A Preacher for Shamira

A Preacher for Shamira

by Den Sethos

This story is a continuation of “Shami’s New Life” by Dave Potter but reading this is not a prerequisite for enjoying this story.

Disclaimer:
Not for minors, not for the faint hearted.
Contains description of bondage, mental anguish, grim prospects and sadism all around.
Do not attempt this at home. If you find yourself seriously contemplating such actions for your personal enjoyment, seek professional help, stat. If you find yourself seriously contemplating such actions, because of some dogma, seek a bridge over some icy water and jump, because you are a menace to the rest of humanity.
This text is to be read as a fantasy. All sexual contact is to be S(afe), S(ane) and C(onsensual). If your relationships lack any of those components, you have a problem.

The mullah was getting heated. His discourse was well underway and the audience was listening intently. The young owner of the house had invited him to speak of the role and life of Muslimahs, and had gathered a crowd of neighbours and friends to spread the doctrine.

The old priest had to admit he had been skeptical at first. The young man had had a Western education, he did not appear in the mosque for the Friday prayers. All in all, it seemed he had been too corrupted to have an interest in the holy. This impression had changed when the old man had entered the room in which the conference was to take place. The house was built with modern, hence suspicious, standards, there was no denying it. However, the spacious, white room was adorned with inked panels, all excerpts from the Quran. Massed on one side of the elevated platform on which he was currently standing, were the guests, all piously dressed, bearded and sanctimonious. On the other side were two seats, for their host and his wife.

Now, if he needed a proof his host was a good pious Muslim, the sight of said wife was enough. She was a sight, a masterwork of purdah – that is to say, she could hardly be recognized as a living breathing being. She sat on a straight-backed seat, rigid, completely encased in her black veils, not an inch of skin apparent. Her gaze was obstructed by the layered niqab that covered her head. The black cloth that covered her from the crown of her head to the ground hid her from the gaze of all persons. She could have been part of the upholstery, for all the presence she gave off.

For the old mullah, she was what every woman under the sky should attain. If only he had known…

Underneath the layers of cloth, Shamira was seething. She knew why her husband, Faisal, had invited that old goat to pontificate and expose his medieval conceptions about women in front of her. It was another bout of sadism on his part.

She had been a prisoner of her uncle since the death of her parents. He had made her live in strict purdah, a state in which women were quite simply imprisoned in their own clothes, never to see the outside, never to be seen from outside. She had met Faisal in a previous life, it seemed, when she had still been free to come and go, although she still had to hide her Western clothes and mannerisms from her adoptive family. Once caught in this fundamentalist nightmare, she had called to Faisal to rescue her and he had seemingly not disappointed, swooping in, playing the part of a rigorous and virtuous young man she could wed, even with her uncle’s obsessions.

She had married him, expecting her life to get back on track and into the 21st century. She had been sorely disappointed on the morning following their wedding, when Faisal had put her back into a full purdah suit and bundled her up into another city, to a new home, one he had had built to his specifications. He had explained to her he did not care for religion and tradition, but they gave him so much power over her, he simply could not pass up on those advantages. And so, here she was, back in her purdah suit, forced to listen to the religious claptrap an old idiot was spouting.

That morning, she had awoken to find herself, naked, spread on the bed, her four limbs stretched and bound to the corners of the mattress. Faisal was up, rummaging in the drawers of their walk-in closet. Bound as she was, she could not see him, but she could hear him whistling between his teeth, an habit she had been quick to identify as a sign he was up to no good.

A few minutes later, he emerged from the closet, his arms full of unidentified clothes. Upon seeing her awake, he smiled, a wicked mixture of lust, sadism and misdirected affection in his handsome face.

“Hey, baby, good to see you. We have a long day ahead, so let’s not dawdle in bed.”

She did not answer, turning her head away from him, her hatred and rage burning up inside her and heating her brow.

He put the clothes down at the foot of the bed and proceeded to untie her. One limb at a time, he removed the cuffs holding her onto the mattress, only to cuff them immediately to the other limb with medical leather restraints. He was much stronger than her, but he was not taking any risk. She could not struggle effectively, because she never had more than one limb free at any given time.

Once freed from the bed, he picked her up and brought her to the bathroom, adjoint to their bedroom. She was tied upright in the shower, her hands chained above her head. He then proceeded to clean her up. He used a sponge to remove the sweat the night had left on her, paying particular attention to her sex and breasts. She felt his touch on her mot intimate parts and, unwillingly, felt a tingle of arousal. She hated herself for it. She had been in love with him, she thought and some desire still lingered inside her, even though he had enslaved, humiliated and used her. His little smile told her he had noticed her quandary and he simply responded by kissing her in the nape of her neck, a weakness of hers he had discovered during their passionate wedding night. She closed her eyes, unable to come to terms with the hatred she felt and the desire he aroused within her.

Soon, she was clean. He unchained her hands from the shower, lifted her again and laid her on a nearby table, before re-attaching her wrists to a ring set in the wall, above the table. She knew what was coming next and she did her best to detach herself from the experience.

This was a new ritual she had difficulty coming to terms with. At the beginning an end of each day, he would clean her inside with an enema, removing much of her need to go to the toilets and keeping her as inviting as possible for anal intercourse. Today, he made her relieve herself of her piss in front of him too, adding to her humiliation and shame. Of course, she still had to pee sometimes, but a diaper under her clothes mostly took care of that too. All in all, she had lost just about every liberty she could have exercised over her own body.

After the enema, he brought her back to the room, eager to dress her up. In this state, she was a new creation each day, a testimony to his sadism and lust. Today, he had picked something special, in preparation for the visit of the conservative (if not downright fundamentalist) mullah he had invited.

Today, she would not be dressed in the usual rubber suit. He wanted Shamira to know that even without the dreaded garment, she was simply powerless. She was standing with her wrists cuffed together. Those cuffs were, in turn, attached with a leash to a ring set into the wall. Her ankles were chained to a ring set into the floor

She could not escape, but he had all the access he needed to dress her.

He first applied a boned leather waist cincher. It reduced her waist a bit, but its boning was mostly there to prevent her from bending and turning as she wished. Garters extended downward from the hem.

Next came the stockings and ankle restraints. Still taking every precaution, he undid the ankle cuffs one at a time, put the stockings and the new ankle restraints on his wife’s legs. Those restraints were ornamented black leather. He cinched them just enough, so as not to cut blood flow and then closed tiny padlocks, making sure Shamira heard the sound of what little freedom she could have, taken away. The ankle restraints were joined by a short leather thong. It was soft, but unrelenting. When walking, she would be forced to take minute steps, all without making a sound. Chains were nice, effective and amusing, but they made a hell of a racket, which, today, was unacceptable. He attached the garters to the stockings. They were sheer and hid little of her long legs. With her derriere accentuated by the cincher, she was an invitation to sex. He schooled himself, because what was to come was, for him, even more pleasurable than a morning quickie.

The gloves that were put on her after that were a little special. They had no fingers. If anything, they were closer to a pouch. They were also shorter than her hand, forcing Shamira to make a ball of her hand to fit them inside. Once again, one at a time, he deprived her of the usage of her hands.The gloves were tied with a leather strip around her wrists, removing any chance of removal, without any help.

Next came a plain black floor-length dress. It was a light but opaque cloth, that concealed all form beneath it. It opened in the back, with long sleeves that ended in mittens. Since her fingers were already taken care of, they would simply look like they ended in stomps. Quite an apt comparison in fact, Shamira mused, considering how useless her hands were at the time. To dress her, he undid one wrist restraint at a time, pulled the sleeve over her arms and reattached the leather cuff over the dress. He then proceeded to close the dress, with the back zipper. As the dress was closing around her breasts, Shamira felt something strange on the inside of it. There were built-in cups for her breasts in the dress and those cups guided her teats into some strange recesses. She could feel something touching, tickling, actually, her areolas. Faisal leant closer to her ear and whispered: “How do you like those little pads? They are rabbit fur, and from what I gathered, quite the tease on such tender flesh.” Indeed, every movement of her torso, every breath, put her sensitive buds in contact with those tantalizing pieces of fur. It was a fleeting touch, but a maddening one, since there was no way to escape it, and it would be repeated all day long at the slightest movement of her bosom.

With the zipper closed at the base of her neck, Faisal went on to complete her encasement. He gathered her beautiful hair at her nape, tying it with an elastic cord. He had not yet had her shaved as he had promised on the morning after their wedding, but Shamira knew he would eventually come around to it. Right now, she still relished what little control he had not yet claimed over her. The next item to be added to her attire was a two-piece Amira hijab. However, like in many things, Faisal had added his own little twist. A built-in neck corset trapped her head in an uncompromising grip, forcing her to look straight forward. She could feel the hood framing her face, its implication clear: she was progressively disappearing underneath all those clothes.

Faisal then attached black leather cuffs to her elbows, unclasped the leash from the ring in the wall and threaded a leather thong through the rings on the elbow cuffs. He shortened it, until her elbows were forced to rest against her flanks, her arms immobilised by the combination of elbow and wrist restraints.

At that moment, he came to stand in front of her, gazing into her eyes, as she stood there, helpless.

“Well, babe, it’s time for a good-bye kiss. I’ve got a mask for you, but it means I won’t be able to see your delightful face until this evening.”

With that, he grasped her face in both hands and roughly kissed her on the lips, forcing his tongue inside of her mouth. She resisted, but did not dare bite him, nor completely close her mouth, for fear of what would come if she enraged him.

The mask that was to follow was a plain black leather face, with holes for her nostrils and slits for her eyes. Furthermore, a tube with a bulb attached was hanging from the mouthpiece. She knew all too well what it meant: an inflatable gag. A harness hung from the sides, clearly meant to keep it solidly affixed to her head.

She accepted the deflated gag into her mouth, the pungent odour of rubber creeping into her nose. He did not inflate it immediately, as he rummaged behind her with the harness, tightening it into place. As it was, she was simply grateful that the slits over her eyes were big enough for her to see through. She wondered why, though, because Faisal relished robbing her of her sight, as he worked on her.

He then stepped in front of her, took hold of the bulb and squeezed, inflating the gag in her mouth. It soon filled up every crevice, forcing her tongue to rest at the bottom of her mouth, useless. All she could taste was rubber. Satisfied his wife could not make a sound, Faisal removed the bulb after closing the valve on the mouthpiece.

He then attached a little bottle to a hole in the gag and pressed. Her breakfast, in a liquid form, descended through a hole in the gag directly into her throat. It took a long time for her to finish the bottle, since he was extremely careful not to pour too much of it. Were she to choke, the results would be disastrous. After she had emptied the bottle, he removed the bottle from the gag.

He then fetched a black jilbab cape. It descended well under her knees, covering her completely. He tied the headpiece around her head, underneath the cape, so that it came to rest on her shoulders, hiding completely the form of her head, save for the crown on which it rested. The next step was for Faisal to untie her wrists feed them through the opening in the jilbab and the reapply restraints, made with black leather, as they all were today. Her arms were still completely immobilised, her hands trapped in front of her, forced into useless fists.

The second to last piece of her attire was then draped over her. The black floor-length khimar hid her hands from view, covering her form completely, from the top of her head to the tip of her feet. After tying the headpiece, Faisal bent and released her ankle restraints from the ring in the floor.

“Baby, you’re a sight. Here, turn around and admire yourself.”

There it was, the reason why he had not yet taken her sight: the bastard wanted her to see how she was dressed, he wanted her to see how helpless she was, how insignificant she had become. Robbed of her identity, robbed of her freedom, she was his to play with, to dress up as he wanted, to torment as he saw fit.

And as she gazed into the full-length mirror he was holding, she cursed herself and the day she had met him. She was an anonymous column of black cloth, the only trace of individuality left residing in the two slits for her eyes. Even then, she knew they would not appear for long. Indeed, her hated husband put down the mirror, took hold of a full three-veil niqab he then tied around her head. Her sight was now obscured, like she knew it would eventually be.

After he put slippers on her feet, he guided her through the house. She knew he had the house built to his specifications, but it was taking time for it to be finished. After all, had he mused once, some of the facilities he had in mind were quite difficult to procure in this part of the world. She could only guess what he meant by that. Up till now, she had always been confined in their room or paraded in front of neighbours and local well-offs, always strictly veiled, gagged, hobbled, bound. It seemed like he was taking pride in his pious wife, it seemed.

Only Shamira knew better. As always, he was asserting his control over her. Her imprisonment that she viewed as a medieval evil was, for them normal. A woman, silenced, restricted, controlled, was for them the norm. And it was now all her world.

They arrived into the room where the conference was to take place. He guided her to her chair. Unbeknownst to her, the chair itself would become an object of torment for her, like so many things he had planned. An elevated narrow ridge was placed on the middle of the seat. As he made her seat, she felt the ridge driving up through her clothes into her anal crack and between her nether lips. She tried to straighten up, but his hand on her hand pushed her back onto the seat. At the same time, he took hold of a hook built into the back of the chair and, feeding it through apertures in the khimar and jilbab, attached it to a socket built into the neck corset. She was now trapped in the chair, unable to get up, until he undid the hook. Walking behind her, he did the same with a hook built at the base of the back, preventing her from dislodging herself from the ridge. Furthermore, he adjusted the arms of the chair, blocking her from the sides, to ensure her proper positioning on the ridge. He then once again attached her hobble to a ring in the floor. She was now completely immobile.

Her eyes completely blocked by the veils, she could only feel as he readjusted her attire around her. Evidently, he was, once again about to parade her as his submissive holy wife. She could feel all the restraints he had applied over the course of the morning. She could not lift her ankles, fused as they were to the floor. Her arms were useless at her sides, with the elbow and wrist cuffs applying a soft but unrelenting pressure on her limbs. At the same time, the hook attached to the base of her spine and the arms of the chair made sure she was straddling that ridge in the middle of the seat. She still could only guess what it was here for, but she already knew it was nothing good.

Her middle was mildly compressed by the waist cincher, but in was actually more comfortable than some of the corsets he had forced her into. Why that small mercy? She could only guess.

Further above, her nipples were trapped in some modified bra cups, which tickled them every time she drew a breath. The effect was maddening, because she could not scratch that itch. Even worse, with her spine forced ramrod straight by the two hooks at its base and top, she could not slouch and minimize the contact with the garment as she had up till now.

Her neck was held rigidly straight, she could not even turn her head. With the hook, she could not even rotate her torso, blocked by the back of the chair.

Her mouth was packed with a rubber invader and her eyes could only gaze at black opaque veils.

She was left to ponder her situation, as Faisal departed, obviously to welcome their guests. Soon they came flooding in taking places in front of her. She could not see them, but she heard the bustle of their arrival, as they took place in the seats aligned in the other half of the room. It took the better part of an hour for all guests to be seated, during which Shamira tried her best to shift in her seat, as the ridge was burrowing its way into her most sensitive clefts, to no avail.

Faisal surveyed the room, before taking his own place. All the rigorous men of the neighbourhood had come, some with clothed ghosts at their arm. This was to be an exquisite torture for his rebellious wife, he thought, as he recalled the preparations of this little entertainment. The challenge had been in finding an English-speaking fundamentalist mullah. He wanted Shamira to hear the degrading discourse that would necessarily follow. It had not been all that hard: English influence had still been strong a few decades ago, courtesy of their colonial empire. The mullah had proved understanding. After all the wife of their esteemed new neighbour was not responsible if she had been born in England. She seemed to want to conform to what their religion and traditions deemed appropriate and this was all that counted. Language was not a requisite for holiness. And so, he had accepted to preach in English.

Once the old priest was ready to begin, he took his place, barely concealing a devilish grin. The next two hours were going to be torturous for the woman bound beside him.

Shamira had not known what to expect when she had heard the first sentence in English. The speaker had quite an heavy accent, but he was understandable. However, as the speech progressed, she had understood what the whole point was. The man who was talking was evidently one of those fanatical types and, had she been free, she would have tried to strangle him.The whole idea was that the word “human” in itself was a fallacy. There were men and there were women. Men had been created to be dominant, strong, decisive and independent; women to be submissive, weak, indecisive and dependent. Their weakness had to be cultivated and in the case of headstrong subjects, enforced, really, for their own good, because only men knew what was good and bad. Thus, all decision had to be removed from feminine hands. Even better, women had to be removed from society, for their own good, once again, because they could not know what was good for themselves, and so, preserving their innocences fell to the men. In return, women had to make sure they did not tempt men, even unwittingly, hence, purdah.

As he developed those retarded reasonings, Shamira felt anger burning inside her. Not only had Faisal stripped her of her physical freedom, he intended to make her listen to that nonsense. What was the goal? Brainwash her? Even as those thoughts flashed in her brain, a feeling insinuated itself in her train of thoughts. Something weird, something unexpected. Pleasure. Sexual, raw, a sensation she only expected in the bedroom. Taking stock of her body, she quickly identified the source of her confusion: the ridge between her legs had begun to pulse, not quite unlike a vibrator. It was stimulating her nether lips and her anal sphincter. Her clitoris was not in direct contact with the device, but the vibrations still reached it and elicited a response, unwelcome at the time. A sharp intake of breath reminded her her nether passages were not the only ones equipped with devious contraptions. Her nipples, coming into contact with the tingling fur in their cup sent an electrical feeling along a spine, which, compounded with the vibrations beneath, began to awaken her desire. There she was, trussed up in front of an unknowing audience, unable to move and subjected to a reluctant arousal. She tried to squirm, but the arms of the chair did not give any leeway and the hooks kept her rigidly seated on the dreaded protrusion.

She tried to keep her mind of the stimulation, but the only other possible stimulus available was the hateful speech she was subjected to. She was faced with a monstrous choice: Listen to the incoherent ramblings of an old fool, demeaning her, justifying all the indignities she had had to suffer at the hands of Faisal or feeling her own body betray her.

For three hours, she fought the alternate mental and physical humiliations. In the end, to keep her mind off the assaulting sensations, she caught herself repeating the sentences she was hearing, hating herself for giving in to Faisal’s plot. Her tears of frustration were absorbed by her niqab. Her appearance remained the same all along the mullah’s discourse. To anybody looking at her, she looked like a serene dutiful veiled wife listening intently to an exposition of how her life was supposed to be. Never slumping in her chair, regal in her posture, she seemed to know her demeanour reflected on her husband and determined to be exemplar.

When the speaker finished, Shamira was out of her mind. She was burning with desire, a desire she could not alleviate, because as maddening as they were, the vibrations were not enough to bring her over the edge. Her dress was drenched with her juices and she knew she would simply let Faisal have his way with her, just to get her release. He would tease, deny it, but in the end, he would give it to her and she knew she would be grateful for it. And the worst was, she could not help herself.

Faisal had thought it would take two hours for the old priest to lose his wind. In the end, it took three hours. He had listened distractedly to what the fundie old man had to say, absorbed as he was in the contemplation of his bound wife. He tried to guess her feelings underneath her veils, subjected to unwanted stimulation and forced to listen to the drivel his guest was spouting.

He had married her to satisfy his sadistic instincts. Now, his plan was simple: he would train her until she could simply not disobey him anymore, until disobedience was simply unconceivable for her. And then, he would wed another woman. He would take her spirited, preferably of occidental origin and then, he would bring her here and he would use Shamira to help him break his new wife. His first wife would hate herself for doing so, but resistance would simply be out of her mind, at that point.

And so, he bid his guests farewell. They now viewed him as pious man, a perfect believer, with his little modern quirks perhaps, but all in all, a model for many. This was all he wanted. He was to be a respected member of the community, all the while hiding his dark desires.

It was now time to return to his wife, free her from her bondage, before weakening her will further with a fucking he knew she was desperate to receive. Then he would bind her again, and leave her to plan for the rest of the house. She would find out in due course that seats with vibrating ridges were only child’s play for his devious mind. And he would so enjoy seeing her finding out.

Shamira’s life story is continued in A Letter for Shamira.

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