I think this started out really good, but ended like a Stephen King Novel. *shaking my head*
Sahar’s tanned soles felt the full force of her captor’s gloved fingers once they began dancing upon them after descending so mercilessly. The young woman’s denim clad legs shot straight out and her feet thrashed in different directions as peal after peal of laughter flew from her throat like a flock of bats leaving a cave at dusk.
The camera in front of the Egyptian woman recorded her face, one eye shut tight, the other slightly open; her brows arched as if she was in deep concentration, but her grin betraying her precarious situation. The cameras facing each foot showed the speed and dexterity with which her tormentor went over her terribly wrinkled soles. Each foot twitched insanely as the fingers danced over her flesh. Waltzing from the toes to the balls of her feet to the arches and heels, there seemed to be no escape.
“Tell me, Ms. Suleiman,” the captor hissed, leaning in close to her ear, “Did you think that you weren’t going to get away?”
“Please stop...” Sahar managed through gasps for breath, “Please, I don’t know how I can help you.”
“You’ve helped me just fine,” A finger slowly made its way into her t-shirt clad armpit, not yet touching her hollow, but dangerously close. “In fact, I am enjoying myself. Thank you very much.” The other hand moves into position under the other armpit. “Sahar,”
“Y-Yes?” she replied, her voice unsure of whether it was right to speak or stay silent. “W-what is it?”
“You do know that your father ordered this.”
“He did not!” She screamed, almost on the verge of tears. The camera above them caught the sudden shudder of terror at the very thought as it raced through Sahar’s body.
“Ah, but he did,” he said as he began moving his index fingers in circles in anticipation of her warm, sweaty flesh, “He ordered me to bind you to a table, by the legs and arms, and told me your worst ticklish spots.
“No, he didn’t!”
“And he knows how ticklish you are. He knows it’s terrible for you. And he is having it filmed right now so he can watch it after you’re gone.”
“You’re lying!”
“Please,” he scoffed. “If I were lying I’d have just killed you. Initially. But, he wants me to tickle you to death.” He let his index fingers drag along her armpit hollows. Sahar pulled at the bonds locked around her forearms, then looked into the camera
“NOOOHOHOAHAHAAA!!!”
“Laugh my sweet, enjoy it. It will probably be the last you ever give so freely.”
Sahar didn’t hesitate to laugh freely, she unloaded peal after peal of miserable screams as if she were a bombardier plan over a warzone. Her laughter was explosive, and her shudders and twitches were violent. It almost surprised her captor as he hadn’t expected such a small woman to put up a fight so disproportional to her size.
“Should I remove more clothing, Sahar?” he asked as he dug harder, dredging forth more false happiness from his subject.
“NA...NA...NAAAAHAHAHAAAA!!” Sahar wailed; tears rolled down her blushing cheeks, a deeper hue of orange than the rest of her skin; her throaty laughter filled the room and climbed to its heights, where it left through the minaret at its roof. “PLEASE HAVE MERCY!!”
“There is no mercy, don’t you know? That is why it’s the embarrassment of riches.” He kept going, “Do you want me to take off more clothing, Sahar?”
“PLEEAAAHAHAHAA!!”
“Please? Well, don’t mind if I do.” He kept wiggling his fingers in her under arm, and dragged his free hand along the length of her right thigh, “I think I know just what I’ll take off,” he dragged his fingers up to her right buttock, pinched it slightly. “Yes.”
“Astagh-fir-Allah!” She screamed.
“I do not care.” He said just before he ripped off her hijab in a single whipping motion. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders and over her face. She arched her back as much as she could when she felt the torturous talons of her tormentor grip her ribcage. The cage of bones holding her vital organs must have been the most sensitive spot on the young woman he’d found, her facial expression grew crazier than before, and her laughter and struggling erratic in every sense of the word.
Her tormentor leaned over on his subject while she shook and jerked wildly beneath him. “Hmm my, your rear is like a little vibrator.” He methodically pressed on her ribs, poked between them, scratched beneath them, and rubbed them with his palms. He drew Sahar into a maelstrom of strokes, pokes and laughter that subdued her, and, if it were like a true storm, would have drowned her. All the while he enjoyed the sensation of her backside grinding against his crotch.
It wasn’t long before the subject had to be turned over; the man undid the binds that Held Sahar, and rolled her over. For the first time, she saw him. He was tall, pale, with a half masquerade mask on his face. He grinned with sharp teeth that were amazingly white, and his eyes were a deep red.
Jinn, was the first word that entered her mind when she saw him, but she knew it couldn’t be. Though, admittedly, she’d never met Jinn in her life that she knew of. He looked her right in the eyes, and removed the hair from her face that blocked his view. He smiled, tightened her bonds again, and then left the room.
He returned minutes later with a bowl of water that smelled of roses, and a warm cloth. He dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it, and then washed her face with it. The brought back sudden nostalgia, she remembered being washed as a child by her mother in the same manner, but without the rose water.
“Comforting, yes?” he asked, “I find the scents of rose often makes people very calm in situations of desperation.”
Sahar spat at him, and he used the cloth to catch the spittle before it reached his face. “I could use this to wash you again,” he responded, “but I won’t.” He put the bowl down on the floor in the corner of the room and returned to her. He grabbed her t-shirt and lifted in high above her dark brown brassiere.
Her figure was a perfect, albeit sweat drenched, hourglass. And her tummy looked plump and perfect, like a pillow. The captor thought about stopping right there and sleeping on her stomach. He chuckled at the thought.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Sahar asked with nerves showing in her voice again. “What did I ever do you?”
“You’re the daughter of a diplomat. Your father and President Mubarak are disappointed in you.”
“Why?”
“I only know what they’ve told me, and they want to teach you a lesson for your dissidence.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Liar, hardly.” He pulled out a long red feather and brushed it from just beneath the center of Sahar brassiere, and down the middle of her belly, swirling into her navel, and causing her to jerk and move and grin while looking wrathfully at him.
“I...won’t laugh...”
“Won’t you?” He poked a finger in her side. Sahar looked like she was about to explode. The man’s finger stayed where it was, slowly working its way into whatever sweet spot was about to be exploited. While the finger worked along her belly, driving her up the wall, the other hand jumped over to her right armpit, and attacked feverishly. The ten seconds that filled the gap between her breakdown into helpless laughter and the armpit attack was filled with spurts and snorts, like a nuclear reactor about to blow.
“No...No...NO!!!” She roared before her anger was filled with laughter. The fingers then began focusing all their attention on her belly. She looked at the camera above her no longer hearing her laughter, feeling separate from her body. She knew she was going to die at this point. She just couldn’t believe her father would do this to her. At this point there was little wonder what other terrible things might have gone on.
When she no longer laughed, the man stopped. He watched her staring up at the camera for five minutes before he snapped his fingers above her head. She came back to reality. She looked at him for a moment before speaking.
“Who are you?”
“An officer of the Law.”
“So, what they say is true then...”
“Of course.”
“And I didn’t listen.”
“The privileged never do.”
“Will I ever see my parents again?”
“Of course.” The man said as he pulled a syringe from his pocket. Sahar’s eyes widened. “In paradise.”
“No.” Sahar shook her head, “No...No. NO!”
“I could have left you in the desert, be happy you will die near your home.” The man leaned forward with the syringe, as he did so, the cameras shut off.
The video ended. And Dr. Suleiman stood up, enraged and in tears. “I did not do this!” he screamed at the officers who stood at the doorway. His wife and his children, with the exception of Sahar, stared at him in astonishment. It had been a week since his daughter’s face had been found, skinned from her skull, and other body parts found sliced off from her body along the Nile. The DNA matched the patterns of the mother, and the daughter, and now, the whole family had been rapt with horror at the video.
“You murderer,” Sahar’s brother hissed. “You killed my sister.”
“Come with us,” the officers ordered as they grabbed the diplomat and forced him out the door.
The scandal that ensued over the next week enraged the people of Cairo; what purpose did a diplomat have to kill his own daughter? And in such a savage manner? This was the straw that broke the camel’s back; chaos ensued that afternoon, and two days later, a full fledged revolution was coming together.
That night, as the riots went on, a woman watched from inside her compound from behind a glass wall. She was tall, dark, with a long ponytail of black hair. She sipped some red wine as she gazed upon the fires and the crowds, hundreds of thousands of angry people. She smiled as they brought down another building.
“Mumtaz,” a man in the shadows spoke. The woman turned suddenly, and smiled.
“Dante,” she smiled. Won’t you join me?”
Dante moved into the light from the flames, it gave his red eyes a glow making them even more eerie than before. “Do you enjoy my handiwork?”
“It’s very effective.”
“It should be,” he smiled, “I used similar methods three times before.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The first time when I started the French Revolution, the second when I planned the assassinations of Franz Ferdinand and his wife.”
“Ferdinand’s death was a convenient excuse,”
“An excuse is all that is necessary.”
“Eh, I suppose.”
Mumtaz sipped more of her wine, Dante stayed silent. He watched the flames engulf another building. A police truck, that looked morel like a tank was being rocked from side to side.
“What will you do once the country is yours?”
“I have plans. “
“Do they include paying me?”
“Hmmm...I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“You know who else said Perhaps?”
“Who?”
“Marie Antoinette.”
“Oh...and so you’re going to have me beheaded?” She smiled at him. His cold gaze held no expression at all.
“No.”
“Then what?” She asked. A moment later she jerked backward, and dropped her wineglass. Dante caught it before it hit the floor. His left hand was buried between her left arm and her left ribs. “Dante!” She squealed, “DAHAHANTE!!!”
“Only idiots behead beautiful women.”
Sahar’s tanned soles felt the full force of her captor’s gloved fingers once they began dancing upon them after descending so mercilessly. The young woman’s denim clad legs shot straight out and her feet thrashed in different directions as peal after peal of laughter flew from her throat like a flock of bats leaving a cave at dusk.
The camera in front of the Egyptian woman recorded her face, one eye shut tight, the other slightly open; her brows arched as if she was in deep concentration, but her grin betraying her precarious situation. The cameras facing each foot showed the speed and dexterity with which her tormentor went over her terribly wrinkled soles. Each foot twitched insanely as the fingers danced over her flesh. Waltzing from the toes to the balls of her feet to the arches and heels, there seemed to be no escape.
“Tell me, Ms. Suleiman,” the captor hissed, leaning in close to her ear, “Did you think that you weren’t going to get away?”
“Please stop...” Sahar managed through gasps for breath, “Please, I don’t know how I can help you.”
“You’ve helped me just fine,” A finger slowly made its way into her t-shirt clad armpit, not yet touching her hollow, but dangerously close. “In fact, I am enjoying myself. Thank you very much.” The other hand moves into position under the other armpit. “Sahar,”
“Y-Yes?” she replied, her voice unsure of whether it was right to speak or stay silent. “W-what is it?”
“You do know that your father ordered this.”
“He did not!” She screamed, almost on the verge of tears. The camera above them caught the sudden shudder of terror at the very thought as it raced through Sahar’s body.
“Ah, but he did,” he said as he began moving his index fingers in circles in anticipation of her warm, sweaty flesh, “He ordered me to bind you to a table, by the legs and arms, and told me your worst ticklish spots.
“No, he didn’t!”
“And he knows how ticklish you are. He knows it’s terrible for you. And he is having it filmed right now so he can watch it after you’re gone.”
“You’re lying!”
“Please,” he scoffed. “If I were lying I’d have just killed you. Initially. But, he wants me to tickle you to death.” He let his index fingers drag along her armpit hollows. Sahar pulled at the bonds locked around her forearms, then looked into the camera
“NOOOHOHOAHAHAAA!!!”
“Laugh my sweet, enjoy it. It will probably be the last you ever give so freely.”
Sahar didn’t hesitate to laugh freely, she unloaded peal after peal of miserable screams as if she were a bombardier plan over a warzone. Her laughter was explosive, and her shudders and twitches were violent. It almost surprised her captor as he hadn’t expected such a small woman to put up a fight so disproportional to her size.
“Should I remove more clothing, Sahar?” he asked as he dug harder, dredging forth more false happiness from his subject.
“NA...NA...NAAAAHAHAHAAAA!!” Sahar wailed; tears rolled down her blushing cheeks, a deeper hue of orange than the rest of her skin; her throaty laughter filled the room and climbed to its heights, where it left through the minaret at its roof. “PLEASE HAVE MERCY!!”
“There is no mercy, don’t you know? That is why it’s the embarrassment of riches.” He kept going, “Do you want me to take off more clothing, Sahar?”
“PLEEAAAHAHAHAA!!”
“Please? Well, don’t mind if I do.” He kept wiggling his fingers in her under arm, and dragged his free hand along the length of her right thigh, “I think I know just what I’ll take off,” he dragged his fingers up to her right buttock, pinched it slightly. “Yes.”
“Astagh-fir-Allah!” She screamed.
“I do not care.” He said just before he ripped off her hijab in a single whipping motion. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders and over her face. She arched her back as much as she could when she felt the torturous talons of her tormentor grip her ribcage. The cage of bones holding her vital organs must have been the most sensitive spot on the young woman he’d found, her facial expression grew crazier than before, and her laughter and struggling erratic in every sense of the word.
Her tormentor leaned over on his subject while she shook and jerked wildly beneath him. “Hmm my, your rear is like a little vibrator.” He methodically pressed on her ribs, poked between them, scratched beneath them, and rubbed them with his palms. He drew Sahar into a maelstrom of strokes, pokes and laughter that subdued her, and, if it were like a true storm, would have drowned her. All the while he enjoyed the sensation of her backside grinding against his crotch.
It wasn’t long before the subject had to be turned over; the man undid the binds that Held Sahar, and rolled her over. For the first time, she saw him. He was tall, pale, with a half masquerade mask on his face. He grinned with sharp teeth that were amazingly white, and his eyes were a deep red.
Jinn, was the first word that entered her mind when she saw him, but she knew it couldn’t be. Though, admittedly, she’d never met Jinn in her life that she knew of. He looked her right in the eyes, and removed the hair from her face that blocked his view. He smiled, tightened her bonds again, and then left the room.
He returned minutes later with a bowl of water that smelled of roses, and a warm cloth. He dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it, and then washed her face with it. The brought back sudden nostalgia, she remembered being washed as a child by her mother in the same manner, but without the rose water.
“Comforting, yes?” he asked, “I find the scents of rose often makes people very calm in situations of desperation.”
Sahar spat at him, and he used the cloth to catch the spittle before it reached his face. “I could use this to wash you again,” he responded, “but I won’t.” He put the bowl down on the floor in the corner of the room and returned to her. He grabbed her t-shirt and lifted in high above her dark brown brassiere.
Her figure was a perfect, albeit sweat drenched, hourglass. And her tummy looked plump and perfect, like a pillow. The captor thought about stopping right there and sleeping on her stomach. He chuckled at the thought.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Sahar asked with nerves showing in her voice again. “What did I ever do you?”
“You’re the daughter of a diplomat. Your father and President Mubarak are disappointed in you.”
“Why?”
“I only know what they’ve told me, and they want to teach you a lesson for your dissidence.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Liar, hardly.” He pulled out a long red feather and brushed it from just beneath the center of Sahar brassiere, and down the middle of her belly, swirling into her navel, and causing her to jerk and move and grin while looking wrathfully at him.
“I...won’t laugh...”
“Won’t you?” He poked a finger in her side. Sahar looked like she was about to explode. The man’s finger stayed where it was, slowly working its way into whatever sweet spot was about to be exploited. While the finger worked along her belly, driving her up the wall, the other hand jumped over to her right armpit, and attacked feverishly. The ten seconds that filled the gap between her breakdown into helpless laughter and the armpit attack was filled with spurts and snorts, like a nuclear reactor about to blow.
“No...No...NO!!!” She roared before her anger was filled with laughter. The fingers then began focusing all their attention on her belly. She looked at the camera above her no longer hearing her laughter, feeling separate from her body. She knew she was going to die at this point. She just couldn’t believe her father would do this to her. At this point there was little wonder what other terrible things might have gone on.
When she no longer laughed, the man stopped. He watched her staring up at the camera for five minutes before he snapped his fingers above her head. She came back to reality. She looked at him for a moment before speaking.
“Who are you?”
“An officer of the Law.”
“So, what they say is true then...”
“Of course.”
“And I didn’t listen.”
“The privileged never do.”
“Will I ever see my parents again?”
“Of course.” The man said as he pulled a syringe from his pocket. Sahar’s eyes widened. “In paradise.”
“No.” Sahar shook her head, “No...No. NO!”
“I could have left you in the desert, be happy you will die near your home.” The man leaned forward with the syringe, as he did so, the cameras shut off.
The video ended. And Dr. Suleiman stood up, enraged and in tears. “I did not do this!” he screamed at the officers who stood at the doorway. His wife and his children, with the exception of Sahar, stared at him in astonishment. It had been a week since his daughter’s face had been found, skinned from her skull, and other body parts found sliced off from her body along the Nile. The DNA matched the patterns of the mother, and the daughter, and now, the whole family had been rapt with horror at the video.
“You murderer,” Sahar’s brother hissed. “You killed my sister.”
“Come with us,” the officers ordered as they grabbed the diplomat and forced him out the door.
The scandal that ensued over the next week enraged the people of Cairo; what purpose did a diplomat have to kill his own daughter? And in such a savage manner? This was the straw that broke the camel’s back; chaos ensued that afternoon, and two days later, a full fledged revolution was coming together.
That night, as the riots went on, a woman watched from inside her compound from behind a glass wall. She was tall, dark, with a long ponytail of black hair. She sipped some red wine as she gazed upon the fires and the crowds, hundreds of thousands of angry people. She smiled as they brought down another building.
“Mumtaz,” a man in the shadows spoke. The woman turned suddenly, and smiled.
“Dante,” she smiled. Won’t you join me?”
Dante moved into the light from the flames, it gave his red eyes a glow making them even more eerie than before. “Do you enjoy my handiwork?”
“It’s very effective.”
“It should be,” he smiled, “I used similar methods three times before.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The first time when I started the French Revolution, the second when I planned the assassinations of Franz Ferdinand and his wife.”
“Ferdinand’s death was a convenient excuse,”
“An excuse is all that is necessary.”
“Eh, I suppose.”
Mumtaz sipped more of her wine, Dante stayed silent. He watched the flames engulf another building. A police truck, that looked morel like a tank was being rocked from side to side.
“What will you do once the country is yours?”
“I have plans. “
“Do they include paying me?”
“Hmmm...I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“You know who else said Perhaps?”
“Who?”
“Marie Antoinette.”
“Oh...and so you’re going to have me beheaded?” She smiled at him. His cold gaze held no expression at all.
“No.”
“Then what?” She asked. A moment later she jerked backward, and dropped her wineglass. Dante caught it before it hit the floor. His left hand was buried between her left arm and her left ribs. “Dante!” She squealed, “DAHAHANTE!!!”
“Only idiots behead beautiful women.”
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