“Shit!” Was the first word Shamima had spoken in the last hour. We had hit traffic on the motorway heading back to my home city, moving excruciatingly slowly over the last 4 miles. I glance over at her, spotting the blob of burger sauce that had landed on the edge of her right breast and was currently headed quickly towards her cleavage. She scoops it up with her finger before licking it off and notices that I’ve been staring a little too long.

“I’ve told you about staring at my tits, white bastard!” Turning away from me and pulling her cardigan closed over her low cut t shirt with a loud huff. She was right, I had been told when she practically shoved them in my face leaning across me to bark her order at the McDonald’s drive thru we had stopped at so she could get food. In my defence, it’s been 12 years since I last had a pair of tits that close to my face and I couldn’t really avoid looking given how close they were. “Keep your fucking eyes on the road, asshole.” She barks at me and I look back to see the traffic starting to creep forwards again, only to stop after about 5 feet. As I stop behind the car in front I think back on how I got into this situation…

 

Three weeks ago Keir Starmer, Captain U-Turn himself, had decided to reinstate Shamima Begum’s citizenship with the tiniest amount of pressure from the ECHR, much to the country’s dismay and anger. The backlash that arose was so great that her own parents decided to disown her completely and putting her in prison, even in solitary, would be bad for her wellbeing with how hated she is. So this left a huge problem, what to do with her.

So they came up with a “great” idea, they would hold a kind of raffle, the winner would receive £1 million a year and be provided with accommodation, to live with and take care of her.

Pretty tempting, right?…

It turns out not.

In a stupid drunken dare from my friends, I entered my name on the government website. I mean, that kind of money would attract thousands of applicants, wouldn’t it?

Nope. I was the only one to enter. Not one of her supporters, religious extremists, no-one else in entire country entered. I “won” by default.

 

Over the last two weeks I attended a series of odious and boring meetings outlining how the set up would work, the time and date of her arrival, the pick up and asking me what expectations I had regarding her role in the house (which will come back to bite me later).

Two days ago I was shown the house, a lonely house in the middle of nowhere a few miles outside of the city. From the outside it looked pretty run down, the only new looking things being the bars on the windows and the fancy electronic locks on the front and back doors. Inside, on the other hand, was brand new and modern, with more fancy locks. I was given a brief tour and the security system was set up to only respond to me through retinal scans, fingerprints, breath and a voice sample. Then I was told to pick her up in two days time and bring her straight here.  And here we are.

 

The traffic starts to ease and we make good time, reaching the house an hour later. Shamima snorts as she sees the house in the headlights ahead as I drive up the long, secluded driveway. “I have to live in this shithole? With a bastard white man? Are you fucking kidding me?!” she exclaims with exasperation as we pull up in front of the house. I get out and open the boot of my car, telling her to grab her suitcase whilst I unlock the door. Her attitude lightens ever so slightly when we enter the house, even a low whistle escaping her lips as she looks around the entrance hall. I notice her jump as the door closes and the many licks engage loudly, goosebumps appear on her bare forearms despite the warmth in the house. “Welcome to your prison, Shamima.” She mutters to herself.

 

I give her a tour of the lower floor, the spacious lounge with its opulent furniture gaining a slight smile from her and the kitchen becoming a particular favourite. I can’t help but watch the sway of her hips and the way her ass wiggles enticingly as I follow her up the stairs, admonished myself for thinking of this awful former terrorist in a sexual way but silently promising to have a good wank over the memory of that and her boobs later on tonight. I show her to her bedroom, it’s sparsely furnished with a simple dressing table and chair, a metal framed double bed that has been neatly made, an ensuite bathroom with a shower, and great big thick bars over both sides of the rooms windows.

She looks around the room, looking almost happy until she spots the metal and leather collar attached to the bed by a long chain on the floor. “What the fuck?” she snaps, glaring at me.

“I have to put that on you when you go to bed.” I tell her with a shrug. “Not my idea.” She scoffs, gesturing towards the bed. “Which side are you taking? Or do I choose?” she spits at me, with hate burning in her eyes.

“I have my own room.” I state bluntly, “You don’t think I’d want to fuck a vile bitch like you, do you?”

“Good.” She snaps. “I wouldn’t fuck an asshole like you anyway. Even if we were the only ones left in the world.”

I snort and turn to leave. “do what you want til bedtime, bitch.”

As I start to walk away a voice suddenly booms from a hidden speaker…

 

“Stop right there, Mr. Smith.” The sound loud enough to rattle the windows. “You’re not done yet.”

We both look around the room with shocked curiosity, searching for the source. “Miss Begum will now remove her clothing.”

“Fuck off!” Shamima shouts at the ceiling. “I’m not striping in front of HIM!”

“Non compliance will be punished. Strip. Now.”

“The FUCK I will.”

“Mr. Smith, attach the bracelet on the table to her wrist.” The voice orders me. “You will not resist, Miss Begum.”

She reluctantly allows me to slip the silver band around her left wrist and click it shut. “Stand back, Mr. Smith. Miss Begum, you WILL remove your clothing.”

 

“I FUCKING WILL NOT….” She screams and her body goes rigid as a large electric shock shoots through her from the bracelet.

“You will strip. NOW!”

She falls to her knees as the bracelet stops shocking her, tears of pain, anger and defiance run down her cheeks.