General Hakim liked to talk. He held an attentive audience. Both conscious of a whip and much bare skin. "The tendency of today’s female to embrace nobility is the base of our age."
He allowed the statement to hover. Then turned gravity to the bitter, silent girl. "Don’t you agree, miss Cohen?"
"Yes, general." The flat monotone was a contradiction.
"I am surprised at your affirmative." His voice was chill.
"It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?"
He eyed her sombrely. "Your attitude rather than your words merit a stroke. It can wait ‘till after…"
"Chain me back on the wall, please. I’ll only accumulate a flogging and spoil things for both of you." The guerrilla girl suddenly seemed very vulnerable and very young.
A disappointed silence feel upon the table. The general eyed Hulda’s soup anxiously. "Come, come. We do not enjoy ourselves. We call a truce. For the duration of our dinner, no penalties. We may now be honest. Come, my dear, tell me I’m a monster."
Dorinda watched with interest and with empathy. It was easy to place herself in Hulda’s shoes. A female thing sundered from all she knew, a body to be used, a mind to be probed. The torture of one would equal the torture of the other. Courageous, yes. But to what end? How vivid the question mark must be. Having slaked the general’s lust until he was weary of her, what then? Did the girl know of Rabin? It would be a kindness to tell her. Dorinda felt certain the guerrilla girl expected death.
The handcuffs clinked. She had learned to eat and drink daintily with her hands locked. But the shining steel was constantly in attention of her companions. The general’s eyes glinted with pleasure as he watched the nimble hands of his guest disport themselves within their imprisonment. She who wore the steel knew of the stirrings within his loins that her condition evoked. It pleased her. She supposed it a slave girl’s only victory.
Hulda Cohen’s interest was from pure puzzlement. She sensed the incongruenty that she, the felon, should be free of bonds, but that the honoured guest be chained. She availed herself of her limited vocal freedom: "You wear these things for fun?" She motioned with distaste at the objects of her curiosity.
Dorinda was shocked to realise she could not properly answer the question. She herself knew not why she was confined. Certainly not to prevent an impossible escape. She felt sure Hakim wanted them only to satisfy an erotic enjoyment of his own. But this she could not say. She twinkled at him and did her best for the establishment.
"It pleases our master that I be chained."
Hulda considered the proposition. "You mean it gives him a hard on?" she demanded unequivocally.
Dorinda blushed. General Hakim sighed and made a gesture of helplessness. "You see our problem?" he said to Dorinda. "Communication is by volleys and thunders. We do not talk. We kill."
"It is some sort of a slave?" Hulda probed at him.
Dorinda sparkled. "Have you explained my status, general?"
"It is none of her business," the general stated flatly. "In any case, she would be incapable of gratitude. Such as she can only be at your knees or at your throat."
Dorinda tried again with the glowering girl. "Tonight I am handcuffed for our master’s pleasure. Tomorrow I will be chained so that I make no foolish attempts to escape." She looked sympathetically into the hostile eyes. "When a girl becomes a slave it is best she forget freedom. If she can do this, she will be much happier." She shrugged: "But we are weak and sentimental. We think of home as where we once were. At such times it is best we be chained. It saves us much whipping."
"Doesn’t seem to have saved you any."
"The marks you see upon me are not recent. They are of another time." "You mean you let yourself be chained and whipped without argument?"
"Yes. If I argue and fight I am whipped more."And you get screwed coming and going."
"It is a slave girl’s lot."
Hulda Cohen turned to the general. "Is that my life from now on?"
"You prefer execution."
The watching girl knew the word ‘yes’ trembled on Hulda’s lips. It was the conventional answer to the villain’s jibe. But, for most, it was not a true answer and never had been.
"All right. It’s better to be fucked than killed." Hulda contrived to make the choice sound about equal.
"You see, you are a fortunate young women." His tone was sardonic. He enjoyed watching Hulda squirm.
"Won’t I ever have clothes again?" The question was not rhetorical.
"You have no need for them," he dismissed the question as flippant.
Hulda looked at her captor shrewdly. "Suppose I turned into a pretty little slave like Dorinda and said ‘yes’ in all the right places, and called you master. Suppose I held out my hands for the chains and bent my back for the whip, would it help… Whatever is going to happen to me?"
The general laughed appreciatively. "Honesty compels me to tell you that it would change nothing for you. It would simply rob me of some stimulation."
"More erections if you whip me into submission?" she sneered.
"Your hatred is an exciting stimulant," Hakim agreed equably.
"I can defeat you, then, by total subservience?"
"Too late, dear. Simulation would be obvious and doubly punished."
"Do you whip Dorinda before you screw her?"
"You are becoming personal and insolent."
"You wish to whip me now, master?" Her glinting eyes made the question a parody.
Hakim shook his head in despair.
It was Reba who served them brandy in the lunge. A pleasant room, a pleasant place. Even the atmosphere had become relaxed. But Dorinda wondered…. when the serving girl had completed her task she stood at obvious attention to one side. She held a whip.
"An enjoyable evening of entertainment," general Hakim declared heartily.
"Dancing girls?" Dorinda twinkled at him. He was not a bore.
"One." He pointed to Hulda Cohen.
Dorinda had half expected something of the sort. Hulda was flushing angrily.
Hakin laughed at the expression on their faces. "Perhaps not a dance. Perhaps instead a little training in deportment. But not by me." He laughed again at their surprise. "For tonight Reba shall be our Mistress of Ceremonies." He turned benignly to Dorinda. "You may find this interesting, my dear."
It was indeed. From the gentle serving wench the Arab girl transformed. She was a half nude tigress, lithe and vital. Yet her features remained demure. There was a small smile upon her lips. Dorinda suspected she had played this role before.
Hulda Cohen had, for a moment, looked shocked. Then, resolutely, she downed her drink, rose to her feet and walked to where she could face the company. "Okay," she said resentfully. "No Roman games. Put away the whip. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it."
The whip wrapped around her viciously.
Reba’s motions held infinite grace as she circled the startled and writhing captive, slashing her tongue to cut the protesting flesh. Hulda Cohen yelped and ran.
Dorinda grasped the whipped girl’s dilemma. She had said the wrong thing. Now, what would be right? The stalking girl with the whip followed wherever her prey ran. No matter how the prey twisted or fled the lash found her skin. Some contortions inadvertedly displayed the more secret recesses of their owner’s femininity and were immediately sliced by an intent Reba who was obviously awake to such opportunities. In desperation the moaning and gasping victim lunged at her tormentor. But in physical combat, too, the Arab girl could not be bested. She evaded and repulsed with ease. The whip bit and cracked.
The girl from the Bronx made agonised appeals. None of them the one desired. At length, in an all or nothing bid, she knelt before the girl who punished her and sobbed. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me." She had found the key. Reba let the whip fall and once more took up her pose.