“She will learn not to waste good Gin,” said Mr. Moghere. Aide number one whipped the girlish bottom with cruel competence. It could not be said he indulged in wild gyrations of power behind each stroke, but each was more brutal than the single lash from Rannah that had precipitated the African takeover of an essential service. White teeth shone from smiling black faces around the room. Mr. Moghere’s was the whitest and largest of them all. Suzie screamed wildly from the first, her chains clashed as she kicked frantically in the only freedom she possessed.
At the eighth stroke the ebony V.I.P. held up his hand.
“This screeching pullet has no regard for the ears of my colleague,” he complained. “Has someone a small handkerchief?”
It was instantly forthcoming. Stacie felt sure that had he requested a small elephant it would have been produced from somewhere. Suzie was instructed to open wide: an injunction she obeyed with obvious loathing. The caning of the white flesh continued briskly.
When it was done the small round bottom was swollen and livid, there were specks of blood. The Aide retrieved his tie, folding it neatly for further use. The sobbing Suzie, in a daze of pain and fear, was given but a few moments in which to compose herself before being ordered back to duty.
“It is you who will serve me now,” said Mr. Moghere prudently pointing to Stacie. He guffawed coarsely. “Someone else may have the privilege of being bathed in gin.”
Mohammad Yasin was irritated, his evening was going badly. Initiatives were in the hands of Amatar Moghere instead of his own. It was a moot point as to whether Suzie’s fumbling had endeared or damned her in Mr. Moghere’s eyes. His guest’s next insinuation added fuel to the fire.
“The young lady so merciful with the cane should perhaps feel a few strokes herself to teach her not to waste the time of men.”
“The daughter of Mohammad Yasin is not to be whipped in public,” Yasin’s voice was a controlled fury.
“No daughter of mine would so insult her father’s guests,” said Mr. Moghere blandly.
Stacie was horrified. That her beloved mistress be so humiliated was unthinkable. She sensed that Yasin’s tolerance of the evening’s buffoonery had reached an end. If his carefully nurtured plan was aborted because of Suzie’s fumbling he might well exact a further penalty of pain from the frightened girl.
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.”