F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

“You see!” Rannah smiled amusedly, “You are a slave. You think like a slave. Why feel shame, your feelings are those of a bride on her wedding day. See the rings as wedding bands binding you to all you love.”

Stacie gave her companion in distress a look of mischief. “You should write poetry, Rannah. Those rings will hurt terribly. I’ll scream. I’m not like you.”

“Scream then, beloved. No one will think less of you.”

“I suppose I’ll be . . . fastened?”

“You’ll be tied so tight it will hurt. The artist’s work must not be spoiled by struggles. I may tie you myself . . . if anybody ever thinks to let me loose!” It was Rannah’s first evidence of irritation with her predicament.

“I’m tied tight now. Is Yousef a sadist?”

The punished Arab girl chuckled at the question. “No, I wouldn’t call him that. He gets terribly sexually aroused when he whips us or tortures a girl. But all men would. It is one of the mysteries. I think Yousef would give his life for my father or myself.”

Stacie giggled. “His arousal . . . if we must be polite. Is it because we’re naked or because we’re whipped?”

“The two go together, silly. Either one does it. Sometime, when you’ve been a particularly good slave, I’ll give you a special treat: I’ll let you whip a naked girl and find out for yourself. I’m sure that for men or for women it is the most potent aphrodisiac in the world. When I whip you I’m on fire. Poor Yousef! Right now he’ll have some poor serving wench on her back receiving the lust generated by my whipping. Usually the girl he whips has to endure his penetration as something extra at the finish. But I am forbidden as are you.”

Stacie grimaced. “I have much to learn.”

“As a slave girl, yes. When you made this incredible choice of yours I’m sure my father made it plain that slave girls are whipped constantly, mostly to satisfy their owner’s lubricity?”

Stacie giggled again. “You really flower up good old sex, Rannah. You should take lessons from Salim.”

“I dislike four-letter words. If you use them I shall whip you.”

“Very well, my lady, I’ll be frightfully proper and watch my foul tongue. But, yes, your father did warn me. Maybe I’ll get used to the idea. I don’t know about getting used to the whipping . . .” She paused to view a sudden thought. “I say, Rannah, was today your first . . . time?”

The Arab girl laughed in retrospect. “I’m afraid not,” she admitted cheerfully. “It is only my second whipping with the kurbash, but the number of times I have been whipped . . . ? I’ve lost count.”

The slave girl was curious. “But, Rannah, you are the daughter of a rich and powerful and educated man. Were all your whippings because you’d been a bad girl, or were some of them for that . . . that . . . other reason?”

The wealed mistress sparkled at her slave. “You want to know so much, don’t you! I’m not sure what I should tell. But yes, I’m quite sure I have been whipped to give someone joy. Never by my father, but he may have sanctioned it believing it would do me no harm. He is, after all, of this land where women and the whip are one.”

She chuckled at a memory. “When I was sent to school in England we all forgot . . . The head mistress wanted to call the police when she was informed by the matron of the whipmarks on my skin. I have never forgotten her face when I explained, or tried to explain, the truth.”

They talked of many things and of their love. The kurbash was forgotten, the blood had dried on Rannah’s skin before she was released. Yousef was deferential and solicitous. Stacie was left tied to her pillar. She could almost believe she had been overlooked.

The feeling intensified as the hours passed. But the sun was still high when Rannah returned: a quite different Rannah, clothed, groomed and svelte. Only a bare midriff bore evidence of the hide whip. She wore the wounds without concern, they had their own stark beauty on her skin. With her was a man. A man with two expensive leather bags.

Stacie knew! There was no pretense. The eyes of the two girls locked constantly as she was made ready. It was good to be loosed from the pillar and good to have the chains unlocked from her feet. The male was middle aged, small, obsequious and faintly clinical. Stripping before his curiosity evoked no blush. She guessed he had seen much of female flesh. His name was Mr. Mussa, his profession was to perform the service he had come to do to her. Stacie could believe him skilled.

There were two tables, a large and sturdy one with straps, beside it a small one on which were objects from their visitor’s bags. Things from which Stacie cautiously averted her gaze. Obediently she lay upon her back on the larger surface and allowed Rannah to strap her down into a perfect X. With the cinching of her waist she could no longer move. There was a soft leather band across her forehead and another over her neck. She closed her mind to their clear portent. A harness criss-crossed her breasts, when it was buckled she could take only shallow breaths. The little man’s work would not be hampered by any motion of hers, even her knees were tightly buckled down. She knew why that was too! In a little while Stacie Blair would be changed forever! She was possessed by a strange excitement. The familiar current between the dark eyes and her own throbbed doubly intense. Having rendered her motionless, Rannah went to the foot of the table and left the stage to Mr. Mussa.

The pain was of that sickening variety associated with doctors and dentists and the clinical probings of childhood. A pain against which there was no defense, and against which the whole being rose in revolt and anger that it should happen. For Stacie it was a series of agonies that came fast, one after the other. With her nose it was but brief moments before she felt an unaccustomed weight upon her lips and knew it for the first of the rings she was to bear. It seemed enormous, but she had schooled herself to meet the fickleness of new and strange sensations. Within her mist of agony she beheld Rannah’s anxious eyes and in them found her hope. With her nipples, she managed only to moan and gasp.

There was first the absurd minute in which Mr. Mussa frictioned them with his finger tips to ensure their maximum erection. But they had already responded to Rannah and the strapping down of her nudity. They were hard and ready. Ready to be forever changed. Mr. Mussa pierced them neatly and with dispatch. Almost instantly they bore an unfamiliar burden that the rigidly strapped head could not be raised to see.

Pain was throbbing and constant. She could see the swabs stained with her blood.

With the piercing of the lips of her vulva Stacie screamed.

Fear and outrage and the secret place itself were all a part of the cry that filled the room. But she screamed only once. The strange incredible thing within her nostrils moved as her lips moved beneath it. They were its resting place. It retaliated with pain. She moaned and wept, her tears falling back upon her hair. A beaming Mr. Mussa nodded brightly, packed his things and went away. His place was taken by Rannah, looking down with love at the nakedness she adored. She allowed the moans to subside before she spoke.

“Would you like me to free you, slave girl?”

To the hurt girl the question seemed redundant. She tried to nod but could not move. “Yes, yes please!” she gasped painfully.

“When you move it will hurt more. That is why I asked.”

“Please, free me. I want to be free.”

Rannah tugged at buckles. When the legs and feet were relieved of the bands of leather she tenderly locked the chains back on the slender ankles. It was Mohammad Yasin’s wish that the slave girl be chained, this time she would not disobey.