Blacmailed in Turey

The young Turkish woman entered the office. She was about 22, though her round, elfin face with its wide, near black, almond eyes and full red lips made her look younger. It was framed perfectly by long, midnight dark hair that flowed to her shoulders.

Her manner of dress would have been considered utterly immodest by the local standards of Islamic prudery. Her white tank top was too tight for a bra to be worn underneath. In the west, she would have been complemented on not needing to wear one. Shaped like plump, ripe pomegranates her firm youthful flesh needed no support. The low cut of her top did little to hide the fullness of her breasts, nor the proud, slightly upturned nipples that tipped them. Even in the dingy light of the office, the dark, puckered aureole that surrounded her nipples were plain through the thin white fabric that struggled to just cover them.

Her tight fitting black skirt was short; barely long enough to hide the tops of the sheer dark stockings that covered her shapely legs. She stood hesitantly. Eventually she drew enough courage to speak.

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

Her question was directed to the owner-manager of the small hotel she worked for, now sat behind a large desk. He was about sixty (she guessed at his age; she did not know it exactly and had never dared ask). He was overweight. Too mean to pay for the air conditioning in the hotel to be fixed, even with no exertion the humid heat caused beads of sweat to form on his balding scalp. He did not acknowledge her presence. While she waited for him to respond she fixed her attention to a sweat bead that trickled down into one of the greasy grey-black arcs of unkempt hair that remained above his ears. He reached into the pocket of the grubby linen suit he wore and pulled out a stained handkerchief to mop it away.

He did not look up, but concentrated on the papers in front of him as he spoke.

"I called you ten minutes ago. Where have you been?"

The girl shuffled uneasily on her heels, nervously pressing her thighs together.

"I am sorry, Sir. But there were guests checking in at reception. I came as quickly as I could."

He grunted a dismissal and looked up. "To more important matters. I see we have a new guest?"

The receptionist needed no more information. She knew exactly where this was going to lead. She hated being part of it, but she had no choice.

"We have a number of new guests."

This brief evasion was, she knew, pointless. But it gave some sense of, well, trying.

The hotel manager was irritated by her obvious stalling. Looking up at last he made his clarification clear in staccato:

"Yes. A girl! European. Perhaps American. Blond. Probably no more than a teenager."

The receptionist sighed "Yes, Sir. I think I know who you mean," (she knew his tastes; he could mean no one else). "She is American. She booked in five days ago."

"Which room?"

"Number 23."

The manager's eye narrowed. "And she is here alone?"

The girl sighed silently. "Yes, Sir. She is alone."

The manager lent back in his office chair and grinned. "Excellent. Well then. It seems we have the chance of another..." He paused slightly for emphasis, "...project on our hands, doesn't it?"

The girl looked down. Quietly she said: "Yes, Sir. It does."

"Good," said the manager. He stood. The girl noticed that although lose, the front of his ill-fitting pants showed a clear sign of his erection. The girl sank inwardly. The thought of another 'project' always excited him.

He moved from round the desk to stand beside the girl. He spoke quietly into her ear. "Yes. This girl will make a very good project. Do you not agree?"

Not altering her posture she silently turned her head towards him.

"You have the spare key to her room?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied quietly.

He nodded and mopped the sweat away from his balding head once more with the handkerchief balled in his palm.

"Good. But now, there is the matter of you being late."

"I'm sorry, Sir. I told..."

He raised his palm to quiet her. "Enough!"

Nonchalantly, he added: "Now raise your skirt and bend over the desk..."

Emma lay on the beach, face down, her eyes closed, enjoying the warm sun bronzing her firm, teenage flesh. She felt the sudden cool of a falling shadow, the eclipse of warmth enough to make her turn onto her side and open her eyes. The shadow was that of a man standing above her, one of the many locals who frequented the beach. The resort was used by some tourists, but mainly by local men who would come primarily, Emma knew, to get a good look at the Western girls in their brief swimwear. She had never seen a local woman at the beach.

She squinted as her eyes slowly adjusted to the new light on her retinas. As the man became clearer she guessed that he was probably only in his thirties, but looked older. As his features took form, Emma realised he was quite ugly. A ridiculously brief thong just served to accentuate his flabby torso and short, hairy legs. Despite being on a public beach with a lot of people sunning themselves, she suddenly felt quite naked in her revealing cream string tie bikini. She rolled over onto her bum. Then she sat, pulled her knees up towards her chin and folded her arms around her calves. It was an almost instinctive move, the best she could do to hide her body from his too obvious gaze. She looked up at him.

"What do you want?" She inquired.

"You Anglazi,.. Deutsch?"

Emma pushed her shoulder length strawberry blond hair back over her ear, tilting her head slightly to one side to look the man in the eye. She had been pestered by local men almost constantly since arriving in Turkey and had learned in her short time here that a direct refusal was all that worked.

"No," she said with a sigh she hoped would make her lack of interest clear. Then she added: "American". She immediately regretted her qualification as he clearly took it to be an invitation to conversation.

"Ah, American! You holiday?" His poor English was delivered with a thick local accent.

"Yes," replied Emma trying to make her lack of interest clear.

"OK. Is good. You meet me. Later. Have drink?" The man asked.

He reached down to his waist and pulled his thong up under his protruding belly. He bulged and Emma realised with a faint disgust that he was semi erect. Worse still, he clearly wanted her to see how big he was. She sighed inwardly. God, the local men were awful. Did they all think the best way to get a date with a Western girl was to flash their junk? Anyway, why did he think a creep his age would interest her?

Emma snapped from her thoughts. "No, sorry," She said eventually, being as polite as her mood allowed. "I'm busy tonight."

The man grunted a nod but did not move. He reached behind himself and pulled out the pack of cigarettes he kept pushed down the back of his briefs. He took one out and lit it. Though she had had the occasional cigarette, the thick, acrid smell of the local cigarettes made Emma feel sick. He proffered the pack to her.

"Smoke?" he inquired.

"No, thank you. I don't," Emma said, flapping her hand in front of her face somewhat moralistically to dispel the smoke.

"Tonight. Later. I take you to club. We have good time."

Emma noticed that the man's eyes had shifted from looking directly into hers. By the direction of his now transfixed stare she realised that in raising her knees she had revealed the thin strip of bikini brief that covered her pudenda. He drew back on his cigarette intent on savouring her inadvertent between the thighs show. This had not done anything to help the gross erection now clearly beginning to strain at the man's thong. He saw that Emma had noticed it. Far from being embarrassed, he tried to suck in his belly and pushed his hips forward in a pitiful attempt to make himself more attractive to the beautiful young American.

"Excuse me!" Emma barked as she flattened her legs quickly.

He just smiled. "I take you to friend's party. Have great time."

"No, I've told you already. I'm busy!" Emma snapped her head back sharply, causing her blond hair the fly back and her full breasts to giggle slightly. A pink tip of tong darted across his lips as he now clearly saw Emma's large D cup breasts bounce before his eyes.

"My friend. He have great parties. Lot of English German American girls go. He made a gesture of pulling a joint from his mouth and with a wink added: "You like smoke?"

"Look!" Shrieked Emma. "I have told you I am not interested. I do not want to go. I am busy." Then, punctuating each word in a mimic of his broken English, "do... you... understand... me?"

With this the man shrugged and, pulling on his cigarette, finally walked slowly away.

Emma felt relief at his departing but she had had enough. This vacation was proving to be terrible. One week in and she wanted to go home. But her air tickets were not transferrable. She must endure two more weeks.

She had worked hard in her first year at university and felt she had earned a break. She wanted to get away from the dull weather of Boston, especially after the break up with her boyfriend. She could have travelled in the States but the need to explore the wider world a bit was strong. Her parents were quite unhappy at the thought of her travelling to Turkey. But she had argued that it was safe – a well known beach resort (actually Emma knew it was not that well known). She also told them she was travelling with two friends. This was, well, only a white lie. She had planned to travel with two friends but they had dropped out at last minute due to being broke. Emma was quite fortunate in having a small trust fund to call upon now she was eighteen. When her friends dropped out, she nearly cancelled the trip herself. But in a fit of bravado she had finally decided to go on her own.

Emma stood and reached to the sand for the short floral sundress she had brought with her. Not bothering to unfasten the buttons, she slipped her wrists into the arm holes and raised it above her head. As she did so, she noticed the group of local men who had congregated around her in an almost unbroken circle had not failed to notice that her pose now showed off her long slim legs, good hips and full breasts to perfection. The large firm globes stood proudly on her body without a hint of sag as the tight bikini straps pushed some young smooth tanned tit flesh to the sides of the top.

She groaned and quickly slipped the sun dress over her bikini, stroking her hands over her body to smooth it down. She slipped her feet into her pumps and grabbed the beach bag that contained just sun block, water and the keys to her hotel room. To get past her circle of admirers, Emma had to practically step over one man in his fifties who rested prone on his elbow. As she approached he strained his neck, positioning his head so as to get a good and quite obvious look up her dress as she passed. By now she hardly cared about the local men ogling her. Lets the bastards watch. They can have a good wank later if they want to, she thought defiantly. In truth, the thought of the dark-skinned local men pleasuring themselves while calling her image to mind made her feel dirty.

Once past the men she took the short walk up the beach back towards her hotel.

Her hotel! Emma felt her depression deepen a little. God, it was as awful as the men. She had chosen it on line because it was near to the beach and, well, cheap. Emma recalled the third lie she had told her parents: "No it's not an independent hotel. It's part of a large chain." The hotel looked good in the on-line photographs, but in reality was quite run down and even creepy. It was smaller than she expected with only about thirty rooms on three floors. It was dirty and the facilities none existent. The air conditioning never worked leaving the rooms heavy with a damp, cloying heat.

Once she reached her hotel, she stepped through the open entrance. Moving through reception she paused briefly to smile at the very pretty local girl who worked behind the desk. The girl smiled back, somewhat nervously, Emma thought. But the though soon evaporated.

Emma took the elevator up to her second floor room. She walked down the ill lit corridor with its dehydrated pot plants and approached the door marked 23. She slipped the key in. The lock felt odd, slack. As she started to turn the key the door pushed open. Her room was unlocked. She felt a slight twinge of unease. She was sure she had locked the door before heading to the beach. As she entered the room the slight unease turned to full panic. Her room had been ransacked. All the drawers of the cheap bedroom furniture were open. Her clothes were scattered over the floor and onto the old, heavy bed. Even in her panic, Emma noticed that there was some order in the chaos. Her underwear had been separated and arranged on the bed. She felt bile rise in her stomach as she dashed to her suitcase. At least it was still there! The case was good quality and secure. She felt a moment's relief. The locks looked good. But as she grabbed the case to lift it onto the bed it fell open. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach. The locks were good, but the hinges at the back had been prised off. Looking at the scratches something like a screwdriver had been used to crudely force them away from the plastic. Desperately Emma searched the case. It was empty. Oh, God! Emma gasped. Her money and credit cards were gone. So was her passport and air tickets. Even her mobile phone.

Emma ran from the room and down the corridor. She stabbed at the lift button. It was now out of order! She dashed down the stairs, taking two at a time, descending the four flights to the hotel lobby in moments. Catching her breath she ran to the desk. The local girl was still there, busy checking out a middle-aged man in a cheap suit. The man though was clearly absorbed in checking out the girl's body. He turned and looked at Emma as she approached the desk.

"Please! You have got to help me!"

"One moment, please. I will be with you," replied the girl.

Emma groaned. She was in such a state that she did not even notice that her dash had caused the strap of her sun dress to fall over her shoulder revealing the left side of her bikini top. The man did notice however and took no shame in switching his attention from the receptionist to Emma's shapely and now better revealed breast. Drool slowly appeared at the corners of his mouth when he noticed her breasts where more then just a handful.

She glared at him as she pulled the top of her dress back up and turned again to the girl at the desk.

With that the girl handed the grinning man his passport and some change and he left.

"How can I help?" She asked.

"Please," gasped Emma, her breath short more from shock than her exertions. "My room has been robbed! My tickets, my passport, my money. Everything has gone."

The girl's eyes widened with a look of approaching horror. "Oh, no." She sighed. "When?"

"Today. Earlier. It must have been while I was at the beach."

The girl's look of horror turned to one more of desperation. She looked furtively around as if making sure they were alone then intently back at Emma. Before starting to speak she reached out and placed her hand over Emma's, now flat on the reception desk. She squeezed it lightly in an act that seemed intent on comforting her as much as keeping her attention. Leaning forward, she spoke quietly, as if to tell her a secret.

"Please, listen to me. Go now. Quickly. You must go now. Go to your consulate. Get help there. But leave here. Leave now."

The girl's anxious stream of advice was interrupted by a male voice from the open door of the office behind the desk. The girl seemed shocked and visibly cringed as she heard it. She pulled away from Emma as if to pretend their conversation had never happened.

"I do not think that will be necessary, Fatima," said a portly, balding Turk of about sixty appearing from the office. He placed a hand on the reception girl's shoulder. She visibly shrunk under his touch.

"I will deal with this, Fatima. You have better things to be doing," he said.

"Yes, Sir," she sighed turning her head down. She caught Emma with one last, pleading glimpse before turning to walk away.

As she did so the man called after her. "I will want to talk to you later, Fatima. Do you understand?" The girl turned and, avoiding Emma's gaze, replied "Yes, Sir. I understand." Emma could not fail to notice the air of resignation in her voice.

The man grinned, showing a set of bad teeth. "Now, miss. I am the hotel manager. What is your problem?

Emma felt a little relief at being able to speak to someone in charge. "Yes, thank you. My room has been broken into. My things stolen. Important things."

The hotel manager looked sternly at her. "Are you sure? I do not know how this is possible. This hotel is quite secure. Nobody could get past the desk."

"Well it has happened."

The man cupped his chin in his fingers and pondered.

"Hmm..." He looked intently at Emma. "We had better deal with matter this in my private office."

He moved back from the reception desk and swept his arm in a gesture of invitation. "This way, if you please."

Emma moved behind the desk, stepping ahead of him and through the open door into the back office. He followed her in. Once inside he pointed to an elevator.

"My private office would be best. Follow me, please."

Emma stepped up the elevator door. He poked at the button and reached to pull open the door.

The elevator was small, claustrophobic, the heat even heavier. Emma manoeuvred herself as far back as she could as he entered the elevator behind her. His arm reached up and over her shoulder. Stale sweat shocked her nostrils with an acid tang. A key emerged from between his fingers.

"The fourth floor. It is all private. My office is there." With that, he placed the key into the panel and turned it. Emma notice that the elevator had no floor buttons and realised it must only go to his private floor. The doors closed and the ascent began. Emma felt as if the trip to the fourth floor was taking forever. The lift was slow and, even given the elevators small size, he stood closer to her than he needed two. Emma was not tall – about 5'5". Though he was only about three inches taller than her his bulk made him appear a massive, looming presence.

Eventually, the elevator stopped and he pushed the door open. Emma stepped out with some relief straight into his private office. The furnishing was minimal. A large desk dominated the room. In front of it was an old style ottoman couch; its low, wide seat curving into a high, wood trimmed back.

"Please, sit," the manager said arching his arm towards it as he moved behind the desk.

Emma sat in the middle of the ottoman. As she sat she noticed with a little disgust that its red and gold fabric was worn and stained. She sat forward. As she did so, her sun dress fell open over her leg revealing her upper thighs and the lower-V of her bikini briefs. She looked up and noticed that the still standing hotel manager was leaning forward slightly so as to better admire her. Quickly she gathered the skirt, wrapping it around her and pulling it down as far as possible over her legs. She reached her hands forward to her knees to cover her breasts with her upper arms. She concluded this was the most modest pose her relative undress allowed.

The hotel manager slipped of his jacket, hung it over the back of the desk chair and sat. "Now, tell me what has happened."

Wearily, Emma began to repeat the story: "This morning, about ten, I think, I went to the beach. When I got back..."

"When would that be?"

"Around noon. I went back to my room..."

"Which is?"

His interruptions were beginning to irritate Emma. She didn't hide it as she continued: