Marraesh Mayhem

The sultry evening air of Marrakesh wrapped the streets in a warm, languid embrace. Beneath the dim glow of lanterns, the neon sign of The Yank Tank flickered sporadically, its garish letters silhouetting an old American battle tank advertised the bar's peculiar charm. It was an odd little establishment, frequented by tourists and locals alike. Inside, the clink of glasses and low murmur of voices mingled with the faint tinkle of a piano playing some long-forgotten jazz tune emanated from an out of tune instrument played in turn by a large overweight dark-skinned man in the corner of the dive.

Sir Marcus Butler-Smith stepped inside, his polished two-toned tan leather toe-capped shoes tapping lightly against the scuffed wooden floor. He was an anomaly in this place--a man of quiet wealth and refinement, his tailored suit was a soft cream linen that complemented the gloss of his carefully styled dark hair. His presence commanded attention, though he hardly seemed to notice.

He took a seat at the bar, his discerning gaze sweeping the room before settling on the figure behind the counter.

She moved with an awkward grace, her willowy frame seemed to be poured into old and distressed too tight jeans and a white T-shirt; her nipples discernible under the thin worn cotton fabric that had seen far better days. Her long blond hair, though disheveled, caught the light like a halo, and her piercing blue eyes betrayed a spirit not yet extinguished by her circumstances. Marcus watched her with a quiet fascination, his curiosity piqued by the contrast between her ethereal beauty and the weariness etched into her features.

"Hi, I'm your server. My name is Fanny. What'll it be, sir?" she asked, her accent a soft North American drawl; Canadian, not American he could discern the subtle differences, but her voice was tinged with a nervous edge.

"A Macallan, 25 year old.. neat," Marcus replied his accent clipped upper class "Polo-club British" pointing to the most expensive bottle in the bar, his tone smooth and unhurried.

Fanny nodded and turned and reached up to retrieve the bottle, her movements brisk yet hesitant, as though she were conscious of being watched. When she returned, she placed a none too clean whiskey glass carefully in front of him. But as she stumbled on the uneven floor as she leaned forward, the edge of her thumb caught the rim, sending the golden liquid cascading over the bar--and directly onto Marcus's pristine silk shirt.

"Oh God no!" Fanny gasped, both her hands flying to her mouth. "I'm so sorry!"

The conversation in the room faltered, heads turning to witness the scene. Marcus looked down at his shirt, the expensive fabric now stained with amber streaks. But his expression, to Fanny's surprise, remained calm.

Before she could offer another apology, a shadow loomed over them both. Rick, the bar's owner, appeared, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure. His sharp features, massive biceps and piercing gaze carried an air of authority that made even the rowdiest patrons think twice.

"What's this?" Rick demanded, his voice cold and angry.

"It was an accident," Fanny stammered, her cheeks flushed with shame.

"An accident that's going to cost you," Rick snapped. He turned to Marcus, his tone softening slightly. "I'm terribly sorry, 'buddy'. This will be taken care of immediately. She's a good fuck but can't seem to do anything else well. She's only good when on her knees or on her back."

"There's no need..........," Marcus began, but Rick cut him off with a raised hand.

"Fanny," Rick said, his voice like steel, "you'll pay for the gentleman's drink. And don't think this won't be discussed after we close, you stupid worthless cunt." Rick rubbed his large calloused hands together in what seemed to be anticipation.

Fanny's eyes filled with tears, her lips trembling as she reached into the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a few crumpled bills and some coins placed them on the counter with a shaking hand. Her eyes were bleak. Rick's gaze narrowed, noticing that it was everything she had and just barely enough to cover the cost of the spilled drink

"Here," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Rick scooped up the crumpled bills and coins and with a curt shrug and walked towards an ancient till at the far end of the bar, His parting words were loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. "If you feel it's worth it, take the bitch out back and fuck her for the drink. After all, she poured it all over you. I don't care" He walked away leaving Fanny standing there, her head bowed in humiliation. Marcus watched the scene unfold, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar ache. He reached for his handkerchief and dabbed at his shirt before gently placing it on the counter.

"Fanny," he said softly, drawing her gaze to his. "It's just a shirt. It's nothing worth crying over."

She blinked, her tears threatening to spill over. "I... I can't afford mistakes like this," she murmured. "Not here."

Marcus hesitated, then slid a bill across the counter--Five hundred Dirham; far more than the cost of the drink. "Consider this a tip," he said, his voice kind but firm. "And don't let anyone make you feel small. Accidents happen."

Fanny stared at the money, her breath hitching as she tried to process his words. "I... I can't accept this. He'll just take it anyhow," she said, though her hand hovered near the bill.

"Then consider it a favor and just.. don't tell him," Marcus replied, his lips curving into a faint smile. "And perhaps, one day, you'll do the same for someone else."

For a moment, the noise of the bar seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them in a fragile bubble of understanding. Fanny nodded slowly, tucking the bill surreptitiously into her pocket.

"Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Marcus inclined his head and raised his newly poured glass in a silent toast. As Fanny turned away, a small, determined smile played on her lips. And though she didn't know it yet, that brief encounter would mark the beginning of something neither of them could have anticipated.

The dim light from a flickering bulb above the rear entrance of The Yank Tank cast jagged shadows on the cracked walls. The faint smell of gasoline, human excrement and damp concrete hung heavily in the air. Marcus stood tall, his green eyes glinting with an inscrutable resolve as he slipped off his jacket. His cream linen suit bore the creases of a long night, and the dark whiskey stain on his silk shirt seemed almost defiant.

Fanny, who'd obediently followed Marcus, shivered, not from the chill but from the cocktail of fear and uncertainty coursing through her. Her wide blue eyes, rimmed with red, locked onto his. Her voice, a fragile whisper, trembled as she asked, "Sir, what do you want from me? Mast.. errr I mean, the boss doesn't want me pregnant again, so, I can give blowjobs or anal; no vaginal." Her voice still trembled as she dug into a pocket and held out a silver wrapped condom.

For a moment, Marcus said nothing. He draped the jacket gently over her shoulders, its weight unexpectedly comforting. "I'm taking you away from this," he said, his voice low and steady, a promise wrapped in steel.

Without another word, Marcus reached for Fanny's hand. He took the offered prophylactic and flicked it as if he was tossing a coin away. He gripped her still outstretched hand, his grip was firm yet careful, as though he were holding something precious and fragile. He led her out of the alley, the hum of the city growing louder with every step.

Under the hazy glow of a streetlamp, Marcus flagged down a cruising cab. The battered vehicle screeched to a stop, its tires spitting gravel. The driver, a stout man with a thick mustache and a traditional Arab keffiyeh, leaned out of the window, his dark eyes wary.

Marcus opened the door and helped Fanny inside, his movements brisk but protective. Sliding in beside her, he addressed the driver in a commanding tone. "The British Embassy. And step on it."

The cab jerked forward, weaving through the chaotic streets of Marrakesh. Once they reached the British Embassy, Marcus guided Fanny through the grand yet eerily quiet halls. The polished marble floors gleamed under the soft light of ornate chandeliers, their footsteps echoing faintly. Marcus spoke briefly to a man at the front desk before leading Fanny to a bench in the corridor. She sank onto the floor against the wall instead, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, her face pale and drawn.

Marcus disappeared behind a heavy oak door, ushered into an office by two guards. Inside, he was greeted by Major General Desmoins, the station chief. Despite the lateness of the hour, Desmoins was impeccably dressed in a fawn almost military cut three-piece suit, every detail of his attire sharp and precise. His stern, fatherly demeanor was only slightly softened by the deep lines etched into his weathered face. "Come in Colonel!" he commanded. "Sit," Desmoins ordered, gesturing to a chair across from his expansive desk. The air was thick with tension as Marcus began recounting the events of the night, his tone clipped but controlled. Desmoins listened intently, his sharp eyes betraying no emotion, as he debriefed Marcus and laid out his new instructions.

Outside the office, Fanny remained seated on the cold floor, her back pressed against the wall. She felt smaller than ever, a storm of emotions raging inside her. Her blue eyes darted nervously around the corridor, taking in the two men guarding the door, their guns and every detail of her unfamiliar surroundings. The grandeur of the embassy felt oppressive, foreign, and hostile. Her thoughts drifted back to Rick--the only constant in her life since she was fourteen, when her empty-headed ditzy and addicted mother had overdosed leaving her penniless, lost and abandoned outside the filthy and only washroom of the Yank Tank.

For all the darkness he brought, Rick was at least a man she understood. Yes, he used her, abused her and had done so from that fateful, very first night, when her mother's corpse had been discovered. With very little effort, Rick had lifted and carried her to his bedroom and had taken not only her virginity but her childhood and her freedom. After the body had been disposed of in some nameless Marrakesh alley a few miles from the bar, Rick had put her mother's necklace into her hand.

Yes, he let men have her: clean men, dirty men. Any man with enough Dirhams to pay for her master's permission to ejaculate into her. In the five years she had been in Rick's 'care' she learned and knew her place. However this new world of the embassy, with its strangers and uncertainty, filled her with a deep, gnawing fear.

She clutched Marcus's jacket tighter around her, but it brought little comfort. Her mind raced with questions she couldn't ask and fears she couldn't voice, leaving her trapped in a silence as oppressive as the walls around her.

After Marcus's meeting, as the oak door opened Fanny heard Desmoins parting comment. "Don't jeopardize this mission over some stray piece of tail, Sir Marcus." Fanny was escorted by Marcus and one of the armed security officers to a room on the third floor. The room was luxuriously decorated, with plush furniture, ornate drapes, and a large bed that seemed out of place for someone like her. She sat on the bed, dejected, her mind heavy with turmoil. "Give me a while Fanny," Marcus asked pleasantly, "I have a few odds and ends to take care of. I'll be back shortly." With that, the door closed leaving Fanny alone. Again.

She sat on the bed noticing the plushness of the fabric, the cleanliness, the order, the opulence. Most of all, she saw the difference between her world and this. Musing her fingers idly grazed her neck, her breath caught. "Oh God," she whispered. Her mother's necklace was gone. Her hand flew to her chest in panic as she realized it must still be in her room back at her master's home behind The Yank Tank. Tears pricked her eyes, but determination quickly replaced them.

Without hesitation, Fanny made up her mind. She slipped out of the room, her movements careful and deliberate. Dodging embassy staff in the dimly lit passages, she made her way to the second floor. There, she found an open window in a small office. With a glance over her shoulder to ensure no one was watching, she climbed through.

The cool night air hit her face as she balanced on the ledge. She dropped silently onto the embassy grounds, her feet landing with a muted thud on the manicured grass. Heart pounding, she crept toward the perimeter wall. Finding a low section, she clambered over, her hands scraping against the rough stone.

Once on the other side, she stood still for a moment, her chest heaving. The embassy was behind her now, its imposing presence reduced to a silhouette in the moonlight. Fanny began walking back toward The Yank Tank, her steps quick and purposeful. Her mind was set on retrieving the necklace--her last tangible link to her mother--and returning to the squalid bedroom she had called home for so long.

Just after Fanny darted from the shadows through the dirty window into her squalid bedroom--built as an afterthought to Rick's modest but well-kept home near the bar--she was yanked back by her hair. The room, with its unpainted walls and concrete floor, spun around her as Rick's grip tightened.

"Where the hell have you been?" Rick snarled, dragging her roughly from the room. Fanny vainly tried to keep up, stumbling as he pulled her through the door and into his home. The polished floors of his study gleamed under the harsh overhead light as he threw her headlong onto the floor. She landed hard, the breath knocked from her lungs as she struggled to her feet, her heart pounding in fear as Rick loomed behind her, his anger filling the room like a storm cloud.

Back at the embassy, Marcus had never panicked in his life until he stepped into the room he had assigned for Fanny. It was a comfortable space, stocked with toiletries and female necessities he had scrounged from an on-duty clerical officer approximately the same age and size, in his estimation, as Fanny. The room was quiet, the soft lighting illuminating the tasteful furnishings and the inviting bed. But it was empty.

The only evidence that someone had even been in the sumptuous room was the faint indentation on the bed, as though Fanny had sat there briefly before vanishing. Marcus's chest tightened as he took in the scene, his mind racing. Where could she have gone? And why? For the first time in years, a cold, unfamiliar panic gripped him.

Fanny felt the wind driven from her. Rick was six foot eight, a powerful man in his prime and Fanny was well.......... Fanny. She sprawled across Ricks wooden desk trying to drag air into her lungs. Rick stood behind her, kicked her feet apart and in one fluid motion tugged her jeans to her ankles. His calloused hand spread her cheeks and for a second, he caressed the soft skin feeling her warmth and softness. His erection was instant, and he thrust carelessly into his slave's vagina not caring when she sobbed in protest. His thrusts were for his pleasure, and he liked his pleasure. He soon came hard, spurting his seed onto and into Fanny, each spurt sending waves of rapid gratification speeding his nervous system. He only withdrew once his erection shriveled and began to pull up his zipper. He did not see a seemingly inert Fanny swung her right hand at his ribs. Nor did he notice the gold metallic sheen from an old blunt letter opener in her fist that he had left carelessly on his desk until it pierced between his seventh and eighth rib.

Rick backhanded Fanny, a brutal blow with all his weight behind it. It was more reflex than anger. Fanny seemed to fly back and crumpled unconscious onto the floor. She lay a about a meter from Rick's feet, unconscious, looking broken and battered. He was too preoccupied with the blood seeping out of his side to think of anything truly retaliatory. He would deal with the bitch later! He gingerly pulled the blunt brass letter opener from his side not bothering to look at Fanny sprawled out and discarded on the floor, her jeans still bunched around her ankles. The cunt had actually stabbed him!

Just as he reached for his phone to call his medic, a loud crash of shattered glass filled his eardrums as the picture window of his study exploded inwards. He dropped the phone with only a single digit of the number dialled.

From the study's window, Marcus had observed the chaotic scene. His green eyes narrowed, and his jaw set. He didn't hesitate when he saw Fanny struck so viciously. Picking up a rock the size of a man's head, he hurled it through the window, sending shards of glass cascading into the room. The sharp crash had startled Rick, who staggered back, his hand still pressed to his side.

Marcus almost dove into the room, his movements fluid and deliberate. His tone, when he spoke, was harsh and biting--far removed from the polished, upper-class English charm he had perfected since childhood.

He reached down, his eyes never leaving Rick, and picked up Fanny, setting her gently on a nearby chair before dealing with Rick. His hand went to his shoulder holster, drawing a large pistol as Rick's hand disappeared into a drawer of the desk. He levelled it at Rick, his expression deadly serious.

"Time for business," Marcus said coldly. "Let's just cut all the fake bonhomie and get everything straight. Shut the drawer! Let me see both your hands are empty! Good! Now, 'buddy' where were we last? Um; yes......We'd agreed....Ten Mark 153 shoulder-fired launchers and a hundred projectiles. In exchange, you guarantee your group will stop the drug boats headed for the UK. You were haggling about the bounty as I recall. I can confirm that the British government will pay not more than fifty thousand Dirhams for each confirmed kill, as well as restocking the missiles."

He paused, his gaze hard as steel. "We've been beating around the bush for weeks. This is my government's final offer."

Rick drew a shallow breath, his side still bleeding profusely. He lifted a bloody hand and stared at Marcus his voice shaky. "Sir Marcus, Sir Marcus....One hundred thousand Dirham per confirmed kill. And you can have the bitch for another one hundred thousand--she stabbed me! I need a doctor, but she, she needs a fucking psychiatrist."

Marcus's eyes narrowed. His expression unflinching. "My government will pay fifty thousand Dirham per confirmed kill and the replenishment of used missiles. This is our final offer."

Rick slumped heavily into the chair behind his desk, shaking his head in frustration. Marcus took a step closer, his tone turning imperious. "We could always contact Uncle Sam, Rick. They have a long memory and even a longer reach than His Majesty's Government. I think, under the circumstances, our final offer should be acceptable."

Rick's face paled as the implications of Marcus's words settled over him. After a tense silence, he nodded reluctantly and extended his bloody hand. Marcus accepted it briefly, sealing the deal.

Neither man smiled.

Marcus turned, holstering his gun, his attention on his woman. "Now, about Fanny," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "This is not part of His Majesty's agreement with you. This, 'buddy,'" he emphasized the word with a cold smirk, "is just between you and me. And she's not anybody's 'bitch'! Not anymore!"

"We both know slavery is illegal, and in her present damaged circumstances, she isn't worth twenty thousand Dirham. Even if we were in a souk and slavery was legal, she's been broken."

Rick retorted angrily, "Fuck you, 'buddy.' We both know what the bitch is worth, even if she's useless. And this bitch is useless--she's been nothing but trouble from the day she was whelped." His tone grew sly. "Fifty thousand, and you take her with you now and don't bring her back." He coughed bleeding on the polished wood floor.