She suffered. The crowd shared that suffering with delight. As the dismal time slowly spent itself she discovered that, in a small measure, she could control them. Her tears were met with vociferous approval. To tug against the tether on her neck would send a wordless susurration of sound through the ranks. If she struggled against the handcuffs a low rumble of approval signalled her ignominy. She found that she could mute the vocal discords by standing very straight and thrusting out her breasts in arrogant disdain. For a few moments they would be content to look at what they seldom saw. There would be among them adolescent males who had never seen a woman’s breasts. The knowledge of their tumescence gave her a momentary glow of satisfaction. She was deeply thankful for the cage and for the guards.
The military concluded the exercise with aplomb and dispatch. The driver and the corporal resumed their seats as the afternoon waned. The soldiers took up their escort. The small cortege made its way to a barracks, though a huge door that closed behind them, and stopped beside a smaller, but still impressive door. To the chained girl it was peace after storms. Her enemies were behind a very high wall. "Welcome to Fort Rahbeal," the corporal glowed.
Dorinda gave him a wan smile. "What now, a cell?"
He seemed genuinely shocked. "Oh no. No cell ‘till much later in night. This evening you are guest of general Hakim. Much arrack and champagne." He viewed her with reverence. Such honour was not for all.
She strove to share his enthusiasm as he removed her shaming leash from her neck. At the moment the general was an enigma. She supposed, wearily, that the least she could expect of him was to be used. Her status would be about that of a dancing girl. But she took heart when he lifted her from the truck and handed her over to a girl who now stood waiting. A girl both respectful and awed. As his last gesture for the day, corporal Kahdin unlocked the handcuffs from her back and locked them again at her front. Ceremoniously he handed the key to the prisoner’s new escort who accepted it with glowing panache. For her this was an occasion. She looked at her prisoner and smiled shyly. The corporal saluted and was gone.
Nothing made sense. But why should it? Sheherazade had taken it for granted. So must she. Her feminine escort led her out of the centuries into the exquisitely modern. General Hakim evidently believed in comfort. When the moment came for the bath, the girl shyly touched the handcuffs and held up the key. "No fight?" she asked simply.
For the first time that afternoon Dorinda laughed. She shook her head, smiling into earnest eyes. "No fight." It was an easy promise to make.
The serving girl grappled with the key. It was plain to see she was intrigued by the handcuffs. When she had them off she fitted one upon her own wrist and forced it tight to test its feel. Giggling she held the dangling steel up for inspection as though it was a new idea in bracelets. Thoughtlessly she placed the fetter and its key upon the dresser seeming to find no inconsistency in its easy use or removal. No doubt she had her own knowledge of the impossibility of escape.
Dorinda had not hoped for such a boon as the huge tub. She sorely needed it after the dusty drive and the attentions the citizens had seen fit to bestow. Now she was bathed and attended as a princess. As the gentle hands lathed the soap they also traced the marks beneath it.
"Much whip," she queried in wonder.
"Much whip," her charge agreed. The in mischief: "Much bad girl."
Her servant viewed her with a new respect.
The raiment provided for her festive evening made her blush. Dorinda had known clothes and she had known nudity. Latterly nakedness had been her constant lot. But this was neither. Admiring it in the mirror she knew she would prefer good honest bare skin. These gossamer wisps of transparencies made her many times naked, many times wanton. They hid nothing. She could see herself through them everywhere. But they enhanced, emphasised, revealed. They were clever, they were beautiful, they where lewd. They also made her very much a woman.
There was much working on her hair. There were perfumes and cosmetics. There were bangles galore. The final bangle was her old friend: the handcuffs.
The girl became shy again when she picked them up. She obviously saw them as a magic token from another world. She who must wear them was touched with that same magic in her eyes. She looked up hesitantly. "You wear, please."
A relaxed Dorinda would have worn three pairs quite cheerfully if required to do so. The girl and the place had restored her faith. Perhaps, after all, Mr. Rabin knew what he was doing. Nodding and smiling brightly she offered her wrists and watched, amused, as reverent fingers locked them together.
"You do us great humor, my dear."
General Hakim was of the East. His English perfect. But in all else he was a part of this land. Lean, good features, a keen eye. He surveyed his guest with evident approval.
She, in turn, found reassurance in him. Whatever else the general might be, he was evidently a man of manners and good taste. But it was not on him alone that her gaze settled in wonder.
The saboteur stood in an alcove. Behind her a window illuminating and silhouetting her nakedness. Her right arm was raised. It’s wrist chained to the wall at the level of her head so that she must stand, helpless. She was very lovely. She wore only the fresh scarlet stripes of a whip. Her eyes widened to match Dorinda’s own.
"Allow me. Miss Dorinda Matson… Miss Hulda Cohen." He laughed at their astonishment in each other. "Both exiles from the great land across the Atlantic. Miss Cohen, as you may know, is a renegade from the Bronx." The general was suave and very pleased with himself.
"How’d he grab hold of you, honey?" Miss Cohen eyed the handcuffs as thought they told all.
"Quiet, bitch!" Hakim picked up a slender cane and negligently added one more stripe to miss Cohen’s extensive collection. "You speak when spoken to," he said without heat.
The girl from the Bronx rubbed the place that hurt. She had one free hand for such purpose. She made no pretence of indifference to pain. It was easy to see her anger and the bitter words trembling on her lips. But she kept a sulky silence. She might not be tamed. But she was subdued.
"Reba, dear, you can inform them that dinner may be served. You will attend us." Hakim swung his attention to his handcuffed guest. "It would me most pleasant if the three of us could eat a civilised meal together and enjoy rational conversation. But miss Cohen, when placed at the table, seems under some compulsion to fight. Last night is was the soup in my face." He sighed. "I find it disturbing in the digestion to be constantly whipping her throughout dinner. Please excuse her if she stays as she is."
"All right, I’ll behave," his captive announced petulantly.
Thoughtfully and without haste the general added one more stroke. Hulda subsided into contortions.
"I think she really means it, general," Dorinda ventured, greatly daring. She saw herself in the other girl’s position and understood. Hakim eyed her narrowly. She trembled. "You do, yourself, behave at meals?" he inquired sardonically.
"Yes general, I have been trained." Again the narrow look, this time with approval. "Ah. You interest me. Rabin excels himself. I will accept your judgement. Miss Cohen may have her chance to behave. But another incident and you, too, shall feel the whip."
"Tank you, general." She knelt before him, bowed in submission. She might as well give him his money’s worth.
Reverently, after several hushed moments, he raised her to her feet. His eyes were bright. Briskly he turned to the saboteur. "Look. Look well, girl. Here we have a woman." He bent and kissed the hands by which he had helped their owner to rise. He touched the handcuffs gently. "You wear these well, child. They become you."