuge within a superior eye that took in the whole scene from a distance. Moosa's stare, aimed at Master Ali, was devoid of any visible fear, was taken up only be a quiet accusation of the injustice of the whole setup, and of Master Ali's kinkiness. It was perhaps the latter accusation that stung most.
Master Ali's eyes drank in the image of his G-stringed slave.
Slave, it's put on skew', Master Ali accused roughly. Straighten it. If I whip a slave, he must be properly dressed up for the occasion. Show some respect.' With that Master Ali produced another crack with the whip, just for the effect.
It was true that the G-string did not sit symmetrically on Moosa. It needed some adjustment. The sacred pouch containing the penis was off centre, and the hip string on one side was higher than on the other side.
Moosa performed a few adjustments.
Following a signal from Master Ali, the soldier carrying the leather thongs cleared a workbench and led Moosa to it. Moosa was tied by the wrists and the ankles to the legs of the workbench. His ankles were tied to the bottom of the front legs, forcing his beautiful legs to spread out wide. His wrists were tied to the tops of the back legs of the workbench, so that Moosa's stomach and chest were forced to lie horizontally over the top of the workbench.
His buttocks, framed along the top by the cords of the G-string, protruded just above the height of the workbench. The vertical string was visible over the top part of Moosa's arse crack, but then it seemed to disappear into his arse at the lower end. At least that was the view I had from my position in the room.
Master Ali went up to Moosa and adjusted the G-string further. He was a like a man wanting perfection in his prized possessions, a man polishing his new BMW to perfection. He pulled the G-string up, looking at the arrangement from various angles. He was an artist absorbed in his live sculpture. He pulled it and let it go, allowing it to sting Moosa lightly. He made sure that the cord running up Moosa arse crack sat as deep and tight as possible.
Next Master Ali let the loop of the snake whip run lightly over Moosa's unblemished buttocks. The fact that they would soon be the target of Master Ali's vicious punishment made the act so much more intense, and tragic for me.
Master Ali let the snake whip trace a line upwards, up Moosa's broad back, towards his shoulders. Master Ali placed the instrument of punishment before Moosa's mouth, which was just a few centimetres above the table top.
`Kiss, slave!' Master Ali ordered.
Moosa complied, and those lips I had so often dreamt would touch my lips, pouted forward and lightly touched that instrument of cruelty instead.
Master Ali cleared his throat, maybe as a physical signal for his whole self to shake itself loose from the kinky trance that had gripped him for a couple of minutes.
Slaves,' Master Ali announced, to the terrified, appalled audience. What you are about to witness is a reminder of your status. Observe carefully. You may not be fieldworkers, you may sit on your arses the whole day in front of computer screens, you may be well-educated, but you are slaves nonetheless. And I am your owner. I have the power to punish you and even put you to death. It's my decision completely. Only once have I put a slave to death, but I wouldn't hesitate to do it again if I thought it was necessary and in my interests. And as you know, I do not hesitate to punish slaves to improve the performance of my business.'
Keep your eyes on the slaves,' he ordered the two soldiers. Make sure they all watch. None of them must turn away. If they do, tell me, and I'll make sure they get taught how to pay attention. Understood?'
`Yes sir,' the two soldiers murmured, steadying their machine guns as a gesture of obedience.
With that, Master Ali positioned himself carefully around three metres behind the workbench to which Moosa was bound. He let the whip dangle free for some seconds, as if giving it some air, then he lifted him arm, swung it and his whole body forward, and then jerked his arm back at the critical moment.
It was a perfect hit as far as Master Ali was concerned.
The leather slapped a fifteen centimetre stroke across Moosa's right buttock.
The thought that went through my mind was that Master Ali must have been practicing. On some inanimate object, presumably. His technique was just too good. This had to be the culmination of a lot of careful practice, and patient waiting for the arrival of this moment.
Moosa let out a deep scream that filled the room. The lash had been delivered with a force that would have made any control on the part of the victim impossible.
That scream clearly energised Master Ali. It signalled to him that it was he alone was in control, now that he had taken Moosa beyond his breakpoint.
Master Ali also seemed satisfied with his technique, which was not just about the strength of impact, but also about distance. He didn't want to get too close and create a line of contact that was too long, too uncontrolled.
Master Ali now proceeded to deliver the remaining whippings. I counted ten in total. They left Moosa with a criss-crossing of scars across his buttocks, and a few scars extending up his back. The lashes across Moosa's back were delivered with a slightly different technique. Master Ali would raise his whip higher, and stand closer to the bound Moosa.
The beatings were delivered with a pause of at least fifteen seconds between them, so Moosa could on each lashing complete the cycle of agony, from the initial scream on impact through to the groans caused by the pain sinking in, and the terrible anticipation of the next stroke. As the beating proceeded, Moosa's screams became longer and more uncontrolled. He started to cry after about the seventh stroke.
I witnessed the spectacle whilst convulsed by a number of different emotions, which I only managed to unravel that night, whilst lying in bed.
On the one hand, I shared the confusing tangle of terror and anger shared by all of us slaves in the workshop that day. Master Ali's behaviour was unnecessary. We worked hard for him, and Moosa in particular was a cooperative worker, even if he didn't display an ideal attention to detail. Master Ali did not need to treat Moosa that way. In particular, Master Ali's kinkiness, and clear pleasure in inflicting pain on his slaves, went beyond what was normal and reasonable for slave owners. Nearly all of us had the experience of different owners, and none were as sadistic and extreme as Master Ali.
Another emotion I felt was anguish over the fact that Moosa, the object of my love and devotion over many months, should have been tormented and scarred in this way. I couldn't help feeling responsible, as if I should have found a way to prevent this, to save Moosa. Even without anything concrete in return from Moosa, I would have given my life to preserve him from this treatment. That was how in love I was. As I lay in bed staring at the nothingness of my dark room that night, it was with a strange, burning urge that I wished it had been me, and not Moosa, tied to that workbench.
Finally, I was bewitched by the image of Master Ali in his tight military vest, his torso strong and ruthless, the muscles on his arms bulging with the pleasure of inflicting punishment, swinging that snake whip with confident precision through the air and onto the contents of the G-string whose strings he had adjusted so carefully, so lovingly. There was an energy in Master Ali that totally possessed me. It was moreover an energy that could fit so snugly side by side with my own opposite, but similar energy. I believed I was the only slave in the room that day who could truly tune in to what Master Ali was feeling. I masturbated intensely, but painfully, many times over that night whilst fantasising that Master Ali had noticed me, my own kinky desires, and made the connection, and had begun to use me, whip me, punish me, abuse me.
It was not as if Master Ali was replacing Moosa in any way. What I felt for Master Ali was completely foreign to what I felt for Moosa. The feelings for the one did not diminish the feelings for the other.
The next day, in the light of day and whilst helping Moosa in the workshop with the code that had caused all the fuss in the first place, I hatched a plan. It dawned on me that there was a logical way of making my sexual urges towards these two men complement each other. I was going to try and make contact with Master Ali, sexually, let him know where I stood. I was going to make it clear to him that he could direct his evil and sadistic impulses towards me. I would be his whipping boy whenever the urge arose. He did not need to treat his other slaves, who were innocent, like he did. Above all, I had to deflect any punishments that might come Moosa's way in future, towards myself.
The question was how I was going to make contact with Master Ali. We slaves saw him on many days, but there were always many of us present, and it was always about Master Ali giving instructions, in his usual brusque, commanding manner. I needed to see him privately. I had no idea what his reaction might be. He might regard my advances as totally impertinent, and if so, I didn't want any other slaves around who might bear the brunt of a reaction.
I decided to stay on longer in the workshop in the evenings, in the double hope that I would be the last one remaining, and that Master Ali would come by the workshop. Many of us worked quite late, especially after Moosa's whipping. We were all dead scared of upsetting clients with bad software products. In that sense, Master Ali's punishment strategy had the desired effect. That was the terrible thing. Hard discipline did yield dividends. I was often left alone, after the others had returned to their rooms, where, unlike me, many had women and children to go back to. On one evening, around two months after Moosa's whipping, when the ugly wounds on Moosa's body had at last begun to fade into the rest of his skin, Master Ali came in.
It was dark, hot, and the cicadas were making one hell of a racket. It was just before the rainy season, and the air hung heavy with dust. Plants, people, Masters, slaves were all feeling that pre-rain sense of anticipation.
`Master,' I uttered, deferentially, standing up and facing him, and lowering my eyes.
Okay,' Master Ali dismissed me, in typical style. Get on with your work slave.'
Master Ali went to browse through the logbooks of tasks done that was maintained by Mustafa.
I picked a moment, my heart pounding within. I hoped that my voice wouldn't betray my inner turbulence.
Master,' I said meekly. Master didn't bullwhip me that time.'
Master Ali looked up at me in total surprise, as if I had suddenly become insane. No normal slave would ever broach the subject of a punishment in that way.
`What did you say, slave?' Master Ali asked, roughly, looking up, whilst keeping his finger on a place in one of the rosters.
Master Ali must just have had a bath, or a shower. His skin, or what I could see of it, shone. He was wearing a singlet, which exposed his neck and the beginnings of his shoulders. Though he was some seven metres away from me, I could smell the unmistakable fragrance of soap drifting through the dry air.
`Master, when I first came here a year ago, you said you always bullwhip new slaves. Preventative whipping, you called it.'
Master Ali laughed briefly. I think he was enjoying this unconventional forwardness from a slave, though he hadn't cottoned on to the type of forwardness I had in mind.
`I tell all new slaves the same thing. It's to frighten them. It worked, didn't it?' Master Ali laughed again.
This was a new experience to me. Master Ali speaking casually, even laughing. And I was alone with him. My whole body was tingling, especially my groin. I was anxious, too anxious, not to make a mess of this opportunity.
`Master, I was very afraid. I've never been whipped, I mean properly whipped, in my life before.' Now I laughed, tentatively.
`You may never need to be whipped, slave. You're probably the best worker in this workshop. With slaves like you, your previous Master must have been an idiot to go bankrupt.'
Though we were still seven metres apart, the intimacy was intense. Master Ali was completely disregarding Master-slave protocol. He was complimenting a slave, and badmouthing another Master. I felt immensely privileged.
`I often imagine what it must be like being whipped by you, Master,' I ventured.
Master Ali's face went dead serious again. `It's part of being a slave, slave. Maybe that's why you're such a good worker. In your mind I'm whipping you, and so you discipline yourself. I wish some of the other slaves were more like that.'
But Master Ali,' I explained, aware that now my voice must surely be quaking. With me it's different. I want to be whipped by you.'
Master Ali went silent. He just stared at me with those dark eyes of his. Intensely. Something inside me told me I'd struck a chord within him. So I proceeded.
`Master, the respect, the obedience I feel for you just doesn't know any limits. Whatever I do, I feel I can't serve you well enough. I would like to serve you more, better, than I do now. It's like I want to push myself further, and that will still not be enough, and then I would love to be whipped, hard, mercilessly, by you, my Master, to push me beyond my limits. Master, I would be the happiest slave on earth if you could whip me, punish me, abuse me, tell me I'm useless, even though I try my best. Master, I can't help it, those are my feelings. I'd like to be whipped in front of everyone, and privately as well, so Master you could do anything to me, even things you would not want to do in front of the other slaves.'
`Stop, slave!' Master Ali commanded, loudly.
There was a nasty curl at the corner of his mouth. I prayed within that it was not an indication of revulsion. A rising terror within me told me I'd gone too far, said too much too soon.
`You're a sick slave, slave,' Master Ali observed.
My heart sank.
`My only sickness is my devotion to you, Master,' I responded, quickly.
Master Ali mulled over this for some seconds. He seemed intrigued by the idea.
`In all other ways I'm a healthy slave, Master. I look after my body, I train my body. I have to look after my Master's property.'
Somehow that seemed to do it for Master Ali. I knew I had him convinced when he gave me my next instruction.
`Slave, I'll be going to the shed behind the eucalyptus trees later tonight. Don't go there before me. But when you see me going, come with me. Walk a few metres behind me. Keep that mouth of yours shut. Just follow me.'
It felt like I had just completed a marathon. And come first. My head, my body, was throbbing with relief, with joy.
`I'm going to examine you more closely, slave,' was the last thing Master Ali said before he slammed the duty roster shut and walked out of the workshop.
To my knowledge, none of the slaves in the compound had ever been inside the shed behind the eucalyptus trees. I sat nervously on one of our ramshackle chairs in the courtyard of the slave quarters, keeping an anxious eye on the section of night where I knew the path leading to the copse of eucalyptus trees ran. As usual, the other slaves were chatting about this and that. We had just eaten. I was oblivious to the chatter. I also hadn't felt able to eat.
I was wearing loose cotton trousers, and a vest that I knew did justice to my shoulders, pecs and general V-shape. I had put on the least worn underpants I had. And I had taken a very good bath, with some good soap Moosa's wife made.
My heart almost knocked a hole through my ribcage when I eventually saw Master Ali walking from the house, along the path to the eucalyptus trees. He was wearing a white agbada, which stood out in a ghostly way in the dark.
I waited until Master Ali's form had progressed some way, then I slipped into the night, without saying a word to my fellow slaves, and walked briskly to catch up with him.
In accordance with his instruction, I kept a few metres behind him. And of course didn't say anything. I was brimming with hope, fear, uncertainty, but I had to make sure I didn't mess anything up by making any wrong moves. Above all, it seemed important to say as little as possible, whatever happened. Observe Master Ali, think just about Master Ali's wishes, I had told myself. Your own desires and wishes don't matter a shit, I had to remind myself.
We got to the shed. Master Ali took a keyring out of his pocket, and unlocked the padlock on the door. He entered, stooping slightly as the doorframe was low, and I entered after him. He closed the door, and used the padlock to lock the door from the inside.
We were trapped in each other's company. I was wild with expectation.
I suppose I stood like a stunned idiot in front of Master Ali. He got me out of my trance by stepping up to me and slapping me hard across the face.
`Thank-you Master,' came out of my lips with a naturalness that amazed me.
`Slave, kneel before your Master,' he instructed, brusquely.
I immediately sank to my knees. My eyes dropped to the ground. My head was spinning from the slap I had received.
`And look down, slave. Unless your Master tells you to look up, you look down.'
I could sense that Master Ali was removing his agbada. He flung it across the room onto a single bed positioned against one wall. I had managed to take in the details of the shed's interior when I had walked in. There was a wooden wardrobe, the single bed and a bedside table with a lamp. Master Ali had turned on this lamp, which had a cast a warm dusky light onto the contents of the shed. I had also noticed a large poster of a bodybuilder on one wall. The floor was concrete, with a thin film of dust on it.
`Look up, slave,' Master Ali ordered.
I looked up and saw Master Ali standing topless and in a pair of tight leather trousers. I must have convulsed visibly at his physical power and beauty. His black torso had a dull sheen to it, as if he had applied some oil over it. A thin gold chain round his bull's neck was catching the light. His body, more of it than I had ever seen before, was truly magnificent. His pectorals were hard and round like melons, and loomed over a perfectly ridged stomach. His arms, which I knew better, were buff and veined. The leather pants, which I had never seen before, hugged his crotch nicely, and accentuated the musculature of his thick thighs. He was standing barefoot on the concrete. A pair of sandals he had been wearing earlier had been discarded to one side.
I had a strong impulse to reach out for Master Ali, maybe to throw myself before him and kiss his feet. The god standing before me was like an incarnation of what my most inner self had always hankered after. I felt amazement, also a desperate anxiety that this might not be real, might not really be happening.
So, slave,' Master Ali began, you told me earlier you think a lot about serving me, pleasing me. Be more specific. Give me details.'
I hadn't quite anticipated this. I frantically wondered how honest I should be. I was terrified of saying the wrong thing.
I got a strong sense that Master Ali knew exactly the power that his physical presence wielded over me, that he was relishing this power, enjoying my own sense of powerlessness and vulnerability.
`Master, I meant what I said. I want to please you in any way I can. I want to be completely dominated by you.'
`Tell me about your fantasies,' he commanded me, like I should have known that this is what he wanted.
Master.' I took a deep breath. I had never shared my deepest fantasies with anyone, let alone the subject of my fantasy. Master, I fantasise that you do terrible things to me, and that I accept, want more.'
`What things?' Master Ali insisted, impatiently.
Master, in one fantasy, you slap me in the face like you did earlier, then you push my head down , down towards your crotch. Your cock is hard, and big, in front of my face.' My voice trembled for my presumptuousness. Through the corner of my eye (my head was lowered) I sensed that Master Ali was massaging his crotch, through the leather pants. That gave me courage to go on. Master, I hesitate before your cock, don't know exactly what you want me to do. But then you put your hand at the back of my head and push my head down. Your cock goes into my mouth. Deep. I feel I choke a bit. That's when you control me with a horsewhip that you have in your hand. You horsewhip me on my naked back. I understand that you are training me, forcing me to discipline my body, my throat, to accept you fully. The shock of being whipped in fact loosens my throat, my mind. Your cock goes in fully, and I take it. I take it like a well-trained slave. I like the way my body is training itself to serve you, Master, in any way it can. You fuck my face.'
Stop,' Master Ali orders. Tell me how else I fuck you, other than in the mouth.'
I haul yet another fantasy out of my immense gallery of fantasies involving Master Ali.
Master,' I begin slowly, laying the next story out before me. You tie me to a whipping frame. You don't need to tie me up at all, because I obey you in any way, always. But it gives you pleasure to tie your slaves down, including me. It makes your power clearer, and the powerlessness of your slaves.'
`Go on,' Master Ali uttered, softly, as if he was enjoying the story, was absorbed by it. I felt immensely proud of my ability to please my Master in this way.
`You are behind me, with a snakewhip. You enjoy hurting your slaves a bit before you fuck them, you like to see them cry a bit. You like to see how much pain your slaves can take before they break. Your whip is coiled in your hand, and you run the loop of your torture instrument over my exposed body. You are calculating where you should whip me. Maybe you want to try out a new whipping technique. I feel the leather touching my body, and I feel fear, but I also want it. I know it is right for me to feel pain if my Master wants that. My own cock is going hard, as the snakewhip moves up and down my back, my buttocks, the backs of my thighs. You also touch my nipples with the snakewhip. You seem especially interested in my nipples today.'
`You take a step back, and the leather snake flies through the air, cutting across my back, and just under my armpit. Even though I am an obedient slave, my body rebels, it pulls against the leather thongs tying my ankles and my wrists to the frame. You instruct me to control my body better, or you will simply whip me more painfully. I have to stand still when that whip hits me, take the pain like a properly trained slave. I close my eyes and try and concentrate on standing still. When the leather coil comes flying next time I move less, though the pain is greater. It is greater because the tip of the whip reaches around the front of me, licks me on my nipple in fact. I understand that this is the technique you are trying out. Nipple whipping.'
`After you have successfully nipple whipped me on both nipples, that's about five whipstrokes down the line, you untie me. I'm not bleeding, but I am full of welts. My body stings. Something in my mind has cracked. My pride, maybe. My manhood. I even have the beginnings of tears in my eyes. That's embarrassing, but I'm not too worried, because I know my Master likes to see some evidence that he has truly broken me. I also have a strong hard-on.'
`You push me onto a bed, face down. Your cock has grown from the whipping, from being cruel to your slave. You have enjoyed seeing your slave suffer, cry a bit. With your whip, you tap my arse, tell me to put it into the air. You put a condom onto your cock, because you don't want slave dirt on it. You put lubricant on it, for your own comfort more than the slave's comfort. You trace your fingers over the weltmarks on my back. They give you pleasure, make you harder. You start pushing against my arse, looking for the opening. You find it. You start entering. It is very tight, and your slave is whimpering a bit. You ask your slave whether he needs more whipping to relax him. I say no. I say I am an obedient slave who will open for my Master. You say you like that attitude. You ask me whether my back, my nipples hurt. I say yes, and whilst I'm answering you take the opportunity to push really hard, go in deeper. For a moment, I scream. You ask me if it hurts, and I say yes. I am now breathing fast, dealing with the pain, suffering. You like your domination, my submission. You tell me I am a worthless slave, a slave who must be made to suffer sometimes, a slave who must be whipped regularly. You are going deeper and deeper as you say this, thrusting hard. You know that this hurts, so you thrust harder. You begin slapping me, on my back, on the back of my head, wildly. You thrust and you thrust. I feel your power reverberate all over me as you get close to coming. You come, Master Ali, you come inside me, and as you come you slap me some more on my side, rhythmically, in time to your shooting.'
`Nice story,' Master Ali said, nonchalantly. My heart sank for a moment. I feared I had said too much, or too little. But the next thing Master Ali said struck straight at my heart, elated me beyond belief.
Slave,' Master Ali said. You know yourself well. And you know me.'
Those simple words I would never forget. They were to become the most treasured gems of my relationship with Master Ali.
`But I have some different stories, and as your Master it is my stories that must be followed. Is that clear?'
`Yes Master Ali. My stories can only serve as background to your stories, which must always be the most important ones. I wish to serve in any story you, Master Ali, might have.'
`Any story?' he inquired, almost quizzically.
`Any story,' I immediately responded, a chill and an excitement rising through my body at the thought that there were fantasies beyond my own fantasies that involved me, that I had no idea of, and that could take me anywhere, absolutely anywhere.
Get up off your knees slave,' Master Ali ordered. Take all your clothes off.'
I followed orders swiftly, whilst Master Ali opened the single cupboard in the room, and pulled out a metre long, fairly rigid whip, which was hanging on a hook at the back of the cupboard. He also pulled out a white crumpled up bit of cloth that I recognised immediately. It was the G-string he had put on Moosa.
`Put this on, slave,' Master Ali commanded, throwing the G-string to me.
I caught it, and felt a strong impulse to take it to my nose, to smell the smell of Moosa. I was certain I would find Moosa's presence in this flimsy piece of fabric, that it had not been washed since the horror of the workshed some two months back. But I desisted. It would not have been the right thing to do. Instead of my nose, my body would have to savour this special closeness to my fellow-slave Moosa.
I had a raging hard-on, so the G-string was not going to fit on snugly. In fact, it didn't quite fit over my groin. There were bits of pubic hair visible around the sides of the miniature panel of white cotton. I let my fingers run over the strings of the G-string, remembering how particular Master Ali had been about this when he had whipped Moosa. In particular, I made sure the string at the back fitted right into my arse crack.
Okay, slave, stand to attention!' Master Ali ordered. You've seen bodybuilder's posing on the Internet have you?'
`Yes Master,' I replied.
`I'm glad you have, though I'll need to whip you for that later on because you know you slaves aren't supposed to be looking at the Internet when you're supposed to work.'
`Yes Master,' I said, breathlessly.
`I want you to do some bodybuilder poses for me slave. Show me your muscles. I need to inspect them. Start with the biceps.'
I started with my right arm, letting it drop, then bending it slowly, tensing my muscles so that my bicep stood out nicely. I looked at it nervously, hoping that it would not fail me, hoping it would form into its customary ball, with the thin thread of a vein running over it, like a vine. I wasn't disappointed. The hard ball of a bicep rose to the occasion.
I did the other arm. Then I brought both arms up, and flexed both biceps together.
Stop, freeze there!' Master Ali commanded. Let me look at my property a bit more closely.'
He pointed the whip at me, used it like a probe to following the contours of my upper arm, both underneath and below. He let the end of the whip, which was almost as rigid as a cane, but with a slight slack at the end, feel my armpits.
`You'll need to learn to shave here,' he said.
My face flushed with embarrassment.
`Now show me your pectorals,' he ordered, letting the whip end sweep lightly over my pecs and my nipples.
I turned sideways, so Master Ali would get a side profile, then pulled my stomach muscles in, and let my pecs stand out. My whole body was tensed in this pose.
Stop there!' he said. Stick your pectorals out further, slave. Try harder.'
I tried harder and in the process stuck my arse out further too. Master Ali seemed to like that. Out of the corner of my eye I could catch him massaging his crotch again.
He went to his cupboard and pulled something out.
Here,' he said, throwing me a leather harness. Put this on. I think it will make your pecs stand out extra nice.'
I had never worn one of these things before. It took me a while to work out how to put it on, but eventually I got the right loops over my head. Master Ali looked on patiently during all of this.
The harness had leather straps, around two centimetres wide, running below, between and along the sides of my pecs. The side straps went in under my armpits. I tightened the buckles.
A bit tighter,' Master Ali ordered, somewhat impatient now. It must hurt a little.'
That last statement sent a new rush of blood to my already erect penis.
I tightened the buckles a few more holes.
`That's fine!' he said.
`Now stick out those damn pecs again,' he commanded.
I went back to my previous pose, though this time my muscles strained a bit against the leather harness. I could feel how my pecs were more pronounced than before, as they were accentuated, and pushed out by the leather straps.
You feel those restraints, slave?' he asked. What does it feel like to have straps restraining your body like this?'
It feels good, Master,' I replied. I feel your power in this leather harness, like you are controlling how my body looks.'
Good,' Master Ali cooed. That's how a true slave should feel.'
I felt immensely proud, special.
Keep that pose, slave,' Master Ali went on. Whatever I do, you must keep it.'
He moved around to the other side of me, and with lightning speed raised the whip and let it come whistling down on my exposed arse.
`How does that feel slave?' he shouted.
`It feels good, my Master, it feels good!' I shouted back.
`And this?' he asked as a served a second stinging lash with the whip.
The pain of the first lashing was only just starting to spread through my body, like a stinging, but warm liquid.
`Good too Master!' I exclaimed, having difficulty keeping my pose.
`Keep that pose, slave, or you'll really experience a proper beating you won't forget!'
I put new vigour into my pose.
That was your arse,' Master Ali muttered, as if to himself. Now let me lash those beautiful tits of yours. If it's beautiful, lash it!' he went on, as if uttering some mantra.
He positioned himself a bit further forward and let the end of the whip play with my nipples again. My mind raced from the intense pain on my arse, to the liquid pleasure around my nipples, to the hard-on in my G-string, which had now reached a new, raging level.
This time I could see the whip before my eyes as he raised it and let it whisk lightning speed towards my left pectoral, where the sting of the lash was delivered squarely to my nipple. Like in my fantasy.
Perfect!' Master Ali exclaimed, clearly pleased with himself. Don't leave that pose!'
He moved himself over to the other side, and delivered yet another blow, to my right nipple. It was a perfect hit.
This time my body winced a bit.
`Stand still, slave! You must be a statue. Show me how you can be my statue.'
He delivered some more blows, this time not as carefully aimed. To my pecs, my arse and one to my stomach. The stomach one almost blew my air out, but I managed to remain motionless.
Good,' Master Ali commented. You're learning. But I see there is one thing you're not controlling.'
Master Ali emitted a mean laugh.
I knew what he was referring to.
The whip touched my hard-on, the end where the pre-cum was surely oozing out slowly. The touch of the whip only made things worse. I braced myself for a lash across my penis. I didn't know whether I was going to endure that as well as I'd endured the other whippings.
But instead of lashing me, Master Ali raised the whip to my mouth and said: `Lick!'
I licked the moisture off the whip. I tasted leather, and my own pre-cum and I convinced myself that I could also taste the taste of Moosa, the odours of his body left behind in the G-string. I felt a moment of privacy beyond what was happening here with Master Ali.
Maybe Master Ali had read my mind, however, because he asked: `So slave, do you taste the presence of that other slave I beat in the workshed, that other slave that does not seem to understand the pleasures of a Master as well as you do?'
I panicked about how to respond. In the end I lied to Master Ali.
`No, Master, I don't taste that other slave.'
Master Ali said nothing, let the whip touch the contours of my face lightly. My heartbeat increased as I began suspecting that Master Ali might somehow know about my feelings for Moosa, or my secret plan, the plan where I divert Master Ali's sadistic instincts away from the other slaves, mainly so that I can save Moosa from more beatings. I asked myself whether my Master may in fact be omniscient, as he said nothing and just went on stroking my face with the whip. I imagined he might see through me, might punish me properly, whip the last vestiges of any intentions of my own right out of me.
But Master Ali did not pursue the matter. My feelings for Moosa were safe, were entirely my own. Not a soul in the world knew about them. Here was one area where Master Ali would not own me, would not see everything exposed naked before him, ready for whatever treatment he might decide. Within all my powerlessness, there was this one patch of power I had.
Master Ali told me to take the harness off, he wanted to see me in just the G-string, whip marks and all. I removed the harness, and my blood flowed freely around my body once again. The whip marks were stinging, but I relished them. Each whip mark told of a moment of closeness, of passion like lightning between myself, the slave, and Master Ali. The sharp pain humming at the different points across my body were the bonds between myself and my Master. I felt privileged to have them.
Master Ali took the harness from me and hung it up in the cupboard. For the first time, I got a glimpse of the interior of the cupboard. It was full of leather and steel items, hung up on hooks, or laying on shelves. Some items I recognised, some I did not. I saw that there were at least five different whips.
This is my cupboard of toys, slave,' Master Ali explained, with a note of pride. I've collected these things from my overseas trips. You've seen these things on the Internet?'
I had.
`At least now I have a slave who can fully appreciate these things. I hope.' He looked at me sternly.
Master, I can, believe me.' He looks at me, almost quizzically. I feel I need to reassure him, so I shared some more of myself. Master, when I am with you, I feel I am a man, but a special kind of man, a man who is inferior to a real man, a man like you, Master. It seems right, natural, Master, for me to submit to you in everything, to just be an extension of your will. Master, it feels like that is the way it should be. Always. Under any circumstances. Your pleasure is supreme, Master. No matter what you want, it is supreme, and I will submit, willingly, Master.' I then decided to say it. `Master, if it was your pleasure to finish off this slave, to kill this slave, then I would do everything in my power to see that your will was fulfilled. I would kill myself, Master, or let you do it, without resistance.'
Master Ali was not rubbing his crotch through the leather, just holding it.
Slave, I like that.' He looked at me, as if he really appreciated me. I swelled within. I like that in a slave, for a slave to understand, to accept fully his slavehood, to submit, like you seem to wish to submit.'
He paused for a while.
But I need to test your commitment, slave. Not now, but one day I will put you to the test.' He turned and took a leather item up from a shelf. It looked like a hood. This is a special hood, slave. When put on properly, and tightly, it does not allow you to breathe, through your nose or your mouth. This is what I want to do to you, slave. I will put this hood on you, tighten it properly.' He was holding the hood up. I could see strings that would be pulled tight. I saw an opening for the eyes. `But first I would have handcuffed your hands behind you, just in case your instinct should tell you to try and remove the hood. This hood lets me see your eyes. I will look at your eyes, as I look at your eyes now. I will look for your commitment, for your total servitude to me. I will look for that in your eyes. I don't want to see selfish fear, I want to see commitment to my superior intentions, my right to do as I please with my slaves. I will push you to the limit, let you start suffocating. I will watch you fall to the floor, desperate for oxygen. I will watch you writhe on the floor before me. At that moment I would savour the life and death control over my slave. I would think of how much you had satisfied me recently, whether you were looking after that slave body, which is my property, I would think whether I was in the mood to sacrifice a slave, just for my pleasure, watch a slave being extinguished for my entertainment before my eyes. If I decided to keep you alive, slave, I would go down, untie the hood, watch you gulp for air, come back to the land of the living. I might have to apply mouth to mouth resuscitation to you. I might even decide to put my tongue in your mouth, let you taste your master's mouth.'
Master Ali had a dreamy look in his eyes. He was gripping the hood hard in his right hand, squeezing it.
Master,' said, somewhat breathless, I have imagined almost exactly the same thing. I have thought of you killing me like that, and masturbated while I thought of it.' It was true.
Master Ali grinned, for the first time that evening. He took a step forward and swiped the leather hood hard through my face.
`Slave, we can do many nice things together!'
He stared at me.
`So many nice things!'
I felt elated. I think Master Ali was too. We were both exploring new human territory, bringing pent-up passions into the open.
He threw the hood back into the cupboard.
`But tonight I do not want to kill you slave. I have other plans for you. How are your whip marks? Do you still feel the pain?'
`The pain is starting to go away, Master.'
Master Ali took the whip he was using earlier. He positioned himself behind me, landed a few more swipes onto my buttocks. I think it was four.
`Feel the pain now, slave?'
`Yes, Master. Thank-you.'
`Good. I need to rape that whipped slave arse today. That's what I feel like today'
`Thank-you Master!'
This is how I want to do it.' He took some objects out and placed them on the little bedside table. There was a cigarette box with a lighter. While I am raping that arse of your, I want you to light a cigarette. I want you to keep it lit. I'll ask you to give me the cigarette when I am close to coming. I'm going to take that cigarette and extinguish it on your buttock. I've heard the pain makes slave arses respond nicely, they grip your cock harder, makes it more exciting for me when I come. I want to test how this works on you, slave.'
`Yes, Master,' I responded.
`Okay, get on the bed, your arse up in the air.'
Master Ali pushed me roughly onto the bed, used his hand to raise my hips to the level he wanted. He pushed my head down roughly onto the pillow that was lying there, like he didn't want me to look round. I remembered the instruction about the lit cigarette, looked through the corner of my eye at the bedside table, checked that the cigarette box and lighter were there.
Master Ali traced a rough finger over my whip marks. He caressed the lines where the whip had hit me. He went on like that for a while. Then, as if to signal that he was ready for business, he slapped each buttock hard. He knelt behind me. I heard him lower the leather pants. I wished I could have seen his underwear, if he had any, but I knew he didn't want me to look around. I felt a naked cock touch my arsecrack.
Apart from the slap in the face I got when I entered the shed, this was the first time Master Ali was actually touching me.