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Turkish Delights

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Primus pilus said:
13.​
As he stands at the bench with the cat in his hands he watches the women. He was aroused as he whipped the fairer one but Pia could not see that. She was absorbed in herself. In the pain of the whip and what that was doing to her mind and her body.

The brunette, the American, had felt his erection in the hands that were bound tightly behind her. She could feel his arousal as he moved himself against her hands. Barbara could sense his sadism, his growing excitement as he lashed her friend. But that was hidden, behind her, their secret, not to be shared.

He knew he was close. Too early. Too soon. No rush. There is time to enjoy them here. Back off. Step away. Away from the blonde with the red welts and streaks of blood. Away from the brunette's bound hands. Put the whip down. Calm. Calm. Breathe deeply. Watch them for a moment. See the fear and confusion in the brunette. Watch the Dutch woman as she slowly raises her head and looks for him through the blood- and sweat-tangled hair that straggles over her tear-streaked face.

A few purposeful steps and he is back beside Barbara. He ficks the knotted strands of whipcord across her breasts, just enough to bite, to get her attention focussed on him. Drape the cat, handle down her back, those knotted strands hanging between her breasts. She looks down, chin tight against her chest. Barbara cannot help but stare at them as they decorate her breasts. The fairer one too, eyes fixed on the knotted cords across her friend's breasts.

He leaves it there and goes back to the bench, to a small bar fridge, and comes back with a large bottle. His fingers in the brunette's hair, tight, tilt her head back and upend the bottle. Push it hard into her mouth. She gulps it, swallowing as much down as she can. Enough, but he holds it hard. Forcing her to gulp more. She feels the excess, rising in her throat, running down her chin, soaking the strands that hang, cold, cold on her breasts. Despite herself she feels her nipples respond. Erect. Lowers the bottle, release her head, cups her breasts, weigh them in his hands, roll and pinch those rubbery teats. Feel the brunette flinch, then push them into his hands.

Another bottle. Stand on a small stool, reach up. Do the same to Pia. Hand in her hair, tilt her head, upend the bottle in her mouth. Force her to drink, to swallow, to gulp it down or choke.

Watch what she can't swallow flood her breasts too. Nipples respond to the cold. Just as Barbara's did. Release her hair. Grab one breast. No gentle caress. Hard! Squeeze it hard in his hand. Crush it. A moan. Grab the other, crush it hard too. Feel her thrust her breasts forward, hard into his hand.

Different, these two. So different. Caress the brunette, a little pain. Here, there. Not Pia though. Rougher with her. Harder, harsher.

The cat now. Stand behind the brunette. Take the handle, slide the knotted strands up over Barbara's breasts. Watch as knots catch on nipples, lift a little, flick as they release. Flick. Flick. Flick. Then it is clear. Whack! What? Across her breasts. Hard. Not enough to break skin but enough to sting, to surprise her. Her head snaps back. A choked scream.

Then step to Pia. The cat is a much shorter whip. Stand close with this one. On her left, just to the side. Rip! Rip! Rip! Three vicious, raking strokes. Onto her right shoulder, rake it diagonally, down her back. The knots tear the skin, blood spots immediately.

Step quickly to her right, three ripping backhand strokes, high on her left shoulder, raking diagonally downwards again. Fresh red welts, blood drops.

Stand behind her now as she hangs there. Rake her back, ripping diagonal strokes. Alternating. A regular, flogging tempo. Strong forehand lashes high on her right shoulder, raking down. Now softer on his backhand. High on her left shoulder, raking down.

Pia is writhing. Pulling herself up with her wrists, arm and shoulder muscles tensed. But held back by the ropes spreading her legs, holding her lower body down. Screams continuous. The skin of her shoulders and upper back split, blood streaks, small rivulets running down towards her arse. Running into the furrow separating her taut buttocks.

Her arse now. Flog it. Hard, vicious, ripping strokes. No art, no science, no careful technique. Just vicious rips. Shredding the skin and the flesh over the taut muscle. How many strokes? 10? 15? 20? He doesn't count. Just lets his sadistic arousal build.

Behind Barbara again. His rock hard cock grinding against her bound hands. Attack the Dutch woman's front now. Rip the cat across her small tits. Down from the left, down from the right. The blood knots are well named. They rip her skin, tear her flesh, her tits are cut, bloodied.

She still writhes at the lashing, arms tiring but her hips dance an erotic rhythm. Her screams have changed. Drawn out groans now with each stroke. Long moans that time with his lash. He targets her belly, raking across it from side to side, tearing welts. Her shaven mound too, blood running more freely. Grinding himself in the brunette's bound hands.

Up between Pia's wide spread legs. Up across her sex. Tear her labia. In between as they part. She tries to drag herself up but she is a captive. The cat driving her up, the ropes at her ankles holding her back to the tearing knots.

Barbara feels him quicken. He is fucking her hands. She looks up at Pia, her friend's eyes are open but they are glazed, she is lost in her pain. Her mind and her body. Pia's writhing builds with his. More vicious tearing strokes and she stiffens, her back arched, sex thrown at the cat. A long drawn scream from Pia and Barbara feels him thrust once, twice, hard into her hands and she feels him shaking. Pia collapses, her body limp, a few spasms, but still now. Hanging from her wrists. Head down. Eyes closed.

He holds himself hard behind Barbara. The bloodied cat draped again over the brunette's breasts. Traces of her friend's blood mixing pink with the sweat of her own fear.

His eyes are fixed on the fairer woman in front of him. Her head hangs down. Her hair, matted with sweat cloaks her face. Below her head, angry red welts, all oozing blood, cover her breasts, her belly, her mound. Blood runs down, each trail gathering with others, before disappearing between her still-spread legs.

Barbara can feel his breathing steady. Feel him relaxing. Coming down from his sadistic high. Then he leaves her and walks to the bench, drops that ripping whip, and picks up another bottle. He raises it to his lips and drinks. She watches the lump in his throat rise and fall as he gulps down the cold water.
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WARNING: If you suffer from any form of cardiac or respiratory malfunction, this thread must only be read in the presence of a qualified physician or paramedic.

Even if you don't, keep a phone handy :eek:
 
14.
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How could he be so cunningly cruel? He plays his victims, works their emotions at the same time he inflicts pain and suffering. As in the way he came up behind me, bound to a chair, naked and sitting helplessly in a puddle my own sweat and urine.

Nonchalantly he draped the knotted strands of his cat over my breasts, letting them hang there for what seemed the longest time, forcing me to look down, stare at them as they “decorated” my sweat-sheened chest while he went off to fetch a bottle of cold water, which he then forced me to drink. I resisted, but I was dehydrated, and eventually gulped greedily, the excess spilling over my chin and flooding down my chest.

It was all planned. He wanted me to both need and fear him. He wanted the cold water to excite my nipples so that he could pinch them and make me cry out, feel his power over me.

Then he took the cat and literally destroyed poor Pia, mercilessly flaying her naked writhing body from top to bottom, tearing and abrading her skin and drawing copious amounts of blood. He kept it up until the poor thing collapsed and hung limp before me.

And all the while, he reprized his earlier little game of rubbing his erect member vigorously against my bound hands. Again he was playing me ... drawing my fear, loathing and revulsion in a confusing emotional knot, while satisfying himself against my curled fingers.

Against my will, involuntarily, I felt my fingers close around the thrusting rod and press in on it until I felt the explosive vibration and rush of his release.

Then it was over. He relaxed, his breathing slowed. He was coming down from his sadistic high. Pia’s whipping ceased. She seemed to have nearly passed out.

He left, but I know he will return. And when he does, it will be my turn. I shiver, and close my eyes, and try to imagine I am not here ... anywhere but here…this is not real…it’s all a bad dream …
 
15
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I can hardly breathe. He's torn me so badly. I hurt so much. Why is he doing this to me and to my friend? My mind is buzzing. I can't hold a thought for a second. I'm a mess, a confused mess. This can't be happening but the pain in my body tells me so clearly it is. I'm hanging here, staring at my friend. I can feel my spittle dropping from my lips over my poor breasts. And he's enjoying it all. This isn't about the law or something I'm thinking. We're lost here. No-one knows about us, no consul or anyone and no-one will care. We are his toys and he's enjoying it and now...

He forces a bottle of sour liquid down me. I'm gagging. I can hardly breathe. I can hardly breathe. It foams out of my mouth and nose and sluices over me pouring onto the floor between my legs and he just laughs. He's enjoying this.

There's a pause. I am tense in my bonds, hanging, swinging slightly. I try to look around and not to look around. What is he going to do now? He's reaching for something. Another whip. A short one. I can see it. He slides it over me. I can see the sweat on his face and the half-shaved beard he wears. I can smell the beer on his breath. My breasts rise and fall rapidly. My body is so sore.

He's going to hit me again. I know. I am waiting. It's so awful, the waiting. Then he strikes and I recoil and shiver and burn and scream and scream and the pain surges over my shoulders and now he hits again and again. Harder and harder and the lashes are tearing me apart. I try to escape the blows but of course I can't. My eyes are swimming and I try to stare ahead and be brave but I can't. I'm lost in a blur of tears. I half-see Barbs. She's trying not to look. And now he attacks between my legs. Oh my poor body! He's ripping me to shreds. I feel the skin breaking open, the spray of blood as the lash recoils. He's burning me. He's killing me.

The pain rolls and crashes, tearing the air from my lungs. I'm going to die if he continues. I can hardly breathe. I want it to stop so much.

And eventually he stops and he pushes my head back and squeezes my breast cruelly and looks at me and he has an awufl smile on his face and my mouth is full of drool and my hair is a matted mess of sweat and blood and somehow I .... I want him to continue. I want him to stop. I am going crazy. I want him to hit me. I want to be free by the sea, lying in the sun on a beach. I want to feel the breeze in the warm air. I want him to hit me. I want him to stop. My head collapses forward. I can't breathe. I don't know anything anymore. I can hardly breathe.
 
pkindenhaag said:
I am going crazy. I want him to hit me. I want to be free by the sea, lying in the sun on a beach. I want to feel the breeze in the warm air. I want him to hit me. I want him to stop. My head collapses forward. I can't breathe. I don't know anything anymore. I can hardly breathe.
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Pkin, I love this description of the madness of torture.....
 
16.​
He did not mean to let his torture of the two women take him so far. He has always been able to hold himself back, to prolong his arousal, to let it rise and fall, to play things out to the bitter end. This time it got the better of him. He lost control.

Was it the response of the Dutch woman, Pia, to the brutal flogging he delivered? The way she seemed to try to escape from the flogging into another world yet still pushed her body towards the cat that ripped at her. Wanting it to stop yet, at the same time, wanting more. Even when he ripped the cat’s knotted tails up between her spread legs. Most just succumb to the pain and faint. Others submerge themselves within the pain and look for more. Like this one.

Was it the brunette, the American, Barbara? There was sadistic pleasure when when he hit her in the face after she butted him. More pleasure, too, when she pissed herself under the cattle prod. He had watched her as he first whipped her friend with the red hide. Fear, yes, but something more. She seemed in awe of him.

He saw her reaction when he draped those knotted tails over her breasts. He saw her nipples erect as the cold water she could not gulp down cascaded over them. Erect, then, when he flicked those vicious knots upwards, letting them catch on her nipples as the whip cord strands snaked across her breasts. She was responding to him a way he had not seen. Slash the cat once across her breasts, not hard, just to bite to reinforce his power.

Then when he stood behind her when he flogged Pia’s breasts and belly. Grinding his erection against her bound hands. At first she closed them, trying to pull away but then her fingers opened. Wrapped around his erection. Gripping his cock like a tight cunt until he came in her hands.

He draped the cat tails across her breasts as he came down from his high, letting her sweat mix with the blood of her friend. But his eyes were fixed on the fairer woman in front of him. Her head hanging down. Her hair, matted with sweat hiding some of her face. The angry red welts, all oozing blood, that covered her breasts, her belly, her mound. The blood that ran down, the trails gathering with others, to run between her still-spread legs.

When his cock had finally softened she opened her fingers, releasing him. He left the brunette and drank, deeply, from a bottle. He stood there for a few moments then left them in their own world, closing the heavy door silently on its oiled hinges. He needs to recover, to relax a little before he begins again. He has time and they cannot leave.

Down the corridor, around that corner, passed their cell and up to the border guard’s desk. A few quiet words. “Separate them. Use the secret cells in the old granary, the walls are thick and no one will hear them. Give them some water, a little bread, then blindfold them. But do not touch them otherwise. DO NOT! I will be back soon.”

He walks through the door and into the hot, dusty street.
 
Primus pilus said:
16.​
He did not mean to let his torture of the two women take him so far. He has always been able to hold himself back, to prolong his arousal, to let it rise and fall, to play things out to the bitter end. This time it got the better of him. He lost control.

Was it the response of the Dutch woman, Pia, to the brutal flogging he delivered? The way she seemed to try to escape from the flogging into another world yet still pushed her body towards the cat that ripped at her. Wanting it to stop yet, at the same time, wanting more. Even when he ripped the cat’s knotted tails up between her spread legs. Most just succumb to the pain and faint. Others submerge themselves within the pain and look for more. Like this one.

Was it the brunette, the American, Barbara? There was sadistic pleasure when when he hit her in the face after she butted him. More pleasure, too, when she pissed herself under the cattle prod. He had watched her as he first whipped her friend with the red hide. Fear, yes, but something more. She seemed in awe of him.

He saw her reaction when he draped those knotted tails over her breasts. He saw her nipples erect as the cold water she could not gulp down cascaded over them. Erect, then, when he flicked those vicious knots upwards, letting them catch on her nipples as the whip cord strands snaked across her breasts. She was responding to him a way he had not seen. Slash the cat once across her breasts, not hard, just to bite to reinforce his power.

Then when he stood behind her when he flogged Pia’s breasts and belly. Grinding his erection against her bound hands. At first she closed them, trying to pull away but then her fingers opened. Wrapped around his erection. Gripping his cock like a tight cunt until he came in her hands.

He draped the cat tails across her breasts as he came down from his high, letting her sweat mix with the blood of her friend. But his eyes were fixed on the fairer woman in front of him. Her head hanging down. Her hair, matted with sweat hiding some of her face. The angry red welts, all oozing blood, that covered her breasts, her belly, her mound. The blood that ran down, the trails gathering with others, to run between her still-spread legs.

When his cock had finally softened she opened her fingers, releasing him. He left the brunette and drank, deeply, from a bottle. He stood there for a few moments then left them in their own world, closing the heavy door silently on its oiled hinges. He needs to recover, to relax a little before he begins again. He has time and they cannot leave.

Down the corridor, around that corner, passed their cell and up to the border guard’s desk. A few quiet words. “Separate them. Use the secret cells in the old granary, the walls are thick and no one will hear them. Give them some water, a little bread, then blindfold them. But do not touch them otherwise. DO NOT! I will be back soon.”

He walks through the door and into the hot, dusty street.
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Wragg134 said:
Some orders are easier to give than to obey......
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Primus pilus said:
Pp has confidence Wragg. They will obey or get fed to the stray dogs that roam the streets of this non-descript hell hole.
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Wragg134 said:
Yes, now you mention it, that would encourage obedience! :eek:
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Yep, let's hope they know enough to obey. This has been quite bad enough without being forced to deal blindfolded and naked with a gang of lecherous border guards in a crowded little cell.

I need time to heal and think before the next round of terror and pain is foisted upon me. Judging by the beating that Pia took, we will need at least a week to recover before he comes after us again, but we know he will.

In the meantime, I am left to my thoughts and will record them here in good time. Perhaps I can ask for pencil and paper when they bring me food and water? Yes, that sounds like a good plan. Something positive to do! There is always hope, and I aim to cling to every last shred available to me. After all, if enough time lapses I will be missed and some kind of search will be undertaken.

If only there was some way of getting word out of this godforsaken hell-hole. I need to appraise each of the guards as they frequent my cell. One of them, just one of them, with an ounce of kindness is all I need. I will work my charms on him if I must. No price is too steep to pay to win our freedom and expose this scoundrel for what he has done to us.
 
18.​
He walks through the street and into a dark bar where it is much cooler. A few nod to him as he takes a table in the corner, looking towards the door. He nods back to one or two but no one comes near him. They all fear him but they know that this small region has remained safe despite the presence of Kurdish rebels and infiltrators from Iran. For that they are grateful and tolerate his excess with prisoners.

He orders meze and a small flask of Efe Yaş Üzüm Rakısı, a fresh grape raki, with a jug of iced water. While he waits for the food he pours raki into a glass and adds some water turning the drink a milky colour, aslan sütü, lion’s milk, the milk for the strong. The first glass is swallowed in two mouthfuls and he pours a second, sipping that until his food arrives.

Why does he have the women? Ahh, yes, the small bag of white powder. Drugs. Theirs? Or did the border guard slip it into the brunette’s bag as a reason to arrest them and feed them to him? The guard has done so before. He doesn’t really care now. If one had admitted to the drugs there would have been a trial, probably a “fine” and a brief jail stay before putting them on the next flight out. Too late for that now. But that leaves a record. He knows he has let his raw sadism go too far to pull back.

No. He can play with them while they stay strong. A day or two but no more, longer risks questions raised by relatives. Where are they? Passenger records can be checked. Discovery. A day, maybe two, but then they must disappear.

His platter is delivered by a young girl who smiles at him in her innocence. He pours another glass of that anise-flavoured liquor and adds the iced water, swirling the drink to produce that lion’s milk.
 
19.​

blindfold.jpg Seven days have passed since I was thrown into this cell. The place has a stale and pungent smell. I think it must be an old granary ... a powdery dust covers the walls and floor, and constantly gets in my mouth, nostrils, eyes and hair. I am naked and have been blindfolded the whole time I have been held here. My ankles are shackled in irons and chains, but my hands are free. It gets beastly hot in here during the day. I find myself gasping for breath in the stifling, dust-filled air and covered with sweat ... my long brown hair sticks to my sweaty back, shoulders and breasts. At night the temperature drops precipitously. It gets terribly cold and I hunch down, wrap my arms around my knees and shiver uncontrollably until I fall asleep.

Twice a day someone enters my cell to see that I am fed ... mostly bread and water, but occasionally something more ... perhaps a scrap of meat or some kind of half-rotten veggie. They also come around once or twice a day to help me squat over the pail they provide for moving my bowels or emptying my bladder. I try to talk to them, hoping one of them might be friendly or willing to get a message from me out to the rest of the world. But they refuse to speak to me....all my attempts are met with stony silence ... even when I cry and beg or plead. They have apparently been ordered to say nothing to me. They are clearly afraid of "him".

After seven days, the wounds from my earlier interrogation have all but healed. The red welts where he had pressed the dual prongs of his prod into the undersides of my breasts seem to have disappeared, and the dislocations in my shoulders no longer seem to bother me. I fear this may not be good. I have a sense that the past week in solitary was given for the purpose of regaining my strength for something far worse than already experienced.

I wonder how Pia is doing. She suffered more than I did. I can't imagine a more brutal whipping than the one she endured. And I am ashamed at my own role, however involuntary, in abetting him as he pressed his member into my bound hands. I am unable to communicate with her. I know she is in another cell not far away from my own. I hear them entering her cell not long after mine when they come around with food or to check on us. I fear for both of us when "he" returns.

I have tried to keep track of the days ... making a mental note, even though I am blindfolded, of the rhythm of day and night activities, as well as the passage from the heat of the day to the cold of night, and carefully counting off each repetition of the cycle as another day in captivity. By my reckoning today is Saturday, which makes tomorrow the beginning of a new week. I wonder if it is tomorrow when he will return, and shudder to think ... should that be the case ... of what lies in store for me.
 
Barbaria1 said:
19.​

View attachment 236371 Seven days have passed since I was thrown into this cell. The place has a stale and pungent smell. I think it must be an old granary ... a powdery dust covers the walls and floor, and constantly gets in my mouth, nostrils, eyes and hair. I am naked and have been blindfolded the whole time I have been held here. My ankles are shackled in irons and chains, but my hands are free. It gets beastly hot in here during the day. I find myself gasping for breath in the stifling, dust-filled air and covered with sweat ... my long brown hair sticks to my sweaty back, shoulders and breasts. At night the temperature drops precipitously. It gets terribly cold and I hunch down, wrap my arms around my knees and shiver uncontrollably until I fall asleep.

Twice a day someone enters my cell to see that I am fed ... mostly bread and water, but occasionally something more ... perhaps a scrap of meat or some kind of half-rotten veggie. They also come around once or twice a day to help me squat over the pail they provide for moving my bowels or emptying my bladder. I try to talk to them, hoping one of them might be friendly or willing to get a message from me out to the rest of the world. But they refuse to speak to me....all my attempts are met with stony silence ... even when I cry and beg or plead. They have apparently been ordered to say nothing to me. They are clearly afraid of "him".

After seven days, the wounds from my earlier interrogation have all but healed. The red welts where he had pressed the dual prongs of his prod into the undersides of my breasts seem to have disappeared, and the dislocations in my shoulders no longer seem to bother me. I fear this may not be good. I have a sense that the past week in solitary was given for the purpose of regaining my strength for something far worse than already experienced.

I wonder how Pia is doing. She suffered more than I did. I can't imagine a more brutal whipping than the one she endured. And I am ashamed at my own role, however involuntary, in abetting him as he pressed his member into my bound hands. I am unable to communicate with her. I know she is in another cell not far away from my own. I hear them entering her cell not long after mine when they come around with food or to check on us. I fear for both of us when "he" returns.

I have tried to keep track of the days ... making a mental note, even though I am blindfolded, of the rhythm of day and night activities, as well as the passage from the heat of the day to the cold of night, and carefully counting off each repetition of the cycle as another day in captivity. By my reckoning today is Saturday, which makes tomorrow the beginning of a new week. I wonder if it is tomorrow when he will return, and shudder to think ... should that be the case ... of what lies in store for me.
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And not even an official from the British Embassy to visit her :(

This is excellent, Barb!
 
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