Megan held herself up off the saddle with her aching thighs and blushed every time she thought of the exaggerated pose of her back-thrust bottom. The curves of her behind still prickled with a pervasive aching soreness, but it only really bothered her now when she forgot herself an allowed her backside contact with the camel’s back.
Up ahead her stern tormentor looked every bit the desert warrior as he sat framed against the azure sky his head set just so and his jaw proudly jutting. But she noticed now that he had stopped on the rise and was waiting.
Her camel too had lurched to a stop and Megan winced as the saddle’s seat spanked her behind, blushing at the idea that he might have seen the hapless manoeuvre.
“Come on, nearly there,” he called over as if addressing some troops.
Megan thought of Lawrence of Arabia, heedless of the cliché image that might have embarrassed her just days before. Out here the comparison was more than apt. Then urging her mount on she gingerly picked her way up the raised ground to join him and to where she could look down on their destination.
The village was much as she had expected; pretty but unsophisticated. The houses were arranged in traditional sand-coloured cubes with small windows and scattered pell-mell like a child’s play blocks. But here and there the larger houses had domes or outer decorated walls over which palm trees hung to offer the occupants some shade.
Then as the camels topped the rise before descending she saw the villa beyond the town on the opposite ridge. It was of pink stone and bracketed with ornamental trees giving a suggestion of an Arabian palace.
“That’s our hotel,” Ahmed said casually and winked. “It has seen better days and most westerners might scoff at its four star pretensions, but it has hot running water and mint tea or coffee on tap. I have some affection for the old place.”
“It’s beautiful,” Megan agreed and grinned openly and enthusiastically as her journalistic façade was tossed to the desert wind.
*
“Megan,” Ahmed said with a pained expression touching his face, “I have been called away for a few hours…” he sounded almost apologetic.
Megan drew her mouth into a line and adopted a neutral expression.
“But…” he continued, “I suspect I might get delayed and not return until tomorrow or… perhaps the day after.”
Strangely Megan also felt some regret, but she had already discovered the bath and a day to herself with a book and her lap-top might be just what she needed.
“I could come with you,” she offered.
He rolled his eyes to disguise his pleasure at the suggestion but remembering his upcoming tasks quickly returned, “I think you would be bored. Besides you can rest up here before we go on into the deep desert and… well, I have something to show you.”
Megan smiled, her nose crinkling in expectation; more surprises, she thought. Then she shrugged and nodded.
“See you when I see you then,” she said dismissively.
He grinned and threw up his arms in an expansive gesture of ‘mine host’ and then slapped them back to his thighs ostentatiously like she had seen vendors do in the market bazaars. Then he bowed slightly and touched his forehead before adding a western wink.
“Goodbye,” he said, and then he was gone.
*
By the next morning Megan was bored. Ahmed had sent word that he had indeed been delayed and might be another day. She had been informed of this by a small dark man in a long kaftan and fez. He had smiled a lot and bowed, but only with the forced politeness of many of his type when faced with a western woman. Or perhaps any woman, she amended, for she had seen none since her arrival.
Her attempts at inquiring about local sights or activities had been met with yet another smile and after only a few minutes yet another tray with sweetmeats and coffee.
“Terrific,” she sighed and prodded at the coconut-based fare on the platter.
Turning her attention to the white marble pillars that stood like sentries around the room she imagined a harem or palatial prison and groaned. There were intricate patterns around the arches and on every wall were mosaics in purple green and blue, all mostly abstract or at most depicting palm trees and water.
Most of the hotel was like this, with swept patterned floors and exotic rugs both draped on walls and gentle on her feet in the intimate rooms.
“Done this now, have bought the t-shirt and now I am bored,” she said aloud, adding a little louder, “Bored.”
That just leaves the village, she thought and grinned. The place didn’t look bigger than a New York Street block, at least she couldn’t get lost and maybe they had a café or even a bar. Although at the back of her mind she imagined hidden souks or welcoming rooms of women ready to gossip and moan about their men. She daydreamed about getting the inside gen on the women of the East for a Pulitzer-winning story.
*
The day was hot and Megan was less than 30 paces from the entrance when she almost regretted leaving the air-conditioned hotel. On the plus side the town was bigger than she had thought and once she got to the main track she decided that there were at least eight streets winding between the sprawl of buildings.
A faded Coca-Cola sign painted into a wall suggested a shop, but a cursory inspection revealed nothing more than a lean-to with a shelf of canned goods and a few anonymous sacks. There was certainly no sign of a Coke. This was to be the only business of any kind she found and after 15 minutes she had covered half the town. In that time she had seen no one but a couple of elderly men slouching in the shade.
“I have heard of one horse towns, but no horse towns…” she muttered.
A glance up a street she had not actually walked looked unpromising and the heat was getting oppressive. Mad dogs and Englishmen… she thought, and not being English she decided that mad was as apt as any description. God she could use a bath now.
Then she heard a laugh and what sounded like a clink of glass. Thinking of the Coca-Cola sign she whirled around and listened again. There was a definite hint of a bar or café just beyond the last building on the lane and she hastened along to see.
There through a curtain of blue and grubby white nylon strips were a row of men sitting at small tables playing some sort of game. They had jugs and obvious coffee cups in front of them and somewhere just out of sight someone moved back and forth with a tray. A 10 minute respite from the sun felt about good just then and Megan stepped forward and pushed her way through the screen of hanging tapes.
“Hello?” she asked tentatively, “Coffee… eh… café or… coke?”
Every eye in the room swivelled to fix her with matching gazes of bemused horror and all talking ceased. Then before she could beat a retreat the small male enclave exploded into pandemonium. A large man in a smart white robe and headdress screamed at her as he slashed at the air in front of her with his arms. Megan suspected that it was only this verbal violence that protected her from some very real kind from the man’s patrons who had now jumped to their feet behind him. Every voice in the room babbled in a cacophony she did not understand as she faced it down with a placating smile.
“Sorry,” she said through a wince and backed away, “I’ll just… eh… go now.” She hoiked her thumb in a ‘that away’ gesture over her shoulder.
But as she turned to run she ran into the chest of the largest man she had ever seen who calmly and sternly spoke a string of dark words at her. One of which she understood: “Police.”
*
The previous day had been a whirl. She remembered the shouting men and being bundled out into the hot bright daylight and into a vehicle. Then there had been more shouting, most of it by a moustachioed man down a radio mic. Then she had been driven at high speed out into the desert and long into the afternoon until nightfall.
Now the long hot night was over and Megan awoke in a dark grey cell and her head hurt. She worked her sandpaper mouth and eyed the empty water beaker longingly. But it had been hours since a woman had come to fill it and bleary eyed she yawned.
The main light to the room was through a small high window no bigger than a paperback that shone a hot bright beam into a square on the floor at her feet. But judging from the mucky walls and myriad graffiti she was glad she couldn’t see more.
Megan’s greater concern was the noise outside. She heard traffic and every now and then someone shouting in ever desperate tones until an alien authoritative voice yelled back and silence fell. This temporary hush was the worse but it was soon filled with plaintive cries and other outside sounds.
Every now and then footsteps drew near and Megan hoped and dreaded they had come for her, whoever they were and for the first time she really missed Ahmed. At least if they came she could have water.
“Hey, I’m an American, let me out of here. I am a guest of your big honcho,” she yelled in frustration.
Her outburst was met by nothing.
*
There were three of them. They sat in a row facing her in this small dark red and grey painted room. All of them wore sunglasses, even though the room was gloomy and poorly lit. The two older men, grizzled and grey, wore traditional garb and next to them on her left sat a westernised man of around 40 wearing a bad suit. Only 10 minutes before she had still been in her cell hoping for water and no one had yet explained to her what she had done.
In broken English the younger man the suit had told her that the elder in the middle was a magistrate and the other man her prosecutor.
“What have I done?” she asked bewildered, “Are you my lawyer?”
The man frowned and looked as if he might laugh. Then he muttered dismissively, “No, no, the lawyers come later if they are needed… magistrate… he… um…” the man waved her away in irritation, “he hasn’t said if you are guilty yet.”
He broke off because the older man had started to talk with the other and the three of them leaned in a huddle.
“You,” the younger man said suddenly pointing at Megan, “You went into men’s…?” he said something she didn’t know and the man waited for an answer.
“I thought it was a bar?” she said indignantly and made to say more, like… what did they mean the lawyers come later?
The man dismissed her again and nodded as he rattled off fast words to the others.
Finally the old man held up his hand and glared at Megan as if she were something he might have stepped in. He said a few brief words and then stood up and left.
“What happened?” Megan wailed.
Ignoring her the younger man shook hands with the prosecutor and they laughed.
“Hey?” Megan yelled at them.
“You quiet now,” the English-speaker snapped, “You are guilty.”
“What?” she hissed.
“Three years in jail and 1,000 lashes or also…” he continued in his bad English with some numbers she didn’t catch but it sounded a lot, but she caught the word ‘fine,’ “Prostitution and public disrespect is illegal here.”
“What?” her mind still stuttered at the first meaningless phrase as it now baulked at the casual accusation. “Do you mean…?” she asked frantically, not sure what she was saying.
But the men weren’t listening and before she could ask more the door opened and a policeman in smart grey-white uniform and a cap came to take her away.
“Hang on,” she gasped pulling away from him, “Did you say jail, a thousand lashes, you mean…? What is going on please?”
Before she could say more the policeman put a firm guiding arm on her and said almost gently something like, “Kah shala,” and “please.”
“Listen there has been a huge mistake,” she told him, “I want the American Ambassador… I want Prince Ahmed… I want…”
“And you always get what you want,” the younger man said with scorn as he broke off from talking to the prosecutor.
Megan felt sick.
*
The room was clean and bright, almost clinically so and Megan felt numb. The strange furniture in the middle of the chamber was almost certainly a whipping bench of some kind, she thought idly but at least… she sucked back a sob. She wasn’t going to give these people the satisfaction.
On the way to this room she had been led across an open courtyard. She had been dressed only in a long white cotton hospital gown with the proverbial gap at the back. Not that there had been many to see her. But there in plain sight of a public viewing area had been a whipping frame and a long bench with canes and six foot leather whips on it. Terror had crushed her and it was almost a relief to be led into this lesser place.
Now she was afraid again. She had no sense of time and it seemed like an age since she had seen Ahmed. What had it been now, three days, four? It did not go unnoticed that when she thought of the outside she thought of him and not home, although God knew she wished she had never come to this country. Three years in jail for what? No one had told her really and next to that a spanking seemed nothing.
Only it wouldn’t be just a spanking and she remembered the whips. She thought too that if she hadn’t come here then she wouldn’t have met Ahmed. Why did that even matter? What was he to her? Look at what he had done and how he had treated her.
Megan managed a smile and thought about her spankings, she had deserved them both by his lights and she knew now that he had saved her life. If only… her smile vanished and she sighed. She was still pondering this and the fine they mentioned… (oh why she couldn’t just pay it and go?) …when the door opened.
This time the men who entered looked more official and one hell of a lot more on the ball. The first man in his expensive London suit even spoke excellent English. Although the second man in the flowing robes of traditional garb looked far more intimidating.
“Miss Kent,” the suited man said in a neutral voice. He smiled firmly and brandished some papers. “I am here to facilitate and expedite this unpleasantness.”
“I demand…” Megan began snarling retort.
But the man put up a silencing hand and shook his head.
“No demands please Miss Kent,” he said.
“I am not a prostitute,” Megan said sullenly.
“I believe you,” he agreed, “But that is not the principle charge. In any event the matter is closed. For a payment of $20,000 the prison term can be suspended, but there is still the matter of 1,000 lashes.”
Megan’s eyes were wide and she looked at the punishment bench with growing horror.
“Today you will receive up to 100 strokes and once the payment has been made you will be free to go on condition that you surrender your passport within three days. Unofficially I suggest you go home before that happens and chalk this whole episode up to experience.”
“But I couldn’t possible organise that kind of money in three weeks let alone three days,” Megan wailed.
The man shrugged. “Then you will be held here until you pay and every three to five days you will receive up to another 100 lashes. If the sum has not been paid by the time your lashes have been completed then you will be moved to a permanent facility.”
He looked the picture of regret and shrugged again. Then to Megan’s surprise he gathered his papers into one neat bundle and with a curt bow turned on his heel and departed. This left his headdress-draped colleague regarding her with cold mirror sunglasses.
“Come back,” she yelled, “I want to see the consul… I want…”
Want doesn’t get, she thought grimly, my grandmother would have said it serves me right. But Megan wasn’t given time to ponder as the other man now stepped forward and took up a rather nasty looking long thin cane. He nodded to the bench and added in a thick accent: “You will bend over and give me your bare bottom.”
Megan gulped. Then thinking of the public area outside and seeing no other choice she sucked in a breath and slowly made to obey.
The bench had soft warm leather that pressed into her tummy and as she bent fully over her gown parted as her the naked curves of her bottom jutted back. Heat suffused her face and she felt small tears pricking at her eyes. Don’t jump the gun now, she thought, he hasn’t started yet.
“Such a pretty bottom,” Ahmed said as he removed the sunglasses and tossed away his headdress.
“Ahmed,” she squealed and made to get to her feet.
“Remain as your are,” he commanded.
Megan gaped at him over her shoulder more than a little apprehensive at his harsh manner.
“Please Ahmed, this is embarrassing,” she wailed.
“Oh this is embarrassing,” he growled in a sharp voice dripping with incredulity. “Have you any idea how embarrassing it is to have one’s guest arrested for indecency and disturbing the peace? You almost caused a riot and got yourself killed.”
“I was only…” she said sheepishly, mortified at her revealing posture and blushing as much as she ever had.
“I told you to stay at the hotel. I told you not to wander off,” Ahmed snarled, his face now like a tiger who might eat her.
“Sorry I… I was bored,” she said in a lame voice.
“Are you bored now?” he sighed.
She managed a laugh and ducked her head. “No,” she said in a small rueful voice as her lips made a lemon-suck.
“I can just take you out of here on my own authority and send you home,” he said wearily, “Or…”
“Or?” she asked hopefully.
“Or on my word of honour I can take you in hand and claim responsibility for your punishment and we can continue with your tour. The fine… it is no matter and can easily be paid,” he said in a voice with a tone somewhere between disappointment and resignation.
“You mean…?” Megan said breathily on the verge of some laughter.
“I mean if you agree to surrender to my care I will spank you as many times as it takes to discharge the punishment,” he said in an amused indulgent voice.
“It figures,” Megan pouted, “But you’re saying I get off the whipping and… oh I will pay you back for the fine by the way. Once I am home it won’t be that big a deal. The magazine might even spring for it, if I ever get up the nerve to tell them that is.” She was gushing nervously. “But if… if you still want to be my guide then I’ll stay. Even if…” she swallowed hard and in a thick soft voice muttered, “another spanking.”
“Then you won’t be putting this episode in your story then?” he chuckled.
“No freaking way,” she gasped. Then with a continued blush she added, “Can I get up now?”
The exaggerated posture with her bottom sticking up was becoming uncomfortable as well as humiliating.
“Oh I don’t think so, do you?” Ahmed said sharply. “I think I know a young lady who would have benefited from a traditional English education.”
“Oh no, you don’t mean…?” Megan’s eyes were wide now.
“I mean that two dozen strokes of this nice light cane would be a good way to start your punishment,” he chuckled.
“Bastard,” she grunted at him under her breath.
“Then you agree?” he said as he weighed up the cane and moved behind her still proffered bottom.
She was about to snarl at him something like ‘what choice do I have?’ when she remembered that he had given her a choice and furthermore he had risked his precious honour to get her out of a jam.
“I suppose,” she muttered grudgingly.
“A little more grace please,” Ahmed said sharply.
Looking back of her shoulder she glared at him but she couldn’t long meet his gaze and finally with a sigh she said, “Yes Sir, I… I agree.”
*
Megan’s heart was racing. If it had been anyone else wielding the cane she would have resented it with a rage, but although she was furious with herself now, in Ahmed’s safe hands she viewed the situation as little more than an extension of her desert adventure.
Or at least that was what she had decided until the first swish cut the air and landed squarely across her bare bottom. The jolt of pain lingered there for only a moment before surging through her to burst behind her eyes.
“Ummm,” she groaned as she rode it. Thank God she was an American; her old school paddle had nothing on this little biter, she thought and went on thinking it as the nippy little sting continued to build.
The liquid fire of the stripe felt tight almost like a wire was straining across her curves, a white hot wire at that. She was still riding it with an almost indecent squirm when Ahmed caned her again.
“Emmmmmmmm,” she gasped through clenched teeth as she tensed in wonder of it.
Heedless of the obscenity of her display she shook her tail like a demented dog in a futile effort to shake out the sting. This keeps me out of jail, she thought, running the mantra over and over through her mind as if it would ease any pain.
“You have no idea how much it took to give you this chance,” Ahmed said angrily as he lined up for another shot, “My influence has its limits. I can only pray my grandfather doesn’t find out.”
Megan took none of this in and it was all she could do to latch onto the word ‘give’ like he was offering her a gift. Yeah, she thought ruefully, a gift that so definitely keeps on giving.
“Oooooh, nnnnnh,” she gasped as the cane scored her again.
This time tears boiled in her eyes and she had to claw at the leather on the bench. I could never… a thousand they said… the thought humbled her. This was no time for ingratitude; Ahmed had quite literally saved her ass.
“Sir,” she said breathily as she tried to draw air, “H-how… how many please Sir?”
“I have spoken of two dozen, you have 21 to go,” Ahmed said, he sounded concerned. “Can you manage?”
She nodded emphatically. I am an American goddammit and I pay my debts, she swore to herself. But the next stroke tested that resolve and so did the one that followed.
“Yaaaahhyieeeee,” she shrieked with a self-indulgent howl. It felt good now to finally surrender to it.
*
Megan did not register the rest of the strokes in real time. Her world was all bottom: hot, tight and swollen as it loomed behind her served on a plate for Ahmed. When he spoke it was like a song in her ear and she clung to it gratefully. Not just because when he talked he did not cane, but because his kindness was a balm; honey to pour over the bitter spice of her chastisement. Never had she felt so alive.
“Just a few more to go now,” he murmured as he lined up the cane for the final six.
Megan tensed and thrust her bottom back some more then held herself. The skin was mottled red and mauve and across the whole surface of her behind where pencil-thin ridges, which like corrugations crossed in tight neat lines from the valley of her cleft down to where her rounds curved under to meet her thighs. Each worm of engorged flesh throbbed and fizzed as they gently tormented her long after chastising impact had bitten her.
Ahmed waited, admiring the tapestry he had shaped, his honour now mixed with sympathy, a sense of justice and a familiar tight excitement in his stomach.
Megan was not sobbing out loud, not yet, but tears flowed copiously as she gently shook. Only when the cane struck did she cry out. But for a moment she was too tense and he waited. Then her posture softened and he struck.
A whine bubbled from her throat and she came close to breaking. This fresh stroke sawed into and burrowed deep. but the cut felt clean. But it still hurt so much as the next bit down.
“Four more, just four,” he said, now regretting he had announced so much. Why didn’t I tell her a dozen?
Megan nodded and pushed out her bottom. Ahmed caned.
“Aieeee,” Megan yelled, a song repeated for each of the rest.
“We’re done,” he said at last.
“Done?” she moaned, she felt bereft as if this micro life was now over.
“I gave my word on it and you took it well,” he said.
She sniffed back a tear and then broke to silent trembling. This went on for a short age before at last a howl broke from her mouth and she shuddered into open sobbing.
“Are you alright?” he said as he moved to hold her.
She nodded and forced a grin.
“Unless you count the fact that I might never sit down again,” she managed as a tear dripped over lip.
He snorted in amused support then ruffled her hair.
“Bastard,” she said affectionately.
“Do you want another two dozen?” he asked still smiling.
“Not today please Sir,” she winced ruefully.
To be continued.
