Daughters of the Diaspora

~ Daughters of the Diaspora --- A series of vignettes on the uses thereof ~

~~~~~~~~

~ Altstadt, Bern. ~

The older woman held the younger girl close to her and let her hand pass down the exposed back to the girl's arse, covered by the thin silk of her red cocktail dress. She spoke in the language of the old country.

"Keep that plug in all evening, you understand? Otherwise you'll be too tight later and you'll cry the whole time. That would really spoil my birthday present to him."

She patted between the girl's arse cheeks, making her gasp lightly as she tapped the plug.

"You understand?"

The girl nodded.

"You excited?"

She nodded again.

"You should be. A first time should always be exciting, but not every girl has her first time with a man like this.

"I need this marriage. You're the sweetener, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy it. More to the point he must see that you enjoy it.

"But remember, he can't have your pussy. Don't let him talk you into it. And don't just lie there and let him, telling yourself there was nothing you could have done to stop him. That is no excuse."

The girl nodded again, but hesitantly, as if imagining resisting a man twice her size and twice her age as he loomed over her, insistent on taking her virginity and not taking no for an answer.

"I'm saving your pussy for his Christmas present. OK?"

"OK mommy."

~~~~~~~~

~ Two years ago, in the Old Country. ~

In a central Asian nation that shall remain nameless there was, until recently, a ruling class.

The nation may have been poor, uneducated and pious, but this ruling class, this unofficial aristocracy, were a people apart. They had been used to the finer things in life, they had been cosmopolitan and refined. They'd worn their religion lightly and regarded its strictures with open disdain. They'd possessed the latest in German cars, the sharpest in Italian clothes, the morals of cats and all the natural familial sentiment of rattlesnakes.

The primary activities of this class apart had been the defrauding of their fellow countrymen, whom they employed, watching their wives compete with each other in the importation of luxuries, indulging the excesses of their unrestrainable sons, and speculating their daughters in profitable engagements.

And then, two years ago, the revolution had finally come.

They'd abandoned their estates. They'd had their clerks empty what was left of the company pensions funds into hard dollars and transferred to untraceable accounts in London, Switzerland or New York. It didn't amount to much, not after the collapse of the currency following the storming the central bank.

They'd sold their diamonds for a fraction of their value for passage out of the country. They'd fled with just a suitcase a-piece, their spoilt wives, and their rotten sons (those who had not already been packed off to various English private schools to be reconditioned into functioning gentlemen). Oh, and they fled with their closeted, well-bred and now entirely superfluous daughters.

This aristocratic diaspora spread across the Western world to anywhere they had some hook, some connexion. Thus each family sought out the lifestyle it was accustomed to, only to find, when they got to their new homes, just how far they had really fallen.

~~~~~~~~

~ The Savoy. London. ~

A well dressed gentleman padded down the corridor towards room 414. He wore a lilac woollen suit, brogues, and a light grey ascot tie. He was approaching fifty but carrying it well.

He was here for an evening's indulgence, away from the twin pressures of marriage and boardroom.

He knew what he would find in room 414. He had negotiated it before hand, in exacting detail.

'Ava', as she was listed at the agency, would be playing a debutante fresh from the ball.

She would be stood there, proud and haughty. Her haughtiness somehow undimmed by her nakedness.

She would look challengingly at him. She would not submit to him.

No, he would have to force her submission.

He would man-handle her to her knees where he would have her service him.

He would bend her over and take her.

He would humiliate her with whispered taunts as he used this pretty posh girl.

He would reduce her to a moaning, squealing common slut.

He would leave her with her pride broken.

He was looking forward to it.

This gentleman was old enough not to leave the realisation of fantasies to spontaneity any more. No, this would be a play, his play. Everything scripted to precision.

As he got to the door he looked down in surprise. There was a blank calling card propped up against the frame of the door outside room 414. This was not in the script. He bent down and picked it up, nervous.

Printed neatly on the reverse side, it read:

"My real name's Azihra. My parents don't know I do this and I don't need to do this. Azihra means maiden and that's what they think I am. In the old country I was practically a princess. So treat me like a princess... Of a country you just conquered."

He should have been angry. But the only thing more stimulating than a evening with whore who plays out your deepest fantasy, blow-by-blow, to your exact specification, is a whore who gives you an even better one to enact on her: A real one.

This wasn't his fantasy now. This was hers.

~~~~~~~~

~ Los Angeles, California. ~

Safa's American lover, a self made man who made his millions selling out to to a tech giant five years before, wanted an aristocratic Barbie doll all for himself. He already had everything else in life.

This lover wasn't high society in the strictest sense, like they had been in the old country, and like her husband (absurdly) insisted they still were in America, even though no-one here gave a damn about them. Her lover didn't know minor Greek royalty and couldn't name his nth ancestor. But he was a multi-millionaire, like her family very much were not, not any more, and he always got his own way, like her own husband very much did not, not any more.

Safa had waited until her husband was away on business and her daughter, Mina, on a school trip, then she got the lips, the facial restructuring, the tits, the ass, the waist, the blonde hair, the nail extensions, the hair removal of everything below the eyebrows. Even a tiny "CE/FCC Made in ░░░░░stan" tattoo on the upper back of her right thigh.

It was all to her lover's precise specification.

Her lover could have paid, but hadn't offered. So Safa had seen it as a test to pass. So her husband had paid for it all. He just didn't know it yet. The poor man who have a fit when he got back and saw the financial hole she'd just got him in.

It was worth it; she was sick of this new life of mediocrity in the States. Back in the old country they had been something. Here, they were just another family that shopped at Walmart. So if it got her back in the high-life then absolutely she wanted to be a powerful man's pretty doll; to be kept, admired, and fucked like a whore. Anything was better than ordinary.

...

Safa never came home. Five months later she'd divorced her old husband and married her lover. "... To love and obey," the priest had said, and she'd said, "I do." That was per her new husband's specification too. Who wanted a disobedient doll?

...

The daughter, Mina, stayed with her father but visited her mother about three months after the wedding. Her mother's new husband had offered to host her for her eighteenth birthday. To really spoiler her, he'd said, through Safa.

When Mina came back to her father's place a week later she had nail extensions, fake lashes, bleached blonde hair, braces to correct her very slightly misaligned teeth, and she was dressed like her mother. Like a pretty doll.

"Seriously daddy, mother's new husband is a dream," she said over supper the first morning she was back.

When her father didn't bite, or react at all, she went on poking.

"And he's wealthy, and fit, and he buys her all sorts of stuff, anything she wants, and she doesn't have to work any more. And all she has to do is look pretty and be exclusive for him." Nothing. He ate on in silence.

"And pretend she doesn't know about him, like, screwing the company secretaries three at a time, I suppose." Still nothing. She went for broke.

"And he has a really big cock too. I mean, apparently. How would I know?

"I wouldn't have become part of their thing or anything.

"Like one night.

"After a couple glasses of wine.

"Me and mommy.

"Together.

"Made to put on a special show for him, before I'm allowed up to their room.

"Nope, definitely not. That could never have happened."

Her dad had gone beet red now, but still hadn't looked up or said anything. His fork was stopped half way to his mouth.

"Daddy, have you ever wondered--- Do you think mommy still would have still left us if you had a bigger cock?"

The fork dropped to the floor as he stood up and pulled off his belt.

~~~~~~~~

~ Somewhere in Ohio. ~

She had run away from her old fashioned old-country parents at the first opportunity.

Even before the revolution they were never the real crème de la crème. But they had kept up appearances. After they fled it seemed to her that her parents tried to keep up appearances even more.

What was the point? It was so infuriating! Didn't they realise they were in America now? Things were different. She wanted to be an American, not a faux-aristocratic bauble, waiting for a suitor who would probably never come, because they knew hardly anyone and they wouldn't go out.

Back at home you were your parent's responsibility until they married you off, but they weren't back home any more, and she was old enough. She should be free. She wanted adventure, boyfriends, she wanted to drink, to go clubbing and hang out back-stage with bands. But her parents wouldn't hear of it.

So she'd ran.

...

Six weeks later she was upstairs during a house party lying on her side on a futon trying to stop the room spinning and the lights strobing. She heard the door open and a guy walk in. She thought it was Brad from the way he moved, but she couldn't see him.

Whoever it was he leant down behind her and pull her panties down her otherwise uncovered ass. She didn't try and stop him. She just lets things happen now, since she seemed to have no control over anything.

Its not her fault if she ended up as an unpaying housemate to a bunch of guys who took the rent from her body. That's just how things worked out for a young naif like her in the land of opportunity. And boy, was she an opportunity.

Oh God, she though hazily as he pumped away. If I shouldn't let this be happening then why does it always feel so good?

~~~~~~~~

~ A private Caribbean island. ~

At least one of the émigrés did well for himself from the revolution. He'd been at the Ministry of Defence and Internal Security and had been ideally placed to asset strip the country on the way out. Now he resided on a very exclusive property on a private island that he leased from a Russian 'friend'.

One week in the Summer he invited this chum and a handful of his landlord's fellow chekists to visit for 'an exhibition'.

'Art and beauty from our homeland', he introduced it as.

After some fine tapestries, pottery, and some staggeringly tasteless gilt encrusted furniture, they were taken to the centre piece.

It was a winding white corridor with seven alcoves, one every thirty feet or so, and seven young women standing in the alcoves.

They were naked, modestly covering their breasts and groin with their hands. All seven had long curly black hair down to their waists.

"Daughters of old business associates, from the diaspora, who are now sadly behind bars or otherwise indisposed. Such a shame.

"These beauties, all alone and unprotected in the world, came to me.

"Well, someone I knew suggested they come to me, then they were asked very very nicely to board the plane I sent to pick them up.

"They come here, as we all have, to make a fresh start. Today they are art, for you, gentlemen.

"A fresh start. Isn't that right, my dear?" he said, stroking the first girl behind her ear.

She shivered at his touch.

~~~~~~~~

~ Just outside Aix-en-Provence. ~

There were two lovely sisters, daughters to an old family of good standing and, previously, reasonably good means. But after fleeing the revolution with nothing they were sent away to the estates of a distant connexion of the family. A married French couple with no children; him occupied with a thriving business in town and her pottering around their grounds, with its stables and pools.

They were a pretty pair, these sisters. Just two years difference in age, both long, lithe, with small tight arses and small firm tits and no knowledge of the world.

The younger sister was found a job by the husband working with him in his firm.

It took him precisely two days before he had her up before him in his office for messing up some nebulous and ill-defined task he'd set.

She stood in front of him reluctantly pulling her skirt up around her waist then let herself get bent over his desk and spanked.

By the end of the week he'd taken her virginity over the top of the same desk.

"Thank God for the morning after pill," he grunted, as he came inside her.

The older sister 'fared better'. At least, according to the wife she did.

The wife took her to be her personal assistant, although because the wife didn't do any actual business herself the duties were mostly, ah, personal.

It took her even less time than her husband before she had her hands inside the little proto-tart's knickers.

She told her how lucky she was because, she said, "She didn't want to know what indignities my pig husband is going to inflict on your innocent sister. I, on the other hand, am as gentle as a lamb."

She licked up the girl's neck.

"Mmm. You smell like a farm-raised virgin. I know your type, little one. A nice, juicy calf from the provinces. So lovely and fresh."

With that she pinned her against the bathroom sink and gave the girl her very first penetrative orgasm with her fingers.

"Man, I love veal..." she whispered into the girl's ear as she started to remove her own blouse.

The poor dears never stood a chance.

~~~~~~~~

~ New York, New York. ~

"Taste familiar, Lacci?" said Lacci's bitch of a big sister, Mitsa, from above her.

"There's at least three loads in my cunt, from two of your exes," she said, slurring the words. She had her hand on the back of Lacci's head grinding it into her pussy.

----

Lacci, Mitsa and their family had been amongst the first to leave.

Their father had always played every side. Lacci knew for a fact he'd sold information to the Americans, the British and the Russians, and would meet in secret with both Government minsters and the religious radicals. As such he'd seen the writing on the wall before most.

Now they were safely in New York and he and their mother were playing at being the respectable, abused émigrés, angling for a position amongst the great and the good.

But their daughters --- being cut from the same cloth as their less-than-model parents, resentful of leaving their lives and their friends back home and suspecting their traitorous father of being at least in part responsible, presented with all the dangerous liberalities of Western life in one heady shot --- were going off the rails.

----

They were in the family house. It was 2AM. The parents and their younger brother had gone to bed hours ago. Mitsa had just got in from her party, strode straight into Lacci's room, steaming with booze and God knows what else, and taken charge.

"Oh wait," Mitsa said, in mock-shock remembrancing, pausing her grinding for a second for effect. "Actually its just one ex. Because the other one is your current guy." She got back into the motion, laughing manically.

Fucking bitch, Lacci thought, face full of her sister's pussy, tongue tasting the familiar tang of semen.

Not much she could do about it though. Not yet. Mitsa had the dirt on Lacci doing drugs last week and knew their father would cut her off entirely if he knew. There wasn't much of an inheritance, not compared to the old days, but it was about all she had going for her and she'd be damned if she was going to work for a living when she had to move out next year. So Lacci had to keep her sister-bitch quiet.

What sister-bitch didn't know was that Lacci got on pretty well with her immediate ex, Daniel, a copper haired six foot white boy from Boston.

So when Mitsa had started her vindictive little game at the house party earlier that night (to which Lacci hadn't been invited, a fact Lacci also blamed on her sister) Daniel had texted her that he'd seen Mitsa flirting with Lacci's current boyfriend, who was there, and they'd disappeared outside for a while.

Fuck him, Lacci had replied, he's shit in bed anyway. Daniel sent a laughing emoji back.

Daniel had dumped Lacci a couple months back. She knew she wasn't going to get him back, he had a waspy heiress on his arm these days. That hadn't broken her heart. Men, they were just for passing the time. After all, getting it was more fun than not getting it, but that was about all it was.

When Mitsa had reemerged and it had been Daniel's turn for her to hit on him, he'd texed Lacci again. He said she was trying to get him to go upstairs with her, being none too subtle.

Lacci asked Daniel to go through with it, if he wanted the slut, and to film it, but not to let her see him filming it.

And to make it rough, she added, as an after thought. Daniel was so good at rough.

Lacci assumed he'd managed the filming because she got sent a wink emoji about half an hour later, which had been about two hours ago now. That made eating come out of the drunk bitch's hot used cunt almost pleasant, knowing that this time tomorrow she'd have the footage, and the tables would be very, very much turned.

As Mitsa climaxed noisily on her delving tongue, Lacci wondered whose load Mitsa would least enjoy eating out of her cunt tomorrow.

Oh God, there was always... But could she really..? With her own..? Would he..?

Yeah, he probably would actually.

Fuck it, she thought, as Mitsa roughly pushed her away and left the room laughing. It would be worth it.

~~~~~~~~

~ Suburban New Hampshire. ~

Atouseh came back from her shopping spree sooner than expected. As she got in she heard whimpering and slapping sounds coming from upstairs. As she went upstairs it seemed to come from her nineteen year old daughter's bedroom. She inched the door open, not looking forward to confronting some punk boyfriend and kicking him out.

But as she peered through the door she gasped silently. Her new husband was aggressively sodomising his stepdaughter, who was bent over on her bed, facing away from the door. Atouseh could see his cock thrust in like a piston, then slowly pull out, and repeat, as the poor girl groaned through what sounded like a mouth full of pillow.

Atouseh tiptoed back down the stairs. As she got to the bottom she took a couple of long deep breaths to steady her breathing and waited until her hands stopped shaking.

Then she looked down at the designer shopping bags she was still carrying, and around at the house, and thought about the Mercedes she'd just driven home in.

Well, there was always going to be a price to pay for such a wonderful life, after they'd had to flee without her daughter's father, landing in America with nothing to their name but ignominy.

This wasn't too bad, really, when you thought about it. Lots of people love rough stuff like that. Her daughter must be one of them, she reasoned, as her daughter's moans from upstairs turned into a noisy, gutteral climax.