F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

A strange contest! Stacie wondered how many women had fought it through the centuries. To keep the citadel of her emotions intact while her outer defences were ravaged by the foe! In a process of attrition the citadel would fall, but its crumbling might be delayed. She could hardly pretend that Salim was not sucking her nipples, but she could send her mind away from what was being done to her.

Quite suddenly it stopped. Salim backed away from her wet breasts, his glowing features irradiated by inspiration. “Very hot dog!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. “Salim is much clever.”

The fastened girl knew it would be bad. She watched, without hope, as he searched among the plenitude of objects the awful room provided. With a grunt of satisfaction he chose a sizable wooden chest which he dragged over and thrust against his victim’s pinioned legs. Standing on it he seemed pleased with the result. It was not until he threw aside the cloth around his loins that Stacie guessed what he would make her do. “Is good as fuck,” said Salim.

“I’m not going to do it!” Stacie stated flatly.

The Arab boy got down from the box, his smile undiminished. “Is always much argue,” he conceded as though from long experience. “Salim soon fix.”

When he selected the whip, the helpless girl knew real desolation. It was not so much the thing he wanted of her, but rather her utter impotence to question or refute. To be possessed so totally by this ingenuous adolescent was a humiliation over which she was sure Rannah would now be laughing. She longed to kick and plunge and fight, but she could not move. She eyed the approaching whip with a certainty of defeat.

“Salim whip nicely all up and down front.”

“I’ll tell Rannah. She’ll be angry.”

“Please tell. Rannah say can do.”

He might be lying. But the marks his whip were about to put on her would convict him. Stacie had to suppose her mistress felt a whipping would do her no harm. The dark eyed Arab girl was unpredictable. Fastened as she was, the absurd lout would scarcely forego the joy of whipping her breasts. Had it been her back that was to bear the brunt she might have borne some strokes as a sop to pride or in the hope the youth would not dare whip her too much or too long, but to stand and face the whip! It was more than she could bear.

“Don’t whip me, Salim. I’ll do it.” Never had capitulation seemed more abject. She was thankful her father could not hear her voice.

Salim was obviously disappointed. “You no wish to be much brave?” he inquired coaxingly.

“I’m not brave, Salim, I’m scared. I’ll do what you want.”

“Perhaps I whip small bit. Make very sure!”

“What small bit?”

Instantly she knew her mistake. He was intrigued. He surveyed the possibilities offered by her nakedness. “Cannot whip cunt, or nice arse, or pretty back,” he eliminated the obvious one by one and arrived at the answer, “Pretty tits are nice stuck out,” he proclaimed in triumph.

Stacie quailed, fear flooded her being. To whip a girl’s breasts! It was unthinkable. She looked down at her firm cones as though bidding them good by. Surely a girl’s breasts could not be whipped without injury! Their virgin loveliness would never be the same . . .

“I’ll be very nice to you. I’m sorry I was rude,” she said humbly.

“How nice you be?”

“I’ll take it in my mouth and make you feel good.”

He seemed to expand. She thought of small cockerels whose wattles got red and scarlet. “Please to tell, Salim want to hear.”

She was to be properly debased! Well, what of it, there was none to see her degradation. Taking a deep breath as though diving into cold water she said the loathsome words. “Salim, I will suck your cock and play with it with my tongue and when you go off in my mouth I will swallow all you give me and then I will lick your cock clean.”

Salim stood dazed, absorbing his riches. Stacie’s abundant specifics had most evidently had a potent effect. She watched him lay aside the whip, and breathed a great sigh of thankfulness. This time the boy stepped upon his box in much the same grandiloquence with which Suliman the Great might have mounted his throne. His rampant male rod was thrust at Stacie’s mouth like a blunt spear.

The helpless girl remembered a favorite precept of her grade one teacher at school: “If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well.” Ruefully she supposed it applied to even this unworthy endeavour. She was also still very conscious of the whip. It was still there and might be used should she fail to please. Could she, by simulating the arts of a whore, earn gratitude! She would try. Skilfully and busily she plied her lips and tongue to do battle for such of her citadel as was still intact. Salim’s grunts and moans were the cries of an army in retreat. Stacie sucked and tongued lustily.

When it was done, a dazed and deflated Salim dragged hack the box and sat on it, dolefully eyeing his limp, wet and flaccid member as though mourning the dead. After a lengthy scrutiny of past glory he spoke the epitaph: “Such small little time,”

he said sadly.

It was the eternal lament of all mankind: In finding splendour you relinquished it, victory and defeat were one. Stacie almost felt sorry for the boy. Surely his inexperience had not made him believe his loss irreparable!

“Did you enjoy it, Salim?” she asked in feminine curiosity.

“Is most hot dog.” He pronounced ultimate praise. After a moment’s meditation he asked: “Is fuck so good?”

Stacie was cautious. She had no wish that in some later helplessness this Jedrah youth father a child within her. “Fucking is not nearly as nice as . . . what we’ve just done,” she assured him with simulated vehemence.

He nodded as though willing to believe. Without vigour he pushed the box back where he had found it. Returning, he stood and surveyed his field of battle as though reliving its glory. Stacie cringed inwardly in fear that her nakedness might rekindle the fire. But Salim’s beaming smile was now vacant. “I go now,” he said grandly as befits a conquerer. He wandered from the chamber in a seeming daze.

The whip lay, unused, upon the floor.

“He didn’t whip you!” Rannah sounded quaintly shocked.

“Was he supposed to?”

“I gave him permission. Not too hard or too long . . .”

“He wanted to whip my breasts. Would you have wanted him to do that to me, Rannah?”

Rannah laughed. “He was teasing. He knew they were forbidden. There’s your stomach and your hips and the front of your thighs. He could have amused himself with them.”

“Why didn’t he?”

Stacie explained. Rannah laughed. “The young devil! There’ll be no holding him now. It will take a whipping to put him back in a proper frame of mind.”

“I’d like to watch,” the captive said bitterly.

“Poor slave girl! You feel soiled?”

“I suppose I’ll live,” Stacie conceded. She eyed her mistress hopefully. “Is there any chance of being let loose?”

“Of course not. You’ve only been here a few hours.”

“It feels like a few days. I hurt.”

“But you have not screamed.”

“I will if it will help.”

Rannah kissed her slave. “It becomes a game we play.”

“But why, Rannah! Why do we play it! It seems so useless?”

“Because I wish it. I told you I would make you a slave. Mine! Today has nothing to do with Yasin.”

“But I am yours! You know that. I’ll let you do anything you like with me.”

“That is what we do: the thing I like. Who this morning stripped and gave herself to be fastened?”

The naked girl longed to stamp her foot in frustration.

“You know what I mean,” she retorted with feminine sulkiness.