F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

But Rannah was equal to the contretemps. Her face proud and insolent, she knelt before her parent. “Lord, I admit my fault. Our guest is right, I deserve punishment. Permit me to yield myself.”

Stacie knew her Master’s dilemma. Pride forbade compliance. Yet much might be at stake. Rannah had stepped tactfully into the breach. Her pain could buy a compromise, but it was one Yasin was unlikely to accept. Quite suddenly she glimpsed what she must do. She knelt beside the girl she loved and looked up with pleading eyes.

“Lord, it is not meet that my mistress be so used. I am her slave: if a girl is to be whipped, let it be me.”

Stacie warmed herself in the affection that lit her master’s eyes. Beside her Rannah whispered: “No! Oh no!”

“I accept the offer,” said Mr Moghere with such alacrity that Stacie felt flattered, and also quite certain his concern was to see a girl whipped rather than discipline a fault.

Mohammad Yasin nodded thoughtfully. Stacie felt certain he was pleased, the knowledge would aid her in the ordeal for which she had volunteered. Faces were saved and tempers curbed. Only her bottom was forfeit.

“Very well, child, your wish is granted.” In his look was love.

“I would suggest the same number of strokes,” said Mr. Moghere as though making a generous concession.

Stacie quailed. Delivered as Suzie’s had been it was a brutal punishment.

“Certainly not,” Yasin said firmly. “It is not merited.”

“Fifteen,” Mr. Moghere offered hopefully.

“Ten,” said Mohammad Yasin.

“Twelve!” The honoured guest’s bid sounded final. Sensing a rising tension, Stacie did her best. “I am most grateful for twelve, Lord.”

The bidding was done. Now the slave girl had to pay the price agreed. She trod lightly and musically to the center of the room, smiling at Mr. Moghere in gratitude for his generosity. The staff from the African State viewed her with hungry approval. The aide rose and, once more, produced his many hued tie.

“We don’t need that,” Stacie said with more courage than she felt.

“I wish it used. It pleases me,” Mr. Moghere’s voice grated. Stacie held out her hands and watched them bound. She was not going to jeopardise her sacrifice by quibbling. She was surprised how well adapted this item of male attire was in robbing a girl of the use of her hands, she had never been more tightly tied.

A second major hurdle loomed. She was cringingly averse to being draped over a man’s back like a sack of potatoes. It would be more humiliating than the caning itself. It was reminiscent of the Victorian stereotype of lifted petticoats and lowered drawers. In hopeful appeal she looked pleadingly at Amatar Moghere. But her hope died at birth. Mr. Moghere was beamingly intent on her discomfort, shame would be an integral part of it, he would relinquish nothing. Resignedly she lifted her joined wrists and allowed herself to be hoist like a carcass in a butcher’s shop, her hands were securely gripped, somewhere at the back the cane sliced and whirred, her bottom dissolved into flame and fire.

She had not been gagged. She could not request it, but ardently wished she had been robbed of the ability to scream. She had found relief in screams, but after watching Rannah’s stoic acceptance of pain she felt certain that in this company she would gain much merit by remaining silent as the cane cut her flesh. But could she do so! Clenching her teeth she thought of Yasin and of her love. With every ounce of her being she resolved to neither wriggle or kick nor make a sound beyond the panting gasps that no heroics could control. In her blazing agony she lived only to do credit to her lord. She wanted desperately that he and his daughter be proud of her.

The cane cut and sliced forward in the relentless twelve. That night she belonged to Rannah and Rannah belonged to her. Mohammad Yasin had other things to think of. Stacie Blair took her burning bottom to her Lady’s bed and, for a little while, was happy. But the tidings were both unexpected and bad.

“It has all gone wrong,” Rannah mourned. “My father is angry.”

“Because of Suzie . . . ?”

“Moghere refuses her. The poor girl failed to please.”

“She’s lucky. I wouldn’t want to belong to him as a plaything.”

“If that was all it wouldn’t be so bad,” Rannah looked at her slave girl pensively with love. “But it isn’t all. My father’s deal has been rejected. To cap it all. Moghere doesn’t want Suzie, he wants you.”

Stacie froze. To be taken away and used as a carnal toy! It did not bear thinking about. She was frightened.

Rannah laughed at her dismay. “Do not fear, slave girl. My father adores you. Amatar Moghere can find his women elsewhere. There were many hard words. It is finished.”

“And poor Suzie?” Stacie had a vivid sympathy for the pain stricken girl who must now be quaking in her chains.

Rannah made a gesture of helplessness. “I know it is cruel, but my father intends to punish her. I can half sympathize with him. Surely she need not have been so unutterably clumsy,” she looked mischievously at her love. “This can be an opportunity for you. Our Master will leave on business tomorrow. Suzie’s punishment will be left in my hands. If I do not want the kurbash again and the skin stripped off my back I had best make the child howl and bear some marks. It can be you who places them on her skin. Would you like that, slave girl?”

“No!” Stacie was appalled. “I will make you, beloved.”

“I won’t!”

“I will whip you until you do.”

They looked at each other and laughed. In the midst of all else their love set them apart, between them all things were joyous. The slave girl shrugged. She was suddenly excited. Why not find pleasure in the inevitable! Rannah’s compulsion would absolve her from guilt. “Very well, my Lady, I will whip Suzie. Is she to be tortured too?”

“You would like to torture her? She would be delightful.” Stacie found herself considering something that a month ago would have been pure fantasy. To have a naked girl writhing beneath her whip or her hand. What power! What omnipotence! Her loins flamed. She saw Suzie’s doe eyes pleading, she heard the screams . . ."I will have to do what you tell me, my Lady.”

“You are an outrageous humbug,” Rannah declaimed laughing. “You can hardly wait, so you place the guilt on me to keep your little conscience clear.” She was suddenly serious. “Would you like to whip me?”

“Oh Rannah! Don’t tease.”

“I am not teasing, You saved me from being whipped today. Saved me the shame of baring my body for the stripes before that black ape. I owe you much. Honestly, slave girl, I would be happy to be whipped by you.”

It was another vista, the opening of another door in Jedrah. Rannah’s voice was soft, her eyes aflame. With one seductive hand she was lightly tracing her finger tips across the hurt bottom that had been striped before their visitor such a little while before. For the slave girl it was an intensity of sensation before which she was powerless, her wounds multiplied the potency of her mistress’s touch, she shivered deliciously. “You mean it, don’t you!” she was breathless.

“Of course I mean it, silly. You shall tie me and strip me and whip me. It will be my gift to you.”

Intriguing! Whether it happened or not, both were savouring its contemplation: wicked little girls whispering. “When I have you tied I will run away,” Stacie said dreamily.

“That will be good! When Yousef drags you back and throws you at my feet you shall enjoy fifty with his kurbash.”

“I would die.”

“But happily, beloved.”

They laughed together and made love, Stacie’s whipped skin flaring her into new ecstasies as they rolled and hands sought and found. When they lay quiet again Stacie said quietly, “I’m going to do it. I’ll do both if you’ll let me . . . I’ll whip Suzie and I’ll whip you. I feel as though I’ve let you seduce me. You’ve made me want to do it.”