Fatima Ch 02

A quick author's note for anyone that liked the first part of this story: Sorry the next instalment took so long. It ended up being harder to write than anticipated. But the ball is rolling again and by the time this finds its way onto the site I should be nearly finished the third chapter. There might be later follow ups but I want to draw a line for now and write something else.

Enjoy!

*****

When Callum got back into the bedroom, pizzas in hand, Fatima was on her laptop. She put it to one side and regarded him with some small surprise. She was still dressed in her bra and knickers, and he was pleasantly surprised to realise that despite having finished, the sight of her still had the power to excite him.

"You were gone a while," she said. She tried to sound impassive, but there was an eager little tone in her voice that indicated she was happy he'd opted to stay.

"There was a bit of a queue," he lied, handing her the larger pizza. She took it off him without a flicker of gratitude and opened it, the hunger evident in her eyes.

"Don't tell me that," she said, focusing her gaze on him once it drifted away from her food. "I'd much rather hear about the massive dilemma you went through in making the choice. Maybe that you even got on a bus before having a last-second change of heart and pulling the emergency door brackets."

"Well, I didn't get on a bus," he said, "but you're right. I stood outside, torn, and trying to work it all out."

"Good," she said, her eyes having a slightly sinister twinkle to then. "I'd hate for you to enter into this lightly. You realise what you signed up to right?" The ominous twinkly eyes now burned into his. "From now on, you belong to me. I don't know if you were picturing us as one of those couples that occasionally practices BDSM in the bedroom but that's not on the plate."

"I know," he said. He found himself clouded by the same doubts that had plagued him outside. In less than an hour he'd made a decision that would change everything about his life. Or at least his student life. But he realised he couldn't back out now, not really: if he did, he would spend the next morning racked with a fierce regret, the type only felt by men who have thrown away fortunes in stupid investments. Then he would be right round to Fatima's place, grovelling pathetically for a second chance, only to have the door slammed in his face.

"Free will is a fucking distant memory to you from now" she said. "You'll live here with me. You can keep going to uni and have some semblance of a social life but you're at my beck and call. I text you, you come running. I don't care if you're in a lecture or what. Never refuse, never disagree, never question. Get on board with all that, and I'll take you places you never dreamed of." She grabbed the pizza. "Okay, I can't wait anymore. I'm starving."

Callum nodded, at once realising the extent of his own hunger. He opened his pizza box and felt the heat escaping the cardboard. He was about to reach for a slice when Fatima spoke again, holding her pizza just below her lips.

"What are you doing?" she demanded sharply.

"I was just about to eat," he said, slightly startled.

"Firstly, you don't eat without my okaying it," she said. "Secondly, we don't eat at the same time. Equals eat together. Are you my equal, Callum?"

"No," he said. "But I'm really hungry, and..."

"I don't care," she said firmly. You can eat once I'm done. In the meantime, I want to be comfortable as I eat." She swung her feet over to him. "Rub my feet."

Casting a small, despairing look at his pizza, he set it to one side and dropped to a kneeling position. She thrust her left foot at him and he took it in hand, suppressing the rumbling of his stomach. Her foot was still divine. His saliva had barely taken any of the sweatiness away, and he felt perspiration, as well as the subtle hint of some moisturiser, rub off onto his hand.

Fatima ate her pizza contentedly, looking down at him. His eyes met hers and she broke into a sneer. He could tell why: with one look, the exchange of power was complete. She held every card and his willpower had been reduced to nothingness. After regarding him for a moment, she spoke.

"Did I give you permission to look up?" she asked, firmly but playfully. "Look down. In fact, look at my body. You like my body, don't you?"

"I love it," he said, diverting his gaze. Her body was intoxicating. He admired her large, shapely breasts beneath the bra, her luscious hips and her curves.

"Happy to hear, because you're going to be using your tongue on all of it," she said. After this, she lapsed into silence, devouring the pizza. He dutifully massaged and kneaded her toes, soles and ankles. Fatima treated him to an occasional murmur of pleasure but otherwise ate in silence. When she was done, she lay back, content. Callum kept massaging her feet.

"No, stop," she said. "You can eat." He put her foot down gently and reached for the pizza. She studied him with curiosity as he ate, not saying a word. After swallowing a slice he opened his mouth to make some form of conversation but she warned him off with a single glare. The two sat in silence while he finished his meal.

"There we go," she said. "Lucky boy. Now...we've got some business to attend to." She handed him the laptop she'd just discarded. It was open on a Word document. Callum began to read - then drew back, slightly horrified.

"Jesus," he said, staring at a page full of pure, vitriolic hate. The author was truly warped, their hatred of Muslims having rendered them a monstrous human being. "Is this shit you get sent? Cause this is right fucking out of order."

"I wrote it," she replied, with a strange sense of pride. "This is your audition tape. You see how you've got the webcam minimised? Take a few minutes, get to know your speech, then go ahead and press the record button."

Callum stared at her. "Why would I do that? This isn't what I believe at all."

"I know," Fatima said, a hint of kindness slipping into her voice.

"But...then why? If I made a recording and it got out, I'd be an outcast. Might even get chucked out of uni, or end up on some racial hatred charge."

"That's the point," said Fatima. "If we go into this and have a falling out, and you make things public, you can fuck things up for me permanently. I'd lose any respect in my community. My student politics career would be over. My parents wouldn't be able to show their faces in public. If we're going to have a power dynamic like that, I might as well be your slave. If you want this to work, you'll have to do this."

"No one will see it?" Callum asked, cautiously.

"Long as no one finds out about my interests," she replied, "no one finds out about yours."

"But they're not my-"

"That doesn't matter," she said. "Hit play and start. Oh...and act drunk. I want this to be seen as your true opinion, the one that only booze can bring out."

Callum sighed. He'd already made his choice; it was only pure fear that stopped him from doing this. Fear that Fatima would decide to 'out' him as some next-level humiliation. But it was true: being a "fallen woman" (a term he loathed) in the Muslim community was a living hell. He took another look at his script and winced. Then, he hit record.

"People accuse me of being a white supremacist," he began, slurring his words for full effect. "Truth is, that's bullshit. I'm a white absolutist. So to me, a perfect society is one where absolutely everyone is white." This was the start of a long rant about how his student conservatism was a bait-and-switch attempt to get thinking about fascism, and how once the Muslims were expelled or wiped out, he would turn Mosques into pig farms. When he reached the end, he signed deeply.

"Thank you," said Fatima. "I could tell you don't believe a word of it. You played your part well, though."

"Thanks," he said. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"Some ad-libbed, some is adapted from the stuff I get on Twitter," she said.

"If you figure out who's sending it, let me know," he said, angrily. "I'll give 'em a fucking hiding."

Fatima chuckled. "Aww. No. You're too pretty to be my attack dog. I don't want your face getting all smashed up. It's got other uses." At this, she stroked his cheek playfully. "Speaking of...I think it's time for you to get acquainted with my arse. The two of you are going to be good friends."

Callum felt his cock stiffen at this, which was a wonder so soon after it had been drained. Within a moment they were both on the bed and Callum was nude. He knelt behind her as she stuck her arse in the air. He removed her knickers with his teeth, earning him a murmur of approval, and admired her beautiful rear. It was big and voluptuous, flabby and toned in surprisingly equal measure.

"Kiss my cheeks," she instructed. Callum began to kiss each arse cheek in turn, adding small licks which she seemed to enjoy. After a while he stopped and focused his attention to her arse crack. His tongue flicked and lapped her anus, and he got a gulp of her wonderful scent. He'd been worried that it would taste like shit, but it was very far removed, and was a delightful mix of sweat and tanginess.

"Oh my god," she said. "Callum...I don't know if you've ever had your arse eaten out by a nemesis but it's fucking great." She started to buck her hips, driving her arse against his eager face and tongue.

"Take a deep breath, slave," she said, and turned around to lay him flat out on the bed. Within a moment that giant arse had been lowered over his face. Fatima had spread her cheeks and his world right then revolved around the hole in front of him. He licked it eagerly. Above him, he felt Fatima's hand gently wrap around his cock. She started with light strokes followed by hard ones.

"Let's see how quickly my little slave can cum again," she said. His dick was rock hard under her touch. Determined to make her cum too he licked her hole with passion, causing her to moan loudly. The two were locked into some strange race over who could force a climax in the other, and there could only be one winner. He felt that customary second of pure, unencumbered ecstasy followed by a warm dampness on his groin. Fatima had aimed him well, making sure he didn't need to wipe anything before she came. And after a while, she did. He let his tongue lap and circulate her hole and the surrounding area, tasting her scent eagerly and, from her response, sending up bolts of pleasure to the rest of her. He felt the strength of her hips and thighs when the bucking started. Being underneath her he felt the full force of this, and for the next few moments he felt like his world was collapsing. Then it was all over and she had rolled off him.

"Clean," she said, her words coming out as a breathless whisper. He went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up quickly and efficiently. Then he went back in, dropping to his knees and crawling to her, a gesture that clearly pleased her greatly. She hovered her foot above him and he kissed her sole.

"Thank you. Queen Fatima," he added eagerly.

"Look at you, knowing your place!" she replied. "But queens are a bit too Eurocentric for my liking. Call me Sultana, slave."

"Yes Sultana," he said, bowing low.

"Good boy," she said. "We're going to have so much fun together." She yawned, getting into bed. "But I'm tired. We've got all of tomorrow to figure your duties out. You've not got any lectures tomorrow, right?"

"Free day tomorrow, Sultana," he said, wondering in one ominous moment how she knew that. At her gesture, he joined her on the bed.

"Good," she said. She turned to face him, giving him a close view of her huge, wonderful breasts. She guided him to the small between the two of them. It was warm and slightly claustrophobic, especially as her arms wrapped around his head, keeping him trapped in place. He thought it would be painful to have the weight of his head on her left breast but she settled in and sighed contentedly. They slept like that, with Callum falling into a deep rest.

When he woke, he was alone in the bed. It was light outside and the curtains were hanging partway open. He sat up slowly, searching for Fatima in the room before trying the bathroom. She was in neither room. He heard noises outside and assumed she'd gone out into the main living area. He got dressed in case there was anyone else out there, and stepped out. What awaited him made him gasp with shock.

The concept of a "rogue's gallery" was mostly confined to the comic books, but there was no other term that could be used to describe the scene that awaited Callum in the living room. There were five girls here, Fatima included. They were sitting around the coffee table drinking tea. Next to his Sultana was Georgia Clinton. She was an Amazon - very tall, black, curvy and toned, with a fierce cheekboned face and dreads. Georgia was an agitator for any race issue that you could think of and many more, but her two main cause celebres were Black Lives Matter and slavery reparations. Callum's blog was of two opinions on these subjects: all lives mattered (including, very much, black lives) and that if payments were made for past sins then everyone in the world would owe money to everyone else and nothing would get done. Georgia had tried to throw some serious character-assassinating mud his way; he was a racist, a neo-colonialist, a Nazi. He'd brought things to a head when he made a post asking for donations to his legal fund so he could sue her for libel. The post had been a joke, and he'd announced that at the end lest any real donations came in, but it served as a cheerful little warning that personal insults had their dangers.

Next to Georgia was Moira McClune. Moira was an ideological hotpot. She was a Republican Irish nationalist, an international Marxist, and a crusader for the little guy wherever he could be found. She'd first crossed paths with Callum when he'd written a blog post in response to another students dissertation making the case for the reunification of Ireland. Callum had argued that even though the foundation of the Ulster state was built on an act of imperialism, it would be wrong to force a union on the Protestant population. She'd fired off an angry 2000+ word email tackling his points and their subsequent exchanges had become more and more unpleasant, mostly on her side. Moira was shorter than the other girls with fiery red hair to match a furious personality. She was chubby but not fat, with a small, pretty face.

Next along was Carly Rothermere, whom Callum hated with a passion. While he had an often grudging respect for the other girls (and guys) he tangled with on a regular basis, he held Carly with none. She was the most outrageously stereotypical SJW he had ever met. She identified, at least according to her Tumblr, as a nonbinary, pansexual, fat-positive, mentally ill queer girl. She was anti-everything: capitalism, meat, cisgender, religion, men. Worse yet, she dived into all of these causes without one iota of critical thought, open mindedness or self-awareness. She was a fat girl - not like the others, but very fat, just shy of obese, with rolls on display. Her long hair was dirty and coloured a light blue. She came from a rich middle-class background and spoke with a posh accent she often tried to disguise with what she probably referred to as "urban slang". She gave off an air of seldom-bathing and was usually sweaty and smelly. Callum was utterly repulsed by her.

The last girl at the table was an exception: he recognised her but not as an enemy, just as a classmate he'd never spoken to. She was an Arabic girl, small and slim. She was quiet, conservatively dressed and unimposing. He didn't know her name. A slender, pretty face poked out from under her headscarf, one of the few bits of skin that showed. The other girls were wearing pyjamas and, especially in the case of Carl, showing flesh. It was the pyjamas that confirmed the suspicions he'd had when he opened the door - these girls were Fatima's elusive housemates.

"Morning," said Fatima, sweetly.

"Morning," said Callum. "What's going on? You...all live here?"

"That's right," said Carl, something horrible in her tone of voice.

"I've not been totally honest with you," said Fatima slowly. "There's been a bit of a change to our arrangement. Or at least, the one we talked about last night." She stood up. "The girls here are my housemates. We just moved in a month-or-so ago. But the sixth didn't move in until last night."

Fearing he was starting to grasp the answer already, Callum asked who.

"You," said Fatima. "You agreed to be my slave last night. But actually, you were agreeing to be all of ours."

"No I wasn't," said Callum angrily as the girls shared a conspiratorial smile.

"The video you took last night says different," she replied. "It puts you in our power completely, for as long as we want. And if you think it doesn't...prove us wrong and walk out that door. It'll be viral by the time you get home."

"Bullshit, " said Callum. "You said that was so we'd both be protected. And it's true. I could ruin your name overnight." He snorted, feeling a sense of confidence. "Look, we all know this isn't going anywhere. You obviously ain't thought this through. I'm off." Crossing the room he looked at Fatima. "It's a shame," he said to her softly. "We could have had something."

It was Carly that stopped him, putting a hand on his chest. "You have no idea how well we've thought this through, slave. This has been in planning for a long time. We've got you by the balls." To demonstrate this she reached down and grabbed his crotch, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make a point. He edged back and she took her hand away. The girls were laughing as he flushed red.

"Think about it," said Fatima. "This ain't mutually assured destruction, it never was. What I've got on you completely cancels out what you've got on me. It doesn't just destroy your life, it wrecks your credibility too. Including when it comes to any allegations against me."

"But...you can't just keep me prisoner through blackmail," Callum stammered. "It's illegal, it's..."

"Foolproof legally," said Moira. "Or near as. Blackmail is against the law, sure. But do you want to stand up, in a court of law, and explain how you were coerced into making a racist video by the promise of kinky sex? No one will believe you."

Callum was silent. He knew, though hated to admit it, that they had outtought him and he had no chance of winning. Any excitement he'd had about his new relationship with Fatima was dead. He'd been horribly lied to and forced into a situation he never would have entered willingly in a hundred years. Utterly defeated, he nodded his head in acknowledgment of what he was being told.

"So what happens now?" he asked, bitterly.

"Well, you'll move in with us, boy," said Georgia. "You do what we say, you do our chores, and you keep us happy. You'll have to put the blog on hiatus for a while but you'll eventually bring it back, making sure it's on the right side of history this time. You'll be allowed to do all your uni stuff but we'll always come first." She stood up and stroked his cheek, a gesture that was all power and no affection. "You're ours, boy."

"Until graduation," said Fatima. "After that you're free. Well keep the video, but that's just to make sure you don't get revenge on us or turn right wing again." She stood up too, and kissed him on the forehead, in a way he would have conĺsidered lovingly. "Try to enjoy it, Callum. You'll still be serving me. Only, you'll be serving the rest of the house too." She smiled. "Are you wondering how this came about?"

Callum nodded. "Yeah, a little bit."

Fatima led him to a seat on the couch. He was sandwiched in between Moira and Carl, and could smell the latter immediately. "We've all been friends for a little while," said Fatima. "United by our hatred of you, of course. All we knew is that we wanted to take you down." She gestured to the girl in the headscarf. "Then it all came together thanks to Mena. You don't really know her, do you?"