"Darling, why are men like… The way they are?" Terry had found a small peace in their union.
Dorinda made a bitter sound of disgust. "Men like Mike don’t see us as people. To him, you and me are two beats and four of what he’d call tits, and a couple of palpitating vaginas lapping open to greet his holy male cock. Sorry darling, but sometimes they get to a girl. There’s no coping with the Mikes. You could only kill them."
"Will they keep us prisoners for long?"
"I don’t suppose so. They rove around the Mediterranean in this yacht. He picks up girls along the way. Kidnaps them as he has us. Or hires and pays them. I did her that he even buys a few. That still goes in some of his ports of call."
Terry was intrigued. "What would he do with those when he tires of them? Set them free?"
"I wouldn’t suppose so. Probably trades ‘em back in. Men like Mike love to turn over a dollar."
"He’s got it good, hasn’t he?" Terry’s interest was piqued. "Buy a girl, use her as long as he likes, then sell her at a profit."
Dorinda kissed the child and wrapped herself around the slender nudity. The space they shared was small and demanded of them a great intimacy which they willingly gave. Her heart welled over for Terry. She guessed that perhaps the girl might possess qualities of endurance beyond her own. A resilience that would cope with Mike’s ugliness. But still, the bright and shining radiance that was Terry Esmond should never be on this ship. She longed to shield her. But on ‘The Quest’ she could play no sister role. Each wore the iron collar round her neck. They were equal.
It was not easy. But they managed to sleep.
Dorinda watched unhappily as Terry was tied. Her own wrists had been crossed and corded behind her back. "Hurts more that way," Mike had assured her jovially. She could roam as she pleased. She was helpless. She could not even cause damage. She was just a female nakedness for the men to ogle and enjoy.
The younger girl’s arms were high and wide. Her wrists corded to guy ropes, heavy and taut as steel. It was the classic pose for a girl, about to be flogged. They left her feet free. They would enjoy watching her kick and writhe. The deck about her was clear. They could circle and flog the tense beauty as they pleased. Above the ship gulls circled and gave their plaintive cries. The sky was clear. The Mediterranean sparkled with its own kind of blue. It was a beautiful day on a beautiful ship. Dorinda wondered idly how often in the past this ancient sea have witnessed the flogging of a slave girl on a passing argosy.
As a small refinement of cruelty a narrow belt had been buckled around Terry’s waist. On it was a hook. From the hook hung the whip with which she was about to be flogged.
Dorinda grudgingly recognised the erotic perfection of the picture Mike had created. The girl’s youthful nakedness standing slim and straight, her arms raised and thrown wide in adoration of a god no one could see: the god of pain. Her features clam in the serenity that comes with the final loss of hope. Her pubic hair offered itself for all to see. She had used the razor but the day before so that the dark patch was a clearly defined heart that so beautifully symbolised the boyous maiden she had been. She wore her heart not upon her sleeve.. The belt above her hips emphasised her youth, the short handle and the several slender thongs proclaimed her as a proffered sacrifice.
The girl who watched took comfort from the whip. It was not the dreaded ‘cat’ she had half expected. It would hurt enough, but it would not wound. Both of them were still well marked from Amity’s flogging. They needed no more cuts to heal. Mike had cheerfully explained Terry’s ordeal.
"Sort of nice for the boys to have you just stand. Anyone passing by can give her a stroke or two with the tickler if he feels like it or if she gets too sassy. In between times she can wear it on her belt. It’ll brush against her legs and keep her knowing what she’s good for. The whip ain’t too cruel. The little trick will last out the day in great shape. Should be real randy for me by the night."
Dorinda felt herself de trop. A naked girl with bound hands. A facility for male rut. Each man had already used her. She had little doubt she would be used again. She did not fight, but quietly accepted the inevitable, hiding her loathing that she might not offend. She wished, too, that she be often in the younger girl’s sight for what small comfort her presence might give. Yet to rove the decks naked and blatantly open seemed a deliberate wanton offering of her charms. But the quality of the day was such as to demand open air and a sparkle of the spray. It was very beautiful. It was zestful, a day to glory in, a day to dissigate some of the gloom of the condition in which Mike’s ugliness imprisoned them. If walking the ship, in such freedom as she had, proclaimed lubricate, so be it.
Terry had her first customer. Funny to think of it like that. Dorinda watched, helpless to intervene. Knowing, in fact, that she had best not interfere. It was Alfred the cook. Whit a name like Alfred the rest of him didn’t matter much. He leered cordially at the captive’s heart shaped hair.
"Don’t affect its working none," he guffawed. "Don’t worry, girlie. I’ll get in there one of these days."
Terry’s pale smile concealed a dozen vitriolic retorts.
"Want I should whip you a bit?" He sounded magnanimous.
"Thank you.," his victim managed in a small non-committal voice.
Dorinda’s heart bled as she watched the cheerful clob pluck the thongs from the girl’s belt and make a couple of trial swings.
"I sure do like to whip a girl," Alfred admitted. "Makes me horny as hell when them weals start up on a girls hide."
Dorinda wryly guessed how the session would end. She had not realised before. But the impact of the whip on Terry’s flesh would almost certainly ensure her a busy day. She groaned inwardly.
"Usually have to pay for it," Alfred informed them aggrieved. "Last little bitch in Liverpool come up with a joke when she made her price. ‘At the stroke of ten it will be exactly ten pounds,’ she says. I let her have it good. But after every crack she comes up with a beef about doing it lighter the next one. Never get your money’s worth when you pay for it, you don’t."
He whistled the leather down across the maiden flesh so cheaply and provocatively provided. Terry gasped and for a moment closed her eyes. When she opened them she sought his and wanly offered thanks that spoke of agony.
Alfred was touched. Returning the whip to her belt he stepped round and admired his work, running his fingers again and again over the pink evidence of his skill.
"One at a time, dearie," he conceded cheerfully. "I’ll be back on and off all day. You’ll be a well whipped little girl by nightfall."
He turned and examined Dorinda with intent. "Well honey, shall we do it here or below?"
"I think it would be nicer below," she said demurely.
As he led he led her away she did not seek her loved one’s eyes.
Myron was the big rough one. He gazed avidly at the female sacrifice. "Want me to whip those tits?" he asked as though offering a favour.
"I’d rather you didn’t," Terry squirmed.
"Looks like your back and bum already had a good going over not that long ago. Someone did it for fun or did you rile ‘em?"
"I riled the." The question had been honest, so was the answer.
"Man of woman?"
"I offended a man. A woman whipped me."
"Who’d you rather get it from? Girl or a man?"
"A girl." She squirmed again. "You men are too strong."
She looked at him appealingly. "Have you any idea how terrible the pain is?"
He nodded. "Yeah, happened I got it once or twice. Didn’t care for it none." He looked at her shrewdly. "Want me to feel sorry for you, eh? Well babe, I do. But it don’t make no difference, see."
Terry saw only too well. Strangely, also, she understood. Myron’s wish to whip her was a part of the same hunger he would appease later with Dorinda.
"Please don’t whip my breasts." She kept her voice level. She would talk to these men who would whip her as rationally as she could. She deemed it likely to aid her cause better than to be piteous or arrogant.