 ADULTS 18+ ONLY WARNING: colour red = sexually graphic material. All names of people and places used in this story have been changed or are fictitious. Any resemblance of any character to anyone living is entirely coincidental and unintended. Photos for illustration only. No one depicted had anything to do with the following story. This story follows from "Part 1: A Sticky Situation." To read Click here. The Naked Prisoner - XXX When I came round the first thing I remember was the smell of cinammon and ginger. I was naked and lying face down across a banquet table laden with exotic deserts. In the centre of the room I glimpsed the Great Leader amid a gaggle of assembled officers and dignitries, all drinking and chatting and seemingly taking little notice of my incongrous presence. Except when every now and again, while I pretended to be still unconscious, officers and politicians of various rank would wander over to the table. Then each would unzip his flies, open my mouth, thrust his limp cock inside it and, mostly, either pretend to piss or release a few drops. Only two, one of whom I recognised as Uday Hussein, Saddam's elder son, actually raised the flood gates. I think the others were too worried that any spillage might damage the magnificent Persian rug, which judging by its' sensuous silken softness, may have disturbed the otherwise relaxed and happy mood of Uday's father. "Salaam alaikum," Saddam Hussein tapped the end of the table with the first impliment the came to mind which in this case was a vibrator that a lieutenant-colonel had discarded carelessly next to a Black Forest gateau. A general standing next to him seemed particularly curious but judged it impolite to interrupt the Great Leader in mid-flow. "I've invited you all here today to give you great news. As you know Doctor Von Raulus, our esteemed and honoured Austrian guest;" everyone except the great Von Raulus himself laughed heartily at this aside, "has been working night and day to discover a weapon for us which will defeat the Americans." I knew, according to what that the Second Secretary of UNSCOM** had warned me, that Von Raulus was under suspicion of ocassionally deviating from his Hippocratic duties. One of UNSCOM's top female scientists had complained that she had gone to Doctor Von Raulus worried about symptoms of possible radiation sickness which had emerged on her left buttock. Fortunately, according to Von Raulus' notes, it was only a birthmark which she had never before noticed. However, the unflappable doctor, not wishing to insult his patient's intelligence, had allegedly administered numerous slaps, each at a supposedly different pitch and frequency in order to, as he put it, "ascertain the nature of your affliction," before instructing her to return every few days for a check-up. She immediately filed an official complaint and later it turned out that the "furious feminist" as we all laughingly dismissed her, was herself suspected of breaking UNSCOM's rules by moonlighting for the Mukhabarat - Iraq's Main Intelligence Agency. It was only then that Second Secretary decided upon an internal enquiry.* My mind was forced back to the present as the clapping which had greeted Saddam Hussein's opening remarks subsided, and the Great Leader himself strolled over to where I was lying, legs wide apart naked across the table, and helped himself to a basket of figs which lay precariously balanced on my buttocks. He offered one to his official food taster who pronounced the fruit fit for the Hero President's stomach. "Dr Von Raulus has invented," Sadam continued between mouthfulls of fruit, "a small tablet which when dissolved in any liquid turns anyone who even sips a minute quantity into a depraved transexual masochist. I am correct, am I not Doctor ?" "Yes," the Doctor confirmed with a distinct mittel-european accent, "ze transformation process takes about zixty minutes but it lasts years before eventually killing its' victim. I shall get Captain Assad to demonstrate shortly, as soon as our captive patient recovers consciousness, the terrible and disgusting pathology which zis tablet induces." Saddam Hussein looked a little annoyed that the doctor, as usual, was trying to steal all the glory for himself. "Our Doctor," interjected the Great Leader, "knows so much about pathological sexual behaviour." The remark was greeted with loud laughter, and I reflected that the scene seemed splendidly to mirror the glorious image of a Soviet Realist painting which quite inexplicably hung centre stage in the Banqueting hall. Entitled "Stalin in Jovial Mood Chats with Coal Miners" its' focus was a beaming uniformed leader addressing an attentive audience who had gathered around him, displaying their bare chested youthful muscularity with a spartan innocence; the outline of the pit itself looming conspicuously in the background. But the difficulty of balancing the basket of fruits on my naked buttocks while feigning unconsciousness reminded me that there were also a few disimilarities. I tried desperately not to let a major spillage of figs interrupt the Great Leader who had now reached a crucial part of his speach. "Iraqi Airways," Saddam slapped his knee with childish delight. "Iraqi Airways are the answer to our prayers. We will use a passenger aircraft to drop this lethal sex-perverting cocktail on our American friends. They will not shoot down an aircraft packed with civilians." At this remark several officers, remembering the recent fate of Iran Air flight 655, tried to hide their doubtful expressions. "We will say there has been an emergency at Basra airfield," the Hero President continued. "May be we can claim the Americans themselves have attacked the radar facilities there. And then our pilot, who can claim to be running low on fuel, can insist on flying on to Kuwait City. As soon as the aircraft crosses the frontier the chemical will be released through specially fitted ducts in the wings." "We will need advice from our meteorological officers on the best timing for the attack." Saddam turned to two young officers who nodded obediently. "Just imagine what effect it will have," he continued. "Within hours GIs will be rubbing honey between their buttocks in a bid to win the attention of passing camels while Kuwaiti satellite TV channels broadcast the filthy images live across the Middle East. From Rabat to Riyadh the people will take to the streets clamouring for my intervention to uphold Islamic traditions." At this point one of his senior generals couldn't resist the temptation to heap praise on Saddam's brilliant strategic thinking. "History and science hold no secrets from you, Great Leader," and another added in a deliberately audible aside, "Now we've got the Americans fucked !" These remarks seemed to please both the Great Leader and his audience. And moments later, sensing that Saddam had either finished his speach or was perhaps taking a much needed rest, either of which required his intervention, an officer began clapping loudly and his applause was immediately echoed by the generals, metereologists, immams, senior party members and even the cocktail servers. It was at that moment, in an inexcusable burst of enthusiasm, that I interrupted. "Sodomize me, Great Leader. Please, please sodomize me !" I pleaded as my fingers prized aside my buttocks. "Show me your succulent cock that I may be so honoured to touch it with the tip of my tongue." A deathly silence filled the room. The generals, who had moments earlier, known exactly when and how to interject the right turn of phrase or eulogy, didn't dare speak and a cocktail server, who had only moments earlier been kicked in the balls by Uday for having served his champagne without the three pieces of ice he had requested, lost his nerve and allowed one of his precariously balanced trays of glasses to descend crashing to the floor. Then, suddenly the doors were flung open. "Paradise, at last, take me to your torture chamber !" I exclaimed As three gymn trained soldiers from Saddam Hussein's amn khas - his own private security - dashed across the room to restrain me, one of them gagging my mouth to prevent any further embarassment, while another grabbed my arms in a brutal arm lock and a third took a tight grasp of my feet. It was that moment that everybody's attention turned to the "Hero-President". He was doubled up. A look of grave concern overtook the generals, though Uday himself looked inexplicably hopeful, as Saddam spluttered. Was it a heart attack ? Again momentary paralysis struck the entire assembly. Then, suddenly, a cocktail cherry was successfully dislodged by a cough from the Great Leader's lungs, and he spluttered briefly before laughing loudly, whether to cover his near misfortune or because of his innate sense of humour I will never know. But, immediately the whole room was laughing, reinforced by what seemed to be an inaudible but tangible collective sigh of relief. "Well there's solid evidence," Saddam declared once the laughter had died down, "of total sexual depravity. I could understand it if this thing was a pretty transexual." More laughter echoed around the Banqueting Hall. "But such an ungly one ! This animal revolts me. But atleast we can be confident of complete victory once our sex weapon is deployed." "And now, let's teach this UN inspector a lesson," the Great Leader suggested. " Uday, your sexual prowess is legendary." This remark was greeted with more smirks and laughter around the Hall. "Let's see if your weapon of mass destruction can't induce a bit of respect and humility in this animal." I was a little disappointed by the benevolence of Saddam's remarks. I had hoped to have been sentenced to being sodomized, deep throated and executed simultaneously. But what was I thinking ? This Iraqi sex potion was definitely fairly potent ! And this was lucky because it seemed the Hero-President had realized that, despite his great news, he had not quite lived up to his reputation of party host without equal. "And when you've finished smear the pervert with pork fat and feed him to the starving Alsatians," Saddam added raising a champagne flute. "To victory !" and his toast was repeated two hundred times around the Hall. His idea, though not totally original, was delightfully appropriate. I remembered my mother reading to me the story of Jezebel from the Bible [ I am from a christian family ]. The evil prostitute Jezebel had tried to seduce King Jehu but failed and she was fed to the dogs who "devoured all but her skull, feet, and the palms of her hands." The story provoked the worst nightmare of my childhood. I was sitting at my mother's dressing table and applying lashings of make-up, nice and thick, when suddenly I heard the barking and snarls of starving dogs. I screamed as I lept out of bed. I never had a transexual desire since, atleast not until now. I couldn't understand why I had been so frightened. I longed to be ravished by well-hung dogs. But I didn't want to dwell on future pleasures. The twenty nine year old son of the Great Leader made his way across to the table with some difficulty. He handed his glass of champagne flute to a waiter and seemed to have difficulty even unzipping his flies. In the background groups of military men and politicians had started to talk again as Saddam himself feigned disinterest in my fate. However I was delighted to notice that several elderly generals were glancing sideways at my buttocks, anxious not to miss any of the action. And within a few moments, a rather lengthy queue had formed behind Uday. As he approached I could smell the stench of alcohol. Immediately, one of the guards who held me pinned to the table forced apart my buttocks as wide as possible to facilitate the entry of Uday's massive weapon into my own "sovereign territory." Despite my masochistic yearnings, I was shocked by the intense pain caused by the insertion of his extremely thick cock. And as he began to thrust it ever inwards the pain, though in its own way delightful, became unbearable. "Please, mercy," I screamed. But, as the candid film taken from the huge ornate mirror would later show, this resistance brought an intense look of satisfaction to Uday's face, and he exerted himself with every ounce of thrust his body could muster. There's room for two more," Uday declared between my screams and his gasps for air. "This man-whore's arse is wider than the Euphrates." The second and third in line were an elderly immam and a young Iraqi farm labourer. The muscle bound peasant had been summoned to the Presidential Palace to receive the Saddam Hussein award for outstanding workmanship, stanima and productivity. An hour earlier, according to newspaper accounts I later read, he had stood smiling next to the Great Leader himself as TV and newspaper journalists crowded round, competing for suitable soundbites from the two men. Now the youth rammed his massive shovel into my arse with the same untiring energy and single-minded determination that had won him the award. At the first blow, I screamed in agony. Now I had two massive pricks plunging the depths of my rectum with a competitive recklessness. Uday, aware that his masculinity was been challenged by a peasant, must have been gravely concerned the upstart would ejaculate first despite his own initial head start. That would make him the laughing stock of Iraq's chattering classes. He knew he must quicly find the energy for the all-out offensive that would deliver the final victory. "No, Stop, I'll do anything," I screamed, surprised that their were limits to even my perverted level of pain tolerance. As I later told my wife, I owed my survival to the Immam. I will always be indebted to him. He struggled unsucessfully in the competition and gracefully withdrew after only thirty seconds, a little shamefaced, from the race. It was my great fortune that the fourth in line was an elderly Air Force general who was busy boasting to a young Colonel, fifth in line, about his exploits as a Mig 29 pilot in the Iran-Iraq war. The Colonel, keen to attain rapid promotion, flirted incorrigibly as they both picked at assorted specimens from a giant plate of Belgian chocolates. Needless to say, neither noticed the retirement of the immam, despite polite hints coming from the sixth, seventh and eighth in line. They seemed to be relatively junior officers. I was amazed when I finally viewed a copy of the candid film posted to my office at UNSCOM's Baghdad headquarters, that the orderly queue stretched past six ornately framed Italian landscape paintings, past five windows drapped with heavy burgundy velvet curtains and out of the wide Louis XIV style swing doors at the entrance to the Hall. It was much longer even than the queue of elderly and mostly rather plump but patient officers waiting to greet the Great Leader. One by one they stepped forwards to shake his outstretched hand and embrace his cheeks before stepping backwards with a final salute even as my screams echoed around the Hall. Uday's thrusts were excrutiating, but the Labourer plunged his prick into my arse with a much more lethal ferocity and frequency. Even now I cannot be moved except in a wheel chair without being instantly reminded of the life-time injuries his delicious assault caused. I think it can only be explained by his legendary stamina and years of frustrated sexual isolation. Despite Uday's head start, it was the young farm labourer's pre-ejaculatory gasps that were the first warning of a tidal wave of hot spunk. But seconds prior to the moment of climax, I heard the sound of many steps on the marble staircase outside. I heard Uday mutter "Shit. who the fuck's that ?" as he rapidly withdrew his cock, imagining an imminent assassination attempt. But the youth didn't seem to notice. Indeed his agricultural arms grasped me with a vice-like grip as his groans grew louder. And then he came. Spurt after spurt shot deep inside me. Where was it all coming from ? If his spunk was Iraqi crude the dollar price of world oil would have tumbled. Unfortunately, however, the world's oil markets were about to rocket in the opposite direction. I suspected, correctly, that the steps which now approached the entrance were those of a surprise UN weapons inspection team with the world's press in tow. Saddam, who suspected likewise, hurriedly exited through a side door along with several ministers, generals, heavily armed security guards and Dr Von Raulus. Uday, who was succumbing to the effects of his fifteenth glass of champagne, was still struggling to put his shoes on. He had forgotten that his trousers still lay, along with a tray of canapes, in the arms of an ever patient waiter who's testicles were still reeling as a result of his earlier misconduct. And the labourer, proving that even his legendary energies were finite, lay stretched over me, his trousers lying where he had thrown them, across a bowl of tiramasu. To be continued shortly. *The episode involving the UNSCOM doctor is purely fictious. It actually involved a female Iraqi doctor and an American male scientist, both of whose identities I have been instructed to protect. **As far as I am aware there never was a Second Secretary of UNSCOM and if there was then it was not he who warned me. The identity of the person concerned has been changed. It should be stressed that the photographs on this page are for illustrative purposes only. No one depicted in them have anything to do with this story. Is your right hand exhausted by sordid sex stories ? Discover gay destinations in Egypt - click here ! Browse through hundreds of personal ads - click here ! Learn some Arabic sex slang - click herex ! |