The Secret Memoirs

The one type of clothing that predominated (among those who were still wearing anything, that is) were the uniforms of the Ottoman army—officer's uniforms, I noticed. The woman—all of them Turks or Arabs, its seemed—were uniformly naked. One of the officers, dressed in a natty jacket and red fez, was the first to notice me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me near the center of the room. A veritable parade of debauchery presented itself everywhere I turned my gaze: men crowding round women, women pressing themselves against men, penetrations, tongues, breasts, buttocks, a whole gallery of pleasure. The lingering unsatisfied arousal the woman in the bath had left me began to rise anew.

I was plopped down on a couch. The officer in the fez—a tall man in his mid-twenties, muscular and emphatically mustachioed—turned me onto my belly and brought my buttocks up with his hands so that they were supported by my half-folded legs. There were a few rough touches, hard fingers running over my naked sex, and a ruffle of pants being unbuttoned. On the floor just below me a woman was pulsing on top of a man, his thick member sliding in and out of her sex—it was the first time I had actually seen another woman penetrated by a man. Just past them, on another couch, another woman was receiving the attentions of two men, one of whom licked her breasts as she bounced in an upright posture over another man's hips.

This mad frenzy of pleasure was so dizzying that at first I was hardly aware of being penetrated from behind. But soon the officer in the fez was pounding me in earnest, sending my bent body shaking. His hands were clamped around my waist. I dug my knees and arms into the couch, trying to steady myself against his attack.

I noticed another man standing a few feet away in front of the couch—apparently, watching us. He had his swollen shaft in his hands, kneading it in a hypnotic rhythm. I was transfixed—it was the first time, in fact, I had ever had an opportunity to examine the male anatomy in such detail. He was a large brown man, clothed only in the regimental jacket that hung loosely over his otherwise naked torso.

Just beyond him I suddenly noticed a woman—but not just any woman. She was white, yes, undoubtedly, a white woman, white as myself, the first I had seen in many months. Her naked figure was curvaceous, obscene, a perfect match for the atmosphere of the room. I felt a strange feeling as she stepped over towards the man in the jacket, then knelt in front of him—a feeling of vague, half-forgotten, impossible recollection. No, it couldn't be, I told myself. But even as I did my eyes contradicted everything my mind told me to believe. There it was, that familiar blond hair, those familiar eyes and familiar nose and cheeks. I practically screamed out.

"Kat! Katherine! Is that really you?"

Her eyes went wide as eggs as she abruptly turned to face me.

"Liz? Elizabeth Barrett?" A wide, sly smile spread across her face. "Fancy meeting you in a place like this."

"Kat, I was afraid you were dead! How in the world—"

"Sorry, Liz, can't talk now," she interrupted, pointing to the man standing in front of her.

With that, to my shock, she opened her mouth as wide as it would go and pushed the man's jutting member between her lips. I had never dreamed of such a thing, much less imagined I would see my best friend doing it right before my eyes. She was swallowing him whole. Her hands cradled his testicles. The tip made a bulge in her cheek when she undulated around the shaft. The sight was so entrancing I was once again almost totally distracted from the man penetrating me from behind—that is, until he began to hammer me with even more vigorous strokes.

Another man (completely naked, too, and seemingly in his thirties) walked over to where Kat was kneeling. Apparently she was a popular attraction. Without warning he leaned down and grasped her buttocks, then pulled her up. The man in the jacket momentarily slipped out of her mouth—the shaft was straight as an arrow, gleaming with moisture—before falling to his knees. Kat was now on her hands and knees: the other man was already penetrating her sex when she took her original partner's member back in her mouth. She often glanced over at me, though what she was thinking as she did I could not guess.

It was a bizarre sight, seeing my best friend stuffed from either end by strange men—bizarre, but not by any means unpleasant. I found myself aroused by the sight even more than by the man thrusting into me from behind. Reaching my hand under my body, I rubbed my sex, paying special attentions to the firm button that lay within the upper folds. Soon a climax came, rocking through my body.

"Ahh! Ahhh! Oohhh!" I screamed. As I did I tried to keep my eyes open and fixed on Kat.

Soon after, the man penetrating me reached his own climax, pouring himself into my body. No sooner had he withdrawn from my sex than another man entered, a man I had not even seen. He grasped my buttocks tightly, wasting no time. Kat, meanwhile, was still busy on either end. I wondered what could possibly be going through her mind at that exact moment.

Soon the man in front of Kat began to moan and buckle at the knees. She pushed his member deep into her mouth, stroking the base with her hands; she seemed to suck him as if nothing in the world were more urgent. He began to shake, and I feared he might fall down on top of Kat, but through it all he remained upright. A moment later I noticed his member start to shrink. She pulled it out of her mouth. Behind it a small stream of white liquid ran out over her lips. She looked at me.

"So what do you think of that, Liz?"

I could hardly respond.

"I, I. . . I don't know. . ."

She smiled. The man behind me was panting, thrusting quickly in and out of me. Meanwhile, it seemed, the man behind her had also reached his climax. He shook and moaned as he poured himself into my friend's body.

When both me were finished, Kat stood up and turned to me. I noticed for the first time that she was wearing a delicate necklace of woven gold that just barely dipped into the valley between her breasts. She knelt beside the couch, her face only inches from mine. My eyes and my mouth were both half-closed, half-open, shaking from the assaults of the man behind me.

"You're very pretty," Kat said.

"Ahh. . ." I could not even form words in response.

She leaned in and kissed me. I kissed her. Immediately I felt in her the wild passion that I had seen or suspected for so many years. Her arms went round my neck, drawing me closer. In her mouth I tasted something unfamiliar, something salty and vaguely sweet—a mere hint, yes, but completely unlike the taste of the harem women. The sensation from both my sex and my mouth soon set me off. I rocked on the couch, caught between Kat and the man penetrating me from behind. My moans melted into her mouth.

When it was over Kat pulled herself away.

"I always thought you had it in you, Liz," she said. "I always wanted to kiss you."

I need hardly emphasize how bizarre this experience had become. Together with the environment of the place itself, this strange den of pleasure, there was the flood of thoughts and memories occasioned by meeting Kat again—especially in such an unusual manner. It seemed impossible to grasp where I was and why. I was, in a sense, intoxicated. My surroundings—the men, the women, the pulsating naked flesh—seemed at once unreal and more real than reality itself.

The man pumping me from behind reached his climax; a moment later another man had replaced him. Kat lay on her back on the couch in front of me with her arms to either side of her head. Her sex lay only inches from my eyes. Her mouth, meanwhile, was busy pleasuring another man. Conditioned by months in the Sheikh's harem, I wanted nothing more than to press my mouth between her legs, but some residual hesitancy prevented me. After a few unbearable moments, however, I gave in—I licked my tongue along the hot lips of her sex. I immediately recognized once more that strange salty-sweetness I had sensed in her mouth, though now mixed with and almost obscured by her own taste.

Meanwhile, the man behind me had begun to do something unexpected. As his member slid in and out of me below, he ran one of his fingers in little circles over the tight hole above. Slowly, using my own dripping wetness to ease the passage, he coaxed it slightly open. This much was not entirely unexpected—the woman at the bath, after all, had done the same. But then he abruptly withdrew his member from my sex and pressed its head against my second orifice.

I gasped. Surely, I thought, he did not intend to force it any further—I was certain it would be impossible. But slowly he did, returning his hands again and again to gather more wetness to lubricate his violation. In a few moments, and with slight but anything but unbearable pain, I felt the bulbous head break through into my body.

I was surprised also to find that, far from distracting me, the man's actions seemed to make me focus even more on pleasuring Kat. She was clearly enjoying herself—the rippling vibrations of pleasure that pulsed through her body into my mouth told me as much. As the man behind me slowly slid himself inside my virgin anus, I pressed myself with even greater fierceness against my friend's sex. In a few minutes I felt a true climax rise from within. Moans just barely escaped her mouth around the throbbing rod she was sucking.

The man penetrating me, meanwhile, seemed to have found a rhythm of his own. My body gripped him close. This tightness produced a little pain, but less than I might have expected—and even the pain was itself, in an inexplicable way, a kind of pleasure. Once the initial barrier had been broken, in fact, he was able to thrust into me with unexpected ease. With his hands, meanwhile, he reached under my waist to finger my sex—by now, I knew, it must have been dripping wet. One finger gently penetrated the opening; two others rolled the little bud of flesh just above.

The sensation was entirely unfamiliar but—combined with the excitations of his hand, at least—hardly displeasurable. In fact, I found myself actually enjoying this new experience, against any expectations I might have had. In a few minutes another climax rocked my body: I could not help but raise my head from between Kat's legs and letting out a moan. Through it all, remarkably, the man maintained a steady rhythm. Before I could return to my former position between Kat's legs, however, another man peremptorily pulled her to the side and entered her sex, to my initial disappointment. But the sight of his slick member sliding in and out of my friend's body was, in fact, almost as arousing as actual touch.

In a few more minutes I felt the man's member twitch and spasm inside my body. I remembered the sensation from the times the Sheikh had made love to me, though it was now far different, transcribed, as it was, to new territory. When he was finished he slipped away, leaving only the memory of his body echoing through mine. Kat, meanwhile, had finished with her two men and was lying beside me on the couch. By now the orgy was in its final phases. A few couples still were locked in passion, but most were simply lying about languidly, completely spent. I looked forward to finally being able to speak to Kat, even under these conditions. But before I even had time to recover my senses I felt a rough hand grasp my arm.

I was pulled to my feet. A Turkish officer—the first I had yet seen who was fully dressed—led me away to a door at the far end of the room. I looked back at Kat.

"Kat! Kat!"

"Liz! What? Oh Liz, goodbye Liz, goodbye. . ."

I was pushed through the door into another room, then another, until I had reached a small but sumptuously appointed bedroom. The door was locked behind me. It was here I spent my night.

* * *

The next morning I was awoken when two officers unlocked my door. They gave me a simple dress to wear; I put it on and was led out through a corridor to the street. I thought of attempting an escape as we walked through the crowded streets of Constantinople, but their hands held me tight—and besides, where could I have possibly gone? In a few minutes we arrived at the waterfront. I was loaded once more into the hold of a ship. It was, I gathered, a military troop ship—masses of soldiers crowded the decks, while a few cannon protruded from the gunwales.

I was put deep in the belly of the ship, chained to a beam. Only a tiny bit of natural light filtered in from above. Twice a day a man gave me food and a canteen of water, but otherwise I was left alone. When I felt the ship glide to a stop and then just barely bump against a dock, I knew we had arrived at our destination—though I had no idea what it might have been.

Soon my chains were unlocked and I was brought to the deck. We were in a rundown military port. The light indicated that it was early morning. The town before me looked small and almost dead but for the hustle of hundreds, if not thousands, of Turkish soldiers milling about along the docks. Three soldiers escorted me down the gangplank to a waiting carriage. One of the soldiers sat beside me—evidently my guard. I was the only other passenger—the rest of the cabin was occupied by huge leather chests. In a moment the carriage was off.

I was able to watch the landscape roll by outside my window. It was a dry, almost barren country, with white rocks and grey trees; every now and then we passed columns of troops in fresh new uniforms marching our direction or columns of bloodied, wounded men going the other way. In the distance I sometimes heard—or felt rather, since the sensation seemed to register strongest as a vibration deep in my belly—what must have been cannon fire. As we traveled, the sound became louder and louder.

After hours of riding, sometime in the late afternoon, the carriage stopped. The sound of gunfire here was louder than at any point before—I was able to make out not only the boom of the cannon but the crack of individual rifles. The soldier beside me opened the door and led me out to a low, sprawling building constructed of blocks of tan stone, nestled in a slight depression in the land. The surrounding terrain was low hills. The sign over the door was Turkish, but I gathered that it must have been some sort of military headquarters. A number of soldiers were standing around outside. As I entered the building they glared at me.

Inside was a maze of narrow tunnels opening into cramped rooms. A few doors were open; inside I saw soldiers and officers talking, huddling around maps, or merely sitting around. They rarely failed to stare at my body as I passed. A few more twists and turns and I arrived at a door. The soldier extracted a key and opened it. Inside there was only a small bed, covered in unmade but apparently clean white sheets; a tiny barred window at the top of the far wall was the only source of light. The walls were rough stone, as were the floor and ceiling. Once I was inside the soldier laid his hands on my shoulder. I gasped as he quickly pulled off my flimsy dress. Once again I was naked; a moment later I was also again alone, locked behind in this dismal room with only the sounds of gunfire filtering through the window to keep me company.

I lay curled up in the bed the rest of the day, attempting not to become too disheartened. Sometime that evening, when the light in the window had faded to a distant glow, I heard a key rasping the door. My heart seemed to stop. A second later a soldier entered the room. In the light I could see only that he was lean, dark, and not unhandsome, though his face was turned up in such an expression of cold lust that I was instantly terrified. He locked the door behind him; as soon as he had his hands went to his waist, undoing his trousers. In a moment his naked member, already half hard, was facing me.

I tried to roll away, but before I could react he had laid down on top of me on the bed, pulling the sheets aside. I squirmed. His hard, hot shaft rubbed against my belly. His hands held down my arms—against my will he kissed me, seeming as if he wanted to draw my very life between his lips. I realized it would be pointless to struggle.

A minute more and his member had found the entrance to my body. Without any preliminaries he began to pound me into the squeaking mattress, panting, moaning, satisfying his pleasure as quickly as possible. It was over soon. He redid his trousers and left as abruptly as he had come.

No sooner did he exit the room than another man entered. He was another soldier, and like the first he spared no time in taking advantage of my ravaged body. When he was finished, there was another—and then another. None of them took the time or effort to give me any pleasure; on the contrary, they seemed as if racing to reach their climaxes as quickly as possible. This impression was confirmed when one of the men took longer than the others and was dragged away from me by another soldier before he had finished. Apparently each man had a short allotted time to spend with me. Keeping to schedule was more important than pleasure.

By the end of the night I had lost count of how many men I had been with. I felt sore, abused, filled with useless anxiety. To release the arousal that had built, but never broken, over the course of the night, I used my hands to bring myself to a long belated climax. I drifted to sleep in a haze.

The next day was the same: locked alone when the sun was high, ravaged by soldier after soldier at night. And so was the next day, and the next, and the next. I was never able to take pleasure in these endless penetrations. Some nights, like the first, I used myself to achieve release; others, I did not care even enough to try. I felt myself slipping into the most abject degradation and filthiness, a tool for satisfying the basest pleasures of the basest men. It was not long before the days began to feel almost unreal; I eventually ceased to care whether I lived or died. My body was not my own.

Somewhere around three weeks had passed (I no longer bothered to keep track of time). I was roused from my usual trance-like indifference by the sound of unusually nearby gunfire, the screams of men, galloping hooves. Something was happening outside. I was afraid, yes, but, for the first time since my arrival, I dared also to hope. The shots were now just outside the window; more frightening, however, were the massive concussions that shook the walls. Cannon fire was hitting the building.

After perhaps half an hour of this assault had passed when I heard a desperate battle raging just outside. Men were crying out in agony, horses whinnied. Outside my door countless feet pounded the floor as they ran every which way. Soon I heard gunfire emanating from within the building itself. I wrapped a sheet around my body and cowered in the bed.

A flurry of shots erupted just outside the door. I heard bodies hit the floor. Another shot went off, and the lock to my door exploded. The door was kicked in. Facing me was a man—not a Turk but a white man, tall, dark haired, his hard face beaded with sweat. He ran over to my bed and, before I knew what was happening, pulled me to my feet. With one hand holding my arm and the other grasping a revolver he pulled me into the hallway. Just as he did a cannonball struck the wall behind my bed, burying it in a hail of rock and covering me with a layer of choking dust. If it had come a moment earlier I would surely have been killed.

A Turk appeared around a corner; the white man shot him dead. We raced down the winding passageways, crowded with dead and dying bodies, until we reached a door. Two Turks swirled around to face us; the man holding me shot them down before they could raise their guns. We ran away from the building towards the hills. Bullets screamed past on every side. Amazingly, though, we were able to escape from battle into the undisturbed countryside. The man was not content to stop for rest, however, until we had run for at least two miles. We ended up in the midst of a hillside grove. The sounds of the battle were still strong but now seemed only like a distant roar. He sat down under the shade of a gnarled olive tree. I sat beside him, still dressed only in the sheet I had managed to keep hold of as we ran.