3.1 ~ Nadia: One.

 

The prisoner waiting room deeply depressed me. An old metal table, the battered bench I was sitting on, the grimy green ceramic tile floor and the floor-level toilet in the corner, weren't a reflexion of the wealthy country I had chosen to live in. They were features I would expect to find in a third world country like Sudan.

The Dubai police department could easily afford better facilities, but they chose to treat criminals in a manner that befitted their crimes. I was trying to pluck up the courage to use the toilet, knowing that the sadistic officer would find a way to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible.

My hands were cuffed to the belt around my waist but because I wasn't wearing any panties all I had to do was squat and make sure I didn't pee over the chain between my ankle cuffs. The police officer, who ten minutes earlier had swiped my butt 3 times with his flexible baton, was leaning against the table, smoking a cigarette.

I stood up. "Sir, may I use the toilet please?"

He waved his hand. "Fucking get on with it."

I hurried over to the corner and lowered my ass over the filthy white porcelain pan. Just as I suspected, the guard strolled over and hunkered down to watch me from the side. I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated hard. The resultant flow was strong but splashed on the shallow pan. I felt droplets spray on my feet and ass.

"Messy little bitch," he muttered. He then puffed on his cigarette and as I stood up, he flicked the butt-end in the toilet.

Miserable and dispirited, I returned to my seat. I felt uncomfortable though, not being able to douche or dab my pussy with tissue. That was something I was going to have to get used to in the coming months and years.

A man wearing a white coat appeared in the doorway holding a clipboard. "Nadia Kateb?"

My heart leapt into my mouth. "Yes, Sir," I replied, then stood up.

"Come on through."

I followed the tall Arab into a large examination room. There was some medical equipment, but the room wasn't sterile and was sparsely furnished. The main item, in the centre of the room, was a black vinyl examination table. There was a second man wearing a white coat, but he looked more like a technician. He was sitting on a swivel stool. and turned to face me as we approached the table.

"Kateb..." he said as he scooted the chair forward with his feet. "...before you go to Kiashakan, we have to do your tattoos and tag here. Lie on the couch, on your back."

The couch was low so all I had to do was sit on the edge, lift my feet and swivel until I was lying on my back. I was shocked to see that the hem of the tunic rode up, revealing my mons and pudendal dimple. I kept my legs together as the older man circled the examination table, while studying my body.

I wanted to question why I had to have tattoos, but I was learning to avoid challenging authority figures and accept that I couldn't stop events from unfolding. The man who fetched me from the waiting room rolled a trolley over to the table and handed the other man a tattoo gun.

I had accompanied a friend to a tattoo parlour, so I knew what was involved. "Where are you going to put it, Sir?" I asked politely.

"One on each arm..." He traced a short line from my shoulder down the outside of my upper arm. "Prisoner registration numbers are tattooed on both arms when a defendant is sentenced to ten years or longer," he informed me.

"What if I win an appeal, Sir? I'll be stuck with the tattoos."

"Appeal?" he responded in a surprised tone. "If you had been given leave to appeal, we wouldn't be marking you with your registration number. Your solicitor should have explained the process to you." He picked up the clipboard and read the information on the top sheet, then turned toward me with a grave expression on his face. "I see from your paperwork that you've been sentenced to twenty years. That, I'm afraid is now set in stone."

I closed my eyes and cursed Emad Marwan, the judge, the Prince, and his partners in crime. They had all taken advantage of me since the stranger asked me at the party if I wanted to dance for his Master. I stated to sob, for I was in a state of utter despair.

The tech guy must have seen hundreds of girls sobbing their hearts out. He carried on though as if nothing of consequence was happening. After rolling the short sleeve of my tunic up, he began to ink the tattoo.

He started with my right arm, then did my left. It took him about fifteen minutes to tattoo the six numbers and letters, DX84YF, onto my upper arms. Then, after putting the tattoo gun away, the older Arab returned with another, larger gun.

"Wh... what's that for?" I asked.

Compared to the police officers, the technicians were almost human and far more considerate. For a start, they didn't shout at me when I asked questions. "I'm going to rivet a tag to your right ear. It will hurt but not for long."

I was horrified. "What's it for, Sir?"

He loaded a rectangular pink tag, about an inch and a half long, into the gun and slotted the jaws of the barrel either side of the top of my ear.

"The prison needs to keep a track of your whereabouts. The tag sends a signal to the main computer in the prison's control room. All the prisons in the UAE use the same tags so it will only need replacing if the system needs upgrading. BANG!

"Ahhhhhh!" I cried, initially from the loud retort the gun made, near my ear. Then, the pain arrived. "Ohhhhh," I moaned, "That really hurts."

I wanted to reach up and feel my poor ear, but my hands were securely cuffed. In any case, the men had finished with me and immediately helped me off the table. The kindly technician fetched my paperwork and took me through to a small room where an officer wearing a different uniform was waiting.

The technician handed him the file. "This one is Nadia Kateb. She's a long-term prisoner." The man had two embroidered badges, one above each pocket of his tan shirt. One read 'Kiashakan Prison' and the other, 'Officer Ghalam'.

The tall young man studied my dishevelled appearance, then glanced at the front of the file. "A whore who steals cars! Well, you can only practice one of those skills where you're going..." Both men chuckled. Officer Ghalam grasped my left elbow and lead me out of the room into the corridor. The exit was just a few feet away and the double doors were wide open to let some air in.

Because it was dark outside and a red light source glowed brightly, it looked as though the doors of hell had opened and the devil was beckoning me to join the depraved throng.

It was a humid evening and flying bugs seemed to be everywhere. The glowing red lights were from the back of a white prison box van. Its back doors were open and steps had been lowered for the prisoners to climb up into the back.

"Up you go girl," the officer said.

Then, as I put my foot on the first step, he placed his hand on the under slopes of my pert cheeks and helped me up. "Oh," I gasped in surprise. Unfortunately, my tunic wasn't long enough to protect my ass when I was bending forward so he.

"Sit in the second cubicle on the left," he said as I tried to move faster than his hand.

The first cubicles on either side were occupied by the girls from the waiting room. The brown plastic bucket seats were sectioned off by thin partition walls that were about 30" deep. Because the cubicle was only about 24 inches wide, I had to turn and back up, then sit down. Once sitting, the officer hunkered down and closed a floor catch on the chain between my ankle cuffs.

"If the van is involved in an accident. This catch will automatically open and you'll be able to leave by the back door," he informed me.

"Thanks for telling me that, Sir," I said, trying to curry favour.

He stood up and leant into the cubicle "A polite whore? Where are you from?"

"England, Sir, but I'm an Emirati citizen."

"You've got some of our blood. I can tell from your face."

The young Arab, I guessed, was in his late twenties. He was well-spoken and intelligent, but the hand on my ass showed that he was prone to mistreat women. I had to tread carefully and avoid making an enemy of a guard who was from the prison.

"My grandfather was a Saudi, Sir."

"I can tell you've stayed out of the sun otherwise you would look like your grandad. I expect you sleep during the day and whore at night."

I didn't want to argue. "Er, I burn easily so I don't sunbathe, Sir."

"Tell you what girl. In a few weeks' time, you'll be as brown as me."

"I like your colour, Sir."

"Keep the compliments coming and I'll try and find you a place on my team in transport. How old are you?"

"Twenty-three, Sir."

"Shit, you look good for twenty-three. Some of the whores we get look twice as old as they really are. Is your oral up to scratch?"

"Um, well, yes, I suppose so..." He poked his right index finger toward my mouth. "Suck on that."

I opened my mouth and tried to give his digit a blow job. He watched carefully as I sucked and lip fucked his long finger with as sensuous a performance as I could manage. When he slowly withdrew it and moved his hand back, I followed his finger, licking it enthusiastically, until it was out of range.

"Don't worry, girl..." he rubbed the bulge in his pants. "Once we get underway, you can suck on the real thing. One more fucktard to load up, then we'll be heading for home."

He left me to ruminate on my terrible luck. Cocooned in the small cubicle, I found myself looking back and admonishing myself for joining the other two girls and agreeing to dance for the Prince. Then, the sheiks played cards and millions changed hands. I was under the impression the Prince had won a lot of money and even claimed that I was his lucky charm.

A thought suddenly occurred to me. Supposing the Prince made a bet with Salim Husni that he could frame me and that I would get a 20-year sentence. Was I a pawn in another of the Prince's crazy games, like when I crawled the length of the room twice, wearing only a tiny thong? Then I remembered that I won a bracelet, but I never received it.

It wasn't long before Officer Ghalam returned with Rimsha. As she turned to back into the cubicle opposite me, I saw that her sleeve was still turned up and that her black tattoo stood out as much as mine did. Even worse though, I caught sight of the pink tag behind her ear. It looked gross and strengthened the impression that we were being treated like animals.

Once Rimsha was seated opposite me, the officer closed the back doors, then walked forward and told the driver, through a little hatch, that he was ready. Almost immediately, the van pulled away and I was on the way to my new home. I was just mouthing encouragements to my friend, across the aisle, when Officer Ghalam returned, presumably for his blow job.

"Missed me, have you, girl?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Give me an 'O' while I get my dick out."

The man really was excited. His large cock looked as hard as an iron rod. He had me cornered and totally restrained so there was nowhere to run. So, I pursed my lips in readiness to provide the best oral sex in my locker. That wasn't up to much and I was probably about to be found out by the attractive Arab.

From his behaviour, I wouldn't have been surprised to find out that Officer Ghalam had a cohort of girls at the prison who regularly performed oral on him, in exchange for favours. He had to lean into the cubicle and put one hand on the back wall while he steered his knob between my lips.

"Come on, girl, plenty of spit. Get those lips working..."

I tried my best. To begin with, I bobbed my head back and forth, to create a short prodding motion, while I used my lips and tongue to pleasure his sensitive crown. I then bobbed with longer thrusts and started to take his shaft into my throat. I didn't go very far, maybe three inches, so I could make more rapid movements and trigger his climax as quickly as possible.

"That's it girl, nod and swallow more dick..."

In the enclosed space the slurping and breathless sounds were magnified and must have shocked the other girls isolated in their cubicles. Officer Ghalam sighed and grunted softly when his dick started to twitch, before moments later spurting copious amounts of jiz down my throat. I gave his knob an extra suck before he finally stood up and tucked it away.

"Very, nice, girl..." he muttered. "You've got a good technique. I hate the bitches who puff and snort when they're performing for me. "What's your handle?" he grabbed my arm and twisted me so he could read my tattoo. "DX eighty-four. I can remember that. I'm one short, so I'll talk to the Governor and see if he'll allocate you to my team."

Had the worst day of my life finished with a glimmer of hope? It was too early to say, but at least the idea of someone looking out for me gave me something to think about for the rest of the arduous journey...