Academically, I’m not the brightest, even I must admit that. However, I am normally street wise. In the back of the chauffeur driven, massive black, Mercedes Range Rover like thing, I was starting to feel concerned. Something was wrong and I had walked right into it.

Ahmed had enticed me to join him for a three-week holiday in his villa in Saudi Arabia. Even I knew Saudi is not a great place for women but first-class travel to his family’s estate sounded like the trip of a lifetime.

I had known Ahmed for the last five months and I had been, basically, living with him for the last two months. Ahmed had insisted that I kept paying the rent on the room I rented in a shared house. Something to do with his flat been owned by the Saudi bank that he worked for. And they were very strait-laced about men living with women when they weren’t married. The rent, in Ahmed’s terms, was peanuts and as Ahmed paid for absolutely everything else, I didn’t complain.

Finally, after three hours of fast driving south (according to Ahmed) from Riyadh’s International Airport, we turned into a gated private road. The gates just automatically open for us. In those three hours we had been driving into ever more desolate desert. For the last 30 minutes I hadn’t seen a single building of any type and on the road very few other vehicles. The private road must have been over a mile long and then, rising up from the desert’s sand and rocks, something like an American, up-market, country club. It just appeared from nowhere. This place gave a new meaning to the word, isolated, and I was very uncomfortable by the whole place but turning back didn’t appear to be an option.

The car weaved through small roads until it stopped outside a large bungalow, by U.K. standards, small compared to the other houses on this estate. We stepped out of the air-conditioned car to be hit by the full force of Saudi’s desert heat. It literally made it hard for me to breathe. Ahmed and the driver didn’t seem to even notice it. The bungalow was as cool as the car, much to my relief. The air-con must have been on hours before we arrived.

As soon as the driver had dropped our bags into the bedroom and left us Ahmed announced that we were due to attend a small gathering at his Uncle Yusuf’s country house. I had less than two hours to shower and dress. I was very irritated and nervous. This was supposed to be just a quiet break for the two of us. No family gathering had been mentioned when he sold the idea to me. Added to all that, I had, unusually for me, a dodgy tummy for the whole flight from the UK. That had been embarrassing enough with Ahmed but suffering at second bout at a family dinner would be awful.

Sometimes Ahmed can turn very Arab, controlling and intransigent. This was one of those times. I was going, no matter if I wanted to or not. Okay, so I was off to meet some of his Saudi Arabian family and friends; what on earth should I wear. I am not known for my modest, conservative dress sense. I through a few things on the bed that I thought weren’t too bad and went for a shower.

Ahmed was waiting for me in the bedroom when I returned dripping wet.

‘I don’t like any of them’. He stated, waving a hand in the direction of the bed. ‘I want you to wear the black cocktail dress I brought you two or three weeks ago in that shop off Knightsbridge High Street. I love that dress, especially with you in it. What’s the point of having a beautiful girlfriend if I can’t show you off.’

I was left speechless, which is unusual for me. In the pause that followed Ahmed took the opportunity to cross the room and give me a careful kiss, he didn’t want to get his immaculate suit wet, and gave my wet bottom a playful slap.

‘Good girl’ and turned to leave.

I blurted out ‘Won’t all the other women be wearing those burqa things.’

Ahmed kept walking away but did call back. ‘No, in the privacy of their own homes Saudi women dress to impress their men and they do it very well.’

That was the end of that conversation. I was going to turn up in a short, tight fitting, spandex, black, cocktail dress with the boob cups built into it. Don’t get me wrong, normally I jump at the chance to wear dresses like this. I’m usually too keen to flaunt my assets, they’ve served me very well, but on that day it felt very inappropriate. However, Ahmed had made it very clear what he wanted. I was in his house, in his country, meeting his family so I did as I was told.

I guess I should give you some back-ground on me, Rebecca Reed. Age 19. Brought up by my single mum who liked, and still does, alcohol and men too much for her own good; and mine. Dad vanished back to Ireland when I was about a year old, I’ve never seen him. Hated school. I was the small, shy, kid with frizzy ginger hair who was always bullied and was rubbish at all subjects even sport. The change that surprised everyone, especially me, happen when I hit puberty. It was my hair that started to change first. It got darker and heavier. I now have natural, fairly long, dark red hair with soft waves in it. I love it so much that I’ve never dyed it. I also grew a lot. Legs, my skinny rear changed into a rounded feminine bottom, and I got boobs. Very big boobs, in the last year of school they were size D cup, which even I was slightly embarrassed by. They didn’t look natural on my slim body. They have calmed down a bit since then to size C which is plenty large enough on my body. The only thing that didn’t grow much was my waist. The result of all this was that I really did enjoy my last year of school. I was miss popular with all the boys, the cool girls and even most of the male teachers. It was great and very good fun, but it didn’t help my exam results. I left school as soon as I could. I also left home, issues with a few of mum’s male friends, and I started working in a local South London clothes shop. That is where my whole life story could have stagnated except for a late 50-year-old woman who worked in the same shop. I didn’t like her and I’m sure she wasn’t keen on me. I had been there for over 6 months when she called me into her small cupboard of an office. I just assumed I was going to get another telling off.

‘Rebecca, you irritate the life out of me. I assume you know that?’ Was her opening gambit. ‘You could have the world at your feet. You’re not stupid and have the looks of a Hollywood super star yet you’re just following the same road your mother went down.’ I didn’t know she knew my mother, but she did.

‘By 25 you’ll look old, and life will be downhill from there on in. Get some ambition, learn to speak the Queen’s English and get out of here. The West End, Mayfair, Knightsbridge there’re all just waiting for you.’

Unbelievably, I actually took her advice and it worked. She had been so right about everything except the small point of not been stupid. Sometimes I can be really, really, stupid.

Following Ahmed’s instructions, I left the house wearing the cocktail dress, a black lacy thong, retro 1950’s stilettos and a heavy gold necklace, that Ahmed had also brought for me, nothing else. Ahmed’s Porsche was just waiting for him in the garage, all ready to go, so we arrived in style.

The number of cars outside the main house added to my anxiety. There were very expensive cars everywhere. In the central turning circle stood a middle aged man in a traditional Arabic robe. I assumed he was a servant telling guest where to park. He wasn’t, this was Ahmed’s famous Uncle Yusuf. Somehow, he knew the precise time we would arrive. Ahmed and Yusuf greeted each other as though they were father and son who had not seen each other in years. Hugs and back patting, complete with a stream of excited Arabic. I felt forgotten and alone. It was much to my relief, when I was finally introduced to Yusuf. He was charming and his English better than mine, no Arabic accent at all. My relief didn’t last long.

‘I’ll escort beautiful Rebecca into the house and start introducing her around, if you’re happy to run that errand for me.’ Yusuf’s words may sound like a question but he had such an air of command about him this was actually just a statement of what was going to happen. ‘Of course, no problem.’ Was Ahmed’s instant reply. And with that he got straight back into his Porsche and drove off into the twilight.

Yusuf must had sensed my concern. He put out his arm for me to take. Than, with a little pat on my hand said, ‘I’ll take care of you, just you see.’ He sounded friendly but I wasn’t convinced.

With no other option available to me I walked up the steps into the massive open front door. It was like entering a big prestige hotel. The hall was bigger than most UK houses with a broad gently curving staircase going up to the balcony on the second floor. We turned left heading towards the sound of soft western pop music. At least that was a little reassuring.

The door we were heading to, had a uniformed male servant who nodded subserviently to Yusuf as he open the door for us. I was just thinking to myself whether the poor man was going to stand there all evening as we entered the room with the music. It was very dark compared to the hall, so dark it took my eyes five seconds or so to start working again. When they did, I just stopped walking, therefore, so did Yusuf.

Yusuf’s clear voice cut through the music and the low background whispering. ‘Someone turn-on some lights.’

The lights came on, all of them, immediately. The room had about 20 men, everyone in traditional dress, lining the walls. Everyone of them ogling me.

‘This is all wrong. Ahmed said it’s just a small family party. Where are all the women?’ I said quietly to Yusuf.

‘These are all family or close friends my dear.’ Was Yusuf’s lofty reply.

‘Where are all the women?’ I repeated.

‘Ah, well that’s a bit awkward. It wouldn’t be right to invite decent, god loving, women with you being here; would it?’

I just stared at his face in confusion.

‘Well, you’re Ahmed’s godless, western, whore. Aren’t you. My friends and I thought you may like to dance for us. Ahmed said you enjoyed dancing and are, very good.’

I was so stunned by his words initially I did nothing. My anger burst out a second or two later.

‘Fuck you, fuck all of you sick bastards.’ And I tried to storm back to the door.

I didn’t get far. Behind Yusuf three tough looking men had formed up to block my retreat. As I tried to push passed them both my arms were grabbed by different men. Each man held a wrist and put their other hand on my shoulder blade. Whilst pulling my arms back they brutally shoved my body forward and ran me into the nearest wall. I had enough time to protect my face by turning my head sideways and back a bit before I was smashed into the wall. My breasts and chest absorbing the impact. It knocked the breath out of me as well as causing pain to my boobs. Within moments, well before I had any chance to recover, a heavy black cloth bag was forced over my head and the draw string pulled tight. Tied off with a knot at the back of my neck. By that point I had enough breath back into my lungs to start screaming. The bag muffled my noise and made breathing difficult. I was trying to fight back and scream while living off my own hot, stale air. All I could hear was laughter. No one seemed at all concerned that I was trying to scream the house down.

A rope around my wrists followed. My body and arms were firmly pinned but my legs weren’t, so I managed to shift my weight onto my right leg and kick backwards with my left. It had no real power as the wall stopped any swing forward first. It also failed to hit any target. One of my attackers was either very alert or knew it was coming. Either way the result was the same. He caught hold of my ankle and forced it up, so my heel touched the back of my thigh. That completely immobilised me. I carried on screaming but they didn’t care.

Carefully and slowly, they bound my two wrists securely together. A much longer rope was used to firstly wrap around my lifted ankle. Once that was complete it was aggressively pulled down and locked to my other ankle.

I have no idea of how long they took to tie me so securely, but it was not long. It’s difficult to keep any sense of time when your as scared as I was, and it was only going to get worse.

Finally, pulled back from the wall I was just picked up like a big squirming fish. One man on each side holding my upper arms, painful on the shoulder joints, and a third holding my feet; face pointing to the floor. All I could hear was cheering, clapping, men. The sound of excited men overwhelming the music system and any noise I was making. The exuberant parade, with me in its centre, travel some way. Along corridors into other rooms finally out into the hot evening air.

The fear of what is coming next filled my brain. The three men carrying me broke into a run and the crowd noise increased. They launch me forward and I was falling in free space. I tried to brace myself for the impact onto the ground. It didn’t happen, I hit cold water. The chlorinated water swallowing me down. I was being drowned in a swimming pool.

I tried to think calmly. Surely, Ahmed and his uncle didn’t spend this amount of time and money getting me to Saudi just to drown me in the first few hours of my arrival? It didn’t make sense but here I was tied up like a chicken under water! My second thought was more useful. Humans float.

Twisting around in the water so I hoped my face was pointing to the surface I tried my best to relax and let floatation bring me back to the surface. It took a lot longer than I hoped but it did work. The problem was the cloth bag. It was sodden with water so it was very hard to know if my face was actually above the water. Even if it was, I was breathing through the soaking wet material that was both difficult and its wetness disorienting. This was water boarding and as a torture it does work well. Your prime driver to breathe gets totally confused, the result, total, uncontrollable, panic. I think I managed to get a couple of half breaths of air mixed with water and a spark of hope was just beginning to form when my world changed again. Someone pulled on the rope attached to my ankles, lifting my feet a few inches out of the water. When your feet go up your head goes down. All rational thought stopped after that. I think I got a few more half breaths in the following two or three minutes. It was just a mindless fight for life that I knew I could not win. Eventually and painfully my lungs filled with water and my mind started closing down. The powerful yank on the rope pulling me out of the water, feet first, was just a deliverance from hell.

I have only dim memories of been lifted out of the pool and the hood been removed. Air was all that mattered.

Full, rational, thought only returned whilst I was laying on my side, on the grass, though I was still puking and coughing. My lungs and throat burning, and I was absolutely exhausted. All the men, except Yusuf, stood around me in a circle smiling and joking. They all looked very pleased with themselves.

When I finally stopped coughing two men hauled me to my bound feet and dragged me across to where Yusuf was sitting beside the flood lit pool.

‘Are you, now, keen and eager to shake what you’ve got for my friends entertainment on our little stage?’

I was coward and defeated. Prepared to do anything to survive but anger and resentment was also still alive within me.

‘I’ll do anything you fucking want me to do.’ Was my simple retort.

Yusuf gave me a parental look of disappointment before he replied. ‘What a foul mouthed, impolite, whore, you are. Shame.’

He gave the men holding me the smallest of nods as he spoke his final word. They both gave me a small nudge backwards and let go of me as his last word was still entering my head. All I had time to do was let out a feeble squeak before my back hit the water. I was back in the pool again fighting for my life; again.

Without the hood I could see the surface of the water and knew for sure when my mouth was above the water line. I assumed that this must make surviving easier. I soon discovered the problem. My tortures also knew when I could take air and when I couldn’t.

They took turns holding the rope. It was just a fun game for them all to enjoy. Giving me just enough slack, in the rope, to have an occasional breath to keep me alive. Whilst also ensuring I remained in perpetual, abject, frantic, need for air. Once I started to tire, they abandoned the rope. I was clearly drowning without their added assistance. I was in the water longer this time. Some of the men weren’t even bothering to look at me. It appeared to me that I was not entertaining enough, they were just leaving me to die. Any hope of surviving was fading as water enter my lungs and I just started to sink.

My extraction from the pool was fast and efficient, when it eventually came. I had a passing thought that they were well practised at this torture technique.

Back on the grass, spewing water out of my body, I barely noticed when my legs were untied. I believe I was left on the ground for some time. I may have actually slept for a few seconds once I stopped coughing. It’s hard to put into words how tired I was.

A kick, up, my backside; if you know what I mean, put an end to my recovery.

‘Up-you-get. Onto your knees. Time for another chat.’ Just the sound of Yusuf’s voice was enough to bring the terror of the pool back and get the adrenaline flooding back into my system.

Getting up onto your knees when you’re totally exhausted and have your hands tied behind your back isn’t as easy as it sounds. Wearing a tight, wet, dress that wanted to cling onto my thighs didn’t make it any easier. After a few false starts I managed it. Determined not to give Yusuf any excuse to throw me back into the water I focused on trying to please my tormenter.

Kneeling to attention, thighs and back as straight as possible, eyes downcast, looking at his feet. He wanted me submissive and compliant and that was what I was going to give him.

He said nothing for 30 seconds or so, he just looked down at me.

‘The western whore appears to know some respect. What do you want to do now?’ was Yusuf’s question.

‘I would like the honour, of been allowed to dance for you and your friends, Sir.’ I answered as meekly and subserviently as I could. I know I sounded ridiculously sycophantic, but I was terrified. Yusuf had broken me. Anyway, it worked, to some extent...

‘Good girl, I’m pleased to hear it. But have you enough energy in you to perform some sexy, erotic, dancing? I would be very, unhappy, if my friends were disappointed; especially after this long delay.’

The threat was clear, also was the fact that I now had to plead my case to be allowed to dance. My premonition that the alternative to dancing would prove fatal, filled my head.

I started meekly. ‘Sir, I know I’m tired, but I can promise you this,’ I paused and looked up into his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t let you down.’ My eyes immediately returning to stare at his feet. ‘You and your friends will be more than pleased.’

There was a gap in the conversation. I’m sure Yusuf was just deliberately building the anxiety up in me.

‘If, you do manage to entertain my friends well; a fair few of them will want to get to know you better. A lot better. The outside of you and the inside. You know, all those warm, moist, openings you have will need to be plundered. How do you feel about that?’

Let’s be honest, this was no big surprise. Right from the start, when I first walked into that room on Yusuf’s arm to see it full of men, I just knew I’d walked into a trap. Ahmed and Yusuf had not gone to all this trouble just to see me dance. I had assumed gang rape was the likely motive. Now Yusuf was adding to my humiliation. He was asking me to agree to being gang raped and not just in the normal way. Raped in painful and foul ways. He was asking for my total unconditional surrender. The alternative was clear, back in the pool, time and time again, until I either agreed or died. There was no point in fighting against the inevitable. I’m a survivor. I knew I could endure the rape whereas the pool would eventually take my life.

‘If that would please you, Sir. I’m prepared to do all I can do to please your friends.’

‘Sensible girl. You’re learning to know your place. Imrā will sort you out and bring you back to the party shortly.’ With that Yusuf turned and headed back to the house with the men who had not got bored of watching me on the ground. Half had already returned.

From the shadows a tall woman in a full burqa appeared. ‘Up’ as all she said.

That was easier said than done. The material of my tight dress was stretched to breaking point as I struggled up onto my high heels. They were still attached to my feet, much to my surprise. I was led to a pool side shower. It’s an odd experience having a warm shower whilst dressed and my hands remained tied behind my back. Odd but it still felt good. From there I followed her into a brightly lit, and very plush, bathroom block. Here she dried my hair and face. The rest of me and my dress remained dripping wet. Despite her ultra conservative image she knew what to do with make-up. 15 minutes after arriving into the bathroom block I left fully made-up, in an eastern style and hair brushed. No words were exchanged in the whole process

Back through the mansion, following Imra as fast as I could. The marble and gold interior just making me feel insignificant and alone in this masculine world of money and power. The cheers and clapping from my awaiting audience as we re-entered the party room just increased my anxiety. In the centre of the room was what looked like an old school table, totally out of character with anything else in the house. A plain, small, rectangular worktable complete with one school chair. It was self-evident that this was to be my dancing stage. All the lights around the walls of the room had been turned off. The table sited

under the crystal chandelier was the central feature in the room. No body showed any interest in releasing my hands from behind my back or helping me clime up onto the improvised stage.

Imra just gave me a shove and said Up’.

As soon as I put my foot on the chair, I realised that watching me trying to get onto the table was just another form of entertainment for my audience. If I had fallen, I had no way to prevent myself smashing, face first, into the floor. No one in that room cared, for them it would just be funny.

It wasn’t easy but I did make it safely onto the table to the disappointment of a good number of the men watching me. The music was immediately turned up and changed to fast dance tracks. I, in turn, started to move my body as best as I could. I was left jigging around for about 20 minutes before Uncle Yusuf appeared at the front of the table with my next orders.

‘Good girl; you’re doing alright. You do have a truly beautiful body and now it’s time to show it off, properly. It’s striptease time. Everything must go except those whore’s shoes, I like them.’

I wanted to shout out a list of profanities about how could he expect me to do that with my hand still tie behind my back. Of course, I couldn’t. Even I had learnt that lesson. Instead I said the following.

‘Please Sir, could my hands be released as I don’t think it’s possible without them.’

He just smiled back at me. An amused smile showing that he was having fun.

‘Don’t underestimate yourself my dear. I have faith in you. If you need a bit of extra motivation, I am sure I or your adoring fans can help.’ With that the conversation was over. He just walked away.

I was just left there, standing still, just trying to think what to do next. My thinking time only lasted a few seconds, a burning pain exploded across my bottom. A man behind me armed with a heavy belt and a sadistic grin had hit me. Even through my dress the impact hurt like hell.

Yusuf’s clear loud voice cut through the music. ‘I think that means he wants you to continue dancing.’ My audience appreciated his humour. It just reenforced my understanding that to these men I was just a plaything of no value. I felt like a trapped deer surrounded by a pack of wolves who would enjoy ripping me apart just for the fun of it.

I wanted them to appreciate me, hopefully, even to like me. Yusuf was right, I was now motivated to entertain them.

Whilst jigging around, with new found energy, I managed to bend my arms back on themselves and work my hand up my back, to the zip at the top of my dress. Getting the zip to come down was even slower than finding it. The pack of wolves didn’t seem to mind, I was making progress and that held their attention.

Once the zip was fully down, I lent forward as far as I could go and twisted around so my left shoulder was pointing to the ground. After some shaking and a bit of a shimmy, the men enjoyed that, the shoulder strap of my dress slipped off. Repeating my new dance move for the right shoulder got the other strap off. The top of my dress falling forward got a very loud cheer from the pack.

It was now time for some serious hip gyrations and dips to work my dress down passed my back side. I had the total attention of all the men in the room now. My free boobs bouncing around wildly combined with my improvised hip dance had them mesmerised. I thought about taking my thong down at the same time as the dress but thought better of it. Yusuf asked for a striptease, so I would make of show of it, in the mad hope that that would earn me some favour with Yusuf and the crowd.

Once the hem of the dress fell to the tabletop, revealing my black, lacy, semi-transparent and tight-fitting thong, the room as filled with cheering and roars. It did, however, leave me with a big problem. The dress’s two shoulder straps were caught around my tied hands. The only way for me to completely remove the dress was to break both shoulder straps. Using my feet to anker the bottom of the dress to the table I set about trying to break the straps. Two issues became clear straight away. One, spandex is a very stretchy material and secondly it was a high-quality dress with strong shoulder straps. I literally had to slow walk up the dress. Stretching it as much as possible and them taking very small steps backwards and walk up the material. My arms weren’t strong enough to put any significant force on the straps so the only alternative was to lean as far forward as I could to stretch the dress. The men love this. All men appear to have a thing about seeing women’s breasts hanging down, swinging in the breeze. Like cow’s udders. It’s probably best not to know how the male brain works. However, it kept the gathering happy whilst I fought and long and ever increasingly strenuous battle with my dress. Eventually I heard the stitching starting to rip. A few more pulls after that I had the dress around my feet which I kicked off the table to a round of applause.

All that remain were the knickers. I did not rush this. I went back to doing some dancing and sometime just nudging them down half an inch at a time. I was given them a proper striptease. In truth I was also embarrassed of my immaculate, smooth-shaven, pussy. I did this for Ahmed, he loved both the look and feel of it. I’m shy about it, to me it’s a thing from porn and prostitutes. All the men in this room thought of me as a western prostitute and I knew I was doing everything to confirm their belief.

I couldn’t keep them waiting too long. Revealing my completely exposed vagina got yet another very loud cheer. Initially I thought that was just about the end of my striptease but it wasn’t. Getting my thong passed my bottom and hips was easy. The problem was they stayed stuck at the top of my thighs. I couldn’t reach them to push them down any further and no amount of twisting and turning succeeded in moving them from the top of my thighs. The tight elastic waist band just wouldn’t move. The crowd was getting bored. Slow clapping started. I was getting desperate. The only alternative I could think of was to try and over stretch their elasticated waist band.

If they wanted a whore to fully flaunt her assets, well that’s what they got. I did something like a wide leg, Sumo wrestler’s squat. Feet turned out, to open up my thighs as much as humanly possible. It’s probably the most unladylike pose a woman can do, when not wearing a full Pilates outfit. Thrusting out my shaven fanny from wide open legs, not that surprisingly, went down well with the gang in front of me. Plus, after ten goes it did the trick. I managed to remove my thong and kick it off the stage to follow my dress.

The excitement and sexual hunger coming from the pack of men was palpable. I assume the next and final part of my ordeal was about to start. Yet again, I was wrong. Yusuf had one more surprise trial for me to endured before the grand finale.

What looked like old tea towels were been passed around. At first, I didn’t know what was going on. Then two large bowls of, I assumed, water arrived and the ends to the tea towels were being dipped into the bowls. Old, sub pressed, memories of towel flicking fights after the school swimming lessons came back to me. I knew they hurt if you got hit. My dancing moves petered out and I had a look around the table for an escape. Sometime during the evening, the old school chair had been moved away from my stage. I was trapped on my platform without even hands to fend off the attack. The wolfs rushed at me, twisting their towels around to make thin rope like rags, as they came. The very first flick was aimed, not that surprisingly, at my cunt. I saw it coming and just manage to twist away. It hit the top, inside area of my thigh. It felt like a wasp-sting and a red mark instantly appeared. A second or two later I was surrounded by excited, noisy, men all armed with their wet stinging whips. It was overwhelming. I was being hit everywhere. My whole body was on fire. Legs, buttocks, back, stomach and most of all my crotch area. I tried hunching over to give that part of my body some protection. It was a mistake as by doing that my breasts came into easy range. The pain of that made me stagger backwards but my foot was off the table. I screamed as I fell backwards.