“The tributes about you are deserved. Mrs. Dowling. You are delectable.”
The deep base voice was not James’s. It was not that of any man she knew! Caroline’s eyes opened wide in shock. What she saw drove her into a paroxysm of panic, battling her bonds uselessly until, sobbing in frustration, she lay still, awaiting what must inevitably happen.
The man was blackly magnificent, wearing only shorts about his loins. Above six feet, muscularly powerful, his belly flat. His features were ebony granite, chiselled. They evoked memory. He moved down to the end of the bed and stared, with frank concupiscence, at the juncture of her parted thighs. “My name is Khalief Abhad,” he rumbled pleasantly. “You may have heard of me.”
“Go away. You shouldn’t be in here. Mr. Dexter—”
“I own this house. Mrs. Dowling.” The deep musical African voice was amused, savouring power. “In a way, I also own Mr. Dexter.” He flashed white teeth. “And of course we mustn’t forget, I own you.”
“You don’t own me. Have the decency to leave.”
“You have a truly splendid cunt, Mrs. Dowling. Chivalry forbids I should ignore its possibilities. And yes, I do own you. I also now control Dowling Corporation. That was my money yesterday. James Dexter is my agent in America.”
“I don’t believe a word. Get out of here.”
“You do believe, Mrs. Dowling. Come, be cheerful. Nothing has changed. You’ll become accustomed to the colour of my skin.”
“Very well then.” She fought to keep her voice even. “Unfasten me from this bed and let me dress—we can talk rationally.”
“We can talk rationally as you are. It is by my order you are thus bound.”
“But how absurd! Why . . . ?”
“So that I may fuck you without the bandying of words or an unseemly scuffle.”
From James, the four-letter word had been innocuous. From Abhad, it was a promise of the unmentionable. Captive eyes followed the length of strained captive arms to where the handcuffs bit savagely and implacably at captive wrists. The shining gyves had ceased to be erotic toys. They would lock her safely for this man’s pleasure. There was no way she could escape. She took a deep breath.
“That word you used? Why must you do that to me, and in this manner, and at this time?”
“I suspect you know that too. You are not a child. I am going to fuck you in order to get the inevitable out of the way and done with. It was implicit in your sale. It will be an irritant anxiety until it is dealt with. When the act is consummated we can deal with our business, giving it our full attention.”
“That’s the cockiest excuse for rape I ever heard.”
“Yet it has merit? Come, be a realist.”
“I damn well have to be, like this,” Caroline admitted bitterly. “Say, are you really that guy from—that African—?”
“Zindawba! Yes. I’m real. And Black.”
“Fucked by a president! Holy cow!” Caroline looked up appealingly. “Look, before I get impaled, could I speak to Dexter?”
“Mr. Dexter has gone. You may not see him again. He has left a note you may have at a later time.”
Misery and a terrible loneliness made her bonds intolerable. “Please, please, untie me?” she pleaded. “I promise I’ll behave.”
“I prefer the symbolism of the present situation, Mrs. Dowling. It also has the virtue of relieving you of the onus of consent.”
“Oh shit!” Caroline uttered in disgust. “Fuck me and be done with it! I’m all ready.”
The ruler of Zindawba’s shorts fell to the floor. The bound girl gasped and said, flatly: “I don’t believe it!”
“It is a legend in my land,” said Abhad proudly.
“It is also another good reason to keep you bound.”
“But it’s—it’s enormous! Unreal! All that in a girl!”
“I am highly skilled, Mrs. Dowling—and you are wet!”
She closed her eyes, absurdly remembering the joke that gentlemen, when mounting a female, rested their weight on their forearms. Khalief Abhad was a gentleman. He was also highly skilled. His immense phallus entered her slowly and with caution. She was sure there was no room inside her belly for all of it . . . ! And yet . . . ! The gentle pressure continued inexorably. She gasped, and gasped again. But not with pain.
3
Forever Chained
“To the most beautiful of women,” said Khalief Abhad gravely as he lifted the cool glass Trudy Ramsay had returned.
“I’ll drink to that,” Caroline laughed. “You’re a lucky devil, Khalief, to get Trudy and me. Please let the poor darling get herself a pick-me-up. She’s scared to death of you, she’s trembling.”
“Of course.” The president of Zindawba made a lordly gesture towards the bar. “But as for luck. there was none. I purchased you with planned forethought, and kidnapped Miss Ramsay by a competently executed maneuver. I desired female samples of decadent Colonialism on one hand and of decadent Capitalism on the other. I have them.”
Trudy flitted to the bar. She had been taught the evils of alcohol, but at that moment would have drunk anything to quieten her pounding heart and the turmoil of her mind. She splashed amber liquid into a glass, frighteningly conscious of the perils of bartending with handcuffed wrists—girls got whipped for spilling drinks in Zindawba! Then, hoping she was doing everything right, she returned to kneel submissively before her Master and to gulp optimistically.
“Isn’t she sweet, Khalief! Why don’t you let her go home? You’ve got me.”
Abhad bestowed a frowning regard upon the woman who had been Mrs. Caroline Dowling. His words were heavy. “Did I hear you right?”
“Oops!” Caroline’s hand went to her mouth.
“I’ve done it again.” Her tone honeyed: “Can I say I’m sorry?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Must I fetch it?”
“Yes.”
The kneeling girl was a speechless spectator as Caroline went to an alcove and returned with a cane, yellow and supple and wicked. She knelt, kissed it, then handed it to the seated man. Her motions were fluid and controlled as she stepped away, gathered her dress beneath an arm, and bent forward to expose her pink bottom on which there were already marks.
“Please, Khalief, not too hard!”
“Quiet, woman! Curve that spine.”
It was both obscene and beautiful. Caroline parted her nylon-clad legs and protruded the innocent curves to be beaten. Plump lips and fronds of black hair peeked shyly back. Khalief Abhad struck the female flesh one whirring cut, then resumed his chair. The punished girl stood erect, allowing her dress to fall back into position. In a warm and casual voice she said: “Thank you, Khalief, that was sweet of you.” She turned to Trudy. “And let what you’ve just seen be a lesson to you, saucy pants. Our Master takes no nonsense.” As though returning a book to a shelf she replaced the cane where she had found it. “Darling.” Her gaze upon the president was one of pure adoration. “That’s made me horny. You knew it would.”
Trudy was shocked yet entranced. She sensed between these two a current she did not share. She viewed them with awe. To share a cage with Caroline had become a privilege, an approach to royalty. Stupidly, she looked at her empty glass, she must have gulped it, unknowing.
“You may refill all three, my dear.” Thankfully, she rose, but was instantly halted.
“Stand close, little English girl, and lift your apron.”
“He wants to see your cunt, dear,” said Caroline helpfully.
The cage had withered inhibitions. Yet the act demanded now was surprisingly shaming. The tiny apron seemed a shield for all her modesty. With an empty glass in each hand she looked around distractedly.
“I told you, Khalief, the poor child’s shy. Trudy, stop being pathetic. Here, give me those glasses!”
Caroline swept the empties to the bar. Returning to Trudy’s side, she chided: “Look, darling, it’s no big deal. Every girl has one. Watch me.” Once more she raised her dress, this time to protrude her pudendum in all its tufted glory’.