Corey Gibson was not surprised. This too would be part of the ancient rite. She took the glistening member in her mouth and dealt with it as competently as she knew how.
"You enjoy?"
"Yes, Achmed, I enjoyed." She was bitterly ashamed of the truth of her admission.
"Achmed enjoy too. You give good fuck. See, I tell! Is better with hurting arms."
She could not hate him. As her captor?s fingers tugged at knots she could almost feel gratitude and a faint warmth that he was actually keeping his word. Corey gasped and cringed in the agony of the peeling of her bonds. When the ropes from elbows and wrists were tossed aside she uttered a heartfelt: "Thank you… Oh, thank you, Achmed."
Then in surprise and shock: "My arms…! They don?t work…!"
He laughed at his tribute to his binding of her limbs, and goodnaturedly massaged her bruised flesh with knowledgeable hands. Corey stood in joyous agony, wallowing in the unexpected kindness.
"You make me tie you again, girl?"
"No. I?ll behave. I promise."
"I tie anyway. But not now."
"but why, Achmed, I can?t escape… and I?ve promised!"
"Is for punish. You no ask."
Corey did not ask. She ate her supper hungrily. Achmed stayed and watched, then remained for an hour to share a bottle of unexpected wine. Corey sensed in him a loneliness she might exploit. Wistfully, she asked: "Is this collar and chain locked on mu neck to punish me too?"
"Right!" The exclamation accorded her good marks.
"Am I in a prison?"
"Right! But is most private."
"Does it belong to Mr. Aslam?"
"You ask that too much, you be whipped."
He would answer no more. Exhausted, she slept upon the boards.
The plumbing was simple. A pail of water. Another pail with a broken cover. With breakfast came a bowl and a towel. Both were taken away an hour later. The daughter of vast wealth learned to squat above the empty receptacle in full view of any interested party. She wondered if Assef Aslam had a hidden spy hole through which to view her shame.
"Now I tie for rest of day." Achmed held the rope as for a gift.
Corey did not demur. She needed this man as a friend. Guided by a prompting hand, she thrust her breasts against the bars and looked out across the courtyard. Achmed raised her arm to shoulder level and tied its wrist to a bar, then the other. Miss Corey Gibson stood with arms stretched wide. But not in pain. She was simply tied to the bars of her cell and left alone. The links from her collar trickled down her back. After awhile she would be very tired.
It was not long before the men began to dig. One with a bar, one with a shovel. They were not too distant into the courtyard, and from time to time turned her way and laughed. Corey was surprised and relieved that they did not come and paw her nakedness in its open invitation. She would have had to stand and endure. She could not back away from the bars more than a few inches. It was not until they planted the post solidly in the ground that she knew fear. After the two of them had tamped and pounded and gone away, the seven foot timber stood starkly in its punitive promise of pain.
So she was going to be whipped! The references had not been casual or to tease. The additional refinement of compelling her to watch the implanting of a whipping post for her special benefit was in keeping with the rest. No doubt there would be a considerable period of suspense before she was taken out and bound to the implacable object now awaiting her nudity. Corey wondered vividly how she would behave. Suppose she screamed…! She winced at the mere thought.
But the post was not for her! before long, Corey watched a small procession walk sedately to the newly erected facility. Three men and a woman. The woman might be thirty. She was expostulating vehemently with her companions, but did not drag her steps. All of them spoke a language Corey did not understand. It was an argument of questions and answers, a concerned exchange of views that stopped short of becoming physical. The tied girl watched in amazement through her bars as the woman, with a gesture of disgust, stripped herself of covering. naked, she thrust herself against the post and embraced it with bare arms as though it had become a familiar exercise. Corey Gibson gasped in shock.
The woman was as white as she herself.
One man had rope. He crossed the passive wrists and bound them tight. Another had a hammer and a huge nail. Between them they thrust the tied hands high until their owner stood upon her toes. The nail was inserted beneath her bonds and hammered half its length into the wood. They stood back. Their work was done. The third man held the whip.
Corey Gibson knew guilt. Her tied wrists prevented her turning away. But she could close her eyes. She did not have to watch.
She watched.
Fascinated. Repelled. Curious to assess a punishment of which she knew nothing, but which would almost certainly be inflicted on herself before too long. Was it bearable? By watching, could she gain a comforting reassurance…?
She beheld the lash make its arc. She heard it splat upon bare flesh. The woman flinched and looked back pitifully. That was all. At the fourth stroke the victim screamed and fought the post. Corey supposed a woman would always try to keep silent and would always fail. The victim?s bare legs raised and kicked pathetically. The witnesses exchanged experienced comments. The whip drew back and flashed again. Corey winced at its impact and the feminine scream. She winced fifteen more times before the three men took their whip and went away. The bound woman embracing the post remained standing on her toes. She could move but little. Her legs continued their testimony of anguish. Soon they too were still.
To the naked girl tied to the bars the scene had been in profile. Corey could not properly see the whipped back or striped buttocks. There were marks where the lash had curled beneath a raised arm, angry red welts distance could not hide. But she reluctantly concluded she had not witnessed a true flogging. She could see no blood. The woman had not fainted through all her twenty strokes. The whip, therefore, was not lethal. What she had seen was probably normal for this place. Undramatically routine. Miss Corey Gibson shuddered.
The whipped woman eventually became aware of an audience. She turned her head to look at Corey but found nothing remarkable in what she saw. Perhaps naked white girls tied to the bars of their cell was commonplace. The distance between them was far enough to inhibit speech. The day passed slowly. The whipped delinquent remained embracing the post with her tied arms. Corey clutched her bars. That was all.
"Why was that woman whipped, Achmed?"
"She foolish woman. She very rude."
"Who to?"
"You ask questions or you be rude, you go to post too."
Corey sighed. Her conversational gambits seemed limited. She smiled winningly at her jailor. "Tell me, Achmed. Was that a cruel whipping she got or just a light one?"
"Was light. Her master very kind."
"Was it the sort of whipping I?d get?"
"If not too bad." Achmed grinned. "You nosey. You want I whip you? Achmed like whip girls."
"No, thank you. It?s just… well, I?ve never been a prisoner like this before. I don?t know… about anything."
"Is nice for you." Achmed beamed approvingly. "I teach."
"Do I really have to be tied up every day, Achmed? Or do you do that to me for fun?"
"You look very pretty when you tied up. Achmed enjoy."
"Yes, I know I look pretty. But does someone order you to do that to me?"
"You want I fetch whip?"
Corey abandoned her probing. Achmed could be prodded only so far. She was by no means sure he would use the whip on her. But the post in the courtyard was a warning. As things stood he was, in his own fashion, kind and amiable. But why not? He used her as he pleased. She was totally obedient, a model prisoner. Common sense told her it was best to be pliant and await.