Chapter Nine

As she rubbed the bar of soap over her breasts and between her thighs, Cheryl started to sob. She could see that he was taking pictures of her. She had heard the tell-tale clicks before but wasn’t really sure what they were. Now she was sure and she blushed in shame. She was performing her most private ritual in front of this man who was obviously intent on her abuse and degradation. She knew that he was being inflamed by the sight of her ministrations, but could do nothing to help it. Who knew who would see these pictures? She was mortified. She had never allowed anyone to take a picture of her in the nude, never. Turk lowered the camera and nodded to the girl to get back to work.

She slowly, as if in a dream, continued to wash. She reached for the washcloth and soaped it up. She then used it to press soap into the void between her thighs, her armpits and the crack of her behind. The man just stood there and watched.

Cheryl’s sobbing subsided as she let the water stream over her body and wash the soap away. She turned up the temperature slightly and the heat of the water was calming, comforting. She dipped her head into the stream and let the water flow over her face. Her eye makeup, the little that she used, had become streaked and clotted from her tears. As she always used water-soluble makeup, it was rapidly washed away, leaving her face fresh and clean. She washed her hair slowly, conscious of the fact that the upraising of her arms presented a picturesque tableau of her breasts juggling and swaying before this man’s eyes.

The Turk was truly appreciative. He was satisfied that his well-honed eye for delectable female flesh had not let him down. She was a beauty all right. Her movements in the shower were dainty and graceful, as her gently swaying form had persuaded him when he had watched her walking on the street. In fact, it was that gentle sway, that suggestion of grace and delicacy, which had led him to pick her out. There were a million good-looking women in New York. The trick was to pick out the best.

He was admiring her sumptuous nipples and areolae when Cheryl turned off the shower. She had been tempted to remain in there forever, but she knew it could not be. She knew that she would have to face whatever was coming from this man and she garnered her courage to confront whatever it was. Besides, the fact that he was obviously enjoying the display of her naked form and her jiggling breasts was reason enough to stop it.

The Turk stepped back and allowed the girl to exit the shower. He handed her a towel and watched her dry her body. He handed her the blow dryer when she was through and motioned her to dry her hair. As she stood by the mirror, she raised her arms combing through her hair with one hand and using the blow dryer with the other. In doing so, she presented her firm, youthful breasts most advantageously. The man was standing next to her and she could see him looking down at her chest, almost mesmerized. He reached over and placed his hand under her breast.

Cheryl stopped, stunned momentarily at the resumption of the offensive contact she had previously experienced. His hand was hot as the wetness of her body after the shower had cooled her flesh. Seeing his cruel glance at her in the mirror, she resumed her activities. She could not hide the water that rose in her eyes as she bordered on another fit of sobbing. As he pinched her nipple firmly, she felt the heat begin to rise within her again. Her body seemed to remember what he had done to it and her explosive orgasm. He could feel the heat as well. He looked into her eyes, knowingly.

Cheryl finished her hair and stood still, waiting for an instruction from this man. She fully expected that he would push her back onto the bed, and this time, plunder one or more of her orifices with his giant cock. But that was not what was next.

He pointed to the accumulation of make-up on the sink and told her to fix herself up. His instructions were precise: blush, not too much, eyeliner, above and below the eye, bright lipstick. He looked carefully at her nails. These she had just had done a few days ago and the stress of her experiences had not marred their appearance. “Do the toes,” he said.

He left her in the bathroom, door open and wandered into the bedroom. A sideways glance told her that he was rifling her drawers. He pulled out a few pairs of her daintiest underwear and tossed them on the bed along with the matching bras. It looked to her that he was going to make her do a dress up routine for him, but to what purpose she could not surmise. If that’s what he wanted, she thought, that’s what he would get.

The relative quietude of the bathroom, with the Turk in the other room, brought some calm to the young woman. She was thinking desperately about what she could do to save herself. She was still afraid, not of the expected rape, she had gotten over that fear, but of the murder that might just well follow. He would have to be some kind of a real weirdo to want her to dress up and then murder her, but what did she know?

Her cell phone was in her purse in the kitchen. Maybe she could somehow get access to it and dial 911. Or maybe call a friend using her speed dial and they would call 911 when they heard the background noises of her assault. Her parents or her sister would certainly react if they got a call from her and heard only dead air or murmurings in the background. What Cheryl did not know, however, was that the resourceful Turk had already found the cell phone and disabled it. There was no other telephone in the apartment because, with cell phones being so cheap these days, who needed an actual telephone?

When Cheryl emerged from the bathroom, she saw that the Turk had placed a couple of her dressier skirts and blouses on the bed. “Maybe he’s taking me out,” she thought. “I can run away or call for help.” Once outside of the apartment, there would be people and ways to get their attention. Things were looking up. Maybe.

Cheryl still had her toes to do and so she sat down on the bed. She had brought the nail polish from the bathroom and she showed it to the Turk for his approval. It was a slightly darker shade of red than her nails, but very similar. Turk took the bottle from her hand and opened it. Grabbing her foot, he placed a swatch on her big toe and then drew her hand next to it for comparison. He nodded. “Okay” was all he said.

What Cheryl could not figure out was how she was going to do her toenails without spreading her legs wide open for this cretin’s visual pleasure. As she tried to raise one leg to place her foot within arms reach, she attempted to press her thighs together. She was quickly dissuaded by a light, but painful slap across her face. “Spread ‘em”, the man barked. She complied.

The Turk stood across from Cheryl admiring the grassy slit between her legs. He had some familiarity with it and had a premonition of the delights it would produce for the properly inserted cock. He knew that that was not to be, at least for him, but why should he deprive himself of the chance to imagine plowing that fissure to his heart’s content?

Again, Cheryl felt deep chagrin and embarrassment as the man ogled her most private parts. Her breasts wiggled back and forth with her efforts to polish her nails. She knew that her pussy was wide open for the man to enjoy, since she had facilitated that view by cutting back the hairs that would have shrouded it. She fought back her tears as she resolved herself not to let this guy have the benefit of knowing how much she was humiliated and ashamed of her degradation.

But Turk knew. He knew very well. And there would be more.

Finally, the nails were done. Cheryl thought that Turk would now let her dress, but that would wait. Turk, having had some experience in this area, had palmed a lipstick and blush while she was in the shower. He now proceeded to complete Cheryl’s makeup himself.