Someone Elses Daughter (13 page)

Chapter Six

Turkey

I

Anna knew that she was somewhere in Turkey, in a fairly large town she guessed, but she didn’t know precisely where. She stepped from the shower, naked, dripping and shivering. They had not permitted her hot water but she had been glad to sluice the sweat and slime from her body. The woman who watched over her grasped her arm and turned her, fingers tracing over the tattooed image of a small blue rose on her right shoulder. Anna looked sullenly at the woman, and then she glanced again at the small black electric generator that still lay on the top of the WC cistern. A wooden ladder, about six feet tall, ostensibly a crude towel rail, leaned against the tiled wall. They had strapped her to this with leather belts before administering hateful blasts of mind-numbing electric torture to her body. Anna’s breasts still felt as if they were afire and her nipples were unnaturally large and erect. They were unspeakably sore from where the crocodile clips had bitten into her flesh.

The man who had administered the electric shock torture had left, leaving the woman to supervise their new acquisition. This woman was only a few years older than Anna, but her harshly garish make-up and henna-dyed copper-red hair gave her a hard and brassy look. Anna shivered, cold and defeated, and she hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms about her breasts. The woman suddenly slapped her face with the flat palm of her open hand. The slap was hard and its imprint burned across Anna’s cheek. Anna yelped in surprise and pain, and she staggered back against the cold tiles of the shower stall.

“What is your name?” Since Anna’s abduction, the woman was one of the few people she had met who had spoken English to her.

“My name…it’s Anna.” She hesitated, then drew herself upright and corrected herself: “I’m Anna Borzov. My father is very wealthy. He will pay a ransom for me.“

The woman slapped her face again. “Forget your father, he can’t help you now. That is over. Your name is Rosa… just Rosa now.” The woman slapped Anna’s face again “Rosa! You have the tattoo on your shoulder. We will have another tattoo of a pretty rose against your cunt, uh? It is your whore name.”

The woman glanced towards the burly male henchman who stood by the door. He had again strapped Anna, naked, to the short wooden ladder that had served as a towel rail in the bathroom. She was propped upright against the white tiles, but the leather belts were so tight around her naked body that she could scarcely move a limb. She glanced wildly, wide-eyed at the electric generator box. They had insisted on changing her name. She had determinedly resisted it, knowing that it would further blur her trail to this place, and make her situation even more helpless, but her resolve was weakening with each added torment.

“Tell me your name, little whore,” the woman said, casually giving Anna another slap, this time across her sore right breast, fingertips spitefully and expertly flicking across the throbbing nipple.

“I’m Anna.”

The woman viciously nipped the puckered halo of the nipple between her finger and thumb, eliciting a shriek of pain. Then she pushed the plank and Anna fell to the tiled floor with a clatter. “Your name is Rosa, you will learn!” she said, taking the lower end of the plank and propping it again the rim of the bathtub.

The woman produced a polythene bag from her pocket and casually pulled it over Anna’s head. Anna gasped in terror and vainly fought her bonds as the plastic film moulded to her face and cut off the air. She screamed, literally wasting breath, when she felt her body tilt as the ladder was hoisted, and she felt herself being carried horizontally. Then she found herself laid with her head below her feet. With the blurred vision allowed by the bag that she was in the bathtub, and the ladder was tilted with one end against the rim of the tub. Anna fought to regain control of her racing panic, and she was only vaguely aware of a finger that was tracing the lips of her sex.

The man turned on the faucet and directed a strong stream of water onto the polythene bag that tightly covered Anna’s head. Anna jolted in horror and surprise as the water hit her face. They were going to drown her! She was certain. Her body thrashed against the tight bonds and the staves of the ladder were painful against her flesh. The horror continued, and she found herself in a breathless agony. There was no option but to cooperate.

“I think she’s a giving me the signal,” the woman said, nodding to the man.

The man diverted the flow of water from Anna’s head, but the impression of suffocation by drowning still remained, and she writhed as much as she might. The bag was then ripped from her head, and she spluttered as she inhaled hungrily and loudly. “Yes, I’m Rosa,” she gasped. “My name is Rosa.”

“How do you address me?”

“I – I don’t know, please…”

“Look, whore, you call me ‘Madam’,” the woman said, grasping her blonde hair and shaking her head violently to and fro. “What is your name again?”

Anna’s tears began to flow now, running in hot streams down her face. “I’m Rosa, Madam.”

“Good,” the woman said with a smile, her foreign tongue seeming to linger over the word, and she tugged Anna’s hair viciously once more before releasing the wet tresses from her grasp. “Very good. You see, you can learn. Now, tell me that you are a whore, uh? Let me hear you say it.”

“No!” Anna’s words were choked back as the woman sized her right nipple and twisted it viciously.

“Tell me you’re a whore,” the woman spat, twisting even harder on the already sore rubbery nipple.

“Alright, alright, goddamit… I’m a whore, Madam,” Anna screeched in a pained grimace. “I’m a whore. Stop that!”

“Yes,” the woman said triumphantly as she released the tortured nipple. “You see, it’s easy. You are a whore, Rosa. Of course, you are. And I’m going to make you into a good little whore. You will make very good money for me.”

“Rosa is a whore,” Anna murmured softly, half to herself, as if examining the words. She reflected that, in the past few hours, that is just what she had become.

II

It seemed an age since Anna had become the whore Rosa. Now, naked and bound to a post in what seemed to be a small room, she squirmed in the darkness of a tight leather bondage mask that both gagged and blinded her. Rosa’s jaws were uncomfortably distended by the rubber phallus-like projection that was trapped in her mouth and thrust uncomfortably almost to her throat. A cold draught of air wafted across her naked body, making her shiver, and she could hear the unmistakable hum of an air conditioning unit. She heard a door open and assumed that someone had entered, and she could hear something like cutlery being laid on a table.

They had tied her in an uncomfortable position. A projection in the pole pressed painfully in the small of her back, and she was forced to thrust her hips forward, putting pressure on her arms. Anna had no idea why they had confined her in this way, but she was resigned to a prospect of yet more degrading and unpleasant treatment. No doubt it was another harsh lesson to further embed acceptance of her status. It was no longer necessary, she knew. It shocked her as to how quickly she should have descended to abject servility. Her only aim, of course, was to survive.

She gave a start when she felt someone cupping her breasts. It was a male, she guessed, judging by the size and feel of the fingers on her full, soft flesh. He squeezed slightly, and then raised the soft flesh and allowing it to fall, testing its resilience. She knew that her nipples were hard, tightened by the chill and her fear. Then, unexpectedly he began stroking her hair at the neck, beneath the straps of the hood, teasing the long silky tresses, all the time uttering gentle sounds that, quite ludicrously, seemed to be intended to soothe and calm her.

The man’s hand were on her breasts again, warm and caressing the chilled flesh. Yes, she would live, she told herself, and live as best she may until, somehow, she managed to escape.

Anna heard the door open again, and a male voice spoke in Turkish. She could not yet understand the language, but the tone was casual and amused. She heard a chair scraping the floor as it was moved. Then, her senses alert and tense, she heard the sound of a match being struck and then smelled the mellow aroma of a cigar. The fingers were still on her breast, circling her nipples. Then he cupped the flesh gently again and she could feel the soft underbelly of her breasts filling his hand. The balls of her feet began to hurt as strained up on her toes and thrust her hips forward to avoid the projection in the pole, trying to ease the ache in her arms with the straps holding her wrists far behind her. The voice, nearer now, spoke again with a small laugh, and the other man released her breast.

Then, though she heard the whine of a small electric motor and gave a grunt of terror, struggling wildly against her bonds, fearing the vicious electric generator again. She heard the man clucking his tongue, as if to an animal, and then felt his gentle hand on her breast again, stroking the flesh insistently as he crooned soothing noises. She calmed somewhat, but was still perplexed and fearful. However, she gave a start when the other man’s hand, cool and slick in a latex glove, touched the shaven skin of her pubic mound, finger and thumb stretching the skin tight there, and she tensed as a swab was applied to the area, continuing up over the soft flesh of her lower belly. Something else, a plastic patch she thought, was applied and smoothed to her skin. She could feel that it extended to the soft flesh of her lower belly, and abutted the upper edge of her sex lips, overlaying her clitoral hood. After some moments the patch was carefully removed and she heard murmurs of approval, and a joking remark which brought a laugh from the other man. Then she felt him going to work and felt the pain as the tattoo needles jabbed into the flesh around her pussy. She guessed that the artist was drawing an outline and the pain in this sensitive area was far more intense she had experience with her other tattoo on her shoulder. The tattooist took his time, working steadily, and casually chatting with the other man in the room. After a while, her body became accustomed to the pain and it subsided into a stinging and burning sensation. After a short time he took a break, probably for his own benefit rather than hers, and she could smell the cigar smoke again. Minutes later, he resumed, and she could tell that he was shading in the tattoo. The man was skilled, it seemed, and he handled her with assurance.

Tara, however, found herself crying bitterly inside the hood. It wasn’t a matter of the pain: the needle pricks burned a dull fire across her loins but it wasn’t intolerable, even though the pain became more intense over the clitoral hood. No, she was beset utter dismay at the significance of what was casually being done to her body. She could only imagine what humiliating design had been permanently applied to her intimate flesh. For now, though, she saw it as a new and telling torment, inflicted on her at a whim as a sign of ownership. Unlike the new name they had given her, this was a mark that could not be easily discarded in the future. It would always be there to constantly remind herself, and others, of her degradation.

Chapter Seven

New York
– 12 months on

I

The car slowed and stopped in front of a pair of imposing double gates, waiting until they swung open. Leo then drove along a drive towards a stand of trees.

As usual on these occasions Sara felt her stomach tighten. Another outcall. She had never managed to get used to being delivered like a parcel, to be unwrapped and played with, on a loan basis. At the same time though, the familiar tingle of anticipation and dark desire welled up in her pussy. She was a hopeless case. Ahead, the mansion-like house was lit by floodlights, like some exotic palace. A couple of men in flowing Arab white robes stood ostentatiously in front of the entrance. The car slowed and stopped and Leo lowered his window. “The Borzov bitch,” he said. The swarthy man nodded and waved them through. The car’s tyres crunched on the gravel of the circular forecourt in front of the house, where a towering statue on a plinth provided a centre-point. The handsome Russian youth stopped the car and sat staring straight ahead, the profile of his Adam’s apple prominent on his swan-like neck.

Twelve months after the cataclysmic events in Moscow, Sara Smithson was a successful young businesswoman based in New York. Wealthy, beautiful, elegant, assured and always impeccably turned out, she was regularly featured on the society pages of the glossier magazines. She lived in a luxury apartment beyond Madison Square Garden, serviced by two faithful Russian servants, Leo and Sasha, who attended to her every need, whether she wanted it or not. Sometimes, not often but frequent enough to reinforce her status, they would confine in the metal box-like room that Borzov had had installed in one of the bedrooms. Also, of course, there would be the occasional summons to return to Moscow, when Sara always found herself briefly reacquainted with her basement cell. She even looked forward to these interludes, which usually involved one of Borzov’s spectacular entertainments for his host of friends.

More often than not, though, the guests would come to her. These were her in-calls, as Borzov called them. And unexpected guests would simply turn up, demand attention, and Sara was expected to drop everything to entertain him. Sometimes it was merely a fleeting visit - a couple of hours, or overnight maybe. Other times, the guest would stay for days on end. Sasha and Leo would merely cancel Sara’s other appointments and remain on hand to assist the guest in any way he desired (it was usually a ‘he’, but not always). It was usually their job to untie Sara when the patron had left, and bathe her and attend to any welts and wounds.

Then there were her outcalls, such as the one that evening. These were the visits that Sara was instructed to make. No ‘ifs or buts’- she was merely expected to obey and do as she was told. Her life was comparatively trouble-free for most of the time, and business success came relatively easily to her, provided that she did as she was told. If not, there was always Borzov’s alternative life for her, and she had no wish to go there.

“I’ll ring me when you I’m ready to be picked up, sir,” she told Leo.

He smiled and nodded. She left the car without another word and her car turned on the gravel circle and drove away. Sara looked up. The artfully-lit statue - a nude Sabine woman being fucked by a helmed warrior - was of no comfort. She recalled when she herself had played the role of the raped Sabine for the pleasure of Borzov’s friends, and tonight was no different.

“Good evening. You must be Sara.”

The woman’s gentle voice startled her. She turned and saw a figure draped in black step from the shadows at the side of the house.

“Yes.”

“Please come with me.”

Sara saw that the woman wore traditional Moslem nun-black robes that covered her from head to foot. Rather than enter by way of the impressive large double doors of the house, the woman led her along a path to the side, round to the rear. She could smell the scents of a perfumed garden in the still night air and water was tinkling in a fountain somewhere. The woman took her to a small back door into a gloomy passage lit by a dim lamp, and then down a steep flight of stone steps and along a wide of underground passage that sloped perceptibly.

“We go to the basement,” the woman said over her shoulder.

Sara swallowed. ‘All of my friends’ houses have basements of some sort,’ Borzov had said, and the thought made her shiver, even though the air was warm enough. However, the fragrance struck her immediately as she descended: sandal oils and incense. And the passage opened into something that resembled a magic cave from Arabian Nights, beautifully lit with concealed lamps and up-lighters. She could see now why the corridor had sloped downwards, for the room had obviously been quarried in the living rock deep beneath the house. It was very high and the rough rock of the roof was shrouded in gloom, lit only by two or three flaming brands held in iron stanchions. Down below, though, all was vibrant and colour. The sumptuous area lined with marble and colourfully-decorated Moorish ceramic tiles. There was a pool at the centre, glistening blue and silver, and a series of alcoves and grottos. Furthermore, in the pool, and on couches and marble benches all around, like exotic decorations, girls of every hue relaxed and disported themselves. Sara smiled. There must have been a dozen or more, some of them naked and others dressed in drapes of brightly coloured silk and lace and laden with matching jewels.

“The harem,” the woman said simply.

“Yes, I can see.”

Sara smiled. So this was another rich man’s equivalent of Borzov’s basement. On the whole, perhaps she preferred it to the Boss’s cold modern dungeon in Moscow but, then again, she instantly realised that this place too would have its dark cells.

“Hey there! Welcome to the mad house.” The young, voluptuous blonde with large breasts, clad in only a wisp of draped chiffon, spoke with a cut-glass English accent, rose from a couch and offered her hand. “I’m Charlotte. They call me Charlie.”

“This is Sara,” the haik-covered woman said. “She is the master’s special.”

“Ah, we heard you were coming.” She turned and called, “Hey girls, this is Sara, Abdullah’s Borzov bitch.”

There was a raucous greeting from the women in the harem. Sara was pleasantly surprised by the warm and friendly atmosphere down there - so different to the cold discipline of Borzov’s basement.

“Come, I must prepare you,” the woman said, slipping the haik from over her head. She was lithe and slender, with nut-brown skin and small, pointed breasts.

“Halmah is a servant,” Charlie explained. “We are slaves. There’s a difference. She can leave if she wants to, we can’t.”

“Yes.”

“Most of us want to be here though. Abdullah is a very generous owner, if a trifle strict.” She paused to half-turn and casually display her ample bare buttocks, each of which was marked by a livid red patch criss-crossed with darker stripers. “It’s all in the game. You’ll get used to it, we all do.”

Sara blinked. “I’m only here for a short visit,” she said.

Sara caught Charlie’s surprised look, but then it was gone. “Oh, I see,” she said with a quick smile. “Lovely. Silly me. Anyway, you’d better get started, Abdullah hates to be kept waiting and of course he’s watching.”

Charlie gestured up towards the roof, and Sara saw a small balcony set in the rock, like an exotic theater box. She could just make out a man looking down, and a golden robed figure stood in the patch of light behind him.

“Please take off all of your clothes,” Halmah said gently.

It didn’t take too long. Sara removed her coat and then her long evening gown. She was naked beneath it. She had learned long ago that it was easier when doing an outcall, unless she had specific instructions to wear sexy lingerie.

Halmah led her to a smaller pool at the side, where a small waterfall cascaded down the rock. The girl stepped into the knee-deep pool and Sara followed, finding that the water was pleasantly warm. Charlie threw off her drape and followed, sitting gingerly in the water.

“Place your hands behind your neck, please.”

Sara stood in the pool as the servant soaped her body, and the girl’s fingers moved with an assured touch that was both calming and erotic. They closed on Sara’s nipples and tweaked them to prominence and then traced down over her belly to the shaved slit of her cunt. She shuddered and leaned into the expert touch. Charlie giggled.

“It’s for Abdullah’s benefit,” she said.

Halmah’s ministrations were like liquid magic on Sara’s erogenous zones. One cupped hand trapped and pressed warm water against Sara’s sex, the pressure somehow deliciously palpating her flesh, while the other hand elicited tiny electric-like shocks in the sensitised clitoris. Spirals of pleasure began to turn in her belly. Sara glanced up lasciviously towards the balcony. Abdullah was staring down at her like a hungry hawk, his dark eyes glittering in the flickering flames of the high-set torches. She knew that she was being warmed for him.

Then, quite suddenly, the hands left her and the girl stepped from the pool. Charlie laughed. Sara looked startled.

“The little bitch always does that,” she said. “Leaves you panting for more.”

Sara stepped out of the pool and Halmah quickly dried her with a fluffy green towel.

“Lie here, please.”

Sara lay on the indicated marble slab and allowed the girl to stretch her out on her back, star-like, to facing up at the balcony. Abdullah was standing now, gazing down as his servant massaged scented oil into at the flesh he would soon possess. Halmah burnished Sara’s tanned skin until it gleamed.

“On all fours now, please.”

Sara did as she was instructed. As she knelt on hands and knees, she reflected that Chalie had been correct: as a slave, she was infinitely below the status of the servant girl and must obey her. She gasped when the girl’s hands worked a slick thick lubricant into her anus, packing the rectal channel with the cool gel.

“Relax,” Charlie advised. “You’ll be glad of it later. Abdullah prefers the back door.”

Then Halmah was done. She glanced up at the balcony and saw Abdullah’s signal. “We must hurry, your master is waiting.”

Your Master? Sara was about to correct the girl, but she was astonished when the girl took her hands and pulled them behind her back.

“Reversed prayer, please.”

The order startled Sara. It seemed incongruous that the girl would know the command. However, it wasn’t an uncommon demand. She inhaled deeply and pushed her hands up high behind her, placing the palms together between her shoulder blades, feeling it force her shoulders back and her breasts forward.

“Be good, darling,” Charlie called cheerfully, as Halma led Sara away. “In fact, be excellent, if you know what’s good for you.”

Sara heard Charlie’s giggle and felt the other girls’ eyes on her as she followed the girl to a screen and up a small flight of stairs. She wasn’t surprised to see elevator doors concealed there.

She was silent in the lift as it rose, and seconds later the doors opened. A small, wiry man in a white and gold robe was standing there, carrying a small, multi-thonged whisk whip. Halmah lightly touched Sara’s buttocks, urging her forward. Abdullah nodded and gave a small gesture of his finger, and the lift doors closed, leaving Sara alone with him. She stepped forward and stood statue-like, with her legs together and her heels raised, standing on the tips of her toes, her arms still in reversed prayer. Abdullah stepped around her, surveying her form.

“Let me see how well you have been taught,” he said, his voice imperious. He had not greeted her, or even spoken her name. “Bent over strappado!”

The command took her by surprise. However she immediately changed her pose, straightening her arms and behind her back and pressing them together, bending forward at the waist, and keeping on her toes with her legs straight. He held her like that for a minute or so, stroking her rump.

“Egyptian!”

She gratefully straightened and crossed her wrists over her chest in the fashion of an Egyptian mummy, with her elbows cupping her full breasts and allowing her throbbing erect nipples to peek through. He waited a moment and she held herself ready, alert now. He would put her through her slave paces. The emphasise his control, he lashed the thongs of his whip against her bottom, and they stung here flesh like a angry wasps.

“Stand on tiptoes, legs open, hands on head, head proud.”

She obeyed in a snap.

“Flat on your back, legs open, raised to ninety degrees.”

Sara dropped to the floor and spread her legs in a wide V shape like a pornographic ballerina. Abdullaha was obviously an experienced Dom with a sound knowledge of BDSM poses. Sara had been fully trained, however, like every other Borzov bitch, and Leo and Sasha ensured that she practised regularly. It was her own form of yoga, she rationalised.

“Submissive Forty-five!”

She immediately dropped to her knees, kneeling with torso doubled to touch her thighs, which were at 45 degrees to the floor, arms straight behind her, fingers interlaced, and her forehead lightly touching the floor at his feet. She felt the strain on her thigh muscles, and fervently hoped he wouldn’t keep her like that for long. It is an elegant and attractive position, but hellish to hold for any length of time. However, Abdullah seemed more interested in putting her through the gamut of standard poses.

“Servant Genie!”

Sara smoothly transited to an abject abasement position, keeping her head low, the knees still in 45, and her hands flat on the floor beside the knees. It evoked the feeling of a female genie of the lamp bowing before her new master. At least it relieved the stress of the previous pose.

“Kneel Humble”

And so it went on, for half an hour or more, as Abdullah expertly put her through a choreography of poses. Only once did he have cause to rebuke her when she had lost balance, and he had lashed her tits with his exquisitely spiteful whip. For the rest, she performed smoothly, as she must.

“Model at Ease!” he finally said.

Sara’s breathing was ragged and her oiled skin glistened with added perspiration as she adopted the pose, with her weight on one straight leg, and the other leg tucked over and slightly around.

“I shall enjoy owning you,” Abdullah murmured.