F Campbell - Chain of Jedrah

But, of course, that was the motive for this ritual exercise!

There would be few in the assemblage who were not vicariously flinching in the same knowledge of vulnerability, half of them would also be carnally excited. Stacie was ashamed of herself, she knew her pubic hair was wet. What was the magic of a whipped girl that did this to almost everyone! The connotation of endless orgasm . . . perhaps that was it! Jane could not writhe, but her head had taken on a frantic life of its own, her cries were avowing some strange homage to a pagan god.

Why speak of weals and scarlet lines and tender ridges of bruised flesh! Ermie’s sjambok scorned them all, the sjambok dealt in wounds. Even used with compassion its etchings on the skin would leave their mark for life, blood was implicit in each cut. The small white back and bottom became latticed by the successive impacts. At the eleventh stroke the screams died. Jane fainted.

But Narousse was equal to the emergency. No fiery liquor, no pungent aromatics beneath the nose. Two soldiers each with two buckets of water appeared with commendable dispatch. With evident amusement one of them emptied one of them over the naked girl tied to the post. It took two more deluges to bring Jane back into a world she wished to leave. Her body was soaked and glistening. Stacie wondered if it was true the whip bit more cruelly on wet skin.

It was measure of Jane’s loss of hope that she did not plead, she uttered no lucid words at all. Returning from the void in which she had found a small respite she moaned to find herself still bound tight against the post. Stacie did a quick count. Fourteen more strokes! Was the helpless girl counting them too! Hamid had been right: fifty with the sjambok meant death. There came a fleshy thunk as the strip of hide once more sought and found the sacrifice to Mr. Moghere’s hurt pride.

Twice more Jane found unconsciousness and was shocked back to punishment by the drenching cold. At the end of her twenty five strokes her head again fell limp, but no one cared. The crowd slowly dispersed, the three captive girls were driven back to their Labour in the fields, Stacie’s escort turned her about the marched back from whence she came. The pathetic wounded flesh of the white girl tied to the post was left in lonely agony. No doubt sight of its condition would serve as a useful warning to all!

Mr. Moghere was prepared to cut his immediate losses and enjoy himself. He was in the position of the merchant who, unable to sell his produce, eats it, thus nimbly turning loss into pleasurable profit. His seat was comfortable, his potation cool and satisfying. The view which absorbed his interest was beautiful, it was unique, it completely gratified his sense of what was right and proper. Always on his return to Narousse from foreign lands he felt a comfortable sense of belonging. After all, most of the emerging nation belonged to him! This too was as it should be.

The slow pendulum motions of the two naked girls was pleasantly hypnotic. The key by which it might be endlessly renewed was the slender whip with which he idly toyed. A single slash on torso or limb provided a momentum that sustained itself for a surprising length of time, a small miracle of dynamics for which Stacie and Rannah were supremely grateful. As yet their skins bore only a few of the thin red lines.

“You find it an interesting position?” Amatar Moghere inquired politely.

It was cruelly functional, neat in its simplicity. The wrists of each girl were crossed and bound behind her back, from them she was suspended from the ceiling, he roes a couple of inches from any possible contact with the rug. The cord was long enough to provide the twist between the bindings of their hands and the ring in the ceiling high above. Their shoulders were cruelly and quite incredibly wracked and close to dislocation.

“We’ll do anything you want,” Stacie said tonelessly. “No we will not!” Rannah declaimed as vehemently as she was able.

“An interesting divergence of opinion,” Mr. Moghere commented affably.

“Please don’t keep us like this,” Stacie gasped. “If you let us down we can talk.”

“We can talk now. You are not mute.”

“We can’t stand this. It will kill us.”

“I assure you, dear ladies, it is not fatal. I recall one reluctant damsel who hung thus for two days and then came to my bed and performed commendably.”

“I’ll go to your bed now, Sir,” Stacie wanted no heroics. “Stop it, slave girl, you’ll do no such thing!” Rannah’s voice was a definite command. Mr. Moghere thoughtfully slashed the Arab girl’s legs. The heavy irons had been taken from the trim ankles. Rannah kicked out at the sudden pain, but made no sound.

“Black bastard, if I remember right?” the ruler of Narousse inquired pensively.

There was no answer. Fear was vibrant in the air. This time the thong curled round soft thighs. “You will answer when I speak.”

“Do you wish me to say you are not a black bastard?” the Arab girl asked sardonically. “I can tell a lie.”

Mr. Moghere cut a belt of red round the slim waist. The pull of the whip gave fresh impetus to the nudity turning on its cord. “You are a black bastard,” Rannah declared without emotion.

Stacie was desperately afraid for the maiden who she loved. Rannah might invite herself to be cut to pieces before she would surrender her provocations. The Great Man had seated himself again and slowly sipped as he watched Rannah’s whip marks deepen their crimson. “I can understand your father not wanting you back on my terms,” he said bitterly. “You are a vixen with a shrew’s tongue, Tomorrow the sjambok may knock some sense into you.”

“Oh please no!” Stacie’s exclamation was involuntary. “And do I not recall a young woman who stated clearly her preference for the sjambok as compared to myself?” Mr. Moghere’s voice was deadly with sarcasm.

“Yes sir.”

“But have you changed your mind!”

“No, she has not!” Rannah’s voice was firm.

“Have you changed your mind?” Moghere repeated quietly.

It took more than Stacie’s normal store of courage. But Rannah was the essence of her life. If her Lady was to know the hide upon her flesh then so should she! Besides, there was the question of obedience . . ."I belong to the Lady Rannah,” she said softly. “I am her slave. No, sir, I have not changed my mind.”

Mr. Moghere nodded understandingly. He was enjoying this play of fears and motives. “I should whip you both now. But I prefer the more ritual affair tomorrow. You shall have your twenty-five each. Your little friend still breathes lustily after hers today. She will share by bed, the next night will be yours. I am more than equal to the two of you. Did you know a maiden is doubly passionate when she lays upon a back cut deep with many wounds!”

To talk and talk! And of such frightfulness! To hang like this in agony at the mercy of a black buffoon. Stacie longed to weep, but feared to show tears to the mistress she so loved. She hung silent awaiting the next stripe of the whip and thinking of the sjambok and the awful post.

Mr. Moghere sat and surveyed his prizes. He felt quite secure. Yasin would yet come to terms. Certainly when he received the photographs . . . ! The two girls swinging on their cords were quite extraordinarily beautiful. They made a picture of unique appeal. He resolved to enjoy the aesthetic treat quite often. It was one more of those perquisites of office of which he so heartily approved. He rose and replenished his glass and took the opportunity to slash each round bottom as he passed.

It was a frightful way to be tied, the strain upon the naked shoulders was appalling. Such suspension was a torture, it could be called nothing else. Stacie mused miserably on what she might have done or said had Rannah not been hanging beside her, a prideful hawk watching its young. She felt certain she would have begged and abased herself. But even so it might not have saved her from the sjambok. It was evident their captor approved its use and its effect. Could a naked Rannah survive it and retain her pride! Probably she would! But Stacie was not so sure about herself. Cold fear clutched her at Moghere’s next words.