There were two tables, a large and sturdy one with straps, beside it a small one on which were objects from their visitor’s bags. Things from which Stacie cautiously averted her gaze. Obediently she lay upon her back on the larger surface and allowed Rannah to strap her down into a perfect X. With the cinching of her waist she could no longer move. There was a soft leather band across her forehead and another over her neck. She closed her mind to their clear portent. A harness criss-crossed her breasts, when it was buckled she could take only shallow breaths. The little man’s work would not be hampered by any motion of hers, even her knees were tightly buckled down. She knew why that was too! In a little while Stacie Blair would be changed forever! She was possessed by a strange excitement. The familiar current between the dark eyes and her own throbbed doubly intense. Having rendered her motionless, Rannah went to the foot of the table and left the stage to Mr. Mussa.
The pain was of that sickening variety associated with doctors and dentists and the clinical probings of childhood. A pain against which there was no defense, and against which the whole being rose in revolt and anger that it should happen. For Stacie it was a series of agonies that came fast, one after the other. With her nose it was but brief moments before she felt an unaccustomed weight upon her lips and knew it for the first of the rings she was to bear. It seemed enormous, but she had schooled herself to meet the fickleness of new and strange sensations. Within her mist of agony she beheld Rannah’s anxious eyes and in them found her hope. With her nipples, she managed only to moan and gasp.
There was first the absurd minute in which Mr. Mussa frictioned them with his finger tips to ensure their maximum erection. But they had already responded to Rannah and the strapping down of her nudity. They were hard and ready. Ready to be forever changed. Mr. Mussa pierced them neatly and with dispatch. Almost instantly they bore an unfamiliar burden that the rigidly strapped head could not be raised to see.
Pain was throbbing and constant. She could see the swabs stained with her blood.
With the piercing of the lips of her vulva Stacie screamed.
Fear and outrage and the secret place itself were all a part of the cry that filled the room. But she screamed only once. The strange incredible thing within her nostrils moved as her lips moved beneath it. They were its resting place. It retaliated with pain. She moaned and wept, her tears falling back upon her hair. A beaming Mr. Mussa nodded brightly, packed his things and went away. His place was taken by Rannah, looking down with love at the nakedness she adored. She allowed the moans to subside before she spoke.
“Would you like me to free you, slave girl?”
To the hurt girl the question seemed redundant. She tried to nod but could not move. “Yes, yes please!” she gasped painfully.
“When you move it will hurt more. That is why I asked.”
“Please, free me. I want to be free.”
Rannah tugged at buckles. When the legs and feet were relieved of the bands of leather she tenderly locked the chains back on the slender ankles. It was Mohammad Yasin’s wish that the slave girl be chained, this time she would not disobey.
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.