F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

To sit up became a long and painful journey to be undertaken by slow degrees. But Stacie had her hands and her hands did not hurt. As she tenderly raised herself under Rannah’s watching eyes she admitted within her mind that the pain burning at her most secret places was no worse than she had expected it to be. She wished she had not been pierced everywhere at once, but she would cope. She smiled weakly at the dark and anxious scrutiny of her beloved.

“I’ll be allright.”

The effect of the ring on her voice amused them both.

Stacie tried to laugh. Cautiously she edged herself from the table. As she stood erect her incisions took the measure of the metal inserted through them. The pain flared anew. But Stacie was female! With a gesture of apology and with laughter in her words she said: “Please, Rannah, a mirror. I’ve just got to look. I don’t care how it hurts . . .”

Lovingly and with sparkling eyes the Lady Rannah helped her chained and naked slave girl hobble from the room. •••

Stacie wondered if all the black rulers of African states looked like Edie Amin. Not so huge perhaps, but similar contours. This one did. He sat at the dinner table like the Rock of Gibraltar. His voice was Oxford and Harvard and many other things, his dinner jacket was emblazoned and beribboned. He was lucidly articulate and at ease. His name was Amatar Moghere. He had come to Jedrah and the house of Mohammad Yasin to be offered the free gift of a white slave girl. There were, of course, some favours attached. But Mr. Moghere was well versed in such transactions. He preferred them.

Stacie felt sorry for the girl who still bore her name, Suzie, on the skin above her breasts and whose feet were chained as Stacie’s were. They exchanged surprised stares of commiseration at sight of the rings impaled within the other’s flesh. Both were naked, the wounds of the rings made any garment painful, they were still fresh. Stacie cherished a strong suspicion that Yasin wished to show her off. She knew he was immensely proud of owning her and of the splendour of the costly metal he made her wear. Suzie, of course, would be simply merchandise to be displayed to good advantage. The girl was quite lovely but desperately afraid.

Even after days the rings still left Stacie breathless with their beauty. She was never unaware of them. All her life she would remember that first confrontation in the mirror during which her heart had thumped painfully and Rannah’s hand had been reassuring on her arm. So many emotions had assailed her that she could name none of them, but they had clambered enough to drive away the pain and leave only the pride. They were far larger than she had supposed, they were arrogant and demanding of attention, beautifully crafted of some light and lovely alloy whose weight would not distort. She had expected shame from the one pendant from her nose, but she felt none: only an amused curiosity as to how she would adjust to it. The joy of Yasin in what he had done to her became her own.

There were several guests at the formal dinner, mostly the aides of Mr. Moghere. A quaking Suzie was seated next to the great man himself; Stacie drew one of the lesser dignitaries on her left and on her right Mohammed Yasin. It was a place of honour. Rannah faced her father at the end of the table. Amatar Moghere set the tone of the conversation by a frank appraisal of the chained girls and a pronouncement:

“This is as it should be: chained white recognizing their rulers. We have waited far too long.”

“You should emphasize the point at the next assembly,” Yasin suggested affably. If his voice held sarcasm he hid it well.

“My name is Hamid Boshan.” The youngish African at her side was regarding Stacie with a greater appreciation than he was bestowing on his shrimp cocktail. “You have very fine breasts too but they spoil them by too many babies too soon. Will you be available later for fucking?”

Stacie had been warned by a giggling Rannah. She was prepared for conversational shock. She glanced questioningly at her master, but Yasin’s attention was elsewhere. He appeared not to have heard.

“I belong only to Mohammad Yasin,” the slave girl said demurely, feeling smug.

Mr. Boshan sighed. “You have delightful whip marks.”

“They are lovely,” Stacie agreed pleasantly. “I’m so proud of them.”

Her partner digested this slowly. “You walk most gracefully with chained feet.”

“Thank you. I have to, y’know. If I don’t I’m punished.” There was a hissing sibilance to Mr. Boshan’s, “Ah . . . ! You are then truly a slave?”

“Of course! Only slave girls are ringed, haven’t you noticed?”

Hamid Boshan had been noticing steadily, as had the rest of the males present. He sighed deeply. “It is a custom we do not have. It is most becoming. If a man hooks his finger in a ring you would not be inclined to argument, eh!” He beamed at a private vision in his mind.

It was a thought that had occurred to Stacie also. She was now frighteningly vulnerable to control. One finger could reduce her to passive submission. “A true slave girl is always obedient,” she said sententiously.

“Yet you are white, you are American . . .” He looked at her searchingly. “Is it a game you play, or has the whip taught you your place?”

Stacie was enjoying him; it was a game. “My place is where my master desires, the whip keeps me from forgetting.” She felt it worthy of the Koran.

“I think you are: what do you call it . . . putting me on,” said Mr. Boshan.

“But I am not!” Stacie sparkled her eyes at him and placed female fingers on his arm. “I would be punished. Besides, it’s kind of you to talk to me . . . a slave.”

He beamed and seemed to expand. “You would make a very fine fuck, I can tell,” he said with serious judgement. “Are you sure you . . . er, master will not permit?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m terribly sorry.”

Mr. Boshan’s sigh of disappointment fluttered his napkin.

“It is a great waste,” he said sadly. “But tell me, why are your feet chained, do you run away?”

“We wear chains to please our master, he finds them beautiful. For him it is the ankles, for my Lady Rannah it is my hands. I have become used to them, I do not mind.”

“Do you not mourn for America and hamburgers?”

“Why should I? There I could not be ringed or chained.”

“I do not understand you,” Hamid Boshan admitted. He dealt with the fish course in a few mouthfuls, eyeing her shrewdly. “I do not think the young woman beside my chief is as you are.”

“She may not have been trained as cleverly. I think that the only difference between us.”

“She does not bear whip marks as harsh as yours. Perhaps there lies the real difference?” he hinted slyly.

“You could be right, Mr. Boshan,” Stacie conceded without guile. She knew she herself would never underrate the potency of the whip on the female psyche. There was the evidence of the lash on the skin of the sweet and frightened girl striving to keep abreast of Mr. Moghere’s redundancies. The whip made a girl see things as they were. Perhaps Suzie had not been helped enough! She smiled demurely at her companion. “Being whipped has helped me to understand a lot of things.”

“About men . ? Or the world?”

“Are they not the same?” Her smile made Mr. Boshan certain a section of the planet was beneath his heel.

“If it was I who owned you . . .” he surveyed her gravely, “would you be as obedient as you are today?”

“Of course!”

“There is a thing that is not . . . It is not done in my country. Would you suck my cock?”

Stacie trod hard on an errant giggle. “What slave girl would not consider it a privilege, Mr. Boshan!” Her wide eyes held all the innocence of girlhood.