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The Halls Of Osibidia (Don Blane)

The Halls Of Osibidia by Don Blane

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The proud princess Zenab thought life was wonderful until she was captured by enemies of her father. From then on her life took a fast downward turn as she is savagely thrashed before her own people. Used, branded, and whipped, Zenab realises she has no choice but to submit - and endure.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 1 / 2014

No. words: 46100

Style: Male Dom - M/F, Sex Slavery / Training

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle



“Here, we can hide in here!” giggled the pretty little girl and she wrestled with the large wooden door that gave a creak like a malevolent growl as it opened. Beyond loomed a large, dark, cobweb infested tunnel.
“Urrgh" said the young girl’s friend. “I don’t fancy much hiding in there!” she complained. It was an odd entrance to have in a Royal palace such as this.
All about the pair lay the opulence and luxurious splendour of the Osibidian palace and in its very midst was this dirty, dark and most unwelcome tunnel.
“They will never find us in here though,” hissed the pretty heir apparent and favoured daughter of the King, Zenab. “I know, I have walked down these!”
“I don’t believe you!” returned her friend.
“It’s true I tell you, I had a candle and walked down there, it’s very long and very dark, but I did it!” she asserted.
Suddenly the two girls were interrupted by footfalls and in walked Zenab’s keeper. She stopped and looked at the two sternly with her fists planted firmly in her flared hips.
“Zenab! What have I told you about playing with your friends in the Royal court!” she scolded, though not unkindly. She was a pretty, shapely Negro slave and was charged with the job of caring for the King’s children whom he had sired from four wives and concubines.
“Oh Helluba, we were only playing hide and seek for a short while!” complained Zenab.
“Well you can do that elsewhere and how many times must I tell you. Do not open this door. It is the door of the halls and it is none of your business. At least, not yet,” she snapped as she heaved the great door closed.
Zenab and her friend moped away, their heads hanging with disappointment.
“Damn Helluba catching us like that. Curses when I get older, I will have her whipped just like my Father does,” she vowed through narrowed eyes, though truth known, she had as much affection for Helluba as she did for her pretty young charge; indeed all the children loved Helluba though like all the slaves in the King’s palace, she was by no means immune from the lash and Zenab had seen her whipped and caned many times past.
“Does your Father whip her often?” whispered the young friend with Helluba following them as they obediently left the Royal court.
“Not all that often,” Zenab confided quietly so that the nanny wouldn’t hear what they were saying and then she grinned. “But you saw how big her titties were didn't you?” and her young friend giggled and nodded.
“Well you should see them wave about when she is whipped,” she laughed and the pair ran off amidst shrieks of laughter as Helluba called after the pair telling them to make less noise.
That night though, as Zenab lay in her bed, she thought of the great wooden door yawning open and the darkness of the strange halls beyond and she thought of her lone and secret walk down, daring to go as far as her failing candle would allow before scurrying back to the Royal court and safety.
“See,” she mumbled to herself. “I have been down there!”

Chapter 1 - The Queen’s court

Zenab stroked the head of her pretty slave as if she were a favoured pet. Perhaps that is what she was. The queen lay out on her chaise longue, reclining in the rude heat of early afternoon and had stripped herself to the waist, choosing to remain only in her loose, soft, low cut, white pants and in that way perhaps she might feel the air on her hot, sticky body that was wafted on her by the fans of the slave-girls that flanked her either side and worked their broad feather blades assiduously.
Zenab was a ravishing beauty and of that there was little doubt. Her complexion suggested mixed race of Riff and Provincial and that was hardly surprising, her father had kept a well-stocked harem of slaves from every corner of the Empire and so Zenab was the progeny of one of his many wives that had drawn the cruel King’s favour.
Zenab had dark black hair that was hidden away in a tight, white turban and brown, almond shaped eyes that were at the same time warm and inviting, yet suggested a cruelty that could well have been vested to her from her father, whose harshness knew little if any limits, even to his own wives’ and daughters’. More than once Zenab had found herself bound naked over the whipping podium before her own father and his court and the King often used to add savour to the delicious ritual of caning his beautiful if haughty daughter, by commanding her own mother be the one to wield the cane, with the threat of the lash as a spur to deter her from sparing her howling child, though by this time, Zenab was anything but a child, with the face of an angel and the full, voluptuous body to rival any the King could call on for his use from his harem.
When her father the King died, many in positions of power opposed Zenab taking the throne. Favourite takers were her cousin or even her uncle, but through a fair amount of subterfuge and double dealing the young but clearly skilled Zenab was the one to win and take over her father’s throne, much to the chagrin of those that stood to gain much by her relatives winning. She was just seventeen then and over the next five years she worked her way onto the throne so that her hold on it was beyond the grasp of any of her objectors, of which there were many.
Osibidia was under the protection of Talasia. Standing as it did as a border between the Provincial land and the lands of the Riffs, it occupied unique if not precarious position and as such was of strategic importance to both parties and now that war had erupted between them, that importance was never more pronounced.
Zenab’s father had ceded independence for Osibidia during his reign, making Osibidia a protectorate of Talasia. His main reason was to avoid invasion and takeover by the Riffs, which would certainly have happened as soon as the belligerent Rashka lion, Sheik Abdul Mateen had become warlike and had succeeded in uniting most of the Riff tribes, making them a force to be reckoned with and now that war was upon them, Osibidia’s position and her political situation made her a target for the warring Riffs.
So Zenab lived in good style bolstered financially by the large farms her father set up around their fine house and even an active and busy galley fleet. All institutions that Zenab had been keen to support and when possible, augment and enlarge.
Sadly for her, war with the Riffs, unprecedented in the past, was a major threat to all of that wealth and fine living and many of the rich and privileged classes were looking nervously at developments over the borders, Zenab amongst them.
But for now, Zenab was relaxing with her favourite slave and basking under the waving fans. She stroked the soft dark hair of the pretty slave that sat squatting by her side as stripped as her mistress, wearing simply her relaxed fit, pink harem pants.
Other familiars of her court were present, softly twittering and laughing, lounging and playing with each other’s hair. Another girl sat plucking a small lyre, picking odd notes out with a friend, trying out parts of new tunes and comparing technique with her friend, it was a relaxed and easy atmosphere.
Suddenly the gently chatter fell away and the pretty musician ceased her trials with the entrance of a palace official. It was none other than the much feared, even the hated housemaster. A portly, adroit figure approached the lounging Zenab who scarcely looked at the man.
“Mistress, you mentioned you wished to witness the beating of the errant palace slave who seems to delight in spilling your expensive wine and destroying the valued pitchers with her clumsiness,” the large, well-dressed man bowed reverently when he spoke. Zenab replied with little more than a sneer. She had much to dislike the man for, he had powers over her himself, powers that were installed in the palace during her father’s tenure and they were commands that she was powerless to remit, chiefly, the authority to beat the delicious queen herself if the authorities and judges with whom she circled so demanded it and it was a power he was in no way slow to exercise and had done so on more than a few occasions, both before and since her father had died.
“Yes, quite so,” Zenab spoke airily, her husky voice sounding like drooling honey. “You may proceed!”
Her slave rose to leave.
“No Deyna, remain here with me I want all of my slaves to witness how careless and flippant slaves are beaten, it will do them all some good and I am sure will compel them to redouble their efforts to do as they are bidden well.” She adjusted her position on the chaise. “Here, lay with me, I would feel your bare sweaty body against my own,” she added.
The housemaster gave her a stare of disapproval but said nothing as the delectable Deyna slid alongside her mistress and laid her back against her mistress’s midriff and belly.
Slaves quickly brought the dreaded caning bench and placed it before the mistress, just a few feet away. It was a substantial piece of furniture and singular in its purpose, with a large, padded leather top. The top was shaped, so that it was lower at the feet than at the head, so that any slave placed on it would show her buttocks perfectly as the legs fell away. Furthermore, at the midriff level, the bench was actually raised, a rise that was promoted by a slight bolster, so arranged to raise the hips somewhat clear of the top.
Zenab eyed the object airily. She had felt its cool face on her naked body before and remembered its cold kiss well. She had lay in its inexorable embrace of straps and she knew well how raising the hips meant the buttocks were well situated to allow the speeding rod to curl around the body to let the speeding tip snap and bite cruelly at the sides, a tortuous little detail that furthered the dread of a full and proper caning.
Soon the reluctant slave was brought forward by two others. She was stripped to just her loose, black harem pants and open sandals and though she attempted to feign indifference, Zenab detected well enough the pallid look of fear on the pretty slave’s face. Perhaps she knew what to expect, or perhaps just the sight of the ugly, purposeful caning bench unnerved her as it might any palace slave that was about to lie upon it.
Without delay, the slave was stripped of her loose fitting pants, so that as she lay upon the bench, she was a naked as the day she was born. Her arms fell forward to hang either side of the bench, ending just clear of the floor. There were fixed straps the fit around the girl’s wrists. Another strap went about the girls back just above her hips and that was cinched firmly. Finally, straps were fixed to her ankles, parting them somewhat and now one could see how perfectly, how at one the girl was with the bench and how well presented she was for her beating.
Zenab watched the housemaster as the slave-girl was fixed to the bench. She knew how he approved in this ritual fixing and she suspected he even delighted in it. She saw again the malevolence in his eyes, just the way she had when it was her beautifully rotund backside that glowered and taunted him and whether she was strapped down on the caning bench or trussed up irresistibly in one of the heavy caning frames, Zenab knew that the housemaster enjoyed what he did with an indecent fervour that preceded mere justice or discipline.
Now the housemaster’s term ‘beating’ rather than ‘caning’ became evident, for he held ready in his hand a broad, wooden paddle. It was a good eighteen inches long and a weighty half an inch thick, with a stout, six inch handle. Its blade was full of holes to provide exhaust for the air betwixt buttock and paddle and so ensure full contact of the two. The master was waving the weapon imperiously and weighing it with an audible slap against his hand as his pretty target was secured and as the slaves fixing her slipped away, the housemaster looked to Zenab for his cue to commence. She nodded her head.
“My slaves will observe due diligence when in my court. Beat the girl with thirty strokes!” she commanded. The girl bit her lips with a terrified grimace as the heavy paddle was placed on her pleasantly plump backside. The master tapped it a few times so that it gave a few, light slaps and then taking a step back, brought the formidable weapon back and sent it flying to the girls offered buttocks.
It impacted with a resounding, meaty, slap whacking both cheeks of her backside as it landed. The girl bucked involuntarily into the straps and gave a miserable yell of pain as her buttock cheeks almost immediately showed a small, red glow where it had landed, a sight that at first belied the slap of the impact.
The master paused, but only for a second, as his face took on its familiar grimace of intent and he whopped the second against the quaking girl’s backside, underlining the two blobs of red that were already alight there. And so he went on, slapping and whopping the plump, juddering nates, drawing wails of complaint from the miserable slave-girl.
Zenab looked on with an air of mild disinterest. She would have been happier watching the girl take a good, stiff caning or perhaps even a beating with a riding crop. Watching the housemaster administer a paddle made the haughty Zenab feel as slighted as her own buttocks and thighs had felt after the master had chosen to thrash the Queen with a stout riding whip. Two dozen of those left the high born lady feeling very well used, so why this infernal bat this time? To her, the paddle was a mild weapon and not best used on a grown woman like her palace slave, though it was apparent by the girls wails of pain that the paddling she was suffering was anything but mild and the grim determination of the housemaster seemed sure to underline the lesson, as he beat and slapped the offered buttocks.
The beating went on unabated as the writhing, sweating slave-girl railed against her punishment.
Suddenly, almost as if she read her mistress’s thoughts, Deyna turned to her and draping a hand on her side she whispered.
“Don’t think that paddle is a kindness mistress. I’ve had that and the cane and the cane was almost tender in comparison.” Zenab raised her eyebrows in surprise. She could not comment with Deyna’s authority, not having been paddled as she had but still, Zenab was sceptical.
“I would still have preferred the master use a riding whip on the whelp. I know well enough how that thing bites. He drew blood from me the last time. I did not expect to see a grown woman spanked. I wanted her flogged,” the contempt in her voice was clear as she spoke.
Nobody was audibly counting, but it was clear the housemaster knew where he was, for halfway through the punishment he paused to change sides so that he could slap the remaining fifteen strokes across her backside from the other side.
As she watched almost with disdain, even Zenab would have had to concede that the miserable slave-girl’s buttocks were glowing with a light that would have set a splint alight they were so red and raw and hence looked horribly painful.
Now the housemaster set to working the girl’s nates from the other side and again the hall rang with the thick meaty slaps as he doled out the remainder of the slave’s punishment. Again the girl wailed as the slaps were dealt.
Zenab allowed her hand to slip onto one of Deyna’s superbly ripe breasts and was rewarded when she felt how the large, dark nipple was firm and erect. It seemed Deyna was enjoying the scene as much as the succulent queen was.
The housemaster’s vigour remained undiminished either by the slave-girl’s pathetic cries or the fiery glow of her buttocks that he had raised and now were darkening seemingly with every thunderous blow he struck, but at last the thirtieth and final blow was stuck and the housemaster lowered his arm. He gave Zenab a gracious smile and bowed before leaving the court.
Zenab gave her slaves a nod of assent to allow them to release their sister in suffering and the straps were released and the naked, sweating girl was helped off the bench and taken away.

Author Information

Harems, torture and extreme pain abound in Don`s writings.


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