Maestro, cue the drum roll

[Fox]

(SFX IN: a drum roll)

(ANNOUNCER)

Ladies and gentlemen, Masters and Mistresses, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you, the winning entries in our inaugural story contest!

(SFX IN: CROWD OOO’S AND AHHHS)
(MUSIC IN: FANFARE FROM “ALSO SPRACH ZARATHUSTRA”

(ANNOUNCER)

And the winner is ……

“THE STUFF OF DREAMS”
by ???


a VERY close First Runner-Up is …

“TAKE ME TO THE CASBAH”
by Harry Berg


Second Runner-Up …

“AN AMERICAN GIRL IN ADEN”
by Aurelius

(MUSIC CRESCENDOES AND FINALE)


The judging was challenging. The four judges were treated to a variety of stories and writing styles.

All stories were sent to us by Jinn, with the autrhor's name and e-mail, etc, removed so WE HAVE NO IDEA WHO WROTE THE WINNING ENTRY!!!!!


Following is an excerpt from “The Stuff of Dreams”. We hope that Jinn will have all entries posted as soon as possible.

I will be in the chat channel for a time this afternoons and will distribute copies of the top three stories at that time. I will be using mIRC and will send the stories as .doc files.

Congratulations to everyone who entered. Thank you!

[Fox]

The Picture: The Stuff of Dreams
Copyright 2003 by the author

Chapter 1

The first thing I noticed was her face - the half-closed eyes and
rounded cheeks both pleading and despairing at the same time as she
knelt before her foreign tormentor. I wondered what she might be
thinking, kneeling so helplessly before him, her shoulders pulled back
by the ropes confining her wrists behind her back, her fair ankles
imprisoned in golden shackles, her soft breasts so delicately exposed.
I wondered if her head were held forcibly in place by the hand
clasped in her brown hair and the chain leash attached to her collar,
or if she bent forward willingly to serve her master so abjectly and
intimately. Might there be a hint of pleasure, of contentment in
those pale cheeks?

"What do you think, Heather?" Myron's voice snapped me out of my
reverie, reminding me where I was. I was here to appraise paintings,
not lose myself in their depths.

I quickly scanned the remainder of the canvas, taking in the
Orientalist motifs, the cliched barbarian, the wanton cruelty of the
scene. "It's 1850s, French, a rather mediocre example of what passed
for pornography back then," I answered, hoping I wasn't blushing. In
fact, paintings of this genre - though usually considerably more
refined - had been part of what attracted me to art history in the
first place. That, and the attractions of spending summers doing
research in Paris, of course. "Some of the details are skillfully
done, but overall it isn't particularly remarkable."

"So what do you think we can get for it?" asked Myron. He was a
mid-level executive at a prominent uptown auction house, which had
hired me to appraise a set of paintings they had obtained from an
estate liquidation.

"Oh, twenty, maybe twenty-five thousand," I said nonchalantly.

"OK," he said, making a note in his book. He took me by the elbow the
way middle-aged men like ushering young women, and led me to the next
painting. I snuck a final glance over my shoulder at the nude, bound
figure, her master's passion spilling over her red lips and onto her
ivory chin, trapped forever in that pose of helpless subservience. I
felt a wave of warmth between my thighs and turned my gaze to the next
painting.

Although the collection included many more notable paintings -
including one that might have been a Manet - it was still that crude
image of a slave girl's subjection that stuck in my mind as I took a
cab down to my gallery on 57th Street. I closed my eyes and pressed
my thighs together as I tried to imagine what that girl might be
feeling, her knees pressed against the hard floor as she desperately
sought to please her master.

By the time I arrived at the gallery, I had an idea. Mid-19th-century
French historical paintings were actually one of our genres. Unlike
the downtown galleries, our clients were the old rich and new rich
co-op owners of the Upper East Side, people who wanted the opulence of
continental nobility in their 4,000 square foot apartments.
Naturally, we would be bidding on the collection at the auction the
next week. And as the assistant director, it was up to me to
determine which pieces we would bid on, and how much we would pay. As
I wrote my report, I included the painting that fascinated me on our
"A" list, and put down a price that should be sufficient to win it.
Although we were bidding on pieces that I had just appraised, I didn't
worry about conflicts of interest - this was hardly exceptional in the
closely-knit world of fine arts in New York.

I left my report on the director's desk for his final review and
headed downtown for my date with Robert, all the while imagining what
might happen later that evening. We had been going out for a couple
months, and though our relationship had been casually romantic so far,
I found myself involuntarily fantasizing about what it might be like
to kneel before him, my eyes half-closed, and please him as best I
could. I felt my cheeks grow warm and my breathing grow faster.
Luckily, the taxi stopped at the restaurant, and I stepped outside
into the cool, refreshing air.

I flirted shamelessly with Robert throughout dinner, doing my best to
lick my lips and chew my vegetables as sensuously as possible,
crossing and uncrossing my legs under my short skirt. I think he knew
what I was doing, but he was more than happy to play along. By the
time we made it into my apartment, we were all over each other,
kissing and fumbling with our clothes, and soon I was naked and on my
back on the couch, he poised above me.

"Wait," I said, an idea suddenly coming to my mind. I took his arms
and gently guided him down until he was sitting on the couch, as I
slipped off the couch onto my knees before him. I took his right hand
and placed it in my hair, lifting my wide eyes to him hungrily. Then,
letting my eyes flutter closed, I bent my head forward and extended my
tongue. I heard him utter a soft moan as I bent to my task. I don’t
think he noticed when I clasped my hands together behind my back.

"Thank you," he said as we crawled into bed and I snuggled up to him,
my brown hair cascading across his shoulder.

"Thank you," I whispered as I began to drift off to sleep.

***

As if in a trance, I rose from my bed and walked over to the large
window. Outside in the night, tiny points of red light flickered in
the distance. Somehow I knew they were the campfires of an invading
army. The cool breeze blew my thin silk nightgown closely against my
body and raised goose pimples on my bare forearms. I shivered. I saw
people moving restlessly in the dusty street below, but strangely no
sound reached my ears. Larger fires broke out sporadically along the
city walls, each time doused by teams of soldiers bearing buckets of
water carried from the central well. I felt afraid, terribly afraid.
The air became colder and colder. I wrapped my arms tightly around my
body. I felt the building begin to shake as a battering ram began its
rhythmic assault on the city gate.

***

I was wide awake. Robert was snoring softly. I rose quietly to close
the window and shut out the cool autumn air, and slipped back into
bed, pressing my belly and breasts against his firm body. He moaned
softly as I caressed his chest with my small hand. I wondered what,
if anything, my dream meant, as I fell into a deep sleep.

[Fox]

The Picture: Take Me To The Kasbah

“All right, stop, I’ll do it,” cried Beatrice unable to withstand the pain radiating from her arms. Her shoulders were on fire and within a fraction of an inch of being dislocated. Beatrice had tried with all her heart to resist Soraya’s demand that she place Abdullah’s cock in her mouth; but the torment was too great.
“Suck it, pretty one, like it is a sweet,” ordered Soraya after she forced the naked Beatrice to kneel at Abdullah’s feet. A seated Abdullah had already lowered his trousers and his member was fully exposed, even partially erect in anticipation of enjoying the young, innocent, and beautiful American girl.
Thanks be to Allah the good and the merciful for giving me such a wonderful wife as Soraya thought Abdullah. See how she persuades the young girl to pleasure my manhood with her mouth. Now the girl refuses my cock and cries in sorrow but in a moment, Soraya will change her mind and her sweet tender lips will take my manhood. There is nothing more beautiful than a virgin’s tears, especially when those are the tears that precede her losing her innocence and taking a man inside her body for the first time. I am already growing hard and we have not even begun. I am truly blessed by the Prophet. And my sons will be blessed too when I let them have this beautiful American. They are already enjoying her brother.
For the first time in her eighteen years, Beatrice confronted a man’s hairy sex organ. When Soraya had forced her to her knees, she fell forward and her face brushed against Abdullah’s member. The musky smell of male flesh assaulted her nostrils. An intense feeling of disgust and loathing pervaded her being.
This can’t be happening to me. I just can’t do such a thing thought Beatrice. I don’t care what they do to me. It’s hard to believe any woman would perform such a depraved act.
“Never,” responded Beatrice at first fiercely determined to resist Soraya’s demand.
But Beatrice had been gently reared in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and her body was not inured to pain. Soraya cruelly lifted the chain connecting the narrow silver bands enclosing the young American girl’s arms. The bands cut into the soft flesh above her elbows as her arms rotated toward the ceiling.
“It is not so difficult. I learned to please a man with my mouth when I was much younger than you. Just open your mouth and let my husband’s cock slide past your lips or I will be forced to harm you,” said Soraya slowly lifting the chain higher and higher. “In the end, you will do as I want and even come to enjoy it. So why subject yourself to this pain, Beatrice?”
The American girl has such beautiful skin observed Soraya. There is not a blemish on her body. And once she had experienced the pleasures of the flesh, she will welcome their return, even seek them out. Now she cries and resists but that will pass. When Abdullah has finished with her, I will take her to my room and enjoy her. I will ask Aminah and Bashira to join us. All Abdullah’s wives should share her beauty.
With her wrists bound tightly behind her back by a length of rough hemp and a short chain connecting her manacled ankles, Beatrice was not only helpless but completely at the mercy of the spice merchant Abdullah and his eldest wife Soraya. Soraya grasped the chain in one hand while placing her other hand in the center of Beatrice’s shoulder blades. Soraya was experienced at forcing young innocent females to service Abdullah. She enjoyed the challenge when they resisted and she had to bend them to her will using pain as her instrument.
Beatrice began to whimper as Soraya raised the chain bending her arms slowly upward rotating the round bones of her shoulder sockets to where Beatrice sensed that her tendons were beginning to tear. The agony was too great. Beatrice was forced to comply with Soraya’s demand.
“Please stop, I’ll do it,” repeated Beatrice unable to withstand the pain.
“No, don’t, sis, don’t do it,” shouted Eddie, Beatrice’s older brother by a year. Beatrice was startled to hear her brother’s voice. She had not realized he was nearby. He was in the far corner of he room. It was darker there but Beatrice, her eyes adjusted to the dim light, could see he wasn’t alone.

[Fox]

The Picture: An American Girl in Aden

Yemen, 1880

“As-salaam 'aleikum.”

“wa 'aleiku-ssalaam.” The visitors responded.

“Welcome, welcome. Please seat yourselves. Be at ease. You are honored guests in my humble home.”

Mr. and Mrs. Walter Carrstairs sat down nervously on a plush upholstered chaise. They were anxious not to cause their host any offence. This rich Yemeni’s home was the largest and most lavish they had visited on their travels, and ‘humble’ was not the first word that sprung to mind.

A slim dark-skinned servant girl entered the room carrying a small silver tray. She placed it lightly on a small table, gestured submissively to the Vizier, and left closing the door silently behind her. If your eyes were closed you would not have been aware of her presence, only the fragrance of what she brought into the room.

“Mint tea?” The Vizier offered.

“Shoo kran.” Mrs. Carrstairs politely replied. Such an offer was never to be declined. In any case, Mrs. Carrstairs had acquired a taste for it during her family’s two-month cultural tour of Arabia. They sipped, and exchanged small talk about the historical sites in Aden and the surrounding villages. She was quite taken with the swarthy but cultured Arab.

Walt Carrstairs, a Chicagoan industrialist who made his fortune building the transcontinental railway, could barely contain his irritation as his wife diligently made small talk with their host. Why the hell couldn’t these Arabs get to the point? There was a serious matter to be resolved. At the next pause he interjected.

“My daughter... Catherine.” Mr. Carrstairs fought to restrain his voice. “Can you help us or not?”

“Of course we must discuss Catherine. It was... a most regrettable incident. I am sure she meant no harm. However, you must accept that her actions at the Abaan Mosque caused grave offence. Were it not for that French trader, Monsieur Rimbaud, intervening on her behalf they say there might have been a riot.”

“Yes, that is what we heard. We hope to thank Monsieur Rimbaud personally, but right now I want to see Catherine. Where is my daughter?”

“She is... safe. Negotiations are proceeding between the mullah and the British port authorities. Naturally I have exerted every possible influence to appeal for leniency. I think that with a statement of contrition she will be spared prison, Inshaallah.

Mrs. Carrstairs allowed herself a fleeting smile. It was the best news she had heard for two days. “What about lashes? Somebody said she might receive twenty lashes?”

The Vizier sighed sympathetically. “I fear that will be the case, but for a healthy young woman it will cause no permanent damage. More tea?”

After agreeing that they would return in the late afternoon, the Carrstairs departed. It was hard to accept that for the first time in her life, somebody other than themselves was the arbiter of Catherine's fate.

***

The sixteen-year-old Catherine Carrstairs sat serenely on the stone floor of the prison cell; her ankles were folded in front of her, her knees spread wide. Heavy iron manacles had been locked on her wrists, connected by eleven equally heavy links. It was funny, she thought, because eleven was supposed to be her lucky number. She constantly fingered the jumble of chain on her lap like a crude rosary. Each bump, indent and rust spot on every link, she had memorized. She’d been in the same cell and wearing these same chains, and the same itchy garments for the best part of two days.

There was a cell mate, her only companion in this nightmare. Shazira was her name. That was all she knew about her. Catherine’s inability to speak Arabic had limited their communications to friendly gestures. Holding up the fingers of their shackled hands, they had at least ascertained the other’s ages. Shazira, was twenty-two, although Catherine thought she looked older.

From the small vent at the top of their cell, came the sound of the muezzin calling the faithful to midday prayers. Shazira had taught Catherine at least one Arabic word. ‘Salaat!’ she would say, unrolling her prayer mat, and insisting that Catherine do likewise and pray.

Catherine leant forward and rolled out her small woven prayer mat. She crouched on it to pray, following Shazira’s example. There was much to pray about.

“Dear Allah, please forgive me for running around your mosque with my shoes on. As I said to you before, I became confused when some men shouted at me. I ran away in the wrong direction, straight into the mosque, and saw that the men were still chasing me. That’s why I kept running and ended up in the hall where lots of men were praying to you. I was wearing a headscarf but it snagged on a floral display and came off me. That’s when I broke the big vase too, but it wasn’t done on purpose...

“...I know it was very wrong of me to kick the man, particularly in that place... I mean that place on him, as well as in the mosque. I hope he feels better soon... and bless Mr. Rimbaud for protecting me outside the mosque... and please look after Mom and Dad and tell them not to worry about me and that I love them very much... Amen.”

Her voice choked as it always did at those final words. She quickly wiped away a tear with a clumsy hand. Despite the emotion she felt better for having prayed. She was comforted to learn that Allah understood English. How her father laughed when she told him that! She didn’t understand what he found so funny. At a time like this it was very helpful to speak with Allah.

Yesterday in the cell, she and Shazira were given lunch after the midday prayers but today, disappointingly, nothing arrived. Shazira seemed agitated after the prayers, as if she were expecting something bad to happen. She was right. The sound of heavy footfalls was moving their way, becoming louder with every step.

Four men stood outside the cell door. They were prison guards and army militia. Catherine and Shazira stood nervously against the far wall. A man, holding the largest bunch of keys Catherine had ever seen, unlocked the door. She wondered why a man carried more shackles, as she and Shazira were already in chains. He bent down and attached those shackles to her ankles. They weren’t tight but rested heavily on her anklebones. The chain between them was ready to trip her the moment she started walking. A man gripped the chain between her hands and led her from the cell. Nobody had uttered a word. That was what Catherine found most scary.

The ankle chains were much worse than those on her wrists; they grazed her skin as she walked. Stumbling, she adjusted her stride, keeping her feet apart and made ungainly shuffling steps.

They entered a large, high ceiling room, perhaps more like small hall. Chairs lined the otherwise unfurnished room on all sides, but it was scene in the middle that most concerned Catherine as she gazed around.

Two women were kneeling on the floor about twenty-feet apart. Looking closer, Catherine could see they were each hunched over and attached with chains to a small wooden frame designed to keep them in their prayerful position. She was being led to the unoccupied frame between the two. They made her kneel down and lean over it. The frame was equipped with its own manacles for wrists and ankles but her captors did not remove her existing shackles, they simply locked the frame’s shackles alongside her own ones.

Doubly bound by chains, Catherine rested her belly on the wooden surface, obliging her to lean forward, while men meddled with the garment she wore. Something came free with a ripping sound. She felt a gentle breeze flow across her spine. Her back was completely bare.

In front of Catherine, Shazira was kneeling and being fixed to a slightly different kind of frame. Her left hand was held across a heavy block. Somebody spread her fingers flat and wide. U-shaped iron nails were hammered into the wooden surface, pinning down each finger without regard for the woman’s pain. The manacle was unlocked and removed from that wrist. It was no longer required.

All the men left the room. The door slammed, then there was silence; a terrible, fearful silence as the four restrained women contemplated their fate.