Love and Punishment in Arabia (Part 1)
Five months later…..
It was hard to believe, but we were already on our way back to the UAE. I was still in a state of awe at my wife’s willingness to travel back there to receive what awaited her. Her feet recovered from the first whipping as she predicted, but the marks and bruises persisted; and it was for this reason that she didn’t expose her feet in public. It was quite evident to me that she was still in a lot of discomfort, and even exhibited a slight limp on occasion. Unfortunately, however, she was about to undergo the process all over again within the next couple of days.
Our flight finally arrived at Abu Dhabi. After clearing customs, we quickly left the airport and rented a vehicle to drive to the village. My wife at this point wasn’t her usual chatty self, which I assumed stemmed from the next day’s scheduled punishment.
We were about an hour away from the village when I happened to glance over at her in the passenger seat and noticed she wore a pair of tight blue jeans. I figured that now would be the time for her to change into her traditional Islamic attire.
Me: “Don’t you think that you should change out of those jeans now, hun?”
An uncomfortable pause ensued, but I could tell by the tears coming from her eyes that something was wrong.
Wife: “Well, I’ve held this from you since I became aware of it halfway through our flight. I forgot my Islamic garb. Please forgive me!”
My jaw dropped at this revelation. I couldn’t believe she would forget those clothes at a moment like this. Our vehicle had just enough gas to get to the village, which ruled out buying another set of clothes elsewhere. I placed my hand on her leg to console her.
Me: “Of course I forgive you, dear. But what will this mean when they see you wearing those pants and shirt? The point of turning this car around is too far behind us, we must go on to the village in order to fill it with gas again.”
Wife: “I understand, but I never intended to turn around anyway. I’ll just say that tomorrow is going to be a much longer day for us than we anticipated…..”
Me: “I was afraid of that. I have to admit though that I’m very upset at you for forgetting. Not that I like it, but I actually feel obligated this time to teach you another harsh lesson.”
Wife: “Yes, I understand; and I accept it.”
We didn’t say anything else until we reached the village.
It was after dark when we finally got there. In anticipation of our arrival, the elders had a tent erected for my wife and I. As soon as we got out of the truck and unpacked our things, I could sense from peoples’ stares and hushed conversations nearby that my wife’s clothes were a subject of controversy. We entered the tent and quickly closed the flap.
Inside, we cast our bags aside and plopped down on the bed. We were side by side on our backs. An eerie silence followed, but it was finally eased by a pair of fingers making their way up my pant leg. They caressed up my thigh and proceeded to unzip the fly of my pants. Any idea of getting sleep quickly got tossed aside as my wife began to fondle my cock. I quickly got the hint, and promptly responded by unbuttoning my wife’s blouse and setting it aside. Her head then disappeared below my line of sight. A warm, moist sensation engulfed my cock as she sucked away. I grabbed hold of her head as she masterfully blew. Minutes went by of this glorious sensation, but I exhibited my dominance by pulling her back up towards me by her hair. I plunged my face into her naked breasts, and began pushing her pants down past her knees, and eventually got them past her ankles after she discalced of her sneakers.
We were now both naked on the bed. She was lying on her back when, with a twist of method, I quickly flipped her onto her front side. I took my cock and plunged it into her ass and pulled her hair. She let out a quick “aaahhh!” but I quickly put my hand over her mouth to subdue her reactions. We warmed up in this fashion for ten minutes. Moans permeated the tent as I withdrew my cock from her ass and turned her body back up to face me. We French kissed for a few moments, when I finally plunged my cock into her vagina. Once again I covered her mouth with my hand as I deeply penetrated her. Her eyes looked wild with joy and pain as I twisted and rocked from side to side. Our breathing got heavier and heavier. Thirty minutes ticked by until her bulging eyes signaled that she ejaculated, which was shortly followed by me. We moaned one last time as I withdrew from her.
Once again, we were lying side by side. She smiled for the first time that day. But I, on the other hand, didn’t, as my mind was more focused on what awaited us tomorrow. And tomorrow soon came.
The morning light shone bright on the tent. I sat up in bed and stretched my hands up in the air. My wife laid beside me, curled up in a ball. I prodded her awake. I stood by the foot of the bed as she stretched her arms and legs. Her feet faced me and I decided to give them one last rub before she got dressed. My hands worked them over pretty good, and she appreciated the thought behind the action. Despite six months of healing, they still exhibited dozens of whip marks, mostly along her arches.
Her whipping was scheduled for 11 AM. It was now 10, and I peered out the tent’s flap and saw that the chair and stockade were already positioned on the podium in the village square. My wife stood behind me and saw it as well. I turned around and stroked her hair. She had nothing to say, except to briefly squeeze my hand. I looked at the clothes she wore; they consisted of a pair of tight blue jeans, a white blouse, and a pair of white tennis shoes and ankle socks on her feet.
1045 quickly rolled around, and I looked out the tent once more. There didn’t seem to be that many people around the podium, maybe fifty or so. I mentioned it to my wife.
Wife: “Yeah, that sounds about right for this time of the year. There’s a major festival happening in the next village, and most of the villagers are attending it.”
I looked at the time again. 1055.
Me: “Well, shall we go?”
My wife nodded her head in submission. She went over to the suitcase and pulled out the kourbash, studying it and stroking it through her fingers as she walked back over. After releasing it into my grasp, we left the tent and went down the path to the square. The small crowd’s murmurs could be heard as we approached the podium. My wife’s father looked at her in disgust when we appeared before him and the elders. She stared penitently at the ground as he unloaded his rage against her. When he stopped, he turned to the other elders and they chatted amongst each other for a minute. The huddle finally broke and the father approached us once again.
Father: “You will pay dearly for your disrespect to me and this village, my daughter.” He looked at me. “Prepare her!”
I nodded my head with authority, and in accordance with the severity of the situation, I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her up the podium steps behind me. I handled her roughly as we crossed the podium, and I cast her to the floor in front of the stockade. She remained there, kneeling on her knees and facing the crowd with her head bowed. I turned to listen to her father speak.
Father: “Once again, fellow villagers, my daughter must bear the penalty for her transgressions. Prior to this, many of you witnessed the 70 lashes she received for wearing forbidden footwear within village grounds.”
Many heads nodded in remembrance.
“Today, she was originally sentenced to 40 lashes for defaming my character for her poor behavior as my child; but as you can see, she has yet again failed to adhere to village dress codes. Her head isn’t covered; and she is wearing a forbidden pair of pants and shirt. We the elders have found her guilty for all three of these additional charges. Two of the charges, namely the pants and shirt, will each bear 50 strokes of falaka, and the third charge for not covering her head carries a sentence of 50 strokes to her back.”
The crowd gasped at the punishment sentence. My wife would later tell me that it was the harshest to be implemented in fifty years. But in the meantime, I glanced at her as she kneeled on the floor in front of the stockade. She stared stoically at the floor in front of her, showing no signs of despair. 140 lashes to the feet: no big deal. 50 lashes to the back: no big deal. What a trooper!
The crowd quickly hushed as the elders raised their hands in the air to quiet it down. I determined this to be a good time to prepare my wife for punishment. In rudimentary form that pertained to this village society, I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up to her feet. My back-hand to her face sent her careening into the chair just steps away. I later regretted doing that, but the people around us didn’t seem to care. My wife’s father continued to speak.
Father: “This latter sentence to her back will be conducted privately in the presence of the husband and seven women….”
I hastily tied my wife’s hands behind the chair in which she was now seated. I then proceeded to open the stockade, and as I was doing so, she placed her ankles on the sockets. Dissatisfied with the jeans covering part of her ankles, I rolled them halfway up her calves to ensure that her feet would be completely exposed.
Her father continued as I shut the stockade and locked it.
“The first session of the punishment will be 140 strokes of falaka….”
I untied the laces to my wife’s sneakers and removed them. After setting them down I then peeled away her white ankle socks to reveal her bare soles. They still looked horrid from the previous whipping, and the looks on people’s faces seemed to confirm that. I just finished tying her ankles together when the father looked behind himself to see if everything was ready. He gave me a quick nod.
I turned to face my wife and noticed that she gave him a quick smile, which took me aback, but he could only respond with an icy cold stare. Her smile quickly disappeared, but she continued to look into the crowd. She didn’t seem ashamed of the fact that all eyes were staring at her feet. We finally made eye contact with each other and she gave me a subtle nod to begin. She arched her feet for the first stroke.
I looked at my wife one last time, who remorsefully stared at the whip in my hand and then to the portion of her feet that she could see above the stockade. I clenched my teeth, and she clenched her fists behind the chair. I twisted my torso and raised the whip high above my head. And with the reflexes of a baseball pitcher, I swung the whip down with all my might across the arches of her feet. The sharp smack sent her body reeling against the tight restraints that kept her in place, but she managed to remain silent……
I lost count, but I think she remained silent through the first 10 strokes, and it was around the 120th stroke that she finally passed out. She managed to keep her head up as lash after lash fell, always arching her feet for the next stroke. However, the screams ceased to be heard as the remaining 20 strokes echoed across the square.
After untying her, two female servants came up to the podium with a cot and carried her away to our tent. It was decided that the second punishment session will take place within that confine, but in all honesty, I didn’t have the energy to do it. I discussed this problem with my wife’s father, and he agreed that another person should administer the remaining 50 lashes. He conferred with several villagers and learned that there was a female military officer in the village that day that came to witness the flogging. It was unusual for an outsider to visit on such an occasion, and I soon learned that she and my wife were bitter childhood enemies. That explained her presence; and I would later learn from my wife that every time she gazed in this nemesis’s direction during the falaka, her nemesis would sport a sadistic smile. It was this nemesis who the father decided would whip my wife’s back.
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