Rannah, suddenly feminine and darkly lovely in slacks.
The bathing and the cosmetics and the hair, all with hands still tied, ministered to by a dark eyed enigmatic mistress with little to say. Stacie’s futile protest as she was stripped and what must be torn was torn.
And then the magic of the gown and the costly trifles beneath. Pure Paris, pure gorgeous extravagance! The hard deft fingers moulded the loveliness to her figure, then guided her to a mirror before which she gasped in admiration of the glory of Rannah’s choice. Her own hands had contributed nothing, they were still tied at her back.
Incongruity! The return of fear. Seated, she was fitted with shoes, but shoes such as she had never worn. Wonderfully crafted, perfectly fitted, but which locked upon her ankles by a silver band and between the bands a silver chain. All exquisite, all deadly, wearing them Stacie was captive.
Rannah was adamant: the prisoner in the Paris creation must learn to walk with hobbled feet. If she was to be a lovely lady in chains she must fill the role with grace. “Keep walking round the room until you get used to them,” she directed.
It went against the grain, but Stacie worked at her task.
She admitted to herself that the gown and its accessories were a factor that actually made her desire proficiency. Uppermost in her mind was the conviction that her clothing was not designed for torture: all else was welcome, why fight! Soon she was gliding in a rhythmic motion Rannah approved.
“Now! Backwards and sideways. They’re the bad ones.” The chained maiden learned those too. It was much like learning the steps of a new dance. Girls are naturally adept. She knew herself good, and felt absurdly proud of proficiency.
“Pleased with yourself!” Rannah sneered. “Why not! You’ve got a talent. Here, you’ve earned this.” She was as harsh in untying Stacie’s wrists as she had been in binding them.
The bewildered captive stood massaging her grooved flesh with an infinite relief. The release of her wrists felt better than anything she remembered. She had her hands again! It was a small miracle.
“Sit down. We have a few minutes.”
Obeying the directive, Stacie watched her companion and jailer pour drinks. She accepted hers gratefully. It was all too much to believe in.
“You won’t be whipped today,” Rannah said matter-of-factly.
The prisoner said nothing, but sought help in rapid sips. “What’s it feel like to know you’re going to be tortured? I’ve always wondered,” the voice of the dark eyed Arab girl had lost some of it’s hostility.
“Are girls often tortured here?” Stacie was still groping.
“I asked you a question. Answer it.”
“I only half believe it.”
Rannah nodded. “For you, yes. But not for a Jedrah girl.”
“Have you ever been . . . tortured? Sorry, but I find the word impossible.”
“Of course. But never with your preludes.”
Stacie gulped and reassessed. “But why . . . how? I don’t understand.”
Rannah laughed without bitterness. “You are a long way from home. Haven’t you read . . . don’t you know! Men love to torture us. But they welcome an excuse. It keeps them feeling noble.”
“Am I really going to be tortured? Isn’t this really a bad joke in bad taste?”
Stacie’s question was answered by the look in Rannah’s eyes.
“You are going to be tortured so terribly I can no longer hate you.”
“In this dress! I thought I was to be naked?”
Rannah laughed. A natural unaffected sound. “It pleases our lord to jest . . . or to boast. Tonight you are on display, a jewel in his crown. Come, finish your drink.”
It was a select gathering of sybarites, all male. They examined Stacie avidly, but did not touch. The speech was Jedrahn, with here and there an English compliment.
“You are a very lovely child, you wear chains well.”
“Yasin is a lucky man, but do not earn his wrath.”
“I would purchase you.”
Stacie accepted it all in a calm daze. Concentration on the chain that made her captive occupied most of her attention. To stumble and fall before these grave men would be unforgivable. Without thinking, she gave Yasin a smile of reassurance.
“You are quite remarkable, my dear,” he told her in his deep rich voice.
“Can I earn no reprieve?” she asked, greatly daring.
He shook his head sadly. “Alas no, but you can save much extra pain by being as you are. You do me honour.”
She felt pride. He had that quality. To be praised or to be loved by him was very good, a constant aspiration. Angrily she chided herself for feminine susceptibility. She took her place beside him at the table and ate ravenously.
Her partner on her other side was elderly, he exhibited no awe for his host or the occasion. His examination of her was frank and libidinous. “Yasin tells me you are not for sale,” he said regretfully. “I would pay much for you. Not to love, but to whip,” he sighed. “’Tis not long before Allah calls me. There is an ache in my bones, but to whip you would make me young again.”
Stacie almost pitied him. Old and impotent unless he could stripe the skin of a girl with a whip! How sad it was. She had read of it. How noble would it be to offer him that one last benison before the darkness! She shuddered, she would have to watch herself. Jedrah possessed the insidious quality of rationalising the irrational.
“Our host intends to torture you,” he ruminated without emotion.
“Sweet of him, isn’t it!” Stacie could not contain her sarcasm.
“Do not fear to scream,” he counselled gently. “It is no dishonour.”
It was a very small comfort.
When the cigars were passed around Rannah led her from the room. She had served her purpose. Her ankle chains clinked happily as she was led back to the room where she had been dressed.
“Hands behind again.”
It was back to Earth with a vengeance. Disappointed, Stacie turned and crossed her wrists, Rannah bound them with firm precision. The rest happened very quickly, the gown was taken from her, the lovely under-things, the shoes their anklets and their chain. Stacie stood, nude, her hands tied behind her back. Again the hand in her hair, the passages and the steps, and then the door. Within was a narrow cell, a pail and a rug, nothing more. Rannah pushed her captive across the threshold, left and thudded the door shut with needless emphasis.
It was late, the light was dim. Stacie stood naked in her small prison in the gloom. Her heart was thudding. The transition from luxury to stark nakedness in a stone cell had been too swift to comprehend: Planned deliberately, no doubt, as part of her conditioning it called for an adjustment she could not make. Here was her first glimpse of needless cruelty. Her punishment had started.
She turned and looked at the door, she pushed against it with a naked shoulder and then a naked foot. It was solid, immovable. Why, then, tie her hands! Even free of bonds she could not escape, The answer was obvious enough, the cords round her wrists were an assertion of authority, a constant reminder of what she had become, a prelude to suffering. Alone in the claustrophobic cubicle fear become definite, hope fled. In animal frenzy she tore at her pinioned wrists and moaned her desuetude.
But she could not get free, she had not expected to. The pain of the strictures against which she fought and the exertion of her revolt were her only possible expression, she had been reduced to a neatly tied package without a wrapper. She looked with distaste at the utilitarian pail, she would have to use it but would loathe the act. She transferred her attention to the rug. It was sparse enough but her only comfort. There was no covering, but tied as she was she could not have done much with a blanket had there been one. She knelt, then fell forward on her face. Even the simplest act emphasised her loss of her hands. The rough odorous wool imparted a faint human comfort, it was better than bare stone. Stacie wept in loneliness and fell asleep.