F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

“Come, slave girl, I will let you sleep.”

Stacie knelt upon the familiar rug on which she spent her nights. She offered her hands that she be chained. Her right wrist was unlocked, she was raised and thrust upon the bed. Her left hand was dragged above her head and clicked firmly to the scroll work at the head. She lay naked on her back, free to do all she would need to do. She could well spare the single hand by which she would be kept captive. The smoldering fire flamed hotly within her loins as the dark eyes found and held her own.

“I have kept you waiting far too long.” With a moan of anguished hunger Rannah sought the scented flesh of the slave girl on the bed. Stacie’s single arm rose to clutch and cling. For both it was a fresh chapter in their lives.

They feasted endlessly upon each other’s flesh, it gained in savour as the days and the nights drifted through their love. It was an unending appetite that regenerated itself as often as it was appeased. They luxuriated in each other without thought or count or care of time. They lived in a perfumed garden of delight.

Yet always Stacie’s wrists knew steel. She had asked and she would be given the handcuffs, the affection for which Rannah shared. If one captive wrist inhibited their lovemaking it was laughingly unlocked and tethered elsewhere, it added spice. They giggled over the possibilities uncovered by the chaining of the prisoned hand, first here and there around the bed, or simply joined to its fellow when they bathed and ate their meals. They lived in a Lotus Land beyond the World.

For Stacie it was a homecoming and a discovery. She asked no questions, nor did she look either forward or back. She revelled in her slavery as she revelled in her love. As a slave she had no decisions and no fears. Rannah was a rock shielding her from harm, sustaining her with the bounty of her flesh. She received no real punishments, only small whippings delivered and received with squeals and laughter as she lay chained upon the bed that had become her world. She knew herself a slave and wished to be more and more a slave as she found within her slavery the greatest joys she had ever known.

If sometimes the rapturous slave saw within her mistress’s eyes the shadow of a prescience beyond her ken she spoke no word. Knowledge was a penalty of being free, and she was captive. True, she occasionally remembered her torture and the pain chamber where she had spent her days, but if Rannah was content to forget then so was she. But she was female and when their halcyon days had lengthened into a couple of weeks and they lay satiated and entwined upon their bed a pixie mood prompted her sudden question.

“Rannah, what about those cameras?” she giggled. “Are they still clicking on an empty room?”

The dark eyed mistress sighed. She had waited for the question and dreaded it. “The cameras have ceased their work,” she said dully.

Sensing disquiet, the slave girl raised herself on her one free elbow and looked with concern at her beloved. She was suddenly desperately afraid. “My torture . . . ?” she could not frame the question.

“How can I do that to flesh of my flesh!” The Arab girl’s anger was vehement. “I will not torture again, I love you.”

“But Yasin . . . ?”

“He will punish me. I do not care!”

It sounded like an affirmation of her own. Stacie looked down with tenderness at the serenity of her loved one’s face. She understood how easily it came to a girl’s lips. When a girl loved it seemed good to make a sacrifice to pain.

“He will punish you because of me?”

Rannah smiled impishly. “Not because of you, but because of me. You have disobeyed nothing.”

“Punish, what will he . . . !”

The dark eyes held no regret. “You have been punished . . . it will be things like that.”

It was not possible! Rannah tortured . . . whipped! The slave girl’s mind worked frantically. “Is there not yet time? Can’t we catch up? I mean the pictures and my . . . my pain?”

“I will not hurt you again, Stacie beloved. I cannot.”

“I . . . I know. But give me to Yousef. In a few days surely there will be enough pictures. Yasin need not know.”

“He will know, but let us not concern ourselves. Our Master will return before many days, but if I am clever we will have at least half our nights. I think his need to torture you will slowly wane. Let us not desolate ourselves with horrors.”

“But tomorrow . . . give me to Yousef. Mohammad Yasin will be less angry with you if he finds me hurt. Please, Rannah, please! I can’t bear to have you tortured because of . . . us.”

The dark eyes sought for wisdom, the dark head nodded sadly. “Very well then. Perhaps it may be best for both of us. Tomorrow Yousef shall have you for a little while enough to give the cameras some work. But for tonight let us live out our dream.” Rannah reached out a sun drenched arm to find her heart’s desire.

Yet in the morning Rannah rebelled, she could not bring herself to deliver her love to torment. So, greatly daring and greatly loving, the slave girl awaited a time when her wrists were handcuffed together so that she was free to walk without being tethered, and took herself upon the dread errand.

“Please, Yousef, I am to be punished. Take me to the room and make sure the cameras are working.”

He surveyed her in amused surprise, but there would be few secrets he did not know. Stacie found herself blushing.

She recalled his deferential bow. “And how must I punish you, lady?”

Stacie cringed but shrugged offhandedly. “You may suit yourself about my punishment. It may last no more than three hours.” It was like asking the cook to prepare a special dish.

She followed his lead, feeling foolish and tiny beside his muscularity. When she faced him in the chamber where she must bear her pain to feed the camera’s hungry eyes she held out her linked hands. “If you will free them, please, I will strip for you.”

He had a key, there seemed to be a lot of keys but none where she might find one. When he took the glinting metal from her wrists she found herself freshly shamed to reveal all her nakedness before his sardonic inspection. She stripped herself hastily and stood as brazenly as she could contrive. She felt positive he correctly assessed the situation between herself and Rannah.

“Your hands, lady,” he was unfailingly polite.

She watched him buckle the broad padded straps upon her wrists, she was not surprised to be suspended, to hang naked made a girl frighteningly accessible. When her toes left the comfort of the floor she knew her arms had been stretched more widely than before. Her shoulders were cruelly wrenched. She tried hard not to move.

There were other bands for her ankles, the ropes that led from them to the columns on either side were long and looped high above the floor. She began to tremble at thought of what he would do to her.

Yousef pulled taut her ankle ropes one at a time. The first two heaves spread her obscenely and should have been enough for any carnal mind, but it was only the beginning. Stacie moaned softly as he tugged first one and then the other to open her more and more cruelly, her feet being lifted, almost to the level of her hips. The sounds she made were as much in fear as in pain. She had dreadful visions of torn ligaments and sundered joints. When he was satisfied her legs had been pulled out to each side more blatantly than any ballet dancer doing the splits. Between her gasps she reflected bitterly that ‘split’ was now the word for Stacie Blair, she was positive her sex was gaping wide with lips pulled well apart.

When Yousef chose his whip Stacie was appalled. She had supposed her wickedly stretched limbs torture enough. Pure terror prompted her plea. “Please don’t whip me as well, Yousef.”