F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

“Is hurt most bad.” He had a gift for the obvious. Stacie moaned, not in pain but at her own illogic.

Everything was insane and impossible, nothing made sense. Tears of weariness with pain welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She could not touch them, she could not move.

“Have done a thing most bad,” said Salim in a sad shocked voice.

It hurt to look sideways and up, but Stacie enquiringly did so, sensing disquiet. What she saw was a thing for laughter or for rage. An embarrassed youth was holding up her briefs and bra.

In her nakedness they were both condemned.

“Never mind,” she said wearily. “I don’t care what happens.” Then, remembering his vulnerability: “Oh, Salim, I’m sorry . . .”

“I think we both get much whip,” he mourned lugubriously.

“Just let me loose. I’ll put them on and we’ll start over.” With quick decisive motions he set her free. Without pause she donned the two forgotten trifles, then once more knelt for punishment.

“Salim no can tie.”

She looked in astonishment at his dejected face. “You are so nice girl. Most kind.”

“It won’t take you long to tie me, Salim, then you’ll be safe.”

He shook his head. “No. No tie. I am liking you.” Always the unexpected! Some magic had come from her and touched this naive boy. He would accept his penalty and she would be free, her pain behind her for the day. Yet she was not happy.

“Oh, Salim, I’m sorry.”

He looked at her with infinite pathos. “So nice a cunt.” It was as though he mourned the dead.

The girl of Jedrah knew what she must do. She could not have done it once, but she could do it now. Kneeling before him as a slave she fondled his genitals in her hands and used her lips to revive that which its owner believed lost. She did not care for pictures or of memories or of guilt. All Stacie Blair wanted at that moment was to give this sad young man some pleasure for the pain he would suffer as her price.

There are many kinds of love.

When they separated and surveyed each other with new eyes Salim was not as he had been, he had passed a milestone. The slave girl knew that had he possessed wealth he would have paid any price to buy her for his own. For this boy who, before her capture, had never seen a naked girl she was all the treasure of the world.

“Am most sad.” Sheepishly he retrieved the discarded handcuffs. “The lady Rannah tell me I must do this.”

Stacie laughed gaily and offered him her hands. “I don’t mind, Salim. I know I have to be chained.”

Apologetically he locked a cuff oh her right wrist, led her to the wall, and secured her safely to a ring. He thrust forward a box that she might sit in comfort. She said, “Thank you,” without irony.

He lingered, seeking a last statement. “Is cunt much used?” he inquired politely.

“Not these days,” Stacie tried not to giggle. “Most people use other things.”

He nodded with great wisdom. “Cunt pretty in hair, but pretty girl’s lips most hot dog. You have most fine parts.” Once more beaming he left his Princess seated on her wooden throne.

“I should have you both soundly whipped by Yousef,” Rannah declared with laughter. “You have bewitched the boy.”

“Don’t punish him, my Lady. I cheated, he did not get the thing he desired.”

“Oh, I was sure enough of that, slave girl. Perhaps it is you I should punish?”

“If you wish, my Lady. If one of us is to be whipped I expect it should be me.”

Stacie giggled at the memory. “He’s rather sweet, I’m afraid I managed him outrageously.”

The deep dark eyes examined the chained girl intently.

“Since you carry so much guilt you may go and kneel again to be tied.”

There was a bare moment of tense silence before Stacie’s demure: “Yes, my Lady,”

as she rose to obey, only to be jerked back by her forgotten hand still cuffed to the ring.

They shared a smile. Still intent on a purpose the Arab girl used her key. Without hesitation Stacie knelt in the hated pose, positioned her ankles in their waiting clamps, and raised her arms to place a wrist on each side of the post. She looked at her mistress expectantly without emotion.

It was almost a minute before Rannah’s laughter broke the tension. “Stacie, you are impossible! I do not believe you! What has Jedrah done to you!”

The compliant candidate for torture shrugged wryly. “I do not know, my Lady.” The lovely lips twisted in deprecation, “I too am puzzled by me. Once I was not like this.” Manfully she held the posture in which she would be tied.

“No tears? No plea?”

“No, my Lady,” the eyes glinted with a single spark of mischief. “I am a slave girl.” The briefest pause and then:

“When this is done, my Lady, am I to be whipped also? Will you truly give me to Yousef?”

“Why not! It is what you deserve. Since it is he who will whip you I will be merciful: twenty strokes. It will be enough.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” There were tears in the voice, but they did not fall. “Will you please tie me now, it is very hard to kneel like this.”

“Get up and come here!”

The command was like the crack of a whip. Stacie looked up in alarm, she wanted no more punishments. Fearfully she obeyed.

“Your hands.”

Stacie watched the shining steel capture her wrists. “You are an outrageous little masochist! What must I do with you!” Rannah’s voice was joyous.

It happened then as it had happened before. Without volition Stacie sank to her knees and clasped, as best her fettered hands would allow, the legs that in their strength and warmth gave her the comfort of which she had a great need. She felt no abasement in the act, only love and longing. She understood nothing and did not care. If this was where she belonged, so be it. After a long while she said softly: “I am not a masochist, my Lady. You know I’m not.”

“I know that,” Rannah looked down at the supplicating loveliness with exasperated affection. “But if you keep offering that beautiful body of yours for punishment you will get more of it than you deserve. You have me lusting to whip you right now.”

“I offer myself only to you, my Lady.”

“Have you forgotten Salim!”

“Yes, my Lady. He does not count.” There was a hint of a giggle.

“If you had never been brought to Jedrah you would never have discovered yourself. Is that not truth?”

“It is truth, my Lady.”

“You are the most natural and instinctive slave girl fantasy could devise. You’re not acting, are you?”

Slowly the kneeling girl relinquished her hold and sat back on her heels. She shook her head in perplexity. “Oh Rannah, I feel silly. No, I’m not acting, I can’t help it. I find myself doing and saying the things I do as though I was drugged or hypnotised. You know: I sort of see myself and hear myself as though I was someone else. But I don’t want to change it: I suppose that’s the frightening thing.” She shrugged and grinned ruefully, “Or the wonderful thing . . . according to how you look at it. If you ordered me to go to Yousef now to be whipped I’d trot along like a good little girl.”

“You are incredibly wonderful. I am lucky.”

“I’m not silly, Rannah?”

“You could never be silly. Come, I wish to bathe you.”

“If you take off my handcuffs I will bathe myself. It is not seemly for you to attend me. I am a slave.”

Rannah chuckled delightedly. “You wanted handcuffs, you have them. You’ll wear them whether you wish to or not.”

They bathed, both together in the huge pool. Stacie sensed the intensity of the current between them. Rannah’s nakedness excited her, it was lithe and slender and strong.