Exclusively for the ‘Tales of the Veils’ website
My name is Ahmed Razak al-Nuri and I come from the city of Marrakech in Morocco. I say that I come from there but that is about all. The truth is that I haven’t set foot in the place for many years, since business has taken me far afield, to West Africa, the Far East and South America. I am a trader and also a farmer of types, for the money that I make through my trading, I plough back into the business, buying up land in impoverished countries – the Cote d’Ivoire, Suriname but primarily Indonesia where I own several thousand acres on the island of Kalimantan – where I create plantations, the goods of which I then sell on, creating even more in the way of profits.
So it is that now, at the age of thirty-five, I am a wealthy man and a proud one, for that wealth has been entirely due to my own efforts and business acumen. Indeed, I may say that in all fields of life, Allah has blessed me and I have no regrets. Or at least, none but one and that being that I am still not yet married and thus have no son and heir who can carry on my endeavours after I am gone. Not that I have not had liaisons with members of the fairer sex whom have tickled my fancy, indeed there have been far too many. A travelling man has opportunities aplenty in which to indulge in the delights of the exotic beauty be she black, brown, yellow or white who knows exactly what she is doing in the bedchamber just as much as she looks like she has no clue. Many a night have I lain by some brown-skinned Venus, my heart and mind in ecstasy after the performance of tropical lovemaking that I have just been subjected to. But alas, pleasurable as these ladies are, they are not suitable candidates for a marriage, society dictating, quite rightly that a wife must be Arab, Muslim and wholly inexperienced between the bedsheets, until that is, her husband has chance to act as a teacher to her.
But whilst fair Kalimantan might abound in even fairer native houris, alas none answer to my Arab Muslim virgin requirements. The girls of my own stock to be found are but few and far between and of those that do live there, Allah it seems, was not at his most benevolent in handing out charms on the sad days when they entered this life. On top of that, all are either lamentably Westernised and liberal or well-protected by their fathers, who, like myself, having lived for most of their lives in sunnier climes, know what the tropical heat can do to even the most upstanding of young men.
So it is that I am unmarried, approaching middle-age and in full realisation of the need to rectify this woeful situation. And so it is, that I, Ahmed Razak al-Nuri, am sat in an aisle seat of Emirates flight 4792 bound for my native land for the first time in a decade where I hope to sort out some financial affairs, see my family and more importantly, find myself a wife to bring back with me to Kalimantan.
I disembarked at Casablanca and went straightaway to the offices of a company with which I had some business, before finding myself a lodging for the night and then going out onto the town to sample the delights for which she is famous, wrongly so I may add, for after having enjoyed the pleasures of the Oriental Angel for years upon end, those of even the finest trained of my own stock were sadly lacking and I must admit that the coming prospect of finding a permanent soul and bedmate from amongst them did not exactly fill me with glee. But nonetheless, the tensions of those long hours on board the plane were somewhat relieved and it was with a clearer mind and emptier body that I left the following day for home aboard the Marrakech Express.
My family were glad to see me, and I them of course, catching up on new cousins and learning of those who had sadly departed to the Other World. However, after several days of such activities I began to felt the pressing need to make some headway with the true reason for my journey home, that being the acquisition of a wife. And so it was that I was sat in the living room of my father’s house, whilst that said man and two friends of his puffed on hookahs and sipped mint tea when I decided to breach the subject.
“Father,” I said, “As you know, I am as yet unmarried.”
“Indeed so,” replied he, “but you should be thinking of rectifying that woeful situation and finding yourself a good Muslim woman to be your lifetime soul mate.”
“Well Father, to be fair, I am. But in Kalimantan good Muslim girls are few and far between, leastways those of our race and thus it is that one of my objectives in returning home is to procure for myself a spouse.”
“It is good thinking Ahmed.”
“But Father, I am at a loss. For where am I to look? I know Marrakech not these days and where to find a suitable lady whose family and standing fit my requirements, well… I know not where to start searching.”
“You could try young Brother Ahmed, by visiting my home for a spot of coffee one afternoon.”
The man who spoke was one Abdul Chouchene, a merchant of Marrakech and a long-standing friend of my father. He was a man whom the town held in high respect due to his wealth and I also, though for different reasons. During his younger days he had spent many-a-year on board ships and had sailed the Seven Seas, visiting Indonesia amongst other exotic destinations. The other night we had been sat smoking shisha and drinking tea and my father had been called away on some business. Alone in the drawing room, Chouchene had started to ask me about Kalimantan, my life there, and then tactfully he had moved onto the subject of the Indonesian girls and my exploits with them. It was not long before we had both become deep involved in a riotous discussion of my current and his former encounters with the whores of the world’s ports and his views on the weaker sex. “Control ‘em! Control ;em my lad!” he’d cried. “They need discipline, a good lesson now and again! A woman should only be seen when you want her to be seen, heard when you want her to be heard and free when you want her to be free. They need controlling, controlling by a man!”
“Who do?” That had been my father, who had re-entered the room after having returned from his business.
“Indonesian workers, Brother,” Chouchene had explained. “Just telling your son here about how the natives under you on the plantation and working as servants need control and teaching.”
“Aye,” said my father, comprehending nothing, and our conversation returned to its former subject, that being the price of coffee.
And now this Chouchene was suggesting I visit his house with regards to finding a wife. Was he about to offer more advice or tales? I knew not, but one thing was for certain. I would not let the good gent down. The very next day, at eleven sharp, I was stood on his doorstep.
I was shown in by a maid, dressed – rather unusually for Marrakech – in a black abayah and black niqaab including a thin eye veil, and told to wait in the reception room. I was escorted to that said chamber and told to sit. “The Master is not here, sir,” the maid explained, but the ladies will see to you.”
I sat and waited. Waited for what seemed to be an age in fact, before the door opened and three ladies walked in, or perhaps shuffled as the speed of their movement could hardly be called walking. All three were clad in plain black abayahs, black khimars and wearing thick black veils that revealed nothing of the person underneath. They all three stopped before me and bowed and then the middle one spoke in a low muffled voice.
“Brother Ahmed I presume? My husband said that you may be honouring us with a call. My name is Umm Hassan and I am Brother Abdul’s first wife. To my right is my co-wife Umm-Rashid and to my left his niece, Mouna. I greet you on their behalf because my husband does not allow them to speak. It is pleasant to meet you. Would you like tea?”
I would have liked anything that would enable to stay in the presence of women who were obviously clad in clothes that restricted and controlled them for it was obvious that they could move or see little, and were living under the thumb of a man whose thoughts on the fairer sex obviously echoed my own. “Yes, if it is no trouble.”
“None at all, Brother Ahmed.”
The women sat down slowly and as they did I heard a short gasp and groan from the one identified as the niece. ‘Now what caused that?’ I wondered.
We sat and talked. Umm-Hassan explained to me all about the niece, her husband’s ‘ward’ who sat through it all without moving or saying a word. It turned out that she was the only daughter of his wayward brother, who had married a French lady and had lived a life of high living and moral laxity. “Well, that was until the judgment of Allah came down upon them both, and they were alas killed in a fire which broke out in their home. The girl however, escaped, and came into our care. She was but thirteen years old, but a real urchin and ruffian.” Still this niece neither spoke nor moved. “Thankfully for her, I and my husband have endeavoured hard and she is now seventeen and being raised as a modest and pure musilmah.”
“That is good to hear,” said I politely, not interested in how she was raised, but more in what she looked like under all those veils.
We sipped mint tea and the clock chimed.
“And you, Brother Ahmed. Why are you in Marrakech?”
“Sister,” I replied, “to see my beloved family of course; to immerse myself in a good Arab Muslim culture once more and also, to look for a wife.”
“A wife? You are not married?”
“Not yet, Sister.”
“But why ever not? Such a fine young man, and with wealth too.”
“Alas the opportunities for finding a bride are limited in Kalimantan,” I explained.
“Well, I wish you luck Brother,” she said. “I know how important matrimonial issues are. We have been looking for a suitable match for young Mouna here, but no such man has yet been located.”
The air was silent but I now detected a slight movement and groan from the girl.
We left the subject at that.
That Friday Abdul Chouchene again came to my father’s house.
“How is the wife-hunting going Brother?” asked he.
The answer was not favourable. I had seen three eligible maidens, but alas, it was only they who would describe themselves as eligible. One was too fat, another with a face akin to that of a mule and the third decidedly pretty – in her younger days. And all believed that a woman should be able to work, sit at the same table as her husband and go about with her head uncovered. No, I was still at Square One.
“I am sorry to hear that,” he said. He took a puff of his shisha pipe. “You paid a visit to my house, did you not?”
“That I did Brother, but alas you were not at home.”
“Did you meet my wives?”
“Aye, that I did.”
“And young Sister Mouna?”
“She is a handsome one, is she not?”
“Maybe, although I must confess to not being able to judge since I saw only black cloth. However, as a niece of yours I doubt not her beauty and purity. She will make a good wife for one lucky man one day.”
“That I doubt not, but who? My wife and I are very particular as to the quality of men that we introduce her to.” He paused and puffed again. “Brother Ahmed, how do you feel that a wife should be treated?”
“This you know; she should be protected as a pearl in a shell, which means making decisions for her, ensuring her modesty and, if necessary, disciplined. She should know her place and know whom is Master.”
“Good lad.” He paused once more. “Visit my house again tomorrow at Eleven.”
I did so, and again was shown into that Reception Room. Seated in there was only one female this time. She stood up when I entered and made a tiny bow. “I am Mouna Chouchene,” she said in a quiet and quite heavenly muffled voice. I bowed back and we sat. ‘Aye, to win this wench would be a prize,’ thought I. She was far more liberally dressed this time. Although still clad in black, her eye veils were flipped back to reveal a beautiful pair of sky blue eyes. Her hands too were now visible, although they were covered in black silken gloves. I looked into those eyes; there was sadness and rebellion in them. She would a package to open and no mistaking!
“Sister Mouna,” I said. “Are your aunts or uncle at home?”
“No Brother, I am to entertain you, if I can?”
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” thought rakish old I.
“Well then Sister…” I could hear her breathing beneath those layers. It sounded laboured for some reason, like she hadn’t enough air. “Well then, Sister, you are looking for a husband?”
“No, sir. They are looking for a husband for me.” She said ‘they’ with a vehemence. Like as if she hated her guardians.
“You do not want to marry, Sister?”
“Let me just say, that my choice and there’s would be different.”
“Oh. And what would your choice be?”
“A kind, gentle man, who respects his wife and lets her share in his life… A man like my father was to my mother.”
“And your uncle disapproves of such men, Sister?”
“Let me just say that he has different values.”
‘Yet values that seem to coincide with mine,’ thought I. I had suspected that my father’s friend was interested in my becoming his ward’s suitor for some time. Now I was sure of it. And I was a forward man.
“Does he approve of me?”
“Yes Brother, that he does.”
“But do you?”
She was silent. But I was not a man to wait for an answer. I leapt up out of my chair and grabbed her gloved hand and kissed it.
She started in shock and gave a little cry. Her laboured breathes became stronger and she uttered the words, “Oh, Brother!” before getting up out of her chair and mincing slowly out of the room.
It was I however, who were in the greater shock of the two. For the hand that I had kissed had been cold and as hard as wood. In fact, I was convinced that that hand was actually made of wood, and no human hand at all. No wonder Chouchene could find no match for his ward. She was an amputee!
I called again that evening at Chouchene’s, this time in a fouler mood. That my father’s friend had attempted to fool me into marrying an invalid had angered me. “Is Brother in?” asked I.
“Aye, Brother, he’s in his study,” said the niqaab-clad maid.
“Then I may I see him?”
I went in and ascended the stairs and knocked on the door. A voice bade me to enter and I did so. Chouchene was sat inside the room, a smoky room full of books and souvenirs from his wandering days.
“Brother Ahmed!” he cried, raising himself. “Please take a seat.”
“No Brother, I will not. For truth be known, I am angered at you at present!”
“Whyever is that? What have I done?”
“Oh Brother, you know what it is that you have done! Nothing more than attempt to dupe me into marrying a cripple, that is what!”
“Aye Brother, a cripple?”
“Never did I do such a thing!”
“Lie not Brother, for I know. Your Ward, Mouna. I kissed her hand this afternoon, and found it to be no hand at all, but instead a wooden replacement.”
Then, instead of the look of guilt which I had expected to have seen, a smile spread across the face of the old man. “An invalid, eh? Ha! Ha! Oh Brother, you are confused! An invalid! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
His jesting irked me. “Do you do not deny that the hand that I kissed was wooden?”
He stopped laughing. “I am sorry, Brother Ahmed, it seems like I mock you. No Brother, I do not deny the fact. The hand was wooden. However, because you kissed a wooden hand, it does not mean that my ward is an amputee.”
Now I was confused. “I shall explain,” he said. Then, to my surprise, he got up and left the room. A moment later he returned carrying a box. “Open,” he said.
I did so and found inside, two beautifully sculpted wooden arms. “It was one of these that you touched this morning,” said Chouchene.
“But what of Mouna’s arms?” asked I.
“Oh they are still very much attached to her personage. Meet me here tomorrow at eleven and you shall find that out for yourself.”
That night for many an hour I found that I could not sleep. What was Abdul Chouchene up to? Why have a pair of wooden (and one presumes expensively made), hands and arms for a girl who already has perfectly good limbs? And if she does possess such limbs, then where were they when I kissed her? My mind was a muddle as to why, what and where…
But at eleven sharp the following day I was stood in the hallway of his house. Two minutes later Chouchene, his wives, and the ward came into sight, or at least the clothes that the women wore were on view for today nothing was visible of them.
“Good morning, Brother Ahmed!” cried Chouchene.
“Good morning Brother, and you too, sisters,” replied I, bowing to the latter.
“Brother Ahmed, would you care to escort my niece on her morning stroll, whilst I attend to my wives? I know that it is not normal since you are non-mahram and they are purdah-observing, but I feel that I know you well enough to trust you and I have no one else to ask.”
“I would be honoured Brother,” said I, turning to the niece. She, like her aunts, was dressed today in a satin-like black khimar that reached down to her feet. The only breaks in the shiny surface were the thick veil that permitted nothing to be seen of what delights lay beneath and the two silken gloves that poked out of slits in the khimar.
“Sister Mouna,” I said, “How are you on this sunny morn?”
The girl did not answer, which I considered a little rude, but knowing how her uncle sometimes restricted her speech and also how she was against his match-making attempts, I considered it perhaps understandable. ‘I shall make the girl love me,’ thought I.
I made to go but she did not move. “You’ll have to take her hand,” Chouchene explained.
She lifted a gloved hand up and I slipped my hand into it. Beneath the material it was warm and soft, and undoubtedly real.
Thus we started on our stroll. Sister Mouna walked at an incredibly slow pace, taking steps of no more than ten centimetres at a time.
“Why do you walk so slowly?” asked I.
Again she was silent. Too haughty to speak, the arrogant little miss! ‘Hmm,’ I thought, ‘you need the training of a good husband.’ A man such as myself, of course.
To be truthful, though, her tiny steps I minded not, as walking with this divine creature was a pleasure. The flow of the silken costume that obviously restricted her somewhat and hid her completely from the world caused joy in my heart and a somewhat different reaction lower down. When no one was looking, I wheedled my hand in further and squeezed hers. Mouna gave a little gasp of surprise but again said naught. I heeded the haughty wench not, but instead squeezed harder. It made no difference. Still, I’d made my point and we carried on.
We walked to the Jamaa el Fna where we strolled amongst the performers and stalls. At one Chouchene bade me sit and we drank some fresh orange juice but the women neither sat nor drank, merely standing behind us like ghosts. We then started back to Chouchene’s house. Covering the half a kilometre or so that we walked took an age, almost an hour I reckoned, but it was an hour of sheer pleasure for myself I shall admit. At the door I made to leave, but Chouchene stopped me. “Nay, nay Brother Ahmed, wait a second. Sister Mouna is part French and you are well-travelled and versed in European ways; you must kiss my niece goodbye.”
I felt the female body next to mine shudder, but I minded not. Instead I leant over, lifted her veil, and planted a fine kiss upon her ruby red lips.
Or at least that is what I intended to do. Instead, what happened is I felt my lips meet, not hers, but instead a piece of leather! I drew back in surprise and studied her fair visage. But it was a visage that was not visible! Then I realised why she had not spoken to me all morning and why she had clung to me all throughout our stroll. Her whole head was covered by a leather hood which contained no holes to allow sight whilst her mouth had been securely gagged the whole time. I stared at her both shocked and impressed and I had to admit that both the speech impeder and hood suited her. I turned to Chouchene for an explanation and he grinned. “Brother Ahmed, why don’t you and I head to a shisha parlour for a smoke. There is something that I wish to talk to you about.”
Of all the shisha houses in Marrakech, the Dar Jlham is perhaps the finest. It is situated on one of the many small alleys leading off from the bustling Jamaa el Fna, and beyond its stout wooden doors is to be found an atmosphere of Arabian congeniality, some fine pipes and tea and more importantly, the comeliest dancing girls in town. Dancing girls who have been known to provide the customer with more than just cuchek too. It was to this haven of pleasure that Chouchene and I retired, he going up to the proprietor and asking if we could please hire the private backroom, to which that fine gentleman of course assented. Seated in there, with a shisha apiece in front of us, we began to talk.
“Brother Ahmed, before I start,” said he, “I need ask you a question?”
“What be it, Brother?” replied I.
“Young Sister Mouna. Does she please you?”
“Ahh, you cannot answer until you see her…?”
“That is understandable and trust me, very soon you shall. However, I shall rephrase my question; does the manner in which I keep Mouna please you?”
“From the little I know of it, yes. You force her to live both modestly and piously.”
“Ahh, that is only the half of it, but it will do for now. May I ask, if her visage be to your liking, would you consider one such as her as a wife?”
I thought. Of course I would, but only if she were fully-limbed and of course, still a maiden. “Well Brother, I would, only if she is what she appears to be.”
“And what does she appear to you?”
“A normal, healthy virgin.”
“Then you have no fears. She is all of those. So, I ask you again, would you consider my ward as your wife? For if you say yes, then we can continue, but if no, then we must to part now.”
“I would consider her.”
“Right. That is good. Because ever since I set eyes on you, Brother Ahmed, I have considered you. I know you and your rakish ways. They disgust some, but they appeal to me. As I said before, a woman needs controlling. However, many a young man does not realise this, and their young wives get the better of them and soon enough they are a man no longer, but instead a snivelling hen-picked louse.”
“Aye Brother, I have seen it too often, and it disgusts me.”
“Me also. We have had many a suitor coming to our door after Miss Mouna’s hand. After all, she is the daughter of a rich man and the ward of an even wealthier one, and people have preconceptions about French women. But she is also a strong-minded lass, and one who could damage a man. Before she came into our care her upbringing had been quite shocking. My brother was one of those hen-pecked mice. His wife a shocking tramp. They believed in freedoms for women. That whore went around barely clothed, considering herself the equal of my sibling. And the child was brought up the same, as a tomboy, travelling around the country with them, talking to any gallant that came along. She could have had her maidenhood picked by a man such as yourself at any time, had she been but a little older. Thankfully though, Allah intervened. Killed off those two pathetic excuses for parents and sent her into my arms and so it was that I set about turning her into a modest musilmah. Well, not so much of the musilmah; despite the attire of my women I am no fundamentalist, I believe in such a mode of life for reasons other than the religious. But modest yes, and under my firm thumb.”
“Well, it was no easy task. First there were the veils, such as she had never worn, why how she screamed and threw tantrums. Thrice she ran away, but thrice did I catch the little whore. Well, thought I, this is not to last. We need control, we need discipline. We need to beat this sultry bint into a ladylike submission. Luckily for her, I was a man with experience in such matters.”
“Aye Brother, experience. When I married my first wife – Fatima she was called then although I’ve never allowed the use of names, it gives them ideas above their station, I thought, how can I make sure that this little houri stays at home? So I got a goldsmith friend of mine to fashion a chastity belt, which one night I proceeded to fit around her comely privates and then locked it shut. Ha! No playing around for you my love! When I want intercourse, we shall have it, but at any other time your cunt is out of bounds! She could pleasure me with her mouth too, so I’ve always made sure that that has been filled as well, as a reminder and to stop annoying chatter and gossip. Only rarely is one of my women allowed to speak and even then, only one at a time. If they need to communicate they can write notes although even that I restrict as you shall soon learn. That way, no gossip and no policing of me so that if I wish to seek female company elsewhere I can, be it here or with one of the servants! That is how I dealt with my first wife and that is how I dealt with the second and when Mouna came into my house, well, she got the same treatment. Like I said, I have experience in such matters!”
"But why stop at restricting only her cunt and mouth, I thought. No, why not indeed? Well, first was the easy one, the waist. I take a great interest in the history of fashion and have always admired those corsets worn by European women a century or so ago. I read that their waists could be reduced to tiny proportions and that this causes great distress and reduction in movement, so I ordered several and subjected them all to a lacing regime that has resulted in a circumference of but 45cm. Have you ever noted their laboured breathing? It is truly a pleasure to listen to! . And then I moved to their feet, containing them in the tiniest boots imaginable, and with heels so high that she could barely stand. They walk like ballet dancers on tip toes at all times and strolls of more than a few hundred metres are a real trial. That is why they all moved so slowly before, and why they needed assistance – well, that and the fact that all were totally blinded by their full-face hoods! And just to make spice things up even more, I added a little chain between each ankle. Eight centimetre steps, that’s all I’ve ever allowed my women.”
“Well, I that explains a lot. I have little experience in this field which I believe is called ‘bondage’ in the West, but all that you’ve described, it sounds…”
“Exciting, eh? Makes the male member wake up and ask for his breakfast?”
“Well, Brother, I will talk no longer. Come back to my house and you shall see for yourself.”
Back at Chouchene’s house, we didn’t see the ladies, but instead he escorted me to his private quarters. Once we were safely inside and the door locked, he spoke. “Now Ahmed, no servant is ever allowed in here and you shall find out why. In the olden times this was the house of a great merchant who kept an extensive harem. Well, he, like I, although for different reasons I suspect, believed firmly in modesty, but he still liked to gaze upon his women and preferably when they didn’t know he was doing so, so he had this built. Come!” Then he went over to the bookcase and took one of the books out. Behind it was a handle. He turned the handle and the case opened. Behind it I was shocked to find a narrow passage. We entered.
The passage was not long, and after a few metres we stopped. “We need go no further,” said Chouchene. “The tunnel leads to further rooms but you have no need to see them. All that you require is here. Look!” There was a small peep-hole in the wall.
“There?” asked I.
“Put your eye to it,” said he.
I did as was bid and gasped. It was a spyhole into the chamber of Mouna. And that lady was in there, hanging from a lacing trapeze and whimpering. Seeing her in the flesh for the first time was a revelation for she was as beautiful as I had imagined, if not more, with classical Arab features and a fine figure with curves in all the right places. These however, were becoming even more pronounced as every second passed for the maid was pulling at the laces of her corset.
“Stop! Stop!” she cried.
“Miss, shut up or shall I put this gag back in your mouth before I have to! I have said before, the Master has stipulated forty centimetres today and that is what I shall attain or my life will not be worth living.”
“But it’s too tight...too tight!” moaned my prospective wife.
The maid paid no attention, but instead gave one last tug and tied off.
Then she disappeared out of sight and returned carrying a pair of boots. But these were no normal footwear, what boots they were. Why the unfortunate wearer would be forced to stand on tip-toes with them like a ballerina. The girl was released from the bar and lain on the bed. Then the boots were forced onto her feet causing more whimpers and pleas.
“Not the ballet boots, Amina!”
“Master’s orders again.”
It took an age for the boots to be secured, but I enjoyed every moment. The sight of this helpless, beautiful girl, forced into such extreme clothing against her will, her ample breasts heaving all the while, and the rounded mounds of her buttocks quivering. “What is that around her privates?” whispered I, noticing a flash of gold.
“The chastity belt,” whispered back Chouchene. I had one made for her as soon as she started bleeding.”
“The same as your wives’?”
“No, better. This one has rounded mounds of rubber within, that caress her all day long, causing a tension that can never be released.” I knew the feeling. My own member was extremely tense at that moment and had it not been for the presence of my father’s friend I’d have had no hesitation in relieving it there and then.
“Now your arms, miss,” said the maid.
Then to my surprise, she took the dusky arms of my object of desire and folded them, so that the hand touched the shoulder and then using a leather pouch fastened them in that position. Then the wooden arms that I had been shown earlier were produced and cleverly fitted over the pouch, so that it appeared that they were her real arms. Of course this did not look real though, as her folded arms had a much greater bulk than normal. But then when the maid started to dress her, I realised the true genius of Chouchene. The all-enveloping butterfly abayah and khimar completely disguised the folded arms. The wooden replacements, once gloved, looked like the real thing!
“Can you see why I so like modest dress?” whispered Chouchene. “It can hide so much more than just her aura.”
“But why do it, to the arms?”
“Because a lady without arms is entirely helpless, entirely dependent, entirely at our mercy.”
We both chuckled at this undoubtedly true statement. The maid draped a thick full veil over her face and Mouna’s dressing was now complete. She stood, an angel of modesty in the room, before the maid led her downstairs. Any normal observer would not realise that she could hardly move a muscle. They left the room and Chouchene spoke in a normal voice.
“Today for the walk, her arms were free, but her sight was taken away. I have many forms of restriction that I use. You shall be introduced to them all in time. Now, you know my secrets and you have seen the face of my ward, I ask you firmly, once and for all Brother Ahmed, will you marry Mouna?”
Knowing what I did. Having a chance to be able to play with such a doll for life? Of course, I would.
“If Allah wills it, then I shall Brother,” I replied.
“Then Brother Ahmed, why not join your future bride for coffee and ask her yourself?”
In the drawing room there was only Mouna and myself. She was of course unaware that I had been in the house for some time and that I had seen her preparations, so I decided to play a little game with her.
“Sister Mouna, did you enjoy our little stroll this morning?” I enquired.
“Oh yes, Brother,” answered she. “It was very pleasant.”
“Your answer surprises me,” continued I, suppressing a grin. “For how could anyone enjoy a walk when gagged and blinded by a leather hood such as you were.”
“Oh, I am used to it.” Then she stopped, seeming to regret what she had said.
“Used to it! You are punished often sister?”
“No, I’m not punished often. I behave…”
“Then whyever were you gagged and blinded so?”
“Do you not know?”
“I cannot fathom any other explanation except that you had been disobedient, rebellious…”
“No Sir, it is my uncle. He, well…he likes his women to be…restrained.”
“Really?” I feigned astonishment though inside I was ready to erupt with laughter. “In what way?”
“Oh many Brother, but, I should not talk of such things…”
“It is none of your business Brother, it is of no account to you.”
“But there Miss, you are wrong. Have you not guessed?”
“Guessed my feelings towards you?”
“Yes, Sister. I look for a wife and well, I would like to think that Heaven has placed one in my path…”
“Oh Brother Ahmed!”
Her bosom began surging but I am sure that the greater tension was within my own breast. What a lark this was!
“But I fear that you despise me. You keep secrets from me, run out when I am here…”
“Oh no Brother, no, it’s just that…”
“My mode of life is so strange… Has not my uncle explained?”
“The restrictions, restraints?”
“So what Sister, so what if you are gagged and blinded by a hood when outdoors. What difference does that make to me?”
“It goes further?”
“Yesterday Brother, did you not feel my arm…”
“Why yes, it was a little cold and hard. You are sick?” (Oh how I was struggling to control myself whilst this poor girl sat believing that I was ignorant of her situation, and indeed perhaps, a possible saviour. I could last no longer, I took out my handkerchief and coughed into it.)
“Oh Brother, are you alright?”
“I fear you may have passed your sickness onto me.”
“No Brother, I have not, I am not sick.”
“Then what then?”
“Feel my arm again, Brother.”
“I should prefer to feel your lips.”
“No Brother, my arm.”
I touched the wooden limb and its hardness and falsity excited me. Knowing that she was helpless, her own perfectly good arm folded uselessly in that balloon sleeve excited me beyond measure.
“It is false!” I said in a shocked voice. “You have a wooden arm!”
“So that is your worry. My dear sweet Mouna, I shall love you fully limbed or otherwise, do not fear!” Then I did what I had long wished to do. My hands grabbed her waist and completely encircled it, fingers touching at the back whilst I lifted her heavy veil and fastened my lips to hers.
She gave a gasp of pleasure. My manhood, unbeknown to her, exploded in its prison.
“My dear sweet gorgeous Mouna! Maimed or not, I shall always love you, please be mine!”
“No Brother, you misunderstand. I am not maimed, I am full-bodied.”
“But the wooden limb?”
“My own limbs exist…”
“Folded in my sleeve. Feel.”
I felt. How exciting it was, I had never experienced anything so erotic as this trussed up helpless and innocent young virgin.
“By Allah!” I exclaimed.
She looked sad.
“Does it hurt?”
“My arm goes dead after a while. And when released it aches.”
“He does that to you?”
“Yes, Brother. He demands I be kept in this way, like an animal, forever chained, restrained, a prisoner. Unable to do the simplest things for myself. Dependent on him and his will, everyday and every night. It is a living hell for me, please please help me Brother, set me free, let me escape from him!”
“I will, I will,” replied I getting excited once more. “I shall marry you my love!”
“Aye sweet Mouna, I shall.”
“Oh Brother!” And at that the helpless girl fell into my arms, smattered my face with her kisses, before passing out due to the excitement and tightness of her corset, whilst I disguised my uncontrollable laughter as tears of joy.
That evening I was again in Dar Jlham private back room, with Chouchene across the floor from me and a shisha pipe in front.
“So Brother Ahmed,” said he, “are you entirely sure about accepting Mouna as your wife?”
“Brother,” I replied, “I have never been so surer of anything in my life.” And I spoke the truth. For whilst I had seen other girls as comely if not more so than her, and undoubtedly more virile and creative in bed (for she as a virgin was completely inexperienced; and trussed up so, I doubted that she could be very athletic also), there was something about this girl that captivated me, enthralled me, obsessed me. All that day following my visit to the Chounchene house, my mind could think of nothing else; of seeing her restricted like that, her arms rendered helpless, her feet squeezed into those tiny yet delightful boots that made the simple art of walking near on an impossibility, her waist corsetted into nothing, blinded and silenced and all against her wishes. And the fact that I had watched it all and she knew nothing of it, she thought that I was as ignorant of it all! And how she had told me afterwards, pleaded with me to help her out of her situation, given herself to me believing that I was to be her saviour.
No, of all that I had witnessed, that confession, hearing the words of the discomfort that she suffered and of the hope that she saw in me, that was the most erotically stimulating of all. I had not left my bedroom for three hours straight and my manhood was as tired a Tamil after a day’s work on a rubber plantation.
“But Brother Abdul,” I continued, “I want to continue this in my way, if you don’t mind.”
“What way is that, Brother Ahmed?”
“Well, as you know, I enjoyed coffee with your niece this afternoon and whilst there I embarked upon a little game with her. I chastised her for hating me, for running away. I asked what bad thing she had done to render such a punishment as being gagged and blinded. Well, what could she do but deny it. It was a quandary you see, on one hand I would think of her as disobedient and no lady, or on the other she gives you away. So, she told me about the restriction and I pretended to be shocked. I asked her to describe more, and I must say Brother, it was most exciting hearing it come from her own mouth. She asked me to feel her wooden limbs and her bound arms, and then implored me to help her. ‘Marry me and free me!’ It was most amusing.”
“Oh dear Brother Ahmed, it sounds it. I doubt that I, should I have been a man of your age, would have been able to control myself, Ha! Ha!”
“Indeed, indeed. Anyway, so now she knows that I am interested in marriage, and that I know about her bondage. What she does not know, however, is about our close relationship, that you are in on it all, and what’s more, she thinks that I am to be her saviour. Sir, I like that situation, and I should be pleased if it could continue. In fact, I would like you to appear almost against the marriage, whilst I will play up the role of the Knight in Shining Armour. What do you say to it?”
“Why Brother Ahmed, I assent. It is a lark true, but it also serves my purpose. For the fact is, I was worried that she would object to whomever I chose and perhaps cause a ruckus with the imam or whatever on the wedding day, when of course her arms cannot be bound. In this way, I have the opportunity of sending her to her fate as meek as a lamb and still guaranteeing that she is treated in the manner that I see fit afterwards. Or at least I hope that she will be?”
“Whatever do you mean, Brother?”
“What I mean is that once married, I wish her present lifestyle to continue, so that she may never bad-mouth me and my wife nor come back to haunt us. Be you in Indonesia or Morocco, I wish her to be kept as now, helpless and bound.”
“Brother, you need not fear on that account. I would not be interested in marrying the girl were she kept as a normal lass. I don’t want her for her money, nor her mind, nor even for the times that we shall spend between the bedcovers, for I can get that elsewhere and no doubt with ladies of a much more experienced nature. What’s more, getting that elsewhere is something that I intend to continue doing – I fear that I loathe to give up my brown-skinned tropical beauties—and with a bound, immobile, purdah-living wife, that should not prove a problem.
“Well then, Brother, we are agreed in all. We shall continue as you say, but also I have some stipulations of my own. If you are to keep her as I do, you have much more to learn. You need to know about her various forms of restraint, as I have more methods than just a gag and arm restraints. You will learn about them and at the same time will continue to win her confidence. Then, a month or so hence, I shall go with you to the mosque to sign the papers and then lead my niece to the home of Ahmed al-Nuri as his wife. Agreed?”
And at that we both smiled, ordered some tea and puffed on our shisha pipes.
And thus it continued in such a manner. Everyday I would visit Mouna, sit in that room with its ticking clock and drink coffee whilst she described to me the horrors that she was put through.
“But at least you rest at night my dear sweet Mouna,” said I.
“Oh no, Brother, not even then. For that monster has decreed that I sleep in a sleeping bag.”
“A bag. It is made of leather and laced like a corset. It covers all of me, from my head to my feet, the only opening being for my nose and mouth. And it is tight and hot and I lie in it immobile until I am woken by my maids.”
“How awful!” I exclaimed.
That evening I journeyed down the tunnel and set my eye to the spyhole. There I watched as that heavenly creature was stripped of her clothing and left wearing only her chastity belt. Then another corset was put onto her, except that this one, unlike her daytime ones, had cut-outs for her breasts, which ballooned out as if presenting themselves for a waiting man (oh later on, I knew who that man would be!), and amazingly had no holes for the arms, those beleaguered appendages being crossed over at the top of her back, thus rendering her absolutely dependent on those around her.
Then the Sleeping Bag was produced, a huge leather sack which she was placed into, and which was then laced tight all around her, displaying each and every one of her delightful feminine curves to perfection, and of course not allowing her to move a muscle, in fact to do naught but breathe. I couldn’t wait any longer, and as Chouchene had not joined me that evening, I whipped out my tool and jacked one off there and then. To think of her in that cocoon, so helpless… and the heat! To be encased wholly in leather on this sultry eve. Oh how much more she would suffer when in Batavia where even naked the heat is unbearable.
Returning to the study, I asked Chouchene about the armless corset.
“It’s called a Venus Corset,” said he, “after the armless Venus de Milo. My wives are always laced into one at night and that way she cannot object to me caressing her fine breasts and placing my manhood where it should be placed.”
The thought of doing the same to Mouna excited me further.
“Let’s take a closer look,” said Chouchene, and together we tiptoed into the girl’s room. I was careful not to make a sound, but Chouchene shook his head. “You need not bother,” he said in a normal voice. “The Sleeping Bag has built-in ear plugs. She is as deaf as she is blind, completely oblivious to the world around her.”
It was fascinating seeing her entombed like that up close, her breasts rising and falling dramatically beneath the leather. “I do so like her large bosom and buttocks,” I commented to Chouchene.
“It comes from the corsetting,” he explained. “Before she was quite a plain girl, nothing of note in either place. But the corset restricts any fatty growth around the waist, but of course the fat must go somewhere – and we do control her diet to make sure that she puts some weight on, though not enough to make her obese - and thus it is that we get this pleasingly rotund derriere, and those handsome breasts.”
I was amazed by the ingenuity of this man, and the fact that even what she ate was controlled and restricted. It was all so artificial. As if she was a toy, not a human being. And long may it continue of course!
Whilst in the room, Chouchene also took me over to Mouna’s wardrobe to show me the many modes of restriction that his niece was subjected to. There were cocoon suits, punishment corsets that lasted to her knees, stride impeders, countless pairs of shoes with ridiculously high heels, ankle chains, a joug, shoulder braces, neck corsets (“She always wears one underneath her high collars or scarf”), which forced the poor girl to hold her head up high, and much more. Then over all these was a huge selection of clothing, all in black but of the highest quality, suitable for the most pious of ladies. There was thick abayahs and khimars, a variety of gloves and of course many veils, some so thick as to totally blind the wearer. This amazing collection excited me no end, especially when one considered that the owner was sleeping in the very same room, oblivious to what was going on around her.
“Would you like to try some on?” asked Chouchene.
“I don’t think that most will fit,” I said.
“Most no, corsets are out of the question, but you can try these.” He held out the stride impeders. They were two golden rings connected by a thick loop of rubber. I placed them around my knees and tried to walk. My stride was limited to almost naught and tottering across just the room took an age. “Now imagine wearing those along with a tight corset, neck corset, bound arms, ballet boots and an almost blinding veil.” I tried to imagine and it was a pleasant imagine that was conjured up in my mind. Being restricted so…
I tried on several more items of Mouna’s apparel. The ankle chain was interesting, the effect slightly different to the more flexible stride impeders, and the full hood was scary, to be so at the mercy of all. I knew that that was one thing that she would be making a lot of use of after her marriage! I also tried her arm bindings and wooden limbs. The effect of that was strange, yet exciting. Again it was the helplessness that did it for me, but also the artificiality added to matters. I mentioned this to Chouchene and he agreed.
“I like it too,” said that fine gent. “That is why I have my wives dress up as dolls on odd occasions. I have had dolly faces made out of porcelain for them, through which there are two pin holes that they can view the proceedings — well a little of them — through. I love making love to those vacant, Barbie-girl type creatures who look so mindlessly happy and yet underneath the masks they are gagged and struggling fruitlessly and silently. I have several masks, look!”
I did so and was most interested. Several of the masks were of the typical Barbie look, but several more portrayed an Oriental visage. “A relic of my travels,” explained Chouchene. “I sometimes miss those Oriental ladies, especially the beauties of Vietnam and the Philippines. Well, on my last trip I bought some costumes from all those places and afterwards I had these masks and some hair pieces made. Now and again, when the mood takes me, I dress a wife up in a kimono or cheoung sam and have her mince around my room with this mask and an elaborate oriental hairpiece on.”
I tried a mask on. The porcelain admitted no air barring through the tiny breathing holes, and fitted closely so that within a moment I was sweaty and flustered. What’s more it contained a built-in gag, which rendered speech an impossibility. To walk around all day wearing that…
“And now Sir, what do you think of this?”
Chouchene pulled out a long leather sheath. “Put it on!” said he. It turned out that this garment was a glove, a glove that fitted over both arms and held them tight together behind the back. I tried it on. It took a while to fit as it was rather tight, but once on, and laced, held my arms mercilessly in that position. Within a few minutes I felt them starting to deaden.
“Mouna wears this?” I asked in amazement.
“Why yes, every afternoon, when visitors are not admitted.”
‘By Allah!’ thought I. To wear such a garment daily!
“I should love to see her in it,” said I.
“Forget your hat and call round tomorrow at two for it,” suggested Chouchene.
I did just as he suggested and the following afternoon found myself sat with my fiancée in the room. When Chouchene made an excuse and left I rushed up to her, lifted her heavy veil and kissed her on the lips, throwing my arms around her. I felt the arms pinioned behind her back but pretended to be surprised.
“Lift my khimar and you shall see,” she said.
I did so and admired the monoglove in all its restrictive glory.
“Whatever are you wearing?” exclaimed I in mock astonishment.
“My monoglove. He forces me to wear it every afternoon.”
“Is it uncomfortable?”
“Very. My arms are dead and my shoulders are on fire.” Of course I knew all of this from my own brief experience in the glove, but hearing it come from her innocent lips made it all the more exciting.
“We will marry soon,” said I.
“I fear he will object,” she replied. “This morning he was moaning about you at breakfast.” So, Chouchene was playing his part well, I thought. Jolly good!
Daily I visited the beleaguered Mouna, and daily she trusted me more. One day I even had a mock disagreement with Chouchene and then the next a mock making-up, before finally we had a mock grudging acceptance by him of my proposal of marriage. It was all so delightful, all the artificiality, her trust and his deception. Daily she told me of her restraints and nightly he demonstrated them and explained how to keep that gem that was soon to be mine.
And then, a month from the night when I’d watched her sleep, I stood in that same room, guests all around, and signed the contract of marriage binding Mouna forever to me.
“Who gives this girl away?” asked the imam.
“I do,” said Chouchene (no truer words ever were spoken, she had had no say in it all).
And with the document signed, the jewel was mine!
But the real pleasure came later that day. I had been enjoying the feast with my friends whilst Mouna had been taken to the room several hours previously to be prepared for her wedding night. Eventually, at eleven, I could bear it no longer and headed upstairs to enjoy my new toy.
Opening the door to my chamber I was confronted by one of the most enchanting sights that a man can see. Leaning against the wall was one of the most beautiful girls in all of the Mahgrib, her body tightly-cocooned in a finely-made leather body corset that forced her toes into an en pointe position, her waist into minuscule dimensions and her arms behind her, leaving only her head and her hair done in beautiful ringlets free. Around her ankles, waist and neck were tied three large red bows and over the gag in her mouth was a large red rosette. Here was my present waiting to be unwrapped!
I went over to her and lifted her onto the bed, and took the rosette covered gag out of her mouth.
“Oh Ahmed!” she cried, “I have waited so long for you! Get me out of this hateful cocoon, I wish to make love to my husband!”
“Later,” I said firmly.
“Do you not know the wedding tradition of the al-Nuri tribe?” I asked.
Why before we enjoy normal congress, the woman must first pleasure her spouse using her mouth.”
And at that I shut her up by thrusting my throbbing tool into her only free orifice, whilst she stayed as trussed up and helpless as ever before.
It is a typical sultry hot tropical noon in the Isle of Kalimantan. Besides the vast rubber plantation that he owns, Mr. al-Nuri, has built a huge white mansion in the Arabian style. And in that mansion, in the master bedroom he lies, nay, not lies, but sits, his back against the fine teak headboard whilst he bounces a fair maiden on his unquenchable manhood. A pretty girl, with silky skin, her arms forced behind her in a black leather mono-glove and her head and upper body covered in a short plain black burqa hiding her unimportant face and the thick leather mask that along with a ball gag makes her mute, deaf and blind.
Who is she? One of his two wives? Nay, she is none of those. For those wives, the fair Mouna of Marrakesh and the fair Maryam of Casablanca stand to the left and right of the two lovers, bound up in tight leather body corsets, blinded, muted and deafened by leather hoods and all of their heavy restrictions hidden to the world by thick white floor long exquisite silk burqas with small just ornamental eye meshes. And so the girl in the mono-glove, who is she?
Oh no one, just some comely village girl that this millionaire Raja of the Indies has picked up for the night to enjoy as is his whim.
Copyright © 2012, Dave Potter
This story is a veiling version of an older corseting oriented story by me titled Gabrielle van Hessel to be found on LISA.
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