The Bājīrāo Mastānī Apartments were one of the most ultramodern Apartments of Ved Nagar.
The entire Ved Nagar was itself utmost ultramodern.
HVSI owned the most of Ved Nagar.
Even the government of India extended its capital activities to Ved Nagar to keep watch over the new extensions of the embassies of the governments of other countries in the world.
The India House at Ved Nagar was gradually becoming more and more important in global politics.
Everyone was suspecting HVSI was strategizing it all.
“Imām Sāħab,” Muħammad Ålī controlled himself from being excited, “Do you mean India has changed its capital actually?”
“Not expressly legally.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why is it so?”
“That’s the deep game India is playing and both China and USA are scratching their heads to understand why it’s so.”
ACP Suraiyā Jamāl pressed her thumb against the button opposite Iqbāl Rashīd’s name.
We were outside of a big glass door.
A part of the lobby could be seen through it.
“No luck?” I asked after several moments.
“No dice.” ACP Suraiyā Jamāl said, and pushed the button marked MANAGER.
At the third ring an indignant young woman pushed open the door of one of the lower apartments.
She was in nightgown, slippers and kimono.
She whistled seeing me with ACP Suraiyā Jamāl.
I was also surprised somewhat.
“Raziyah Najmul Ħasan?” I said inadvertently.
“You never told me you are the manager here.”
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan had come there shuffling across the lobby to the door.
“What is it?”
“Well, of all the nerve! There is the bell of the scoundrel. Isn’t there? Can’t you read his name? Go the hell there and ring it.”
This was Ved Nagar.
ACP Suraiyā Jamāl knew very well only the most capable persons could afford to have any properly here.
She was used to this indignant behavior.
Muħammad Åbdullah had least need to bother.
“He doesn’t answer, ma’am.”
“Well, I’m not his keeper.”
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan started to slam the door.
“Take it easy, ma’am. We have to find him. It’s important.”
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan didn’t calm down.
“Only because you are wandering with HVSI Supremo, Durgesh, you think everyone should cooperate with you?”
She knew her responding indignation could make the situation even worse.
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan was right as far as her legal standing was concerned.
“I haven’t the faintest idea where the scoundrel is.” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan stormed, “We’re running a respectable place here. And…”
“Sure you’re, ma’am.” ACP Suraiyā Jamāl said soothingly, “and you of course wouldn’t want to get in bad by refusing to cooperate with the police when they wanted a little something. The way things are now, the place has a nice reputation. We have you marked as a law abiding citizen even while you are originally from Pakistan.”
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan’s expression somewhat softened.
“What do you mean?”
“Just eighteen Just adult is a dangerous age, ma’am.”
“What’s dangerous in being Just eighteen Just adult? Weren’t you yourself once Just eighteen Just adult?”
“Yes, I was. But I wasn’t from Pakistan.”
“No. Saůūdī Årab and India haven’t fought any war against each other, as Pakistan and India have. Neither have we had any issue disputed between us as Pakistan and India have their ever disputed Kashmir issue.”
“Durgesh darling, méré Hindu Piyā, Hindu Al Buůūlatul Muslimāt, hum Musalmān ħasīnāon ké Hindu Kħasam, Hindu husband of us Musalmān Beauties!” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan suddenly addressed me, “She is one of your infinite Musalmān Live in Relationship Partners?”
“Sorry, Raziyah Najmul Ħasan. It’s a police business. I’m with her on her official request. She is doing the talking.”
“Official request, my foot. Don’t try to teach me you are powerless before her. I won’t take it. You are the most powerful man on the globe now. Even the new President of USA, Jacqueline Lincoln, is your Live in Relationship Partner.”
“Well, that isn’t any secret. President of USA, Jacqueline Lincoln, has herself announced it ceremoniously. However that doesn’t mean President of USA, Jacqueline Lincoln, would surrender the interests of USA to India.”
“I didn’t say that. Come in.”
She knew how powerful the Najmul Ħasan sisters were becoming day by day.
They were still citizens of Pakistan, yet their business was spreading everywhere internationally.
Her problem was Ved Nagar was full of such VIP personalities.
And it was her duty to maintain law and order there.
I was shrewd enough to mastermind every event myself.
She could comparatively easily control the Pseudo Islamic Countries’ illegal activities keeping my support to her scrupulously behind.
She was confused who actually masterminded it.
Well, whoever masterminded it, she was not in detriment.
And that counted for her more.
Raziyah Najmul Ħasan was on the side of law and order.
It was enough for her.
All the Najmul Ħasan sisters were.
“Thank you.” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan smiled now, “Only because I’m a citizen of Pakistan I can’t support the terrorists from my country. The Pseudo Islamic Countries are using them for their own vile inhuman interests. It’s against the best interests of Pakistan herself.”
“We appreciate your ideology, ma’am. We keep the places very well pegged. We know what goes on. We know whom we can depend on, and whom we can’t. Lots of times banks and mortgage companies that are looking for apartment house owners give us a ring and ask us what sort of a record the party had in the last job. You’d be surprised how careful the big people are to get owners who are friendly with the police.”
“Well, I can understand that.” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan cooed.
The hostility had left her ever melodious voice.
She was a great fan of Kishore Kumar and Suraiyā.
Her voice had a very close similarity to Suraiyā Jamal Sheikħ, the veteran actress and singer of Bollywood.
When Raziyah Najmul Ħasan sang the songs of Suraiyā Jamal Sheikħ, the veteran actress and singer of Bollywood, it was difficult for even me to differentiate it from the original song.
“How can I help you except telling you the whereabouts of Iqbāl Rashīd? I was never interested in the fellow.” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan tried to be even hospitable now.
“Well, Raziyah Najmul Ħasan,” I told her now, “ACP Suraiyā Jamāl would appreciate if you can tell anything worthwhile about Iqbāl Rashīd. Not about his habits, but where we can locate him. Do you know anything about him, who his friends are, or anything of that sort?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t, Durgesh. Normally we educated Musalmān Beauties hate Musalmīn. Their drastic incompetence sends us to you Hindus. Of course we want to be loyal to Ummat-e-Muslimah, but the extreme incompetence of the Musalmān scoundrels never allow us to be as loyal to our faith as we want to be.”
“I can understand that, Raziyah Najmul Ħasan.”
“Thank you. The only thing I’ve noticed about Iqbāl Rashīd is, I suspect he is a gay.”
“What’s there to be surprised of?” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan retorted curtly and with intense abhorrence, “most of the Musalmīn are turning bisexual and gay nowadays. Iqbāl Rashīd is also one of them. One more reason for me to hate the blot on mankind.”
I smiled disapprovingly.
“I don’t think so.”
“Most of them are uneducated/under educated. Aren’t they?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t mean…”
“It doesn’t mean hell. They are bisexuals and gay. So many of my married Musalmān girlfriends tell me about their own Musalmān husbands that they are bisexual and gay.” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan was furious, “the scoundrels. They are blots on Islam.”
“Your Musalmān girlfriends can’t lie?”
“For justifying their own infidelity with me/other Hindus.”
“Iqbāl Rashīd is a quiet chap.” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan smiled at ACP Suraiyā Jamāl thanking her with her extremely beautiful Panjvaqtah Namāzī ardent Pakistani Sunni Musalmān eyes, “yet even then he is popular somewhat. There are quite a few people come to call on him.”
“Men or women?”
“Women are not as stupid as you think they are.” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan retorted.
“I see. So the men come to meet him?”
“To fuck him in his ass.” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan spit in the dustbin.
I controlled myself.
Both of them hated Musalmīn very much.
It would be futile to argue with those feminists.
For their every problem only the Musalmīn were responsible in their eyes.
They were not.
“Well, even though I hated him; I never bothered with him or anyone of my tenants. As long as they are quiet I never bother them.”
“No, I don’t. Once she tried to contact with me but I was so against her younger brother that I refused even to meet her. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” ACP Suraiyā Jamāl said, “We’ve to get Iqbāl Rashīd anyway as soon as he comes in. Would you mind dressing and waiting in the lobby until you see him come in? Then call police headquarters, ask for ACP Suraiyā Jamāl. That’s me. If I’m not in, ask for Inspector Pratāp on the line and he’ll tell you what to do.”
“No problem.” Raziyah Najmul Ħasan smiled cooperating. “I’ll be glad to. It’ll take me a minute only.”
Gathering her robe about her, Raziyah Najmul Ħasan shuffled rapidly across the lobby to vanish through the door to her bedroom.
“Tell me something about the case, Durgesh.”
“You said some Fātimah Muħammad Åbdullah had an appointment with you?”
“Yes. It’s a civil case however.” I let myself enjoy her now expert sucking of my Hindu Prick.
When she wasn’t an ACP, and she sucked me first time, she wasn’t as expert as she was now.
He hated oral sex.
It was a sin to him.
But cleaning the cunt and even the ass of his extremely beautiful Musalmān houseladies wasn’t any sin to him, with his tongue.
Most of the Musalmīn had this shortcoming causing their bisexuality and gayness.
Yet, they never even acknowledged it.
“I can’t give you details without Fātimah Muħammad Åbdullah’s consent. Yet, I’ll say this much.” I smiled at ACP Suraiyā Jamāl being sucked by her passionately, “Fātimah Muħammad Åbdullah owns Ruqayyah Fātimah Flower Shops. She rang up me and made an appointment with me for one o’clock.”
I held her hand, made her to stand up, undressed her and made her to bow in rukū.
Then I placed my extremely hardened Uncut Hindu Prick between her labial lips and pushed.
“Not afternoon, no, morning.” I answered her fucking her more and more wildly, “First, Fātimah Muħammad Åbdullah called for an appointment at one thirty in the morning. Then she rang up again, very much excited. She said she simply had to see me sometime tonight. I was working on a brief. Kħadījah Muħammad told her I wouldn’t be finished before sometime after midnight.”
“Kħadījah Muħammad certainly never misses a chance to win your heart. She knows very well how to keep you happy.”
“Why the hell Kħadījah Muħammad called her after midnight?”
“You have a point there.”
It went deepest entirely into her Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Cunt, came out until only its head was inside, then again vanished completely penetrating her ever tight Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān Cunt deepest.*
I felt so content that my mind inadvertently went to the past:
I had just come home when the main phone rang.
Reluctantly, I went to check the Caller ID screen.
Had it been anyone but someone from Muħammad Ålī’s family, I would have ignored the phone.
I needed a much-needed late dinner.
The hell with everything else.
Instead, seeing that Muħammad Ålī’s little Sister Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb was calling, I answered the phone.
“Hey, Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb!”
“Hey yourself, Durgesh darling, méré Hindu Piyā, Hindu Al Buůūlatul Muslimāt, hum Musalmān ħasīnāon ké Hindu Kħasam, Hindu husband of us Musalmān Beauties!! I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Sālī,” I smiled, “I’m not your Hindu Piyā. I’m Hindu Piyā of your Ammījān actually.”
“How do you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“Only because you fuck my Ammījān, why can’t you fuck me too?”
“You must be crazy.”
“I know you are attempting to fuck my Bhābhījān, Suraiyā Jamāl, too.”
“Hey, Just eighteen Just adult, stop this nonsense. Will you?”
“Fuck me and get my Bhābhījān, Suraiyā Jamāl, in bonus from me.”
“You mean you’d help me in fucking your Bhābhījān, Suraiyā Jamāl, if I fuck you first.”
“Nonsense, wait and you might hear some noise as our cook goes into the kitchen and make dinner.”
“Ouch, rather late for dinner. Evening photo shoot today?”
“Yeah.” I was thankful for the cordless phone as I made my way through the living room toward the kitchen. “The third straight evening of Little League photos. I need to do the final set tomorrow, and then spend the weekend and probably early next week getting all the initial proofs done for all the teams.”
“I see. Actually, that’s a good segue for what I wanted to ask you about…”
“Oh? You need some special photos done?”
“Well…” Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb was not someone to hesitate, so this particular pause caught my attention. “These are definitely special pictures I need.”
“Okay. Something more elaborate than a passport photo, I suppose.”
I started rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, looking for something I could make relatively quickly since I was nearly starving. “Anything in particular?”
Again, Muħammad Ålī’s little Sister hesitated, and I stopped looking through the cupboards. “Uh… Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb?”
“It’s… Well, I want some special pictures for your birthday.”
That narrowed things down considerably. “Okay. In the studio? Outdoors somewhere, maybe over by Kħātūn-e-Jannat Lake? Some romantic location you have in mind?”
That response stopped my heart for a moment, for it was the first time that I had ever truly thought of Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb as being potentially sexual, never mind being potentially kinky. “Um, I can do that, I guess,” I responded, “but bondage is a bit out of My realm…”
I thought I heard a sigh of relief from Muħammad Ålī’s Sister. “I’m not looking for anything strict,” she said. “I’m not planning on thick heavy chains and being suspended upside-down from the ceiling with various sex toys sticking out of me. Just some bedroom bondage pictures, that’s all.”
I had seen some bondage photos on several occasions.
A few times, they were professionally-made images, with professional models restrained in different poses which I just knew would take years of training to hold for any length of time so the pictures could be taken.
And, of course, there were plenty of amateur bondage images available on the Internet, most of them being of very poor quality and featuring women in various stages of undress who were tied down with whatever was available, which was typically not the stereotypical cuffs and chains.
But while I had seen such things in the past, I had never paid much attention to them.
Clearly, that would need to change.
It was the entertainment of the persons whose evolution process had evolved them physically to a human being but not mentally.
Hinduism had provided the Sapt Maryādās, the Seven Minimum Practices, to complete this process.
“Well, I can do that,” I finally offered, “but I don’t have anything even remotely close to standard bondage equipment around here. The best I could do would be to borrow a collar from a neighbor’s dog and put that on you.”
While I had not intended that to be a joke, I was nonetheless relieved when I heard Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb’s giggle. “That’s really not what I had in mind, especially not if the dog has fleas.”
She had a good point, especially since I had noticed the neighbor’s dog scratching himself behind the ears that morning.
“Can we do this when I come to visit at the end of the semester?” Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb asked.
“Sure,” I replied. “The other option would be for me to come, see you and do it there, but I’m guessing that might ruin the surprise aspect of things.”
“Yeah… Thanks, Durgesh darling, méré Hindu Piyā, Hindu Al Buůūlatul Muslimāt, hum Musalmān ħasīnāon ké Hindu Kħasam, Hindu husband of us Musalmān Beauties! And I do have two requests about the pictures themselves.”
“The ones I finally choose need to be done as five-by-sevens so I can frame them, and whatever work product I do not keep gets destroyed.”
That made sense, given the sensitive nature of what she wanted to do in front of a camera. “I’m fine with that.”
“Good!” Her sigh of relief was unmistakable. “You should be home soon, so I’d better hang up here. I’ll see you in a few weeks, okay?”
“Okay, Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb.”
“And no pizza!”
She was giggling just before she ended the call.*
For the next few weeks, I spent a little time each day looking online for bondage images.
I was amazed at the work professional BDSM photographers were doing.
Yet, strangely enough, the professional sex therapist in me began to gradually and continuously lose ground to the stereotypical male in me, replacing the faces of the Musalmān Beauties in the images with Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb’s face.
That was a little disturbing.
It became even more disturbing to me when I began to fantasize about what might happen while Muħammad Ålī’s Sister was posing for me.
At first, those fantasies had her fully clothed, the way I had always seen her, but soon those fantasies involved less clothing, then less clothing, then she was topless, and then she wore nothing but earrings and a necklace as she was tied by scarves to the bedposts.
And then there was the dream in which she was blindfolded by an old bandana, with a rope connecting each wrist to either end of the headboard of my bed.
In the dream, I could not remain professional sex therapist any longer and began to undress her, and she did not protest when I finally entered her, thrusting as deep into her extremely lovely Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān body as I possibly could…
…and awakening with quite a mess on My stomach and a rather hot face.*
Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb’s voice was as sweet and bubbly as ever.
“Well, yes and no. I’m glad that your semester’s done, especially after that philosophy exam yesterday, but it’s somewhat boring here since your extremely beautiful Musalmān girlfriends are still in University.”
“Yeah, that’s the down side to a University that ends earlier than most.” I hadn’t attended the same University, even then I understood Muħammad Ålī’s little Sister’s lament all too well. “But at least that gives you the jump on summer jobs.”
“I already have one, thank goodness! I’ll be babysitting Patty’s kids Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, then driving back to campus and spending the weekends with you.”
“I see. What does Your Abbū, Imām Muħammad Yåqūb, think of that plan? For the weekends, I mean.”
“Ugh. He’s not too thrilled, but he never has been happy with you, you know.”
“Because his extremely beautiful Musalmān houseladies fuck me?”
“Because you fuck my Abbū, Imām Muħammad Yåqūb’s extremely beautiful Musalmān houseladies.”
“Sālī, you are proposing to me that I fuck you, not I.”
“But you are trying to fuck my Bhābhījān, Suraiyā Jamal. She isn’t trying to fuck you.”
“You don’t know anything behind the curtains, Just eighteen Just adult.”
Ghausiyah Imām Muħammad Yåqūb was excited suddenly.
“What do you mean? My Bhābhījān, Suraiyā Jamal, is also trying to fuck you?”
“Nonsense, Just eighteen Just adult, you are still a child. You need to learn more about human nature, human behavior and human psychology. Moreover you lack experiences too drastically.”*
In a way, I could understand.
Two University-age Musalmān Beauties living together was one thing.
Two University-age Musalmān Beauties living together while being romantically involved was something slightly different.
I had no issues with Muħammad Ålī’s Sister being a lesbian, but I did fear that if the wrong person found out about her sexual orientation, life could suddenly become really difficult for her and for Taħsīn Jalāl Sheikħ.
It was hard enough for her having a father who was so far right that Pat Buchanan looks like a Democrat, and with that type of mindset, her sexual orientation definitely rubbed him the wrong way.
To that extent, perhaps it was a good thing for her to be gone on the weekends, when he was more likely to be home and yet again give her a piece of his mind concerning her choice of sexual partners.
“Well, for what it’s worth,” I offered, “when you’re here this weekend, you won’t need to worry about his lectures.”
“Thank goodness. By the way, my plane should be landing about 6PM.”
“That’s fine. I’ll meet you at the baggage claim area. Just be sure to e-mail or text me your flight number and airline so I know which carousel to go to, so I can find you.”
“Okay. And can I make a request?”
“Dinner’s on me. It’s the least I can do for the pictures for Taħsīn Jalāl Sheikħ.”
I smiled to myself.
“Okay, Ghausiyah Imām, Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb. If you insist, I mean”*
She definitely insisted.
Red Lobster was not what I had expected for dinner just after leaving the airport, but that was what Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb wanted, and she was true to her word, stopping me when I attempted to pay the bill.
As we drove from the restaurant to the house, that was when I finally asked The Question:
“When do you want to do the photo shoot?”
Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb smiled nervously.
“I was hoping we could do the shoot tonight,” she answered, “so that you could develop the pictures tomorrow and I can take them with me after we’ve destroyed whatever I don’t want.”
It was a good thing that I did not have anything planned for Saturday,
“I guess that works for me,” I told her as I turned onto my street.
That was when I had a sudden vision of her:
Muħammad Ålī’s little Sister, naked, wearing a collar and a big pink ball gag, drooling on herself as she knelt at the center of the bed, ropes wrapped around her chest and breasts as if forming a harness, a pair of chains connecting the collar with each of her wrist cuffs while she fucked herself with my Uncut Hindu Cock.
“Um, Durgesh darling, méré Hindu Piyā, Hindu Al Buůūlatul Muslimāt, hum Musalmān ħasīnāon ké Hindu Kħasam, Hindu husband of us Musalmān Beauties!?”
“Yeah?” Only then did I realize why she had interrupted the vision: I had just driven past my own house.
“Um, sorry,” I apologized lamely, slowing the car so I could use someone else’s driveway to turn around.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Thinking of the shoot?”
“Well, yeah. It’s… odd for me, you know? I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Neither have I,” Muħammad Ålī’s Sister said as I pulled into a driveway and then shifted to Reverse. “But to be honest, you’re the only one I’d trust with anything like this.”
I backed onto the street before I responded.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Seriously. I know you won’t take advantage of the situation. If nothing else, I know you won’t violate my relationship with Taħsīn Jalāl Sheikħ.”
“Yeah, well… First I need to get us to the right house!”
Fortunately, she giggled, taking the edge off the seriousness of the conversation.*
It was well after sunset when, as we sat on the back porch listening to the loud music from a party a few houses away, I finally turned to Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb and simply asked:
Muħammad Ålī’s little Sister knew exactly what I meant.
“I’ll need a few minutes,” she said.
“That’s fine. I’ll need to get the lights and the camera.”
While Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb was in the small guest bedroom, I trudged the equipment from the basement to my bedroom, setting up the lights and taking a few test shots of the bed.
After all the thoughts which had passed through my head in the previous few weeks since she had initially asked about doing this for her, it was almost too easy to imagine Muħammad Ålī’s Sister on the bed, tethered cuffs securing her wrists to the ends of the black metal headboard, a crimson thong providing minimal modesty as her somewhat-embarrassed blush attempted to match the lone garment she was wearing.
I sensed more than heard Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb behind me, entering the bedroom, and I turned toward her, finding her dressed for bed.
The yellow floral print pajama set was one I had never seen, but it looked nice on her.
She was even wearing cream-colored slippers, which was almost useless since she would be out of her slippers in a few moments so she could mount the bed.
Muħammad Ålī’s Sister, ACP Suraiyā Jamāl’s one of so many Nanads, sisters in law, also carried a small black bag, similar to a bag received at a store, but the lack of a logo made me particularly curious about what was inside. I had what I felt was a good guess, given the nature of the photo shoot, but I knew it was best to wait until Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb was ready to reveal the bag’s contents.
“I didn’t know you’d need these lights for this,” she said.
I had set up two lights in the bedroom, one near each end of the foot of the bed.
“These will help minimize the shadowing,” I informed her, “plus it would be relatively dark in here without them since there’s no natural daylight coming through the windows and the bedroom ceiling light is purposely not very bright.”
“Good point.” She had visited several times previously and was familiar with the darkness of the bedroom at night, even with the main light turned on. “Here,” she said, offering me the black bag.
I accepted the bag from her.
“What’s in here?” I asked.
“The cuffs,” she replied, “and also a whip.”
That surprised me.
“You… you also want me to whip you?”
She smiled as she shook her head.
“No, although I do want to try being whipped, but I’m saving that for Taħsīn Jalāl Sheikħ.”
“You actually… You really want someone to hurt you?”
“She does already, at least a little. She really enjoys biting me, especially my breasts, and the way she pulls my hair…”
There was a significant moment of discomfort as we both realized that we were talking about sexual matters ― specifically, a mature Hindu old enough to be her father, her real Ammī’s Live in Relationship Partner, and a Just eighteen Just adult Musalmān Beauty, were discussing sexual matters.
“So part of the idea of the photo shoot,” I offered, attempting to dispel the awkwardness of the moment, “is that you want to essentially ‘announce’ to Taħsīn Jalāl Sheikħ that you want her to hurt you even more. Is that right?”
She nodded. “Yeah. That’s part of it. Plus, I just wanted to give her something different for her birthday, something unique, something that’s certain to get her attention and something that she’ll definitely enjoy again and again. I think this is something unique enough, and it also sends her a message.”
“And what about the pajamas? Does what you’re wearing send a message?”
“Not really. She just enjoys unbuttoning my shirts and blouses and slowly revealing me, and I love it when she does it.”
I shook my head, both out of disbelief that I was having such a conversation with Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb and also to dispel the new inappropriate image of her which had formed in my mind.
“So how do you envision this photo shoot playing out?”
Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb moved to sit on the edge of the bed, slipping off her slippers.
“Well, I was thinking of having my arms and legs tied to the bedposts, with the whip balanced across my chest, or maybe leaning against me right…”
“‘Right…?'” I prompted.
“Um… Right between my legs.”
“Ah.” In My search for bondage images, I had come across a few pussywhipping videos, and I figured that that was what Muħammad Ålī’s Sister wanted to suggest with a whip placed so strategically.
“This is awkward,” she said.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but I’m glad we’re doing this, actually.”
“Really?” She had an expression of mild surprise on her sweet face.
“Really. Like I said before, I’ve never done any bondage photography before. This definitely isn’t going to be on par with some of the professionally-done images I’ve seen online, but this will probably give me a few things to think about as I continue in my photography. Who knows… Maybe this will be the catalyst to get me into a new area of photography.”
Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb giggled to herself.
“It would be really, really weird if I was responsible for my Durgesh darling, méré Hindu Piyā, Hindu Al Buůūlatul Muslimāt, hum Musalmān ħasīnāon ké Hindu Kħasam, Hindu husband of us Musalmān Beauties’ kinky fucking business!”
In the odd silence which followed, I finally reached into the bag and produced four tethered cuffs.
They were all black, with Velcro closures and a fake fur lining for comfort.
At first, I was a little surprised that two of the cuffs were slightly larger than the others, but then I realized that the larger cuffs were apparently meant for the ankles and the smaller cuffs were meant for the wrists.
The tethers were fairly long, giving me plenty of opportunity to provide Muħammad Ålī’s Sister with adequate slack while still being able to tie the tethers securely.
And then there was the whip itself.
I had also seen several whips in my online review of BDSM photography.
The black whip she had selected had a relatively short handle, and maybe ten or so thin leather strips at the “business” end.
I gave it a few test swings, impressed by the sound those leather strips made as they flowed through the air.
“That sounds a little scary,” Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb commented.
“Really? I don’t think so.” It did not sound scary at all to me, just very intriguing.
“That’s probably because you’re not the one who’d be getting hit with it!”
“Touché.” I set the whip on the bed, next to the tethered cuffs. “Well, I guess we’d better start, or else we won’t finish until sometime tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
The binding process seemed to take a long time, as if we had suddenly entered into a slower point in the space-time continuum.
I remember watching Muħammad Ålī’s Sister crawling to the center of the bed and positioning herself with her arms and her legs spread toward the bedposts.
I remember languidly moving around the bed and applying each cuff, being careful to ensure the proper closure of the Velcro straps, and then taking a very long time to tie each tether at multiple points along each bedpost.
I definitely remember standing at the foot of the bed, admiring my handiwork, and particularly taking note of how Muħammad Ålī’s little Sister’s breasts seemed to rise and fall with her breathing as she tentatively tugged at her restraints, testing her bondage and discovering that I had given her very little slack.
And in that moment, as I saw Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb bound to my bed, I recognized why so many guys seem to find a bound woman so irresistible:
She was powerless to stop me from having my way with her if I decided to do it.
I could tear open Muħammad Ålī’s Sister’s thin sleepwear, take a moment to undress myself, and fuck her.
If she did not want to have sex with me, she could not stop me from raping her.
She was completely vulnerable, entirely at my mercy, with her trust in me as the only means of protecting herself.
I also recognized what she meant when she had said that she did not trust anyone else with this photo shoot.
Even beyond the fact that she and I were at a great age difference and should therefore never see each other in such kinky situations, she knew that I would not commit the ultimate taboo, nor would I endanger her relationship with her girlfriend.
The professional within me took over again, causing me to pick up the whip.
“Balance the whip across your chest to start?” I asked.
“Yeah…” She stilled in her bonds, looking down her extremely lovely Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saůūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān body to where I stood at the foot of the bed.
Her hazel eyes were riveted on the whip, and part of me wanted to quickly flick it to strike her somewhere, probably her lower leg given where I was standing, but I knew it was best to not do it, to allow her girlfriend the honor of being the first person to whip Muħammad Ålī’s Sister.
Not surprisingly, while doing my research on bondage images, I had seen some video clips of Musalmān Beauties being whipped.
The Årab slave trade.
India was Soné kī Chiđiyā, the Golden Bird, then.
The Wonder that was India.
Some of the whipping had been relatively light and sensual, with the Musalmān Beauties clearly enjoying the experience, trying to lean more into the path of the whip to maximize its impacts and moaning seductively as the whip kept moving back and forth across their bodies.
But much of the whipping I saw in those video clips was harsh, severe, turning the Musalmān Beauties various shades of red and even raising some nasty-looking lines of welts when a bullwhip was used to make the Musalmān Beauties scream and struggle and in one case even cry.
I looked at the whip in my hand, trying to imagine it, or anything else, being used to hurt Muħammad Ålī’s little Sister.
Part of me wanted to know how she would react, to both a fierce whipping and a much lighter, more sensual whipping. I had to wonder:
What would it be like to strip Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb and then use the whip on her?
And that was when I became consciously aware of the bulge forming at the front of my jeans.
With a shake of my head, I tried to slip back into my professional persona. Moving to the side of the bed, I sat beside Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb.
“How do you want it?” I asked.
She knew I was referring to the whip.
“Across My chest, please. Diagonally, like a seat belt in the front of a car.”
“Okay.” Carefully, I placed the whip as she had requested, taking great care to not touch her breasts.
She probably would not have minded an “innocent” contact with her chest, but after all, she was Muħammad Ålī’s Sister, and even though I had had plenty of fantasies in the previous weeks involving her, I was careful of any contact with Ghausiyah Muħammad Yåqūb which one might consider as sexual or intimate, any contact which might negatively impact our familial bond.
She sighed softly.
“That feels good…” she whispered, tugging again at the wrist cuffs.