F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

“You can be whipped for impertinence.”

“Was I impertinent, My Lady?”

“You know damn well you are—and drop that ‘My Lady’ bit. You’re feeling foxy because you think your troubles are over for the day. It’s not a log walk back to that room, y’know.”

Stacie quelled her rising spirits. There would always be steel in Rannah. She could learn gradually how far she dare provoke.

“You spoke of the four of us, Rannah. Where are the other three?”

“They are quite safe, and very angry, and very much afraid. Perhaps I may allow them to share a torture with you.”

“Torture! Them! But why?”

“I did not say torture them: they may share yours. They can watch.”

Stacie considered the humiliation. Three pairs of female eyes seeing her nudity writhe in agony . . .

“You do not like the thought, slave girl?” Rannah accused.

“Are they . . . are they, naked?”

“No. But if it would make it easier for you it could be arranged.”

Stacie flushed. “Silly! But it would make a tremendous difference in the way I’d feel. Please don’t do it.”

“Don’t you want to talk to them?”

“Not in between screams.”

“I will torture them too, then,” Rannah assured cheerfully. “Then none of you will feel embarrassed.”

“You’re teasing.”

“Hold out your hands.”

The sudden order, absurdly, made the captive remember early days at school when the strap or dirty finger nails were the motive. Unconcernedly she obeyed, then gasped with a strange pleasure.

“I told you, slave girl, I spoil you.” Rannah held up the silver handcuffs, laughing at the mixed emotions on her companion’s face.

“They’re beautiful!” Stacie’s eyes glowed as though she beheld jewelled bracelets. “Oh, Rannah, you’re sweet.”

“I am told they are the best,” the Arab girl said proudly.

“It is marked on them: Smith & Wesson. U.S.A. They are brand new. Yours is their first skin.”

Each savoured the moment in their own way. For Rannah it was delighted amusement at her slave girl’s desire. For Stacie it was the warmth of knowing the shining things a gift that must have sprung from deeper emotion than strict practicability. Undeniably, too, they would be much more comfortable than having her wrists corded at her back or a heavy chain tethering her like a dog.

“I will still tie you, slave girl.”

Stacie’s euphoria was not dented. “I don’t mind,” she said absently. “Please put them on me, I want to hear the little clicks.”

Stacie’s handcuffing had all the air of a Ritual. Very deliberately Rannah trapped a slender wrist, flipped over the notched half circle of steel and pressed it home. They laughed together at the resultant clicks of the ratchet and its pawl. The last two clicks exploratory to make the cuff snug but not to cut. When both the girlish wrists had been circled captive in the glinting metal Stacie held them up to admire. A single link joined her hands and limited their freedom. “They’re gorgeous!” she breathed. “Oh, Rannah, you’re so good to me!”

The dark eyes studied the ecstatic captive with a measure of incredulity. “Slave girl . . .” The voice was serious and puzzled. “All day I tortured you. How then am I good?”

“Oh, but you are! Rannah, don’t worry about me. Maybe I’m nuts . . . everything’s nuts! But I’m not going to try and figure myself out. I’m just grateful you bought these things for me. Quite simple really.”

“See how good they are for me,” Stacie exulted at dinner.

“It’s funny at first, using two hands for everything. But it’s sort of quaint and I expect I’ll improve. And the nice thing is I don’t have to wonder if I should make a quick dash for the door, and you don’t have to wonder if I’m going to.”

“You are a nonsensical slave girl,” Rannah chided. “Your feet are free, you can run as well as you ever could.”

Stacie was unabashed. “Well, anyway, I’m not going to. I’d look a perfect idiot running around the way I’m dressed, or undressed, and with these on my wrists.”

The dark haired Jedrah maiden surveyed her slave with pride. Perhaps with love . . . Later, with a studied casualness, she said: “Tonight you will sleep with me.”

Stacie’s heart skipped a beat. She saw the truth of her slavery. She could be delivered to torment or to Paradise by a whim or a word from whoever owned her. The handcuffs had a life of their own upon her flesh. She sparkled with a new content.

Yet Rannah was cruel. Leading her trembling captive to the holy place of sleep she unlocked a single cuff and clasped it round the lower foot of her bed so that its wearer was on her knees. She tossed the astonished slave a blanket and readied herself for sleep.

Kneeling on the rug at the foot of Rannah’s bed, one wrist solidly captive against the heavy and ornately carved wooden frame, Stacie was torn between laughter and tears. She was not sure whether she was being teased, but here was slavery indeed! To sleep on the floor, chained beside her mistress’s bed like a pet dog or, more aptly, a pet slave. She longed to speak of her new condition, but was unsure of what to say or how to say it. Rannah was keeping her eyes loftily averted from the humbled girl upon the floor.

“Would you prefer your small cell and the cords on your wrists, slave-girl?” The Arab girl was secretly laughing at her captive’s dismay.

“Oh no, my Lady! I want to be near you.”

“But my slave girl is not pleased by her humiliation?” Stacie was cautious and uncertain.

“I have never slept on the floor at the foot of anyone’s bed, my Lady. It’s strange to me.”

“Why am I suddenly being called ‘my Lady’?”

“I feared you must be angry with me.”

Rannah laughed at the girl who knelt so awkwardly on the rug, her arm taut against the tug of the handcuff that locked it to the bed. “Silly girl! You thought you were to get in my bed, not beside it on the floor. But think of all the worse places you could be than where you are. There are many. You will share my bed only when I choose.”

Stacie wiped the pout from her lips, it could get her into trouble. Memory of the day welled up. This dark haired beauty was the same girl who had tortured her. Best not to push her luck.

“Forgive me, Rannah.”

“There is nothing to forgive, slave girl. Now, let me see you dispose yourself.”

Stacie Blair had never felt more foolish. Laughter contended with anger, sarcasm with protest, but prudence quenched them all. Her principle concern was, suddenly, to do what she must with grace. She found herself not wanting to appear awkward or inadequate before the watching eyes. In whatever she did from this day on she would wish the approval of the girl who held her slave.

It should have been simple, but it was not. To kneel, to sit, to lay down had ceased to be easy. Her right hand chained so closely to the wooden leg so near the floor inhibited whatever she sought to do. It was not enough to have one free hand, she wanted two. Relapsing on the rug she searched for comfort, but the handcuffed wrist defeated her no matter how she turned. Exasperated, she sat up, glared at the snug cuff on her wrist, and gave the matter of her night’s rest serious thought.

“It was you who asked for handcuffs, slave girl,” Rannah mocked.

“I’m doing something wrong, there just has to be a way . . .”

“I am being cruel. I will chain you differently.”

“No, don’t. You couldn’t chain me less. I’ll find a spot.” The slave girl wriggled and twisted and unexpectedly found comfort, her prisoned hand ceased to tug and hurt. Her mistress clapped gently in applause. “You see, slave girls quickly learn.”