Chapter 1

 

I should have known better of course, but he was so handsome and I really and truly thought he loved me.  For that matter so did my parents and my friends.  I met him at a track meet in Hampshire where I had been doing pretty well at my chosen sport of late and I now had a number of gold medals to my credit.

Oh, my name is Justine.  Justine Villiers, I am just twenty years old and I work (or used to) as a small-time journalist for a local paper but I spent every spare minute training and competing at athletics.  My body was thus pretty muscular—which was what attracted Mustapha to me in the first place.  Alas, I didn’t know it then but that was his only interest in me.  I am fairly tall at five feet nine (or is that 1.75 m) and  am a true blond with fine straight, golden hair, blue eyes and skin that was unblemished and never needed make-up.  I know I was lucky in inheriting good looks but my body I built myself.  Hard work with weights and a hell of a lot of running and jumping had built it into something I was very proud of.

Apparently Mustapha liked it, too, for after the meet he came up and congratulated me on my win, also inviting me to dinner at a very, very expensive restaurant.  I was both flattered and turned on by him.  He really was—is—very handsome and he can turn on the charm … he can also turn it off, as I was to discover to my cost.

The dinner was wonderful.  He played up to me, asking about my athletics successes and everything else about me but saying little about himself.  What he did say indicated he was very, very wealthy and I was doubly flattered that he might be interested enough in poor, common me to take me out.

It developed from there.  He came to meet my parents and charmed them as he had me.  What followed was a whirlwind courtship for he soon told me he wanted me to be his wife.  During our ultra-brief courtship, he never touched me.  He told me he would wait until we were married before he even kissed me and I believed him, actually raising him in my estimation even more.  With everyone’s blessings, we were married in less than a month.  Yes, I know, quite stupid!  But I was young and totally smitten by him and so was everyone else.  My parents kept telling me what a wonderful life I was going to have in distant Qaman where Mustapha was apparently the ruling sheikh.  I had but a sketchy knowledge of how Arabian governments worked.  I suppose I assumed he would be a constitutional ruler like Queen Elizabeth but I didn’t give it much thought.  I should have!

His yacht was berthed on the Thames and everyone gave us a wonderful send-off.  To this point I had not met any of his friends, advisers or servants.  I hadn’t even been down to see the yacht as he said he wanted it to be a surprise.  It was, too, I suppose.  First I was surprised by its size.  It was more like a small ship than a yacht.  I marvelled that he really must be extraordinarily wealthy.  I didn’t know the half of it.  I was also surprised by the number of women that seemed to be around.  All of them were as muscular as I was, rather than beautiful in the more normally accepted sense of feminine beauty.  Not that they weren’t attractive.  They most certainly were; just that their beauty was tempered by their muscles, I suppose.  Of course to me, they were all quite lovely since I admired muscles in a woman as much as in a man.

I wondered, of course, what they did.  They didn’t look like crew members or domestic servants but I knew they weren’t harem girls—he had assured me he didn’t have a harem for that had been one of the first things I had asked and he had also assured me he never lied.  Which was true—as far as it went.  He didn’t lie; he just didn’t always tell the whole truth.

Anyway, we stood at the rail, he and I, as the gleaming white yacht pulled away from the pier and we headed downstream to make our way to his home—Qaman.  I had already asked him about that place since I had never heard of it.  He assured me it existed but that it was a tiny sheikhdom on the Arabian Peninsula that paid nominal allegiance to Saudi Arabia but which was actually almost completely independent.  He showed it to me on the map—or rather he pointed to an un-named place on the map.  “There it is, Justine, right there,” he said, smiling that so winning smile on his so handsome face.

I was dying to see his body and to experience it in his bed.  I knew he would be well-built for it showed even through his clothes and in the way he carried himself.  Tonight, I was sure, would be the moment when we made the most wonderful love together.

We didn’t.  Instead, I was introduced to my keeper.  Yes, that’s right, my keeper.  Now that the yacht was clear of English waters, his people changed from the Western dress they had affected during the yacht’s stay in London and now sported the clothing he liked them to wear in his private moments.

I just about goggled when he had me brought to his presence.  I had been unpacking and resting in the stateroom he said was mine when the door just opened and this huge man entered.  He didn’t bother to knock and now he stood, just inside the door, his massive arms folded across his naked chest.

He was a truly magnificent specimen of muscular manhood.  I guessed he was about my age or perhaps a year or two older.  He had had to bend to enter the door and I thought he would be at least six feet six or perhaps even more.  He was handsome and his physique was absolutely superlative.  His muscles weren’t too big but they were very, very athletic.  He was black and his dark-chocolate coloured skin gleamed.

But incredible as his figure was, it was his dress that really had me gaping—or rather the lack of it.  He wore nothing but a gleaming silver cod-piece over what appeared to be enormous genitals.  And there was no strap to hold it there.  There must have been a clip or some such that went around his penis and scrotum but if so, it didn’t show.  I stared at him in awe—and in growing anger.  How dare he come barging into my stateroom like this?  I said so.

He grinned in a sardonic way (I was to grow to fear that grin) and moved up to me, then slapped my face.  “Do not ever talk to me like that again, slut,” he said in a voice so deep and gravely I had difficulty in understanding him.  I cowered away from him.  He looked so menacing as he towered over me, his incredibly wide shoulders and broad chest now blocking out everything else from my sight.

“My Lord Sheikh wants to see you.  You will accompany me,” he growled, grabbing my left arm in a fierce grip that felt as if it was going to tear the limb from right out of its socket.  He then dragged me, literally, out of the stateroom, along the narrow passage and into the saloon where the sheikh was conferring with some of his advisers, all now dressed in Arab robes.  There was no sign of his ladies.  As we entered the room, Mustapha turned and smiled at me.

“Ah, my dear, I see you have met Kali?”

“Mustapha, what is the meaning of this?  He has dragged me here like a slavegirl!”

His face assumed an expression of puzzlement.  “Of course, my dear, for that is what you are, didn’t you know?”

“But I am your wife!  You married me today!”

“Bah,” he said contemptuously, “some stupid Christian rite.  It means nothing to me.  You are now my slave and at this moment I wish to see my property … Kali?”

“Yes, Lord …” He acknowledged the unspoken order with his free hand to his chest and then brought it up into the bodice of the smart frock I had changed into and literally tore it downwards, ripping it open in one stroke so that it fell away from my breasts and belly.  He kept pulling it while I struggled and cried piteously (and quite uselessly) that I wanted off the boat, until it fell right off my body to land in tatters on the carpeted deck.  Underneath it, I had on a bra, panties, stockings and shoes.  They came off with as much ceremony as had the dress.

He reached down, still holding me by my upper left arm, and dragged the right stocking down, pulling it and the shoe off my foot; then did the same with the other leg.  Then he put his hand into the little elastic strap between the two cups of my bra and simply pulled until it snapped, leaving my breasts bare for all in the saloon to see.  Kali knew his master well for he held me like that for long minutes while Mustapha and his men drank in the sight of my now naked, muscular upper body.  I tried to cover my breasts with my free arm but that resulted in a resounding slap across the face from my keeper—keeper!  Can you imagine such a thing?

“Quite lovely, my dear, as I knew you were going to be.  Breasts that are full and firm but not too big—and muscles that will require very little in the way of extra training…  But let us see the whole … Kali?”

The huge black man grinned at his boss, placed his hand in the waistband of my silk bikini-style panties and tore them off my body as easily as he had my bra.  I tried to kick him and hit him with my free hand and of course I screamed abuse at him and at Mustapha, but they all just grinned.  My attacks on Kali were quite useless.  They made no impression at all on his great muscles and his grin remained quite unaffected by them.

Now I really was naked.  Totally so and still the enormous black man held me in that vice-like grip.  He pushed me forward so I was now standing right in front of the man who said he owned me.  Can you believe it?  A year into the new millennium and this man says he owns me as a slave.  I thought slavery was all but gone from the world.  It seemed not.

He sat back in his chair and allowed his eyes to rake up and down my naked form, then, after long minutes which had me wilting in shame and humiliation, he reached out to stroke my flat, muscular belly and then up to cup my breasts, acts which caused me to pull back in revulsion.  I wasn’t an animal to be fingered in this horrible manner!

Wasn’t I just?  I felt an unholy fire across my buttocks and turned around in outrage.  Kali had just hit me with a cane!  Really!  He held it out for me to see while I alternately screamed in outrage and cried in pain.

“Are you ready for me to examine you yet, slave-girl?” asked Mustapha.

I dissimulated.  “I thought you loved me,” I quavered.

He smiled—thinly.  “Love!  What a stupid emotion.  I don’t love anyone, least of all you.  You are a muscle-girl whom I will use when it pleases me.  At other times your body will be trained and your muscles used for labour.  At times I may even use you as a pony—a slave-girl pony…”

I stared at him in horror.  Use me?  I was under no illusions what that meant.  Sex—but as, when and how he wanted, not when or how I chose.

Now he stared at my sex and screwed up his face in distaste.  I stared down at him in dismay.  What on earth was wrong now?  “Ugh!” he cried.  “When will you western women learn to keep your sex properly smooth and clean?”