“You will never be quite naked, slave girl, there will always be the handcuffs.”
Rannah had mocked.
Always the handcuffs! It was true! Stacie wondered wryly how wise she had been in asking for them. They were turning out to be a greater convenience to Rannah than to herself. Always they clasped her in some way, even in sleep.
“Back against the wall, slave girl. Here, I will position you.”
It had been so terribly simple. Her feet had been pushed apart and locked into clamps in the wall, her handcuffed wrists had been raised above her head and linked over a hook. No lock was needed, she could not lift them. So there she stood, the stone at her back, her legs spread so that her pubes were wantonly displayed, her hands high in their steel cuffs so that she was held erect with breasts out-thrust, looking at her world from between tautly raised arms. She felt more naked than naked.
“A little pause, slave girl, so you may stand and think.”
“Rannah, please! Can’t we get it over with?”
“You wish me to start your torture?” Rannah had laughed gaily.
“Suspense is awful. It’s . . . sort of extra.”
“How can you tell that this is not your torture! In an hour you will not be happy. By then your favourite handcuffs will be hurting your favourite wrists. Before the day is done you may scream.”
Stacie had glimpsed the possibility. She was strained and uncomfortable now. She had learned how potent an hour could be for a girl in punishment. She could not move. From somewhere she found courage to ask her question.
“Rannah, if I’m tortured to enable you to send horrible pictures to my father, why haven’t they been taken?”
“Have you not guessed, slave girl! Hidden cameras are trained on you in this room all the time. You will never see and never know. Through each hour they will intermittently record your suffering. We take the best of them for Mohammad Yasin’s purpose.”
“Must I be tortured all day for a few pictures? You could get them in an hour?”
“I had asked this question too,” Rannah admitted. “But he whose charge the cameras are insists that each minute and each hour will etch their imprint on your features and your body for your father to read. I fear he speaks truth, I have beheld it.”
“But, Rannah, it’s so cruel . . . for so long! Must it be?”
“Yes. It is by order from Yasin. Perhaps he has a purpose of his own.”
“But what! He isn’t even here to see me suffer.”
“Yasin is not a sadist. I am closer to being a sadist than he. No, I think he believes the things I do to you will make you a Jedrah girl. But enough! One more question and I whip you. Do you wish to be whipped, slave girl?”
“No, my Lady.”
“That is much better. Argumentative slave girls are a bore. They deserve only the whip. You are beautifully positioned to have your breasts whipped. I have a delightful whip for the purpose, it has silken thongs. Shall we try it?”
“Please no, my Lady.” Stacie suddenly felt her two breasts as focal points.
“Ah well, another time. I am going to amuse myself with a small pleasantry.”
The taut captive watched without enthusiasm as her female tormentor rummaged in a wooden chest and produced a shining object of chain and silver plate which she held up for inspection. “Do you recognize this, slave girl?”
Stacie felt foolish at her blush and the words she must utter. “I think it’s a chastity belt.”
“And you are going to wear it. I shall put it on you very tightly indeed so that you are very, very safe.”
It was tight, very tight! The silver shield over her sex was firmly compressed by the silver chains embedded in her waist and loins. The padlock, which she was smilingly shown, was modern and emphatic. Its solid click sealed her against penetration. Her eyes pleaded the question she had been forbidden to ask.
“You are curious, slave girl,” Rannah was enjoying a private joke. “I shall not tell you what befalls. You may stand and wait. If you stand long enough you may actually want something to happen, even if it is bad.” Rannah went away.
That had been long ago. By midday Stacie knew torture, she hurt everywhere. The handcuffs had become an implacable enemy, they cut and burned so that she was forever straining her tired body to find them relief, but her spread legs made their own demands and the chastity belt burrowed into her flesh painfully. Perhaps her plight was not torture, but she could think of no other name for it.
“Most beautiful lady is pleased to see Salim, I am hoping?” The naked girl tensed angrily at the unctuous voice. A male, to see her thus! And such a male! Neither the brutality of manhood or the innocence of a child, only prurience!
“Go away, Salim. If you touch me I’ll scream.”
The beaming smile enveloped her. “Lady is much kind to scream. Salim will shut door tight.”
He did so and returned to the inevitable scrutiny, a lewd inventory. “Our mistress has locked up lovely cunt,” he deplored with much evident disappointment. “But Salim enjoys tits and other things. He has much permit.”
So this was Rannah’s ‘Little Pleasantry’! Stacie was torn between anger and wry humour. She wondered miserably if pictures of Salim’s ineffectual ravishments of her person would reach her father. She felt shame and distaste at what the boy would do to her, but supposed it would add little to her pain.
“Salim much like to fuck.”
“Go ahead, help yourself.”
“You are making much joke. Is not nice.”
“Well, I can’t help what I’m wearing.”
“But you are much pleased.” He was obviously debating ways and means.
The helpless naked girl was not surprised when his roving eye focused on her breasts. A man’s hunger for the breasts of a girl was insatiable, Salim’s was aflame with discovery, his lips and teeth avidly sought Stacie’s nipples.
It was futile to protest, and she could not move, so she raised her eyes above the bent head so busily ravaging her femaleness and forced herself to seek for the ports through which the camera’s would be focusing on her shame. Looking at the stone walls she tried to divorce her mind from what was being done to her body. She cringed from the thought of responding sexually to this pubescent pup. She could not stop him, but she wanted no orgasms with which to regale his lechery.
A strange contest! Stacie wondered how many women had fought it through the centuries. To keep the citadel of her emotions intact while her outer defences were ravaged by the foe! In a process of attrition the citadel would fall, but its crumbling might be delayed. She could hardly pretend that Salim was not sucking her nipples, but she could send her mind away from what was being done to her.
Quite suddenly it stopped. Salim backed away from her wet breasts, his glowing features irradiated by inspiration. “Very hot dog!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. “Salim is much clever.”
The fastened girl knew it would be bad. She watched, without hope, as he searched among the plenitude of objects the awful room provided. With a grunt of satisfaction he chose a sizable wooden chest which he dragged over and thrust against his victim’s pinioned legs. Standing on it he seemed pleased with the result. It was not until he threw aside the cloth around his loins that Stacie guessed what he would make her do. “Is good as fuck,” said Salim.
“I’m not going to do it!” Stacie stated flatly.
The Arab boy got down from the box, his smile undiminished. “Is always much argue,” he conceded as though from long experience. “Salim soon fix.”
When he selected the whip, the helpless girl knew real desolation. It was not so much the thing he wanted of her, but rather her utter impotence to question or refute. To be possessed so totally by this ingenuous adolescent was a humiliation over which she was sure Rannah would now be laughing. She longed to kick and plunge and fight, but she could not move. She eyed the approaching whip with a certainty of defeat.