Kaye disembarked from the cruise ship - ready to explore the colorful
markets and roman ruins of Tunis. The plan was to spend a relaxing day
visiting the Bardo museum, walking through an old Muslim palace filled
with amazing Roman mosaics, followed by a visit to Carthage and then the
grand finale - shopping in the Tunisian Old Medina - the famed Souks.
She’d been warned to dress conservatively, not to show her chest, her
arms, her knees. Dressed safely (she thought) in jeans and a short sleeve
brown tunic, she had a black velvet jacket on over top.
It was surprisingly chilly. Crisp, 50 degrees, not the famed dry heat
moving north off the Sahara that was expected. Buttoning up her coat a
bit farther, she caught up with the tour guide, not wanting to get left
behind.
First stop, the museum. Things seemed.. mostly the same. Not as many
women roaming around, but she’d heard that Tunis was a “progressive”
Islamic country. Women had several positions of power in the government,
and girls were allowed to go to school. Still, there were rumors of white
slavery, and warnings not to be caught in the Old Medina after dark.
Snapping many a picture, she was fairly oblivious to the way her shirt
kept slipping down, until a friend hissed and said hey Kaye - you’re
exposing cleavage, pull your shirt up!
Eek, she pulled it up again and looked around to see who noticed. No one,
so far, good.
Next stop - Carthage. Not much to see here, most of the ruins had been
demolished by repeated invasions, but it was amazing to stand on the site
of so much… history!
She still hadn’t seen many locals, mostly tourists off the boat. The
vendors were fairly insistent though. This was the last cruise ship of the
season - no more tourist income until next May, and some of the men were
getting desperate.
Finally, after a lunch of mostly Americanized psuedo Tunisian fare, the
promised Medina appeared. “Now, stay close” said Maroud, the local tour
guide. Wielding a large white paddle with the number of the group boldly
printed, he warned everyone to stick together, the Souks are a
labyrinth and it’s easy to get lost. Everyone not there at 6 would get
left, and have to find their own way to the next port stop.
The deadline to get back always made Kaye nervous, but after the tour guide
dragged them into a “sponsored” shop to be force fed “hand made rugs,
cheap!” she decided to take advantage of the time to wander.
Browsing some of the market stalls, she quickly came across beautiful,
hand woven and beaded caftans. Seeing a formal gown in green that was
gorgeous, she quietly asked the proprietor how much it was and if it came
in her size.
The man gave a look to his associate, a quick, side ways glance. Kaye
didn’t know what it meant but quickly stuttered, well, um. don’t worry
about it, and tried to leave. The shop keeper quickly stopped her with a
hand to her shoulder and said “No no madam, we have a caftan for you”.
He pulled one down, and seemingly impersonally, placed the spread of his
hand over her breast “measuring” the distance from the middle to the side.
She wondered - is that normal? Did he linger a bit too long? Not knowing
any better she assumed it was normal business practice.
She tried on the Caftan. It was a bit snug, and she had a hard time
getting it off without showing her chest. That was the last thing she
needed - she already felt a bit uncomfortable without her male friends
along. What was she thinking going off by herself?
The shop keeper quickly brought out another gown. This one, a deep red,
had even more beading and flowing crepe. She pulled it over her head,
asked the shop keep if he could take a photo with her camera for her (they
had no mirror) and he complied.
He pulled it off, catching a larger glimpse this time of her breasts. She
heard him mutter something in Arabic to his collegue. Not understanding,
she just blushed and asked him how much for the Caftan. “For you Madam, 160
dollars”.
“Oh no, that’s much, to much. How about 60.”
“Madam, you insult me and my family, this caftan is made by hand. Last
price 120 dollars.”
“Sir, it’s lovely, but I’m sure I can find something else like it, thanks
anyway..”
and she made to leave.
She was surprised to find herself stopped by a large gentleman outside the
door. What? They aren’t going to let me leave?
“Madam, I see how this is, you waste my time, you want only the picture,
but you have no intention of buying my clothing. This is not a right
thing to do.”
“Sir, My final offer is $85, take it or leave it.”
Once again she tried to leave.
This time, the gentleman in the doorway pressed against her, laughing and
saying something to the other two as he pushed her back.
“What”?? She said confusedly. “Oh madam, silly little girl. You insult me,
you make a puny offer, and now you’re going to leave again.”
She tried to push past but now the other man has grabbed her wrists.
What?! She tries to yell but a scarf is shoved into her mouth. Looking
behind him, a curtain was pulled closed over the entrance.
“Now madam, I expect you to apologize for the insult. As you are aware this
is the last cruise ship, and I do need to make my shop payments. You
*will* make payment one way or another.”
“But, I only have $85 on me. Please take it, just let me go,” she tried to
say through the scarf.
“What is that?” Said the shop keeper. Do I hear the clucking of a chicken?
“I think you should try the wares”, said the man in the corner.
Roughly the shopkeeper pushed a finger into her jeans, making her squeak
in fear.
He snapped, “grab a knife, this is not convenient for me.”
Whimpering nooo! She helped by lowering the zipper.
“Ah hah! The little slut is going to help us.”
No no! She cries, she just doesn’t want to be sliced, and her clothes need
to stay intact if she’s going to get away.
Grabbing her jeans by the waistband, she’s pulled roughly over to the side
of the shop, shoved over the counter, and feels a finger shoved straight
into her cunt.
I can’t believe this is happening to me, she cried quietly to herself.
Slowly, the finger moved deeper, and she heard the men laughing to each
other.
She’s embarassed to realise she’s wet. She’d always dreamed of harem
scenes, but never like this. Her jeans are pulled down farther around her
ankles, and she hears someone moving behind her.
A cold large object is placed at the entrance to her pussy. The
shopkeeper says, “Well slut, we need to see how much you can take, how
valuable will you be to us. Are you well used? Can you take my largest
wooden club? Or will you scream and cry and resist. Just remember, if you
cooperate we might let you go. Or if you cooperate, we might just allow
you to make us back the money we’ve lost today by serving my “family”. ”
She whimpers as it starts to move inside her. No lube other than what she
is producing naturally, but she knows it will be enough. She feels her
hair pulled back roughly as the club is forced deeper, more roughly into
her. It bottoms out and she cries as it strikes her cervix.
“Oh good American slut, we see you can take a lot. Maybe you are not
worthless.”
The club is withdrawn, and then she feels a hand, no, a fist, start to
punch inside her. Quickly, hard, she can’t help but feel the beginnings
of pleasure. No, this is not happening!
Roughly turned around, she is forced to open her eyes and watch the two
men masturbate as they make catcalls to her in Arabic and the shop keeper
reams her with his hand.
Soon, his second hand joins the first, with fingers in her ass. She’s
powerless to resist as the scarf is controlled by one of the men and the
other holds her to the counter.
After he is done humiliating her with his fist, he wipes his hand off on a
rag, removes the scarf that is in her mouth, forces her head back with two
fingers in her mouth.
As he does so, he lowers his pants, showing an enormous cock. With one
shove he pummels into her. She continues to be held, immobile, unable to
resist or cry for help, as he takes her with no regard for her pleasure.
He thrusts into her again, this time hard, the next soft and quick.
He starts grunting, saying something she doesn’t understand, and she
screams for him not to come into her. He ignores her, pushes her down,
and slaps her face as he comes.
Slapping her breasts, her thighs, her face, he fingers her again, as the
second man comes up. This time, she’s flipped over, her legs in the air,
and she feels more fingers in her ass and a second cock in her pussy.
Unable to see anything other than the caftans above her, she can feel
hands on her body, tweaking, pinching, hurting her. Slapping and spanking
as she’s fucked hard against the counter.
She feels the beginnings of an orgasm, and screams against it as the
anonymous stranger hits her g-spot for the 20th time. Coming hard, he
curses and tells her that this is not for her pleasure, she is working off
a debt, and then hits her, this time, hard enough that she is stunned.
When she awakens, she is covered in fluid, her jeans are in a heap at her
legs, and there is a note, in English, at her feet. Debt paid, slut.
You have a half an hour to get back to your ship. We will be watching.