Blac Shemale's Blonde Victim

In stories there's a fate which threatens captured girls, but Yvette has never understood what it is. It's referred to as being

carried off

, but carried off to where, for what?

She grew up on the island of Martinique, where her father owns a slave-worked plantation. She attended a convent boarding school in France. With deliberate care, her parents and the teacher nuns protected her from any such disturbing notions as lascivious pleasure, even between husband and wife.

Her schooling ends when she's eighteen. She sets sail for her home, expecting to make her

début

in Martinique's exclusively white high society. But Barbary pirates seize her ship. Yvette is being carried off, that is beyond doubt, but what will happen when she reaches her destination?

Landed in a North African port, she soon finds herself suspended by her arms. Covered by nothing but a wrapping of diaphanous fabric from her waist to a few inches above her knees, she's displayed to a room full of swarthy men.

She's been raised with endless admonitions to hide her flesh from view, that to be seen is unholy. This display of so much that should be hidden scorches her with bitter shame. She twists her abdomen to one side and then another to keep her globes from the sight of the audience, but she can't turn far enough. She succeeds only in shaking those two lovely baubles from side to side, making them jiggle before the eyes of the onlookers.

A man stands beside her, gesturing at her while speaking an incomprehensible language. There's no doubt she's being auctioned.

What could only be bidding ceases. An old man stands amid the crowd with an air of victory. His back is crooked, unsightly growths all over his face. Has he bought her? She has no idea what happens to a girl after purchase, but nothing this wizened old gnome might do with her could possibly be good.

She's whisked away in a palanquin, through the city and into a palace. Several scantily clad young women, of varying complexions but all browner than Yvette, pull her from the conveyance into a large room decorated in oriental splendor.

A tall woman in purple robes looks the slender Christian virgin up and down with an appreciative gaze. She's as dark as the slaves that work the plantation owned by Yvette's father. She speaks briefly to the aged hunchback, who retreats bowing from the room.

Unknown to Yvette this is her new owner, Lady Zeinab. She sent the lump-faced manservant in her stead to buy this golden-haired beauty, as women are not allowed to bid at the slave market.

The Muslim noblewoman says a word, and the dusky girls holding Yvette carry her to where two leather thongs hang from the ceiling. They bind her wrists high, and then kneel to tighten similar straps attached to the floor about her ankles. When she's held in the standing position, unable to move from the spot, they retreat from her.

The tall negress reaches toward the face of her new property. Yvette has only ever known a world where, by unquestionable divine sanction, black slaves defer to white masters. The fair-skinned abductee shrinks in horror from this transgression of the Lord's will. She jerks her head back and strains with all her might against the bonds that hold her in place, blue eyes wide in fear and disgust. But it's all in vain. She can do nothing as a dark hand touches the underside of her chin, glides down her distended throat.

"Stop it!" Yvette shouts indignantly. "You may not touch me!"

Lady Zeinab laughs, and replies in strongly-accented but intelligible French. "You'll find that I can do whatever I like to you. And you will come to regret such insolence." She circles her latest acquisition, caressing arms, back, neck. She brushes a finger across Yvette's flat belly, then denudes the white body of its only garment. She admires the dainty triangle of thatch where lower torso meets legs, delighted to find it's as light a shade of gold as that on the girl's head.

The mistress strokes up the creamy hips, waist and flanks, then runs a single fingertip back and forth along one collarbone. Yvette has no notion of carnality, but physical contact this intimate clearly impugns the dignity of her person. It's an outrage beyond bearing that she's in a position of such vulnerability to anyone, her body the object of another's sport. But one of the race the Almighty has ordained for servitude! That multiplies her disgrace a thousandfold.

Lady Zeinab's hand trails down the white girl's sternum to her breasts, where the nipples are growing longer. "You enjoy the touch of woman, don't you?"

"No! No!" Yvette replies without thinking.

In truth she has always found the round soft shapes of the female form pleasing, in contrast to the unpleasantly blockish physique of man. It warms her to place her hand on another girl's arm or back, and she often held hands with her schoolmates. But to the sheltered virgin's mind, these things are merely expressions of friendship. Lacking any concept of fleshly conjunctions, it could never occur to her that there is anything improper in such gentle touching between girls.

The African violator laughs. "These tell a different story." She lowers her face to Yvette's bosom, which she smothers in kisses. She rubs one of the stiff buds with her fingers, then takes it between her lips and nuzzles at it with her teeth. She subjects both pink breast-pegs to prolonged torment with her mouth.

Slavegirls of assorted colors stand meekly by as their owner enjoys the new plaything. Lady Zeinab moves to Yvette's side and caresses her back. She barks an order in Arabic, incomprehensible to Yvette. The watching girls rush to strip off their few garments.

Stroking Yvette's nether curves, the negress beckons to one of her slaves. This olive lovely approaches and does as her owner did, defiling Yvette's chest with her fingers and mouth. One after another, their owner calls all of them over by name. They each take a turn with the her bosom, squeezing the luscious globes, tweaking and nibbling the erect nubs.

Yvette's body bucks and twists under this assault, and tears stream down her face. Being used like this, a toy, helpless as stranger after stranger molests her flesh -- it degrades her to the core. Her face is on fire, breath coming in fast shallow gulps. Knowing nothing of the congress of the marriage-bed, much less of whoring or rape, this seems to her innocent mind simply an especially fiendish kind of bullying. She has no idea that the fire in her body is anything but shame at such vile maltreatment.

Another curt command. The girls take Yvette down and drag her to a huge bed fitted with four shackles. They close two of the cuffs around her wrists, then haul her legs wide apart and do the same to her ankles. She's splayed, body defenseless. Her girl-flower is in full bloom, as if wantonly offering all that lies within to whatever cruelty might descend upon it.

Lady Zeinab reclines beside her pale captive, robed body pressing against the bare right flank. Her right hand toys with Yvette, running down her belly, then touching the inside of her leg. Bit by bit it inches ever closer to the pink blossom.

Yvette has no idea that the opening between her legs has any function beyond urination. But her prudish upbringing has instilled in her that this above all is dirty: never to be mentioned, seen or touched.

"No no, please! Please don't touch that!"

Her entreaties win her no mercy. One fingertip touches the delicate folds. At the very first contact Yvette's every muscle spasms. Her limbs pull on the restraints holding her spreadeagled, but the stout chains won't yield. An uncouth barking yelp breaks from her. The trespassing digit teases her most intimate flesh, feathering over the convoluted inner surfaces of her blonde-fringed femininity. Though the dark finger's skin barely brushes against those sensitive parts, the sensations it evokes sear her like red-hot irons.

The mistress speaks commanding words in Arabic. A Moorish girl lies down at Yvette's left side, and the young Christian is hemmed in between two dark bodies. Lady Zeinab moves her black hand from the open flower and the slave's deep-olive one takes its place, caressing there.

For some minutes the owner of both girls watches the darker one rubbing the lighter one's moist love-petals. Then she dismisses her and calls another to take her place, then a third, a fourth. The helpless Yvette can only suffer the indignity of so many touching the most forbidden region of her body. All the while, Lady Zeinab's fingers make light excursions over the blonde beauty's inner thigh and belly. From time to time she chews on a nipple.

Nine girls touch Yvette's pudendum, while three stand by the head of the bed to which she is affixed. This done, one by one the nine kiss the insides of Yvette's legs. Then each kisses her flaring labia, after which they all lick those same engorged lips.

Over the years Lady Zeinab has bought many girls. But she tires of most of them in a few weeks and puts them into a brothel, where they earn her a tidy income. In the main she only retains those whose bodies respond with excitement to the touch of other females. So most of the nine enjoy this work.

But the lusty black tyrant has kept a few in her harem who don't relish Sapphism, because their beauty is so great she cannot bear to part with them. Among this minority is one of the three kept back, Eileen, the only other white girl in the room. The mistress now beckons this exquisite green-eyed redhead, who places herself on the side of the bed with her face above Yvette's left breast. At a gesture from her mistress she starts toying with the virgin's soft pale bosom.

Lady Zeinab says in Arabic: "Fatima! Drive her close to the edge. But do not allow her release, or I shall lay a thousand and one stripes of castigation across your rear curves!"

A girl with tightly curled black hair kneels on the end of the bed. With one finger of each hand she opens the hood covering Yvette's clitoris. With the tip of her skillful tongue she tickles it for a couple of minutes until the mistress calls for another girl to replace her.

Yvette's mouth is open, gasping. Lady Zeinab plants her own over it. Loathing fills the blue-eyed victim. But a stronger force overwhelms her, which she's too innocent to realize is frustrated desire. Her body isn't under her own control. Without her willing it, her lips respond with fervor, and her tongue merges with that of her abuser.

As black woman and blonde girl kiss with such abominable passion, the nine slaves not at the bed's head rotate through the work between Yvette's thighs. One after another they toy with her pleasure-bud, tantalizing, yet never drawing her to completion.

When the last of the nine is licking Yvette's most sensitive part, the mistress drags Eileen's head away from Yvette's chest to her mouth. Though aware another is on her now, Yvette can't help but enjoy this new kiss. Eileen feels no desire for female bodies, but harsh thrashings have taught her obedience. She has grown skilled in giving pleasure to female bodies, and her tongue loves Yvette's with artful cunning.

Lady Zeinab stands, and the other two girls who haven't worked at the prisoner's loins start nibbling on her erect chest-buds. Yvette is driven mad by stimulation from four girls, one on each nipple, one on her mouth and one at her clit. She doesn't see her owner undressing. She doesn't notice the lady's trim muscular body, the fourteen-inch manhood projecting from her lower torso, the bulging ball-sack hanging beneath.

The stiff-loined negress grabs the hair of the girl currently teasing Yvette's little hill, and drags her aside. The slave submits to this without protest, maintaining acquiescent silence in fear of the dreadful punishments which long ago broke her to obedience.

The Muslim man-woman throws herself on her Christian property. She slams the rigid beast in, scattering the slavegirls working at the captive's mouth and chest. Yvette feels something she could never have imagined, an enormous hot hardness piercing her with brutal force to an impossible depth. The shock of it empties her lungs in an animal howl.

Her mind races for a moment, trying to understand, but rational thought doesn't last long. Her owner drives the stabbing-spike in and out at a speed that destroys her ability to think of anything but the onslaught ravaging her insides.

Yvette's femininity is in a state of high excitement from the outrages her body has already suffered. Now, each time her captor drives into her, ever greater pleasure wells up in the lining of her woman-pipe. She was already so close to release than only twenty or so vigorous intrusions drive her to orgasm.

But the mistress has barely started. Her male tusk continues to gouge Yvette, goading her to ever-greater delights. The young Christian thrashes around in the grip of Aphrodite's raging frenzy. Demented screeching shakes the walls. The blonde head twists from side to side, throwing her tears in every direction.

Eventually Lady Zeinab shoots hot seed deep into her captive. Gradually she slows to a stop. Yvette gulps in air to refill lungs she's emptied with her cries. When she regains the ability to focus her eyes, the black face is looking down on hers with the self-satisfaction of triumph.

Though Yvette doesn't know what just happened, it's obvious to her that she's broken now, a used and soiled thing. But she doesn't care. The ecstasy she's experienced overrides any ideas of decency. She just wants more.

The cruel conqueror presses her mouth to her slave's, and Yvette opens her own to greedily kiss tongue-on-tongue. This only ends when her the African renews her thrusts. The rest of that day and deep into the night, the despotic Muslim's male spear enjoys the inside of her Christian toy many times, and Yvette loves every moment of it.