HIT 138 – The Long, Long Chain
By F. E. Campbell


Chapter One

The White Slave Girl

Cheryl Chase was pleasantly excited. She was going to come out on top. Today was the 
beginning. New York could laugh, but she was now within a few hours drive of journey’s end 
and the biggest triumph of her career. Seth Burdett, the mythical white Slave Trader, would be 
the interview of a lifetime. If she could only get pictures of his slave! The equally legendary 
white beauty who wore an iron collar riveted on her neck in testimony to the most 
newsworthy love affair in a jaded world. Cheryl sighed happily. It was almost in the bag.

Hassan Darouba was gravy, an unexpected bonus. His typewritten invitation, on the most 
expensive paper, nestled in her briefcase. He would give her a personal tour of the guerrilla 
fortress of Amphala! Cheryl Chase smiled cynically: Hasssan wanted a sympathetic write-up in 
the U.S. Press. She wanted a scoop that had about it the hint of danger and romance. The 
product of Cambridge who had chosen banditry was reputed to be damn good looking with 
an eye for the ladies! Without seeing each other, they had found accord.

Her plane had dropped her off at Malenka the day before. It would be recalled by phone 
when needed. Malenka actually boasted a phone; a somnolent hotel with basic plumbing, and
a number of seedy locals who were prepared to be helpful when bribed. Along with a small 
and nondescript population, it gave refuge to sundry goats, camels and chickens. The hotel 
had laid on a jeep and driver for so auspicious a visitor from the land of foreign Aid.

Cheryl had used her time and modest baksheesh to loosen tongues and take pictures of 
weather hewn features, bare dirty feet, and a host of flies; all with the backdrop of a sleepy 
Malenka. She had even persuaded a bearded patriarch to place a noose upon his daughter’s 
neck and lead her in front of her camera at the end of a leash. For a quite small sum he had 
offered to give the girl a thrashing. Cheryl had compromised bay having the delighted damsel
kneel in bowed submission with bared back while her parent waved his whip around in a 
simulated blow. Such pictures would make good filler if the interviews should disappoint.

Before landing at Malenka she had hoped to catch a glimpse of a trade in female slaves all
authorities denied, but at the back of her intelligence there had nestled a small doubt, and the
expectation of having to colour and amplify her script with imaginative journalese. But the 
doubt was gone. The seed types and the owner of the hotel had dissolved it utterly. Beyond 
Malenka there were slaves and men who dealt in them. Cheryl Chase knew she was on a 
treasure of a story. And if there were pictures too . . . . ! Mmmmmm! With even more than her 
usual confidence, she gathered her satchels and cases and followed the baggage boy to the 
waiting jeep.

Amphala was darkly daunting. It sprawled like some ocean monster from the deep clawing
its way up to the desert sand. A Fortress!

“It frightens my enemies and keeps my friends respectful.” Hassan Darouba scanned Miss 
Cheryl Chase with favour while he poured the drinks. “Miss Chase, you have a lot of courage.”

The rumours had been right. He was darkly handsome. Cheryl tingled with favourable 
vibrations. “I have a lot of ambitions.” She said, smiling. “One of them is you.”

His regard frankly undressed her and approved. “You surely know what I am . . . . ?” He 
shrugged deprecatingly. “I could take you prisoner. It is easy to justify anything these days. 
You would make an entertaining hostage. We could talk delightfully while your President 
sanctioned my helicopters and my tanks.”

Cheryl settled down to enjoy; she recognized a kindred spirit. Eventually, Hassan might slit 
her throat. But, in the meantime, he was wonderful copy. Prominently, she placed her tape 
between them and set it in motion. “Do you mind?”

“Put it away! My voice is Me. No one steals Me. Take your notes! I can deny them as I 
wish.”

His voice was one she would not ignore. Chagrined, she exchanged the recorder for pad 
and pencil. Hassan’s next amused suggestion flushed her cheeks. “I will talk of the 
unmentionable with you, Miss Chase. Pump me dry, if you can. I will even sleep with you if 
your journeys have proved arid.”

“The Elizabethans would have called you a ‘Gallant rogue’.” Cheryl glinted at him over her 
glass. “D’you expect to last longer than Abdul Nour . . . and the others?”

“Poor Abdul! No sense of humour. Humour is an essential of survival.” His grin centred on 
her breasts. “I will survive – If you would care to remove your clothes I would feel more 
comfortable.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” She was preoccupied with her pen. “It’s supposed to put me 
off balance.”

“Your figure deserves attention.”

“My clothes aren’t handicapping you much, Darouba.” Pertly, she returned his stare. “Say, 
could we make that: Hassan and Cheryl?”

“Let’s! Don’t you want to hear about my Cause?”

“You’ll tell my anyway. People with Causes make their own soap box if one isn’t provided.”

Hassan sneered. “Ahhhhh, yes. You’re a maid with a mission. You’re chasing that erotic 
legend of the slaves. The Aryans have long had a love affair with the girl in chains.”



“It’s the most romantic theme in fiction, and the most used. The actual chains may not 
exist but heir implications are there.”

“You reading public wants girls only, eh? No males?”

“Is there a trade in males?”

“Not that I know of. A few small boys perhaps . . . .“ His tone became provocative. 
“Humanity has always found a logic in the slavery of girls. It’s an ancient institution that might 
very easily be revived. For the Nordics it would put your house in order.”

“Yeah, I know: you’d like me on a leash.” Cheryl wrinkled her nose in rejection. “Hassan, 
let’s skip philosophy. What d’you know of Seth Burdett?”

“He is real. He exists. He’s a slave trader. Not many left now.”

Douglas Fairbanks Jr.! Cheryl pounced on the likeness. He could have played Hassan’s role 
to perfection. Impetuously, she demanded: “Ever think of Hollywood? You’re a natural.”

The Guerrilla waved her question into the limbo it deserved. “What you really want is a 
look at the magnificent white woman slave Burdett is reputed to own . . . . Right?”

“Of course! If she’s for real and I can get to talk to her I’ve got the best story since the 
Kennedy shooting.”

“Oh, she’s for real alright! The kicker is she’s as beautiful as the stories tell – that doesn’t 
often happen.” Hassan meditatively mixed her another drink. “Look, Cheryl, you’re in the 
stronghold of the infamous Hassan Darouba. How about one thing at a time?”

She was quick to redress hurt feelings. “Sorry, I’m a graceless bitch. O. K. . . . Shock me!”

“Probably couldn’t if I tried.” They were back on an even keel, assessing each other 
pleasurably. “But how about ‘A day in the life of ‘?”

Cheryl tingled. Give this handsome bastard his head . . . . ! “I like it.” She conceded. “But in 
the life of who?”

“Did you know this woman you’re intrigued about was once a prisoner here at Amphala? 
Abdul had notions and kept her around for quite awhile until she escaped – “

“Escaped! From this monolithic monster?”

“She had help.” Hassan gazed down at her quizzically. “How’d you like to spend 
twenty-four hours in the cell she occupied – same conditions as she?”

Cheryl was surprised by internal heat as journalism battled prudence. She wanted to wipe 
the grin from the guerrilla features. “Hell, I’d never get out.” She accused ingenuously.

“You don’t really believe that.” Hassan had the air of a man quietly awaiting the inevitable. 
He said no word, but studied her inscrutably.

“Boy, what a story!” Cheryl Chase was back in the office, relishing envy. She held up her 
pencil and pad. “I take these - ?”

“No.”

Again the flare of heat. The guy was perfect. Cheryl wished the term ‘Desert Hawk’ had not
been worn threadbare. “Twenty four hours, I think you said?” Her query striving to regain 
initiative.

“To the dot.”

“You’re on!” She retorted jauntily. “But . . . one more drink?”

“You sip it while I tempt you further,” said Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.

If she was being managed, it was being done with skill. Cheryl chase accepted the refill and
wondered if Seth Burdett was going to be this easy. “To twenty-Four hours!” She toasted 
exuberantly. “Hot damn, with that title and what I can do with it - !” She swallowed greedily.

“Your interest in slavery has prompted me to remember something commonplace.” The 
Desert Hawk reflected musingly. “I’ve got a few slaves here myself. In fact, quite a number.”

“Honest? You mean, bought and paid for?”

“You’d probably segregate them. But, essentially, they’re all in the same boat. Some I bid 
for off the block, some I – Shall we say: acquired, during our forays for the Cause.”

“You mean you kidnapped ‘em?”

“All slavery begins with an involuntary loss of liberty.”

“Huh, May I meet ‘em?”

“One will be your jailor. Abdul didn’t bother with chores, nor do I. There is Achmed, of 
course. You’ll pick up some useful material from Achmed.”

“Who’s Achmed?”

“Actually the regular jailor. He looked after this woman you’re so concerned about. You’d 
be cheated without Achmed.”

“Hmmmmm, about your slaves? You used a considerable plural?”

Hassan Darouba laughed. “Ever been in a brothel?”

“Yes, but not as an inmate.”

“The Cause is a small army, y’know. Lusty underprivileged males in the height of virility. I 
maintain a force of some twenty physically pleasing females for their refreshment.”

“What you mean is you’ve kidnapped twenty unfortunate girls for your men to screw?” 
Cheryl was not shocked but she was close. “Do they pay or get it free?”

“Free, a perquisite of the warrior.”

“Those poor damn girls have to screw for gratis!”

“They are not unhappy. The food is good.”

They eyed each other, amused. “You could be stringing me a line.” Cheryl conceded 
doubtfully. “But it’s crazy enough to be true. You mean, once they’re captured . . . these girls 
just simply spread their legs?”

“It varies. But Abdul had a punishment room. A girl who fails to please is taken there and 
whipped. When I took over here I interfered with nothing.”

She was getting the velvet glove, but the iron hand was visible. “How’s this affect your 
charisma, Hassan?”

His voice held irony. “Today’s climate in the U.S.A. will see it as a useful social experiment. 
Either way I don’t care.”

“May I have a look?”

The smile of the Guerrilla was utterly benign. “I am suggesting my Recreation Centre as 
your second ‘twentyfour hours’.”

“In a whorehouse!” Cheryl was not as shocked as she made it sound. “Oh, c’mon, now!”

“You need not partake of male favours unless you wish, Cheryl. Of course . . . . Sometimes a
grateful patriot will tip . . . . !”

“Up your’s, Hassan!”

“I could say the same words more appropriately.”

Cheryl Chase blushed. She also felt a stirring of the loins. She’d been told often enough 
that all women were whores at heart. “You’d let me stay there twenty-four hours,” she asked 
doubtfully. “And not get fucked?”

“I will personally instruct all concerned.”

“Dammit’, Hassan, you should be selling used cars. Got any more Arabian days and 
nights?”

“There is always the punishment room.” Hassan Darouba suggested softly. “But that, of 
course, is optional on behaviour. After the brothel I fear I have only the tedium of politics for 
your readers.” His sneer returned. “There is always the subject of Russian largesse. They call it 
‘Aid to the Oppressed’. Apart from the hardware, I have found the cash useful. A bit of it 
enabled me to purchase the lady you are about to meet. If I were you I’d treat her with a 
modicum of respect. In her days of freedom she was a wardress at Imballa Prison.”

Wardress Taruma was a mahogany masterpiece. She wore nothing but an abbreviated pair 
of too tight jeans upon her hips. Cheryl conceded the criminality of covering such curves and 
contours of feminine strength. Dazed, and caught unaware, she allowed her right wrist to be 
handcuffed to this Junoesque creature’s left. “Is custom with prisoners in transit,” said the 
coffee coloured Amazon grandly.

“Always do as Taruma tells you.” Hassan Darouba’s voice was gentle as they said 
good-bye.



***



Cheryl Chase treasured time. Amphala was cheating her of none. She had an 
uncomfortable suspicion of being managed. A cocktail hour, handcuffs, and now marching to 
the prison of the legendary white slave girl she had come to seek. Quick and slick! But it was 
what she wanted. Unease retreated before the twin excitements of her mind and her libido. 
The whole affair had erotic overtones, spawning headlines. It might even run to a book.

“I treat you just like real prisoner,” said Wardress Taruma amiably. “But is no turn back. You 
be good girl.”

“Of course . . . I do appreciate – this handcuff, it feels so funny . . . !” Cheryl gazed around 
in delight as she was led like a criminal to be sentenced. Amphala was grim, so were the line 
of cells past which they walked. If Hassan Darouba would allow her to take pictures . . . .! Wow!

“You want same cell as white girl. Is here.” Taruma announced grandly.

There was no denying multiple sensations. Miss Cheryl Chase watched the turning of a 
huge key in a huge lock. When the barred door swung open she followed Taruma and her 
own right wrist into a place of concrete and stone which held two pails and a wooden bench. 
There was something else she refused to take seriously; no doubt it was there for visual effect .
. . . ! But what a story!

Taruma closed and locked the door upon the two of them, then freed the journalistic wrist.
“Please now to undress!” She requested politely.

The intrepid feminine member of the American Press surveyed three walls of forbidding 
stone and an equally implacable grid of massive iron bars. She knew what she had heard but 
did not want to believe it. “What was that, again?” She asked doubtfully.

“You take off clothes. Prisoners always naked.”

“I don’t think I wish to do that.”

“You no think. You do. Is best you bare. Then more good girl.”

“You mean a naked prisoner is more tractable – Yes, I see your point. But that doesn’t 
apply – “

“White slave girl always naked. You do same. She come naked to Imballa where I wardress. 
Slaves and prisoners don’t need clothes. Just have to take off every time they get whip.”

“I won’t be getting whipped. We’ll leave my clothes as they are.”

“You scared show cunt? That silly. I show.”

Cheryl stared, fascinated, at Taruma’s pubic thatch, at Taruma’s tight tummy and massive 
breasts. This mahogany beauty was not much older than herself but had been cast in a larger 
and more powerful mould. Miss Cheryl Chase had an absurd vision of herself being paddled 
across a mahogany knee if she was not good. “But, Taruma,” she protested. “I can’t possibly 
have people, men perhaps, staring at me through those bars, and me in here naked!”

“Why?”

“It’s not decent.”

“You want I fetch Achmed help me undress you?”

“You mean . . . by force?”

Taruma shrugged. “You must be naked.”

Miss Cheryl Chase removed her clothes. She liked her body. It would be slight beside 
Taruma’s nubile muscularity but it would be at least be beautiful. Taruma gave it impartial 
attention.

“Nice little slit cunt. Fine firm tits. You fetch big price at auction.”

“Thank you. I think you’re lovely too, Taruma, if you really are a slave, why don’t you run 
away? You look free as the wind to me?”

“Is nice job here. I boss.” Taruma shook her head pityingly. “No use slave run. Always 
caught. Then terrible punish.”

Miss Cheryl Chase watched her clothes neatly bundled. There was an air of finality in the 
quick brown fingers. The warm air of the cell embraced her nudity to make her feel a small girl
in the presence of authority. But every moment was precious for a hundred questions. “Would
that white girl have been terribly punished, Taruma?”

The wardress sniffed. “Just good whipping and chains. Worth too damn much money.”

“What would I sell for on the auction block, Taruma?”

The wardress waved disgustedly. “So big a sum! Bid like crazy on white girl – Millions!”

The thrill was undeniable. Cheryl Chase felt her spine tingle. As a slave she would be worth 
more money than when free. “How much did Darouba pay for you, Taruma?”

Once more disgust. “Huh, he get me cheap. I too fat then, not nice like now. I just been 
captured.”

“O. K., but how much?”

“They bid in dollars. The Master pay twenty-nine thousand for me. Is much too cheap.”

Cheryl thrilled. The lithe wardress was a lot of girl for so small a sum. And she herself in the
millions . . . . ! This was heady stuff. The readers would love it. She pursued further: “This 
slavery business . . . . ? Just where did you stop being a wardress at Imballa prison and become
a real slave?”

Taruma wrinkled a shamed nose. “When capture, they strip Taruma naked, tie her very 
tight, bung in truck. Take far, far away. I not slave then, just prisoner. They chain me on coffle 
and march me to auction with other girls. Then, when we sold on block and money paid we be
slaves for sure.”

“You mean, the authorities recognize - ?”

“Maybe not far away. But here . . . yes. If silly girl escape, then police catch and return. She 
have very sore ass.”

“Suppose I helped you get out of the country? You’d be free then, wouldn’t you?”

“The Master chase. He rich, he have friends. You and me both have sore ass and sore back 
too – maybe other places . . . . !”

These ancient lands! Cheryl sensed the sleepy power of the old ways. Her present nudity 
behind these bars had about it a breathless plausibility. Her companion’s next words tossed 
several centuries into the discard. “Now I give you collar. I chain your neck.”

It was a heart stopper. She had seen the coiled links and the metal circlet but had not 
taken them seriously. Now, Cheryl Chase’s regard for what Taruma had so nonchalantly picked
up was both startled and negative. “C’mon now!” She wheedled. “Don’t let’s go overboard!”

“White woman slave in here always chained. Maybe she not like either. But must wear.”

“What on Earth for!” New York journalism was clutching on straws. “I mean, no girl can get 
out of this cell, can she?”

“Is so you know you slave. Without chain, you forget.”

“Oh, I’ll remember. I promise!”

“Maybe someone unlock the door for help escape. Collar and chain stop really good.”

Irrefutable facts! A distasteful shaming thing for a girl. But what a story! The chained white 
slave girl, head high, proud in her captivity . . . nude! Cheryl Chase longed for her typewriter. 
“Couldn’t we sort of compromise?” She asked tentatively. “I don’t want an iron collar round 
my neck . . . . How about those handcuffs?”

“If make fuss you get handcuffs too, behind back. Collar much nicer for you.”

“But did Mr. Darouba sanction - ?”

“You know what Master say. Now, you raise up hair with hands while Taruma fits collar.”

The damn woman’s authority was hypnotic! Or was it Amphala and its cynical warlord? By 
some strange alchemy of the place a collar and chain upon the neck of a naked girl had 
become rational. With a faint irritation at her own compliance, but with an increasing throb 
within her sex, Miss Cheryl Chase gathered her mane of platinum hair and raised it to bare her
neck for the most potent humiliation it had ever known. Fleetingly, she thought of Mary 
Queen of Scotland who had taken the same motions as she laid her head upon the block.

“Is nice sensible girl.” Taruma approved. “You like your chain. Is something to make play 
with while in prison.”

An iron Rosary! The naked girl took a deep breath and held it as the iron circled her throat.
Taruma’s hands were loving as they fitted the metal band on the palpitating flesh and inserted
the padlock. “You listen now!” She instructed. “Is most terrible sound.”

It was! Cheryl had never heard a more implacable metallic snap. Nor had she ever felt so 
snug a constriction beneath her chin. “Gosh, it’s heavy!” She complained as Taruma’s fingers 
departed from their task and allowed the chain to hang in a loose coil from the ironed neck.

“Is keep you safe. Always remind.” The wardress admonished. “Now you arrange hair – 
hands very free.”

Yes, her hands were free. Cheryl realized it a thing for a girl in her situation to be thankful 
for. The collar had its own strange utility. It would be the very devil to have her hands locked 
behind her back. She could do nothing. The exposure of her sex and breasts would seem 
trebled. But, now, her fingers leaped to her hair and to the tingling exploration of the metal 
she must wear as a necklace. The padlock intrigued. She could not see it but it was a severe 
pendent she would finger endlessly. Preoccupied, she watched her jailor unlock the door. 
Then, in alarm: “Taruma . . . you going?”

The older girl laughed. “Taruma not prisoner. She not stay in cell.” She clanged shut the 
door and ostentatiously used the huge key. From beyond the bars she waved and winked as 
she went from her captive’s limited view.

Cheryl Chase felt only exhilaration as she stood alone locked within her small and ancient 
prison. Perhaps it was her nakedness: but everything about this adventure had become tinged
with eroticism. The journalist noted, for future reference, the ominous clang of iron, the 
sudden silence of the cell, the claustrophobic mockery of stone and iron bars. She took an 
experimental step. Her chain followed. She advanced to the bars. As she grasped them her 
tether snapped taut. To stay there and peer out at freedom meant she must support the 
compulsion of her chain with a free hand. If the cell door suddenly opened she could not walk
through. She gazed curiously at the empty courtyard, wondering about the solitary, stark and 
threatening post solidly planted at no great distance. Surely it could not be . . . . ! But she had 
said the same thing about the iron collar: now it was padlocked round her neck. Perhaps the 
balk of timber truly was a whipping post . . . perhaps!

Getting full value for whatever it had cost, Miss Cheryl Chase wallowed in desuetude. The 
agonies of a chained and captive slave girl flowed in vivid sentences to storage. Thumped out 
on her machine, they were going to curl the hair of millions. She examined her pails. One held 
water; the other was covered; she would leave it alone as long as she could. The wooden 
bench had no mattress; it was punitively hard. Cheryl shrugged and sat down.

She could let her chain drag at her throat from behind. She preferred it back there out of 
sight. But she had the option of turning her snug collar so as to place the padlock and chain 
beneath her chin. She could arrange it to fall between her breasts or to loop a length of it 
across one bare shoulder to relieve weight. She could get a useful paragraph or two out the 
victories and defeats a slave girl might discover in the trivial dispositions of her imprisonment. 
All was grist to her mill. She longed passionately for the implements of recording these 
vibrations from her cell.

Time, when chained in prison, is sobering. But it was still with the heated overtones of sex 
that Cheryl Chase conceded the stupidity of what she had allowed to happen. She was the 
prisoner of a bandit. She had only his word that she would be free tomorrow. But if he wanted
to keep her he most certainly could. He could make her his whore, his slave or his hostage. In 
this land a girl had many values. She was all of them! Hassan Darouba would actually be an 
idiot to let her go.

Trauma had made slavery graphic. For Cheryl it was no longer abstract; it was real and 
believable. If Darouba could sell her into slavery and get millions . . . . ! The nude girl on the 
bench shrank at the most obvious thought. Dammit’, the man would have to be nuts not to 
put her on the block! Her disappearance would be shrugged off as richly deserved for sticking
her finger into one to many a pie.

Achmed was a shock. He was male and she was nude. He was distinctly of the desert. His 
feet were bare and dirty, his smile amiable. “Is Cheryl Chase!” He proclaimed brightly. “I am 
Achmed. I have come to fuck you.”

It was a silence in which denial was implicit. Achmed broke it by opening the door.

“Don’t you come in here! You shouldn’t have a key . . . . !” The girl from New York gathered
her chain and backed away.

“I cannot fuck you through the bars.” Achmed pointed out reasonably. “Is much best on 
bench – “

“You don’t fuck me at all, Buster. Beat it!”

Her visitor suavely indicated the wide open portal. “You like to do your beating it 
yourself?”

“You know damn well I can’t, not with this collar and chain.”

“Please to lay on bench! Spread pretty legs to open cunt!”

Cheryl was about to exclaim ‘Drop dead’, but her negative dissolved under a sudden and 
terrible suspicion. “Are you telling me that . . . that white girl . . . the one you had locked up in 
here . . . . ?”

“Indeed, yes! I fuck Miss Corey every evening. She very much enjoy.”

The man might be absurd. But he had a naïve honesty. In an acute awareness of 
defencelessness, Cheryl asked: “Why the hell would she enjoy – you’re putting me on?”

“Because I have fine cock. I am much skilled.” Achmed reproved his captive’s lack of tact. 
“Also because poor girl become lonely sitting alone in cell. She very glad to see Achmed.”

It was a vivid picture Claire could understand. Sitting naked with her chain as the hours 
and days went by . . . . ! A girl might easily be glad. But this was different. She had to rout this 
smiling son of the sand. She had an angry suspicion Hassan Darouba would be smiling too. 
Her defence was vehement: “You Master said nothing about me being fucked - !”

“Miss Corey never fight.” Achmed mourned. “Is well behaved good girl. Never need tie – “

Cheryl viewed the lank soiled cords produced from beneath the jailor’s hair with shocked 
revulsion. A moment later she discovered a humiliating male strength . . . . In little more than a
couple of minutes her bare back was flat on the bench and her wrists tied tight and stretched 
apart to its upper corners. Instinctively she crossed her still free legs. “If you do it to me I’ll tell 
your Master.” She threatened.

“Master know. He say to tell you saved decision. American girl like good excuse.” Achmed 
extracted a bit of crumpled paper and perused it intently. “He also say have fun.”

The son-of-a-bitch! Hassan had known all the time! And she’d walked into this with her 
eyes open. ‘Everything the same as the white slave girl!!’ Miss Cheryl Chase wanted to kick 
herself for an idiot, and to scream in frustration. She used the last of her ammunition: “How 
much will you charge not to do it to me, Achmed?”

“Ohhhhh, is very wrong suggestion, most not proper. Must report to Master.” Achmed 
reproved sorrowfully. “Besides, you are naked and have no cash.” Thoughtfully, he separated 
her reluctant legs and applied friction to Cheryl’s pubic hair. His finger sought the warmth of 
the waiting sheath.

Technically it was rape. Cheryl fought her bonds while clinging to legalities. The hurt of her
wrists was a comforting virtue as she twisted and tugged them in a useless endeavour to 
recover a free hand with which to shield her place of penetration. She was bound with 
extreme competence. Her raised and outstretched arms had become no more than an 
invitation, protruding her breast, leaving all of her vulnerable. She could kick all she wanted, 
but that would only add to Achmed’s enjoyment. Impatient with the moral sophistry of rape 
and consent, the tied and naked journalist became shamingly aware of being thankful for the 
unkind bands upon her wrists. They relieved her of decision and sustained her virtue beyond 
reproach. She ceased to struggle. When Achmed pierced her she consoled her guilt with 
thoughts of the white girl who once had laid where she lay now. Miss Cheryl Chase was 
pleasantly gratified with her jailor: he proved himself most skilled indeed.

In the dark the bench became her enemy. It was hard and spoke of guilts and punishment.
Turning in search of comfort there was the chain to push and set aside. The iron collar on her 
neck told Cheryl she was not a New York columnist at all, instead, a slender naked girl whose 
twenty-seven years still left her a child who was naked and in prison and might never again be
free. She revelled in the dire discomfort and prediction, inclined to giggle, relaxed from 
ravishment. Headlined beckoned, adjectives and superlatives fought for space . . . . Drowsily, 
she thought of the white girl whose flesh had once warmed this same wood . . . . She went to 
sleep.

Sunlight brought Taruma and routine. The prisoner was fed; she was washed; she was 
bantered. “Master decide not to let you out after twenty-four hours. Tell me keep you locked 
up to sell next auction.”

Cheryl refused to believe a word, but shivered nonetheless. At least one other girl in this 
cell had heard similar words and been forced to believe. “O. K., so I’m going to be sold.” She 
conceded cheerfully. “But tell me about that other girl! Did she look forward to her auction?”

“Huh, she not know. She think she held hostage.”

“Is there much difference?”

Taruma was disdainful of such silly questions. “Hostage get to go home after ransom. Slave
never go home, not ever. Serve you right you never go home.”

Alone in her morning’s prisonment, Cheryl Chase reflected on Taruma’s jibe. She was in a 
competitive business; all journalists were enemies. There would be a lot of smug agreements 
that it served that bitch of a Chase girl right to be plucked from her aggressive pursuit of 
success and tossed into slavery. She chuckled in gratitude they could not see her now. Her 
‘Day in the life of’ was going to be strictly her own affair.

The haiks, the jubbas, and the naked girl were a relief from tedium. The captive journalist 
clutched her chain in one hand whilst holding on to a bar with the other as she peered 
inquisitively at the small tableau taking shape before her interested eyes. When she realized 
that girl was going to be tied to the post and whipped, he realized also that Hassan had most 
certainly staged the cruelty for her edification. With guiltless journalistic omnipotence she 
watched.

The girl was resigned, but there was chatter and gestures, seemingly about her binding 
and the severity of her punishment. Writing her story as she watched, Cheryl decided the 
naked maiden was pleading for mercy and being cynically reassured she would not be killed. 
Compromise led to the female delinquent embracing the post; her wrists were roped on its 
opposite sides; her waist was bound to it too and cruelly cinched by hands between her 
tummy and the wood to ensure no movement of either bottom or back. Her feet were left 
untied. Wide eyed, she looked back over a bare shoulder to observe her fate.

Her fate was unkind. It comprised one man with a length of limber cane, and another with 
a whip. One stood to either side of the immobilized nudity. Slowly and with a terrible rhythm 
the cane cut into the pert rounded bottom, and then after brief moments of pause the whip 
sliced her back. After as second blow from each the punished girl no longer bothered with 
silence. Fascinated, Cheryl watched. Here was the real stark desert and a girl. As the cane and 
whip alternated their infliction of agony on female flesh she wrote her story, losing count of 
the blows. The girl’s flexing of muscles, her taut twistings, the futile kicking of her legs were a 
symphony of pain; sweet motions of protest against a punishment most probably undeserved.

Cheryl thought it possible the nude victim had received a total of thirty strokes when the 
whipping ceased. Her cries dwindled down to moans, and the moans to sobs. Satisfied with 
duty done, the men left her bound there to weep away her grief. The watcher in the cell had 
little doubt the hurt girl was left there for her benefit too. It was impossible not to picture her 
own nakedness tied there and similarly whipped. In Amphala such a use of girls held logic. 
Distractedly, she called to the whipped girl:



“What did you do? Why were you punished?”

The answer was faint, so too was the resentment: “It is for you. For you to watch. Perhaps 
they whip you next.”

Perhaps they would!

The possibility kept the loins of the captive girl heatedly inflamed until the twenty-fourth 
hour.



***



“Well, Cheryl, I give you no leads.” Hassan handed his clothed guest a drink. “I want to 
hear it from you, your way.”

Cheryl told him, breathlessly, outrageously, and with a deep thankfulness she was sitting 
where she was. Hassan Darouba listened, attentive, amused, gratified with his experiment and 
her coping with its challenge.

“No panic?”

“Not really. Just odd moments. Seven years ago I’d have had kittens.”

He nodded, understanding. Quietly, he asked: “If it had been real and you had known it 
real? What of your emotions then?”

“The way you asked that is more frightening than the cell. I know I’m at your mercy. But it’s
an answer no girl has until it happens.” Cheryl grinned ruefully. “I’ll admit there’s an erotic kick
in the damn business of slavery. It makes me feel a tremendously expensive bit of 
merchandise.”

“Achmed fucked you?”

“I expect you know he did.”

They let it lay. Amphala dwarfed such trivia. “You’re a bit remarkable.” Hassan Darouba 
admitted musingly. “Now I’m curious about number two?”

“The Brothel?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll do it.” Cheryl looked at him levelly. “I don’t think it’s bravado or trying to prove 
something. I have to be grateful to you for such colourful copy.”

His gaze was speculative. “And then the beautiful white slave?”

“That’s right. Am I chasing the moon?”

“No, you’re not. I can see you’re serious . . . . I can probably help. I’ve met her owner; he’s 
one of those sun baked rangy Australians . . . about three hundred percent masculine.”

“Hostile?”

“Cynical. Amused with a world he’s big enough to toss around. With women he’s ruthless. 
After all, he’s got to fill his slave chain.”

“It’s called a coffle?”

“A coffle.” Hassan laughed. “Are you going to ask for a day on that too?”

“If it was the only way I could get to talk to the girl, yes.”

“Burdett’s one man capable of keeping you on it. If I were you I wouldn’t tempt him.”

Cheryl was annoyed with the wave of lubricity the thought evoked. Her smiling companion
was still an enigma. Why was this hawklike predator being so obliging? True, she was a pretty 
girl; she could give him a good write-up. But she had just emerged from one of his prisons 
and was about to enter another. Supposing, this time . . . . ? Cheryl’s fear withered under the 
heat of emotions unsuspected in her quest. Under a compulsion she could not name, she 
blithely asked: “D’you want me to come to your bed tonight?”

“To render under Caesar . . . . ?”





Chapter Two


Experiment In Chains





“You want them guerrilla soldier boys not fuck you?” Taruma enquired amiably.

“But didn’t your Master . . . . ?!” Cheryl was suddenly anxious. “Mr. Darouba said he’d issue 
instructions?”

“Oh, he tell me no fuck, O. K. I just think maybe you like . . . . ?”

“No thanks. I’ll watch.”

“You sure you no get tired just to sit – have no fun?”

“Absolutely no fun, Taruma. Tell the boys I’m off limits or I’ve got V. D., or something.”

“Is much better way. You come.”

Recognition of the room was instant. “I bet this is where you punish your girls, Taruma.” 
Cheryl Chase slipped out of whoredom and into journalism with surprising ease. “Those rings 
in the walls, that post . . . . ! Wowie, look at that bench!”

“You take off clothes while Taruma look in cupboard.”

Remnants of sanity prompted caution. “But if the men aren’t going to use me, wouldn’t it 
be best for me to wear something?”

“Whore never wear clothes. You now whore.”

“Well . . . , just for today and the night. If I’m naked won’t they think I’m available? I’m 
fastened some way, like you said all the girls are, I won’t be able to argue - !”

“You have hands and feet. Just chain by neck. No gag.”

Cheryl was coming to expect the erotic surge. It struck her loins again now, firing her sex 
with tumid visions as she wrote the headlines in her mind: “Chained sex slaves for guerrilla 
lust!” For today she would be one of them! Hassan was a gold mine. “But surely a naked girl’s 
a temptation?” She quibbled.

Taruma turned from the cupboard. She held up the object of her search. “See! Taruma fix 
damn good.”

The now naked Cheryl Chase laughed in pure delight. Goodie piled on goodie, feast on 
feast. She spread her nude legs and giggled like a teenager as Taruma’s practised fingers fitted
the chastity belt upon her loins. It was an exquisite thing of silver mesh, moulded to waist, to 
groin, to hips and crotch. By the time the padlock snapped its approval of her virginity she 
was tightly encased in metal links as within a second skin. “Taruma, it’s gorgeous! Oh, thanks a
million!”

“You get horny, you no thank. Taruma have key.”

“It will keep me from having a guerrilla baby.” Cheryl’s hands sought her loins, testing . . . . 
“Dammit, the thing’s marvellous. I can’t even get a finger inside myself.”

“Make soldiers mad. You can’t run, so you have to talk nice.”

“If I don’t behave, d’you bring me in here and punish me?” The mesh on her sex was 
provoking mischief. Cheryl had never felt more vitally alive.

“You want, I do?”

“Not right now. Right now I want you to put me where I’ll be a whore in the brothel of 
Hassan Darouba.”

“You come. You be good girl. You tell girls nothing, nothing! You understand?”

“Oh sure, I mustn’t make ‘em jealous.”

“Only two can reach you. They give you bad time if no like. Now you come. You let me 
chain. No argue.”

The close locked protector of her chastity was an aphrodisiac. Cheryl was sure of it as she 
walked blithely where Taruma led. The tight clutch of links upon her sex was much the same as
a questing hand. For the first time, she gloried in her public nakedness. Her sheathed loins 
bestowed a needed contrast. Curious eyes would seek the metal locked upon her hips, 
modifying the stares upon the rest of her nudity. Miss Cheryl Chase stepped jauntily to where 
she would become a whore.

A huge stone chamber, comforted with cushions and tapestries. For each girl a single bed. 
For each of the widely spaced couches a naked girl chained from the collar on her neck to a 
ringbolt in the wall. She had plenty of freedom in which to do anything but run away. She had 
a bed and ample freedom with which to please a man. She was also beautiful. Quite evidently 
guerrilla soldiers had only the best. Several of the instantly curious girls bore whipmarks on 
their skin.

Everything awaiting the new sex slave was new and soft and scented. Her bed was 
immaculate, her cushions lush. Miss Cheryl Chase knelt to receive the benediction of the metal
collar which fit so snugly and could hold her forever. The padlock encompassed the jointure of
her collar and the first link of her chain tether to the wall. When it clicked its closure she knew 
herself one of the nineteen girls thus shackled for the delectation of warriors. Her nostrils 
flared in an inhalation of sudden realization. She was a slave. Unless someone unlocked the 
collar of her neck she would remain a slave forever. She tried to reject a flood of happiness 
but did not succeed.

“You now in business.” Taruma told her cheerfully, and went away.

It was blushingly embarrassing. Nineteen girls who, at that time of day had no male 
demands upon their body, diverted their attention upon the new girl. They were blasé about 
the chastity belt. They had seen it before.

“You been bad little bitch. No let fuck.”

“Soldiers be mad. Always want fuck what can’t have. They make you use mouth.”

“Padlock stop you getting off. You have to suck like crazy.”

It was hazard unforeseen. Her only sure protection would be a locked gag. Cheryl did not 
want a locked gag, and Taruma had said nothing . . . . ! If only she could be inconspicuous 
among the rest! But her white skin . . . . !

“We make you beautiful. You just hold still.”

It was the girls to either side. She was a relief from their boredom. Gratefully, Cheryl 
allowed them to work their cosmetic magic on her face, her nipples and her navel. Their 
giggles hinted at what they would have done with her sex had it not been locked away.

“She never whipped. No marks.”

“She be whipped for sure – first day.”

They counselled her on how to behave, feminine tricks to avoid the whip; yet both bore 
whip weals. After awhile she ceased to be a novelty and became a whore among whores; 
nothing about her was remarkable. Like the rest, Cheryl Chase reclined on her bed or got up 
and stretched or sat crosslegged to talk or to dream until the coming of the men.

The one who chose her was young, ardent, intrigued. Indignantly, Cheryl slapped his 
hands from her breasts and shrank away. Startled and angry he sought Taruma and lodged a 
complaint.

The chained white girl cringed, longing for Hassan, but understanding with informed 
clarity the enormity of her crime. She was for the pleasure of men. If she failed to please she 
would be whipped. The girls chained on either side had been most explicit in their warnings.

“I’m – I’m sorry!” She looked up appealingly at a perplexed Taruma and an angry warrior. 
Focusing on the male, she added. “I’m new. I haven’t done this before. Forgive me!”

There came a flood of dialect. Taruma’s eyes imparted message after message as she dealt 
with male importunity. The newly chained girl guessed what the messages were. Unhappily, 
she conceded. “I’ll be a good girl for you. Please play with my breasts all you like.”

More dialect and a finger pointed at her loins. Then, her would be ravisher shrugged 
disappointedly. Taruma left. Helpfully, Cheryl protruded her breast for her client’s convenience.
She knelt quite still, breathing heavily, while he used them both. Frustrated by mounting 
desire, he finally turned from her and expended his erection within the sheath of the girl next 
door. With her breasts and nipples aflame from his attentions, Cheryl Chase could almost wish
she did not wear the belt.

Cheryl’s next visitor was disaster. She gave him her breasts and panted under his use of 
them, but he was amorous to boot. His mouth sought hers in a hunger she could understand 
but did not share. His breath was foul, his hands hurtingly demanding. Miss Cheryl Chase 
slapped a guerrilla cheek, not once but twice. Her defence of her person had been instinctive, 
but she looked up at a frowning Taruma in desolation while the flood of military displeasure 
engulfed them both.

“Very well, I punish her.” Taruma announced officially. “Yet take another girl! I make this 
one sorry.”

Cheryl was abject. She and Taruma were caught in a trap of their own lack of planning and 
foresight. Or perhaps her hands should have been tied behind her back . . . . ! Aware of having
done everything wrong, Cheryl stood to be relieved of her collar, and then followed her 
nemesis from the scented chamber.

“What can I do?” Taruma mourned. “Whole thing most silly.”

Cheryl knew guilt. First that she had started the affair at all. Second, that she had revolted. 
Taruma had her sympathy. The faced a joint contretemps. Hassan would probably sanction her
release, but she would lose face in failure. Miss Cheryl Chase did not want to lose face before 
his gravely amused regard: No way! Dismally, she blurted:

“I know you have to do something to me. Is there anything that doesn’t leave marks?”

“Is much better whip.”

“I expect it is. But please . . . something else?”

“Taruma don’t want – “

“I know! But it’s all my fault. I’ll try and put up with a bit of punishment to make things 
right for you.”

“The Master be angry. You not for punish –“

“I won’t tell him. I promise. That’s why I mustn’t have marks.”

Taruma shone with gratitude. Her arms encircled the nude slenderness she was obliged to 
punish. “You such nice young lady. So kind. You ever hung up by your wrists?”

“Goodness, no!”

“Is simple. Hurt less . . . except if for long time.”

“Alright then, let’s do it!” Cheryl paused. “Or does it have to be for a long time?”

“Any time too long. But I fix. Taruma got clever idea.”

The clever idea was a box, a plain old wooden box on which the girl to be punished was 
invited to stand. A further rummaging in the cupboard produced a long strip of soft leather. 
“You give me your hands. I tie.” Taruma sounded pleased with herself.

Miss Cheryl Chase had the privilege of watching herself bound. It was not quite as 
expected. Each of her wrists were separately encircled several times, knotted very tight; then 
from each a small loop to each end of a stout bar suspended from above in the nature of a 
trapeze . . . . There was a winch in the wall . . . . When the naked girl stood, tautly expectant, 
with her hands held high, the proceedings stopped. “Is hurting?” Taruma enquired solicitously.

“Nooooo, I suppose it isn’t . . . . Should it?”

Cheryl Chase was wickedly helpless and wickedly naked. She was not comfortable but she 
did not hurt. She still stood flatfooted. To gain easement she could raise herself on her toes if 
she desired. She looked down at Taruma and grinned uncertainly.

Taruma took away the box.

Her wrists screamed; her wrenched shoulders were in shock; her nudity took to itself a 
punitive weight; her legs kicked but her searching toes found only air. Miss Cheryl Chase was 
being punished for slapping a soldier’s face.

“Now is not very nice for bad girl.”

“It’s . . . It’s . . . Oh, Taruma . . . . Ohhhhhhh!”

Taruma replaced the box.

Heaven! Nirvana! Ecstasy! Bare feet found the wood; agony departed as rapidly as it had 
come. The tow girls looked at each other in total understanding.

“If must bring in girl to punish, I take box so she see you hang. Then put back after. Is 
quick.”

“I’ll try, Taruma, I really will. But it’s awful. What if I scream?”

“Then I gag.” Taruma assured cheerfully as though conferring a favour. “Now must bring 
soldier in to see you punish. He see you hang; he get another hard and have to go back to 
girls.”

This time Cheryl was ready; muscles tensed; breath held as the box was far removed to let 
her hang suspended. The time between Taruma’s departure and her return with an intensely 
interested and avenged warrior seemed endless; a hurtful and shaming ordeal beyond 
anything Miss Cheryl Chase had ever known. While concupiscent guerrilla ease drank in her 
suffering and her punished nudity she closed her eyes in humiliation, mortified by an 
outrageous blush.

“Was not so bad?” Taruma asked hopefully as she replaced support beneath bare and 
punished feet.

Cheryl longed to tell of awfulness, to plead for release. But the girl was trying to be kind! 
She grinned ruefully. “It’s bad. But I’ve survived . . . . I guess I will again. Oh, Taruma . . . . !”

“Now I go. You stand on box. When I bring girl and you hang you make much fuss so she 
know you sad. She tell others. Everything O. K.”

So simple! But she would have been better off chained and collared with the rest of the 
girls. Even standing solidly on the box was no picnic. In a constant dither of expectation of 
suspension, Cheryl Chase cursed her slap on the guerrilla cheek. She was paying a big price for
being fastidious. Male halitosis has never killed a girl yet!

If it had not been so painful she could have giggled. Taruma’s quick dash to remove the 
box . . . and then the entry of a palpitating dusky damsel torn between enjoyment of a white 
girl’s punishment and apprehension about her own. But it was not hard to remember the 
admonition to be sad. It was easy to moan and to gasp and to make other small sounds of 
feminine dolour. She would probably have made them anyway; they were strangely 
comforting.



Cheryl could not deny sustenance to morale in witnessing the implant of weals on coffee 
coloured skin. Strapped to the bench, the delinquent whore was vehement in protest and 
promise as her round bottom was suitably reared to receive the cane. The promises gave way 
to squeals, moans and yelps as Taruma spaced bar on scarlet bar with a yellow withe that bit 
into taut flesh with a sound to cause Cheryl herself to wince in sympathy. Taruma hurried in 
her task. Never had a bent female bottom been beaten with greater dispatch. As the sobbing 
harlot was led back to her chain and collar, Cheryl contributed a pair of strangled screams of 
anguish and an impassioned appeal for release. They seemed the very least she could do; she 
was rather proud of them.

Hours passed slowly on the box. Miss Cheryl Chase flexed this way and that, stood on one 
foot and then the other, kicked at nothing, and sometimes stood on tip-toe to ease her arms. 
Nothing helped much. She looked up longingly at her strictured wrists. They mocked her in 
their helplessness. Frustration and weariness kept her close to tears.

Taruma’s confiding glance told much in little time. It must be known the slapper of faces 
served her full sentence. The wide eyed girl neatly handcuffed by one wrist to a ring in the wall
was given a short lecture on the penalties of disrespect. Cheryl suspected the girl was new and
needed the lecture anyway. Taruma waxed eloquent in the need of gladly parted thighs with 
which to regale and reward guerrilla heroes in their noble cause. Using the suspended 
nakedness as an object lesson, the wardress pointed out that even an expensive white whore 
could be disciplined cruelly for failure to give joy. Cheryl contributed moans and groans. The 
novice was suitably impressed.

With the coming of dusk, Cheryl was taken back to her whore’s bed. She was now grateful 
for the collar and the chain. It came very naturally, after the wardress had left her to her fate, 
to bury her face in her hands and weep sobbingly.

The watching girls approved.



***



“You weather remarkably well, Cheryl.” Hassan Darouba toasted his protégé with a frankly 
admiring stare. “No traumas?”

“I wouldn’t want to be a whore.” Miss Cheryl Chase glinted appreciatively over her Martini. 
“And it’s nice to wear clothes again. And I’m glad I did it and I’m glad it’s done. Thank you, 
Hassan.”

“You got a reasonable sleep?”

“Better than I expected. That lovely chastity belt Taruma locked on me cancelled out my 
principle asset. Your heroes just looked at me in longing and salivated, but they took their 
erections elsewhere.”

“You are quite remarkable.”

“I’m a damn sight more remarkable than when I came.” She imparted a comradely grin. 
“By tomorrow I’m going to regret that chastity belt and wish I’d gone the whole hog.”

“And now?”

“Yeah . . . and now!” Cheryl sipped musingly. “I’m going to hate to leave Amphala. You’ve 
been kind to me.”

“Imprisoned you. Made you a whore . . . . ?”

“That’s what I’ll regret. I’ve been alive, damn good and alive. I’m going to write the best 
stuff I’ve ever done.”

“Not even a little bit frightened of me?”

“Hell, yes! I told you. Hassan Darouba was a great big question mark during every minute 
of my captivities. It’s there now. You had me for sure. You could keep me.” Cheryl stared at his 
desert hewed features levelly. “Why don’t you?”

“You got an erotic charge out of asking that?”

“Of course. I’m wet and disgusting hot down below. It’s your fault and Amphala’s. You’ve 
made me a woman.”

“Women here are slaves.”

“Think I don’t feel that? The knowledge of what my sex is here in Amphala tingles in every 
nerve. I’m ashamed of myself.” Her glance turned provocative. “How d’you see me, Hassan, 
concubine or slave?”

Hassan laughed at her eagerness. “You’re seeing yourself as one of the two.” He 
countered. “I’m interested. Which is it?”

“I’d choose slave, a slave to be sold. There’s a kick to it; a sort of lottery. Helpless, the 
maiden is tossed upon the waters of male lust . . . and where does she land? Intriguing!”

The guerrilla was enjoying her immensely. “Serve you right if it happened.” He taunted. 
Suddenly serious, he added: “This slave story you’re chasing – I could make it happen. If you 
wanted - ?”

Aware of the woman heat within her loins, Cheryl demanded: “You mean, you’ll sell me 
into slavery?”

He laughed at her awe. “I was thinking of Seth Burdett. I know him. I’d thought of giving 
you a personal note of introduction. It would ensure him being pleasant to you, but it 
wouldn’t guarantee you parading his white slave girl for your delectation and analysis.”

Cheryl Chase was breathless, glimpsing an outrageous premise. “So?”

“Or I can deliver you to him, naked and bound and highly indignant, to put on his coffle 
and sold at his next auction?”

“You’re calling my bluff.”

“It’s a way of you finding the girl. Their relationship is a bit of a mystery. But, as part of his 
current merchandise, you’d be right in there to have a good look at it. She travels with Burdett
and his coffle. You’re white. She’d most probably be curious and anxious to talk. With you 
safely chained, Burdett would likely care less.”

It was breathtaking. Another incredible adventure, reeking of copy – most certainly a 
book! But at the end . . . . ! “It’s gorgeous.” Cheryl Chase breathed in wonder. “But when I was 
sold . . . afterwards, I’d be sort of a prisoner . . . . ? Whoever bought me, he’d lock me up?”

“A minute ago you found the prospect exciting.”

“A minute ago I was a silly girl with hot pants. Now I want to write this super story. But I 
can’t in some bozo’s harem.”

“There’s two ways we can deal with that.” Hassan Darouba was enjoying his play on white 
feminine emotions. “I can give you three days; then have a messenger catch up with the slow 
moving coffle. He’ll have another note from me . . . . It should get you unlocked. Or we can let 
you go the course and intervene just shortly before your auction.”

Cheryl’s eyes shone. “You’d do this for me?”

“Helluva’ lot easier for me than for what you’d be letting yourself in for. If you wanted to 
be actually sold on the block, and that would be the classic female, I could arrange for you to 
be bought in by the house . . . . No sale!”

Miss Cheryl Chase gulped her drink and accepted another. This was heady stuff; a 
cornucopia of journalistic riches beyond her dreams. But she was still a New York girl with a 
shrewd head on her shoulders. Slowly, she mused aloud: “So O. K. I ask you to deliver me for 
sale. Burdett accepts the commission. I’m tossed in with his current crop. Can you give me an 
idea - ?”

“Oh, sure.” Hassan recited her hazards with obvious zest. “You’re already naked and 
bound. He’d look you over; he just might use you since you’re so damn good looking. Then 
you’d go on the coffle; a collar on your neck and a chain fore and aft to the girls you’re 
between. There’d probably be a shackle on your right wrist; its chain running down the line. 
Then, sometime, you’d all start the long trek. You’d walk and walk and walk . . . . ! Any 
complaint you cared to make would be answered by the whip. The hike takes about ten days 
and keeps you all nicely out of sight. The coffle of Burdett’s is a local institution all the 
authorities pretend not to notice.”

“Wow!”

“I have to advise you not to do it. Cheryl, you’d be nuts! Suppose you hated it? There’s be 
no way he’d free you. No girl ever escaped from a coffle. You’d best compromise on my note 
and keep your clothes on.”

Cheryl sighed and felt deflated. Hassan was right, but what a prospect, what a story! In her 
heart she wished to be taken by force, relieved of decision. To be no more than a woman, 
desired and worth a great price. She knew Hassan read her thoughts, and was thoroughly 
ashamed of herself. That night she went to Hassan’s bed imagining herself his slave. It 
improved her performance thrillingly and left her wondering.

In the morning they said a lingering good-bye. They were still involved with excuses of 
delay when the messenger handed Hassan the note. Reading it, the guerrilla leader shook his 
head in wry amusement and cocked a sardonic eye. “Believe in fate, Cheryl?”

His vibrations were a force. She picked them up. Excitement displacing dolour, she 
matched his mood. “Who doesn’t?”

“It’s just a short walk.” He said slowly. “Maybe you’d better look.” He took her arm with 
tenderness.

The four coffee coloured maidens should have been weeping. They were not. They looked 
incongruously cheerful as they stood in line; their necks linked by rope; their hands tied 
behind their backs. All were naked to display pert youthful figures with conical pointing 
breasts and a lush black growth of pubic hair. Instead of tears they projected bright smiles: 
awe for the famous Hassan Darouba; female curiosity for the white woman he escorted. 
Completing the ensemble were a couple of nondescript desert rats and an equally 
nondescript truck.

Dialect flowed. Hassan winked. “The girls are for sale. Want to buy ‘em?”

Her story! Her book! Here was almost journey’s end. Cheryl Chase almost drooled. “You 
mean . . . they’re - ?”

“Slaves? They will be when they’re sold. Right now they’re four nice country girls who’ve 
been kidnapped and are hoping I’ll buy ‘em for the boys.”

“But they look so happy!”

“Why not? They’re where you thought you’d like to be.”

“You will buy them, won’t you? They look so sweet.”

“I kidnap my own. They’re overpriced. And anyway, I’ve got a full house.”

“But what will happen to them?”

“Can’t you guess?”

Cheryl could guess. Her heart was thumping. She was too chocked with emotion to speak.

“The boys were taking ‘em to Burdett anyway. But we know each other, so they stopped 
off to see if the brothel needed recruits.”

“And the girls have nothing to say . . . . ?”

“Don’t notice ‘em talking, do you?” Hassan eyed her shrewdly. “You’re in a lovely 
emotional mix: Pity for the poor dear girls: envy for the saucy little strumpets! This slave 
fixation has really got you in a bind.”

“But they’re so young and beautiful!”

“And so exquisitely enhanced by rope?” Hassan was laughing.

At the same moment, the two of them understood the inevitable. Cheryl looked pleadingly
at her desert hawk; her voice that of a naughty child. “Couldn’t I keep my clothes on?”

“Look damn silly – along with them!”

H was right. Clothed, she would appear silly among the nubile and naked quartet. Nude, 
she could hold her own with any of them. Hassan had already seen her body. The grizzled 
slave traders didn’t matter. “I’m going to go, Hassan. It’s too good a chance.” Appealingly, she
sought his approval.

“You’ll be sorry, Cheryl.”

“That goes with any course. Will you hold on to my things for me?”

“Of course.” He grinned but affected sternness. “You’re in a state of euphoria, almost to a 
point of no return. Directly you feel the bite of that rope on your arms you’ll want to cry quits. 
If you do, it’s too late. I won’t help.”

Cheryl sensed maleness rampant. But if the idiot had wanted her for himself he’d had his 
chance. “Will you explain to the men - ?” She reached for the first fastening of her dress.



Approval flowed in waves. Not from Hassan, but from the rest. Six pairs of privileged eyes 
watched a white girl strip. Beholding Hassan gather up her small warm bits of femininity, 
Cheryl realized the enormity of what she was doing. No clothes! Perhaps never again would 
she wear clothes! Almost certainly until the time of her rescue she would be kept naked like 
the rest. “Is very fine cunt for sale,” said one of the desert’s sons in unexpected English. “We 
take much care she no escape.”

The care was instant. Cheryl winced as rope found her elbows. She was about to protest 
that the other girls had only their hands bound, but she caught the sardonic glint of Hassan’s 
eye. In deliberate bravado she stood still and erect; her breasts rampant and heaving, as she 
felt the encirclement of hemp and the gradual lacing of several strands until elbows met. Then
her wrists! Hands palm to palm, two quick circlets and a cinching band between. Apart from 
the one experience with Taruma, Cheryl Chase had never in her life been bound. Why should 
she be? But, for very sure, she was bound now. She knew she could never escape what had 
been done to her. Moreover, this strictured helplessness had the effect of making her trebly 
naked and wickedly vulnerable. To her own inflamed imagination her breast and pubic patch 
had become beacons proclaiming her new estate.

“Your elbows have been tied because you’re new and will probably try and escape.” 
Hassan informed conversationally.

“Well, couldn’t you tell them I won’t? That rope hurts.”

“They wouldn’t believe me. Who would?”

Again he was right. Who would believe in her wild quest? Cheryl sniffed indignantly. 
“You’re laughing at me.”

“Of course.” Hassan’s agreement was instant and infuriating. “You’ve no idea what a 
delectable morsel you’ve become.”

She kept a hurt silence while there was much play with rope. It ended with her neck being 
noosed between two of the bright eyed slave maidens. There was four feet of hemp between 
each girl. They had sufficient freedom for their owner’s convenience but no chance of escape.

“You’re in the middle because they don’t trust you at either end.” Hassan Darouba was 
being pleasantly helpful. As a sort of epitaph, he added: “I still think you’re nuts.”

Thinking of it afterwards, Cheryl blamed the rope on her elbows. It hurt and imposed a 
truly terrible helplessness. “Alright then.” She said savagely. “I’ll agree with you. Please have 
me untied!”

“No.”



“You were right all along, Hassan. I’m an idiot. I’ll be very humble . . . . P-L-E-A-S-E . . . . !”

“No.”

Her loins inflamed. Here indeed was the male! She went over it in her mind: M-A-L-E . . . . ! 
She had become just a woman . . . bound! Soon she would be a slave. She had cast her 
femininity to the winds. It was wafted back at her as the bite of rope and a demoralizing Male 
indifference. She was going to be sold. Therein lay her future. Her past had died with the 
shedding of her clothes. If there were other humiliations she would not now look at them. She
had abased herself enough. She longed to be coldly acerbic, but the words came out 
pathetically female: “Good-bye, Hassan . . . and thank you.”

“Good-bye, Cheryl.” For a moment Hassan Darouba allowed his heart to show in his eyes. 
“Have faith, girl - !”

“You get in truck now!” Said an impatient desert voice.

The girls were literally tossed in one by one. A male hand clutched each crotch as it lifted 
and heaved its costly freight. The tailgate was raised and latched. Beyond it the world of Miss 
Cheryl Chase dissolved into infinity.

Within fifteen minutes the New York journalist wanted to cry. One of the dusky damsels 
was already in tears which she conveniently wiped away on her companion’s bare shoulder. 
The truck was just too much. Its jolting passage tossed its female cargo around with a venom 
their bound hands and roped necks could do nothing to alleviate. In various and ever 
changing postures they sprawled on the bouncing bed. For Cheryl, with her elbows bound as 
well as her wrists, it was doubly distressing. Her tears hovered, but in front of these girls she 
would not let them flow. Longingly, she thought back to Paradise Lost.

Pain levels. Pain undermines resolve. It is an attrition against which most defences crumble.
It was not long before Cheryl had but one desire: to free herself of rope, to get rid of the fire 
in which her forearms were consumed. She would walk willingly into slavery if only she could 
be untied. Since their owners were in the cab and unavailable, she backed up against the 
closest girl and strove to find her knots with her own bound and hampered fingers.

The result was shocking. The girl she sought to free twisted away and turned in reproach: 
“You want get us whipped? You very silly girl. Must not get loose. Never to try.”

“But I think we could if we all worked at it.”

“No. No. No! Is wrong. Much punish.”

“Alright. But will you try and untie me?”

“That worse. You worth so much money.”

Pride! The flame of lust! For a little while Cheryl forgot her bonds. She was costly flesh. 
Upon her was being imposed an attention beyond civilized usage. Her glow of self esteem 
was enhanced by a resentful bit of information. “Maybe you get whipped with us. But never so
hard.”

The lust was puzzling. Probably there were better words for the flame so easily 
engendered by the implications of her plight. The ropes might hurt but they were, in part, to 
blame. They had been knotted in her flesh by men; men who could do as they pleased with 
her once the knots were tied. Then, her companion’s acceptance of their fate; their awe of the 
omnipotent Male; their reference to being whipped as though it was a daily part of being a 
female . . . . All these things kept alive the heat between Miss Cheryl Chase’s thighs. Her 
lechery was not related to an individual; it was inflamed by the maleness of this land and the 
sexuality it thrust upon its women. In their inventory of her as merchandise she was two 
nipples, two breasts, one cunt appended to acceptable curves. It was demeaning; it was 
infuriating; it was also a perpetual challenge. There was also the nakedness. Formerly her body
had been for a privileged few; even with them she had never sanctioned an intimate 
examination of her crotch. Here it was available to all; the binding of her arms thrust it into 
prominence. But even though a look was free, ownership was not. Here, ownership of her 
physical attributes was costly, but it was total. Cheryl supposed it was in this totality of 
ownership which sparked the fire. Her body was going to be sold to a man who would use it 
as he pleased; her mind would be excess baggage.

Cheryl looked at the four nude damsels to whom she was roped. They looked back at her 
with wide and speculative eyes. “Where you be captured?” One of them asked shyly.

The truth would be too much for them. “It was in Malenka.” She lied simply. “I was a 
tourist.”

“You been fucked yet?”

“Yes.”

We bin’ fucked too. Is nice.”

Sweet and simple and uncomplicated. Cheryl could almost envy them their ardent youth. 
“Don’t you want to get free, to escape?” She asked, puzzled. “I still think we could get 
ourselves untied – “

“So silly! We be sold to rich man, have fine life.”

“But if he ties you and whips you - ?”

“We is girls.”

So simple a philosophy. It occurred to Cheryl she was a girl too and had better get used to
the idea.

“You no run. You take off clothes and stand still for tie. We see.”

They had her there. Now they saw her blush. She lied again: “I’d been told what to do. I 
had to.”

“You in love with Hassan Darouba. You let yourself be sold for much money so he buy 
guns. He not want you sold, but you say yes must do. You got hot cunt for handsome leader.”

Miss Cheryl Chase let it go at that.





Chapter Three


The Slave Trader





A timeless face, craggily masculine, grey eyes sardonically amused at a world his own 
strength moulded to his need. Seth Burdett was power. Cheryl’s roped companions stared at 
him in awe and adoration. She herself was piqued. He had paid her no more attention than 
the rest. She was one of five naked girls roped together for his approval. Cheryl assuaged her 
pique by assuming the cavalier treatment as his way of keeping superior merchandise in its 
place and lessening the price he would have to pay for it.

“Where’d you pick this lot up, Casim?” The voice was as Aussie as the rest.

A flood of dialect, a waving of hands.

“O. K., O. K., let’s go and have a drink.” Seth Burdett turned towards the tent a hundred 
paces distant.

“Please . . . . oh, please . . . Mr. Burdett . . . . !” Even to her own ears, Cheryl’s cry of distress 
sounded flutteringly feminine and out of place. “I – I wonder . . . . ? Would you please untie my
elbows? They hurt terribly.”

It stopped all three men in their tracks. The desert rats were shocked. Burdett’s expression 
was that of a man who has just heard a camel recite the Gettysburg Address. “You say 
something?” He enquired heavily.

“Yes . . . oh, I’m sure you heard. Please untie my elbows! They’re giving me unnecessary 
pain.”

The riding crop had seemed a part of him. It was like the swagger stick of the British 
Military. Now it became alive; a focal point for five pairs of female eyes. Burdett proffered it. 
“She’s still yours, Casim. I haven’t bought her yet. Not sure I want to.”

It hurt atrociously. The girls to either side had backed away from male displeasure; the 
rope on Cheryl’s neck was taut. She could turn and twist but could not leave the place where 
she stood. The crop snapped and cut her on whatever expanse of skin her gyrations exposed. 
Four strokes. They left her panting and dishevelled; angry with herself for not standing 
proudly, scorning pain. She felt a child, rebuked.



“You were saying, love . . . . ?” Caustic concern.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken.”

Cheryl watched them go; a trio of male omnipotence impervious to female pain. Her hip 
and one rib throbbed where the crop had wealed. It would have been wiser to have meekly 
offered her bottom. She wanted to reach and touch her wounds. She had never in her life 
been whipped. But she could touch nothing. Her elbows scalded with persistent venom.

“You see, you get whip. Such silly girl.”

They were femininely sympathetic; sisters in distress. Cheryl longed to put her arms round 
dusky shoulders. But they were still four naked girls collared and linked by rope, robbed of 
hands and arms. “Mustn’t we even speak?” She asked piteously.

“Man speak first. Then we say what want hear.”

“Sorry I jerked on the rope.”

“Is no matter. But is best bend over bottom.” There were titters. “Whip on bottom not hurt 
so bad.”

With such a fund of feminine wisdom she could not go wrong! Bitterly, Cheryl realized the 
five of them were standing by the truck as the slavers had left them. They were not tethered, 
save to each other; there was no guard. Instinctively, she exclaimed. “What’s to stop us 
running away right now? While they’re drinking in the tent we could get each other loose?”

Four pairs of reproachful eyes, a reproachful voice. “We can’t untie, not ever. Fingers all 
stiff now. What we do all tied together in trees . . . . ? We starve. If get caught, most terrible 
whippings.”

Cheryl sighed. They were sweet girls, but had they been white all of them would now be 
running for their lives. But she was tied to four non-starters and could not escape their dusky 
wisdom. Just the same, she felt a fool to just stand there like a well broken horse. If only the 
rope was not round her neck . . . .!

Miss Cheryl Chase was suddenly inundated by shame. Escape! What the hell did she want 
with escape? This was her idea. She had asked for it. She had stripped and offered her nudity 
to be bound. If she ran now she would be abandoning the greatest story of her life, forgetting
purpose and plan, allowing panic and pain to get the best of her resolve. Striving to ignore 
both, she looked around.

It was the beginning of the scrub, the desert’s fringe. The tent was sheltered by small trees.
Beyond them as the land rose the trees were bigger; there were outcrops of rock. It was a 
wilderness of valueless miles. In the foreground four tethered burros grazed on scanty grass. 
There was not a girl in sight – nothing!

They waited. When their masters reappeared, the five girls arranged themselves in line, 
neck tethers as full length, shoulders braced by bonds. Burdett wasted no time. He cupped 
each crotch, each breast, probed each belly, pinched nipples and pushed a hard finger within 
warm sheaths. When he pushed back lips and pulled down jaws to examine teeth Cheryl 
wanted to giggle. When her turn came she endured in silence, refusing to meet his eyes. 
Satisfied with her, he did not speak but moved on to the next.

Cheryl’s heart was still thumping from the rough treatment of his hands when he once 
again stood before her. She felt the force of him and was blushingly aware of the intent 
scrutiny of his eyes upon her features and her breasts. By an effort of will, as though forcing 
herself into battle, she raised her eyes to his.

“Enjoying yourself, girl?”

“No.”

The devastatingly short exchange left her wondering how much he knew. It was also a 
poor beginning. Cheryl wanted to speak, to prove herself other than a simpleton, but she was 
afraid. She was uncertain if it was the crop wealing her skin or the vibrations of easy authority 
she picked up from his nearness. Either way, she was trembling.

“I do have a title, y’know.”

She was uncertain of his demand, but tried the obvious. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll remember.”

“Hurt to say that, eh?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He chuckled, pleased. “Been well up in the world, I’ll bet. And now you’re way down?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Hurt?”

“Very much . . . Sir!”

“Interesting. How about your arms?”

She felt certain he was goading her, waiting to mark her with the crop he still carried 
beneath one arm. She dared not refuse an answer but tried to be stiffly correct. “I have no 
complaint about my arms, Sir.”

Burdett laughed in genuine amusement. “Where the hell did you pick up the Army 
Manual? You can unbend a bit. I won’t crop that nice arse of yours without a reason.”

“Thank you, Sir.” She paused. “This isn’t a bit easy for me.”

“Looking forward to slavery?”

“No, Sir.” Another pause. “But I’m trying not to be silly about something I can’t escape.” 
She focused on the riding crop. “I don’t ever want to be whipped if it’s possible to avoid.”

“Hmmmmm. Certain amount’s good for you. Hard to be a slave without a few floggings.”

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll be grateful if you’ll just tell me - ?”

“Oh, I will! Right now, d’you want your elbows untied?”

He saw the longing in her eyes, and did not wait for her answer. “There’s a proper way of 
asking, y’know. Want to try?”

Cheryl was frightened, but she wanted to try. “Please, Sir, will you permit my elbows to be 
untied?”

“Much better. Turn round.”

It chafed her neck but she instantly obeyed. Miss Cheryl Chase stood sharply to attention 
as a slave trader tugged loose her knots. When the hemp bindings were peeled from her skin 
she could not avoid small sounds of distress at the pain. “Thank you, Sir! Oh, thank you!”

With the rope gone from her elbows life was glorious again. She was once more Miss 
Cheryl Chase the intrepid journalist. Her bound wrists behind her back were no more than was
implicit in her quest. With a new vivacity she returned her approach to normal, risking wrath.

“Mr. Burdett, I feel an idiot saying ‘Yes, Sir’ and ‘No, Sir’ and ‘Thank you, Sir’. You’ll think I’m
being sarcastic.”

“Are you?”

“No, I’m just plain frightened . . . Sir.”

“Never been whipped before, eh! Those few snaps with the crop scared you?”

“I was a beastly sort of pain – new to me. I’m still trembling from it.”

“Wait ‘till you get properly whipped.” Burdett chuckled at her cringe. “I won’t kid you. I 
whip every new girl sometime. It helps them adjust. I’d cheat you if I didn’t whip you too.”

“I do have some intelligence.”

“It’s a handicap. Believe me, it will just get you marks on your pelt.”

“Well, if you say so.” She gazed up, wanly. “But these other poor girls . . . . ? They’re so 
obedient already, why would you whip them?”

“They expect it. Matter of fact for them, matter of their respect for me. You’ll be surprised 
at its effect on you. It’s potent.”

Cheryl shrugged. “That’s a nice thing about slavery; a girl doesn’t have to make decisions. 
When does my whipping take place . . . Sir?”

They laughed together. “There’s quality in you.” Burdett assessed seriously. “You’ve given 
orders. Sorry about the downfall. Tell me, are you curious about the block? Standing up there, 
stripping yourself naked for sale?”

“Of course. It’s one of every girl’s fantasies.” Cheryl tugged at her roped wrists. “See, I’m 
helpless. So it’s going to happen. I expect to be frightened out of my skin.”

“You’ll fetch an enormous sum.”

“So I’m told. Am I a sort of windfall to you?”

“Yeah, doesn’t often happen. We’re off the tourist beat here. It’s the schoolteachers and 
little stenos on a tour who yield the white girls for the bigger traders down the Coast. If I get a
white girl every third coffle I’m doing well.”

“The coffle is the way you chain us?”

“Right. The hike makes flat tummies and firm flesh. Shows up damn good on the block.”

“There’s a legend . . . a story . . . about a white slave girl you’re supposed to own? The 
hotelkeeper at Malenka told me?”

Burdett chuckled. “Tell you what . . . I’ll have her give you your whipping.”

“You mean . . . .? She actually exist?”

“You exist, don’t you? What’s so rum about it?”

Cheryl was alive with happiness. The story was true! She was going home with the story of 
the lifetimes! That is, if she ever got home at all. She twisted at her tied hands to remind 
herself of realities. “You mean . . . Out here, in this wilderness . . . . ? She sticks around. She 
stays with you?”

“You’re staying, love!”

“But I’m tied - !” Realization dawned. “You mean . . . you actually keep her in – in -?”

He laughed at her embarrassment. “In slave chains . . . . ? That’s what you were going to 
ask?”



“Well . . . yes. But I’m sorry . . . . I feel rude. It’s none of my business.”

“Sure I keep her tied, or chained, or caged, or on the coffle. One slave’s the same as 
another. Can’t have you girls running around loose, you’d be in endless trouble.”

Cheryl examined the premise of security by enslavement. For some, such as the girls to 
whom she was tied, it could be a happy solution to life’s problems. Suddenly she realized the 
girls were gone, walking under escort towards the trees. Fingers were tugging at the knots of 
her throat; a moment later her neck was free. Casim followed the others. She and Seth Burdett
were alone. Her gratitude was politely civilized. “Thank you! Gee, that feels good! I hated that 
rope round my neck.”

“Slavery is full of small sensory compensations, Miss Chase.”

It took several moments for the formality of her surname to register. Cheryl met his 
amused regard, wide eyed, startled. “How . . . ? You’ve known -?”

“Hassan Darouba. We scratch each other’s backs a bit. He sent me a note.”

She felt deflated. This denouement was premature. The story of the white slave girl was 
being snatched from under her nose. Listlessly, she said: “I’m sorry, I really am sorry . . . .” She 
turned for his convenience. “You might as well untie my hands.”

“Never mind. Stay as you are!” His response was offhand.

Uncertainly, Cheryl turned back to face him. Reversion to journalism made her doubly 
naked. “Would you have some sort of clothing I can wear?” She queried diffidently.

“No.” His thoughts seemed elsewhere. “You don’t need any.”

Two negatives! Cheryl twisted at her bound hands, glimpsing something she had no wish 
to see. “Are you giving me a message?” She asked soberly.

“Yes, and you’ve read it, love.” Seth Burdett grinned at her distraction. “C’mon, may as well 
sit in the tent.”

Without demur, she walked beside him. But in the tent it was he who sat, not she. Casually,
he backed her against the centre pole and tethered her to it by her neck; a noose and a very 
few inches of rope. She was compelled to stand and face him, now doubly naked indeed and 
demeaningly conscious of the strictures on her wrists. She watched him pour a drink, and 
gulped it avidly when he held it to her lips. “I’ll drink another if you’ll give it to me.” She said 
without hypocrisy. “You’ve handed me a bit of a shock.”

“I’ve handed you the experience of a lifetime, woman.” He tilted the second potion 
between her willing lips. “It’s what you wanted.”

Cheryl had always liked a drink or two. The scorching stuff Burdett had poured into her 
sparked the retort. “And it lasts my life?”

“Go right to the nub of things, don’t you, love?”

“Must I stand, tied and naked like this, while you sit and ogle me?”

“What else d’you expect?”

Miss Cheryl Chase knew herself trapped. She had walked into the lion’s den with her eyes 
wide open. She could scarcely complain if it held a lion. “I’ll try not to argue.” She said 
defensively. “But please tell me what’s expected . . . the rules I mean.” She managed a smile of 
self deprecation. “I’ve never been a slave.”

He raised his glass. “Here’s to ropes and chains!” He sipped sparingly and bestowed his 
lopsided half a grin. “You’re a bitch who’s had things her way. I’m going to get a lot of 
pleasure out of humiliating you; cut you down to a cunt and nipples.” His regard swept the 
length of her tied nudity with approval. “I’m a bit of a bastard.”

She suspected it a pose. But Burdett would play the role and make it stick. “Aren’t we all?” 
She responded without challenge. “You’re just doing what most men wish they could.”

“You mean whip your arse?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Look, love, you’ve reneged on the ‘Sir’.” He held up a placating hand. “It’s not that I’m all 
that concerned – it will never come out of you in anything but rebellion. But there’s the 
morale of the coffle. Can’t have the two of us on a socially conversational level. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He shook his head sadly. “If you could only hear yourself say it! Sounds like a disapproving
butler who’s been told to put the cat out. Try ‘Master’!”

“If you wish . . . . Master.”

“Much better. Use it! And why don’t you tell me to drop dead?”

“Because I believe that if I did you’d whip me . . . Master.”

“You’ll be whipped. But not now. Right now your orders are to politely request me to fuck 
you.”

Cheryl Chase had no illusions. Everything led to, or ended, between a girl’s legs. Even when
the act itself was not performed, its implied possibility hung above the two sexes like a 
palpable miasma. Cheryl saw her options: She could now be whipped and then fucked, or she 
could request the impalement of her sheath and whatever disgust or pleasure the act might 
bestow. She chose the sensibly obvious. “Please fuck me, Master!”

Her neck freed of its nose, Miss Cheryl Chase lay on her bound hands upon the sandy floor
and used her body to please a man with such skills as was left to her after being robbed of her
arms and fingers. Some considerable time passed before she was tethered again. The fresh 
drink was welcome, though neither of them needed reassurance. Each knew their coupling 
had been good. She was moist and breathing heavily and blushed when he dusted off her 
nudity with a rag.

“Knew a girl once who had her hands tied behind her back for months.” Burdett nodded at
her approvingly. “Does something for most girls . . . . Makes you horny, doesn’t it? You were 
nicely lubed.”

“Yes. It annoyed me at first . . . at Amphala. I’ve tried to analyze.”

“Hell, it’s simple. A bit of rope makes any girl a female.”

“You mean, at heart we’re all slaves to men?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

She vouchsafed a grin. “I certainly am . . . Master.” Bracing herself for male disapproval, 
Cheryl asked: “Tell me what’s going to be done with me, please?”

“Dammit, love, you already know. You’re going on the coffle and you’re going to walk one 
helluva long way, and then you’re going to stand, naked, on the auction block and be sold to 
the highest bidder.”

“And what will he do with me . . . . Or to me?”



“How would I know?” He softened. “Interesting thought, though! You have to be 
concerned . . . . Sweetheart, he might whip you to death – these bozos dearly love to whip 
white skin, or love you two pieces. Chances are he’ll screw your arse off and then try and sell 
you at a profit. Not much of a future, is it?”



“Well-l-l-l, not just like that.”

“No, not just like that. You were going to come and use me and Corey, and then romp 
back to New York with a story to make you rich. Somehow you got good old Hassan Darouba 
on your side; he’s asked me to give you the story; let you talk to the legend, then send you 
safely home. He’s got your clothes waiting.”

“Why won’t you do that? Please . . . Master?”

“Piss on it! I’m going to do what Hassan should have done. I’m going to have some sport 
out of you. You’re going to be fucked, whipped and walked. You’re going to be so damn 
healthy . . . . !”



“I’m healthy now!”

Seth Burdett clapped his hands. Almost instantly a nude girl entered. Her ankles were 
joined by a long chain that swirled as she walked with a natural grace unhindered by the 
metal she must bear. She was white, but exposure had tinted her, all of her, to pale gold. She 
was the loveliest feminine thing Cheryl Chase had ever seen. Her vibrations reached out to the
bound captive like a blow. Provocatively, the girl with shackled feet posed in one flowing 
contour after another. Facing the girl at the post, she thrust out her hips and spread her legs 
to display a thick lush pubic patch and plumply prominent Venus mound. Then, looking Cheryl
directly in the eye, she said simply: “No girl can ever escape from the coffle.” Moments later 
she was gone.

“Quite something, eh love?” Burdett chuckled. “I’ll have you looking like that before I’m 
through with you.”

“She’s gorgeous!”

“And so will you be. Fetch millions.”

Again the dual emotion; an erotic excitation at her own worth on the block, and an 
awareness of implacable captivity. The cynical Australian would never let her go. No way! Not 
with money like that at stake. Restlessly, Cheryl Chase turned her neck within its noose and 
pulled at bound wrists. “You could get into trouble over kidnapping me, y’know.” She said 
soberly. “Can’t we come to terms?”



“Slaves don’t barter - and you’re forgetting my title.”

“Oh, shit,” Cheryl was infuriated by impotence, by nakedness, by shame, and by her own 
stupidity. Infuriated most of all by this man’s calm acceptance of the ownership of her body. 
She stamped a bare foot on the sand: “Look, I’ve got the story of a decade. Let me write it and
let me go. I’ll give you half.”

“You don’t have your story. It’s only beginning, love. After a week on the coffle you’ll 
realize how little you know right now.”

“You mean, you’re actually going to chain me on that thing with – with – a lot of – “

“Wogs?”

She flushed. “Well . . . coloureds.”

“Too right I am.”

She twisted again under his frank appraisal. “But we’re both white; you don’t have to be so
damn unkind. If you keep me tied so I’m helpless, isn’t that enough?”

“Kinder on the coffle, love. You don’t want to be roped for two or three weeks, do you? 
Besides, you won’t get your story tied up in this tent or out there to a tree.”

“My story doesn’t matter any more. You’ve screwed me up right.” She gave him a hostile 
glare, and added sulkily: “Master.”

“Hell, write your damn book! I’ll make it possible, and I’ll get it to where it needs to go.”

“And the cheque comes to me care of wog harem? No thanks.”

Seth Burdett sighed, regarding her in mock despair. “We’re wasting our time, kid.” He said 
gently. “I should thrash you now, but you’ve had a hard day. Tomorrow I’ll have Corey give 
you a nice sensible female whipping. You know, a just between us girls sort of thing. Until 
then, the coffle’s the best place – “

“Who’s this Corey? Was that her? Is she the . . . ?”

For answer, Seth Burdett clapped his hands.



***



It was hateful. Something Cheryl could not carry off with any kind of flair, not even with 
bravado. She sat awkwardly on the ground between the interested regard of two pairs of dark 
brown eyes and two dusky collared necks, from which a liberal chain looped to the metal 
band locked upon her throat. Upon her right wrist an iron shackle reminded her of what she 
had become. It too was linked to join her to all the rest of the girls who sat as she was sitting, 
awaiting the pleasure of the Master. Miss Cheryl Chase of New York City had become a part of
the inventory on the coffle of the Slave Trader, Seth Burdett.

Like her Master, the white girl was sardonically amused, faintly impersonal, still an enigma. 
“Don’t expect favours, Miss Chase!”

“Aw, shit, I don’t expect any more. But you don’t have to be mean.”

“I wish you hadn’t come here, Miss Chase. I’ll treat you exactly as our Master orders.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, call me Cheryl. And look . . . are you really that conceited bastard’s 
slave girl?”

“Haven’t you noticed, my feet are chained?”

“I’m not sure that means a damn thing in this screwball place. Maybe you like it – costume 
jewelry?”

“And I’m naked and I do what I’m told and I call him Master.”

Cheryl sniffed. “Oh alright. Look, how much to untie me and let me go?”

“I’ve already got everything what I want. Sorry!”

“Dammit, Corey, or whatever your name is, I’m a naked girl far from home; my hands are 
tied behind my back, and I’ve just been sentenced to a sort of life imprisonment! Couldn’t you
loosen up a bit?”

“Tomorrow I have to whip you. Until that’s over let’s stay as we are. I’m not hostile. Come 
along . . . . “

There had been no chance to run. Hands still tied, she had lounged on the ground 
between the two curious girls while the collar was fitted and locked on her neck. It was then 
her hands were freed.

“Not taking any chances with me?”

The faintest of smiles. “I told you: No girl ever escapes the coffle . . . and it would be no 
kindness to let you run. No naked girl would last two days in the wilderness.”

Cheryl had shrugged, and observed with interest the fastening of the shackle on her right 
wrist. “Is that so I can’t slap his Majesty’s face?” She asked acidly.

“I’ll talk about your chains when you’re in a better mood.”

The tawny maned lioness had stalked away, seemingly unhindered by her own restraint. 
Cheryl looked at her companions uncertainly as her free hand pulled fretfully at her collar. 
Both giggled cheerfully. “You not get free. No use try.”

“I expect you’re used to these blasted things. I’m not.”

“Better you not be so angry.”

“You mean it’ll get my ass whipped? What about yours?”

Proudly, they twisted to exhibit striped backs and bottoms. More giggles. “Is teach us be 
real good girls.”

One more demoralizing realization: These girls were not unhappy. They seemed actually 
pleased . . . . ! Counting heads, Cheryl found herself one of thirteen girls on the chain. Most 
returned broad smiles. An ample chain from each end girl was locked round the tree. In 
exasperation, she demanded: “What the hell do we do all day?”

“Plenty rest. Very soon much walk.” Dark eyes viewed white intractability with pity. “If you 
like I suck your tits, make happy.”

Cheryl felt a bitch. These girls were kind. She remembered a fictional title: ‘Damsels in 
Distress’. They were all that together. They shared a chain and each other. Inevitably 
lesbianism must flourish in such proximity! Her immediate horizon was redundant with breasts
and buttocks and pubic hair. Girl scent was wafted at her from both directions. “Thank you.” 
She responded gratefully. “I’ll suck yours too. But not right now.”

“You shy? You not like naked?”

“I don’t like any of it. Don’t any of you try to escape?”

“Escape!” More giggles. “How a girl escape?”

That about summed it up. None of them would escape or be set free. Moodily through the
day, Cheryl Chase thought of her book. Everything about her was redolent of copy, lurid titles 
and chapter headings. Sex was implicit in the scene; eroticism in every act and word. Her 
public would lap it up. And there was more to come! More and more! At the end of it the 
auction block. And after that . . . . ? Miss Cheryl Chase ached for a typewriter and knew she 
might never see one again.

They slept where and as they were on the ground, arranging their chains as best they 
could in the co-operation of necessity. The girls stilled Cheryl’s flare of anger . . . . : “No 
blanket. You no complain. Complain get whip. You lay down same as us.”

What else could she do? But her thoughts were bitter as she wriggled in search of comfort 
on the wiry grass. She was still awake when a pale moon painted the camp with silver and she 
heard the clink of metal links. Cautiously, she raised her head enough to witness the 
incredible.

It was Seth Burdett and the girl, Corey. They sauntered in an oblivious rapport. Reaching 
the coffle, the white girl slid to the ground, Burdett bending with her. There was an audible 
sound of metal on metal. A click . . . and then another. Burdett, the slaver, walked back 
towards his tent alone.





Chapter Four


Coffled





Cheryl could not walk with the same easy grace as her companion. The chain linking her 
ankles was long enough but always in the way. She trod on it, or snubbed a toe, or snagged it 
on a root. She was chagrined to be so inept beside a girl who wore the same shackles with 
proud indifference.

“Don’t feel badly, dear, it was the same with me at first.” The white girl, Corey, placed 
understanding fingers on a bare arm. “There’s no hurry, we’re not going far.”

“You’ve locked the damn things on me because I’m not to be trusted.” The journalistic 
slave complained. “That whip and that rope you’re carrying mean you’re going to tie my 
hands some way, and you rob me of my feet while you’re doing it?”

Corey squeezed the arm. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to run?”

“Well, looking at that beastly whip, yes. I don’t see why you have to whip me?”

“I said much the same thing, the first time –and probably the second too.”

Cheryl looked sideways at the tawny maned beauty and asked, dubiously: “Don’t tell me 
that Australian kangaroo whips you?”

“Of course he does. I’m his property.” The pale gold beauty paused. “This tree will do. 
We’re out of sight of the girls.”

Cheryl admitted to jealousy against the lithe loveliness possessing the best of two worlds. 
“I’d have thought you’d have made an example of me in front of them.” She said bitterly. 
“Show how impartial you are between dark and white. Why doesn’t his nibs whip me instead 
of you?”

“Believe it or not, he’s being kind. I’ll hurt you just as much but I don’t have his monolithic 
menace. Stick your hand up here – I don’t suppose you want to fight - ?”

Irritated and resentful, Cheryl Chase placed her wrist against the scrawny trunk and 
watched it bound, then her other. “I have to be nuts.” She said bitterly as she surveyed her 
new helplessness. “I know you’re going to make me believe this but right now I don’t. Where’d
you learn to tie like that? My wrists look like they’ve been neatly packaged at Magnin’s.”

“There, arms stretched front, shoulder level. You can’t hug the tree but you can dance like 
crazy.” Corey lounged against the trunk so as to look her captive in the eye. “Hate me?”

“Not yet. Are you going to make me scream?”

“Yes. But if you can tone it down a bit the girls will respect you for it. We’re not out of 
earshot, y’know.”

Close, they assessed each other; the short whip trailing carelessly from firm fingers. “That 
hateful thing’s going to hurt me damn awful.” Cheryl accused. “I’m frightened.”

“First time you’ve been whipped?”

“Hell, yes! Isn’t there a way I can talk myself out?”

“No.” The lovely eyes were quietly appraising. “I’m going to whip you – no hurry about it. 
But it’s best you know it’s going to hurt worse than anything you’ve ever known.”

“And I have to stand, a nice polite naked girl, and take it!” Cheryl twisted against her 
prisoned arms and shook her head in disbelief. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It will.”

Two women! Girls . . . nubile, tremendously aware. In the manner she was bound, Cheryl 
could turn but little. But as her companion sauntered slowly to where she would use the whip 
the eyes of the bound girl followed until she was straining to gaze back across a bare 
shoulder. Neither had anything left to say.

Miss Cheryl Chase discovered her first whip lash to be a far more personal venom than she
was prepared for. It cut across her shoulders in a burning scald to burrow deep within all her 
sensibilities as though alive and determined to rob her of everything but agony. Hazily, she 
realized the lovely creature who had dealt her the blow could not possibly know its awfulness 
or the impossibility of her flesh accepting another. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t stand any more . . . I 
didn’t know –.“ She heard her voice as from a distance, trite, inadequate.

The second stroke burned round her waist; it was as devastating as the first. Cheryl Chase 
heard the clash of links as her foot kicked at an invisible enemy; saw her fingers clench and 
then splay wide against the bands of cord by which she was compelled to stand while her 
flesh was striped. She had taken it for granted a girl was whipped across her bottom; a part of 
her supposedly designed for rod or thong. But her back, her waist! The virgin whiteness of 
such unmarked skin . . . . ! This time her voice was vehement. “Not there! Oh, not there! I can’t 
stand it there . . . . My bottom . . . my bottom!”

“You’re a big girl now.” Corey’s voice chided gently. “Bottoms are for children.”

“No girl can stand such pain! Stoppit! Oh please, not again!”

Number three centred itself between the others. Cheryl was heaving against her bound 
wrists. She could see them clearly; tied one each side of the scarred trunk; the bands 
impervious to all her strength. She was still writhing impotently when number four bit behind 
her breasts, snapping home within her armpit. She made sounds; they were like no others she 
had ever heard.

“You’re doing very well, Cheryl. You’ll make a beautiful slave.”

“I won’t! I won’t! Oh please, Corey, don’t whip me any more!”

“We’ve only started, dear.”

The fifth was actually across her bottom, lapping one hip. Cheryl yelped in shock and 
moaned her protest. It was a quite different pain; awful to cause her to shrink within her belly. 
But it flared the fire that now was never far distant from her libido. When the tawny maned 
slave girl planted a second cut upon the first Cheryl burst into an explosive orgasm as 
unexpected as it was violent. Such betrayal by her flesh left her shamed and shocked that it 
could happen to her . . . . ! It was absurd . . . outrageous!”

“Us girls are crazy, aren’t we, dear!” The voice of the lioness was vibrant with feminine 
sympathy as she struck again.

Cheryl scaled the heights and plumbed the depths of bliss and agony. When she surfaced, 
the girl Corey was again leaning against the tree; surveying her sweat streaked nakedness with
lambent eyes.

“Is it over?” It was Cheryl’s only thought.

“Of course it isn’t, sweetheart.”

“How . . . how many more?”

“You’re panting exquisitely, dear. You’re beautifully pink and moist . . . . And those sounds .
. . . ! Mmmmmm!”

“Please don’t whip me any more! It’s too, too awful.”

“Poor dear girl, look at you wrists! I thought you’d tug the tree down.”

“I can’t bear it – I just can’t!”

“You have to, Cheryl. You’re tied.”

“Oh, damn my foolishness, whipping’s not for me. Corey, send me back to Amphala! 
Please, please, please . . . . ?”

The ripe lips pursed. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Hassan Darouba would pop you away in his 
brothel, hold you to ransom, or sell you to another trader.”

“But I wouldn’t be whipped! Oh, this is unbearable. Please, Corey?”

“Yes, you would, love. Girls get whipped a lot in this part of the world.”

“Please don’t whip me any more!”

“A few now on your wet little cunt, Cheryl.”

“Noooooooh . . . Oh, no!”

“Spread your legs! If you don’t I’ll whip your breasts until you do.”

“Noooooooh, you can’t! Oh, Corey . . . don’t whip me there . . . please! Whip my back!”

“You just complained about your back.”

“I didn’t know . . . . Oh, Corey, I don’t know anything. I just don’t want my pussy whipped.”



“You prefer your breasts . . . . ?”

“I didn’t say that. Oh, damn . . . . !” Cheryl Chase spread her legs as far as they would go.

Instantly, the thong leaped into her most private place; cutting up it snapped across moist 
lips and pubic fronds to welt the shrinking belly of the tied girl. Miss Cheryl Chase screamed in
outraged shock. “Why there . . . . ? Oh, why on that part of me? Ohhhhh – oh!”

“Because you’re female, Cheryl.”

The lash cut up between the sundered thighs again and again until the spread legs could 
maintain their surrender no longer but closed tight in mute protest against an agony beyond 
bearing. Their owner wailed: “I can’t . . . I can’t . . . I just can’t bear it!”

“Open your legs again, Cheryl!”

“It’s no use. The pain’s too awful. Do what you like . . . I can’t help it. You’re cutting me to 
pieces down there.”

“There’s not a spot of blood –“ A feminine hand inserted itself between clenched flesh ti 
cup and knead the whipped vulva. When the hand was withdrawn it was held before captive 
eyes. “There, Cheryl, see for yourself!”

“It’s all . . . all wet . . . secretions!” For the tied girl it was one more shock.

“One of the mysteries, dear. A girl thinks she should be dry as dust while getting all that 
pain, but your pussies don’t agree. Now lick me off!”

Cheryl moaned. She would have preferred the drama of blood. Corey’s wet palm meant 
the whipping could continue. Under impulse and without revulsion she obediently plied her 
tongue to taste her own flavour from another girl’s hand.

“Now, Miss Cheryl Chase, you’re going to open your crotch for one more good one. You 
can do it.”

“I can’t! I just can’t! Whip me somewhere else!”

“If you won’t do it I’ll tie your feet so wide apart you’ll split. Then I’ll give you ten.” Corey’s 
threat was pleasantly informative, no more.

Cheryl opened wide that which she most wished to close. She guessed it was going to be 
the worst yet. But one . . . . ! Only one – When the cut sliced her inmost being she managed to
cut her scream half way through its anguished peal, and to vent that same anguish by wild 
contortions of captive body and fettered feet. Her chain swirled and her wrists scorched in 
protests all their own. Panting her way back into the world, she found Corey once more 
against the tree and regarding her with quietly amused absorption. Her voice was gentle.

“You did it. A slave girl can always do what she is told. She only thinks she can’t.”

“Has she any choice?” Cheryl tugged at her tied wrists. “Look at me, rope one end, chain 
the other.”

“But she survives. She thinks she’ll die, but she doesn’t. You’ve has a part of your whipping.
It’s past . . . and you’re already perking.”

“What you’re telling me is I have to get used to slavery and being whipped . . . and things, 
and the sooner I smarten up the better.”

“So?”

“So alright, I’ll smarten up! Corey, please, you don’t have to whip me any more, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Because of the Great White Slaver, or because you want to?”

“I want to. Can you understand that?”

“Sort of.” Grudgingly, Cheryl swept the other girl’s nonchalant loveliness with an envious 
eye. “I’d like to put a few stripes on you. Think I’ll ever get the chance?”

“I doubt it.” The slave woman reached a fingertip to playfully press her prisoner’s nose. 
“You may be a bitch journalist, but you’re also a sweet little girl. If our Master would permit, I’d
willingly let you whip me. There isn’t really all that much fun in your future.” The lioness eyes 
were sympathetic. “Want me to ask him?”

“Corey . . . you wouldn’t! What would he do?”

“Probably whip us both.”

“Let things be! I don’t want him whipping me. That guy frightens me.”

“Mmmmmm, maybe that’s best. I’ll whip you some more now.”

“Corey?”

“Something on your mind, love?”

“Last night – In the moonlight – I couldn’t help but see, I was still awake . . . . ?”

“So, O. K., what did you see?”

“Burdett chained you on the coffle with the rest of us.”

“So . . . . ? Did I struggle?”

“Nooooo – No!”

“Maybe that’s your answer. But it’ll cost you. Open up again!”

“That means I mustn’t ask questions?”

“Not about me. C’mon now, your poor puss is going to hate you for being nosey. This 
one’s going to hurt.”



Corey spread her legs. The blow hurt. Bad, bad, bad . . . . !



***



The coffle was moved to a fresh pair of trees each day. Cheryl thought of it, caustically, as 
cheap plumbing. Apart from that there was little change as they waited on the arrival of 
additional captives to complete the desired number. Cheryl Chase was bored and constantly 
shamed by the collar on her neck and the shackle on her wrist. She had also been prepared 
for chagrin over her body whip striped and smarting, but the universal approval of the girls 
and their delighted examination of her weals were absurdly mollifying. They assured her 
gravely that none of them had ever been whipped ‘more nice’ than she. Sly hands had felt 
beneath her belly to exclaim over her inflamed puss and purple thighs and to be retrieved 
redolent of her exudations. The girls had become sex kittens on the coffle; all were lovely; all 
were bored. They found their only happiness in each other. But the coffle’s thirteen 
pudendums and twenty-six nipples kept them reasonably amused.

The journalist from New York ruefully conceded the potency of the whip in adjusting her 
to her place on the coffle. She was changed. After a whipping such as the lioness had given 
her no girl could be quite as she had been. It was simply that pain taught her new limitations. 
Her opinions and desires no longer mattered: in fact, she had best not have any! She was now 
owned. Awareness of the ownership of her body by someone else was a new fact of life to be 
kept foremost in her mind. Now that it was over Cheryl was glad to have been whipped. It 
helped her more in her changed condition than a hundred explanations or ten thousand 
words. She could be whipped again and again . . . anytime! That too must be remembered.

But the journalist within was still alive. Each day provided fresh pages for the book she 
would never write. But her mind implored each etching of pain and pleasure; each fresh 
glimpse of the incredible. The actual facts about the white slave girl and Burdett the Master 
remained vague and intriguing. But there was time before the auction block for them to 
emerge. Each night, the tawny haired beauty allowed herself to be locked on the shameful 
chain. By day she shared her Master’s life, but always with the links clinking between her 
ankles. She was an enigma and the most contended woman. Cheryl had ever known. The 
dusky maidens on the coffle had their own opinions.

“Some girl like whip and be tied. It hot her cunt.”

“They make good fuck. Master not sell her for long, long time.”

“They in love. She damn lucky girl.”

All of it might be true. But the would be author remained puzzled. “But why is she kept 
prisoner like the rest of us?”

There were giggles with the varied responses. One sounded like a proverb: “Wise Master 
never trust girl slave.”

“Is most nice for her; she don’t need wonder what she do.”

“She ask for chain, for same like wedding.”

The observations were shrewd. But still - ! “She still gets whipped, doesn’t she? Why would
he whip her?”

The giggles now were pitying. “Is much nice for girl be whip by man she love.”

“Make fine fuck after.”



“So she don’ think ‘bout escape – not ever!”

“When Master whip me I think pussy burn up.”

Her coffee coloured companions made Cheryl feel silly and naïve. Perhaps they came 
closer to the truth than a more mature sophistication. The four girls who had come with her in
the truck had all received their whippings; three at the hands of Burdett, the other by the 
white woman. The journalist would have loved to compare notes with them. They had wept 
and screamed under the lash, but, on return to the coffle, had looked strangely pleased with 
themselves. Cheryl’s wish was frustratingly denied. The four were kept at the far end of the 
long chain, as was the white slave girl of a night. There could be no whisperings . . . . No doubt
the management had a motive in keeping them apart; had she not already been warned 
about questions! Cheryl winced every time she thought of the whip between her thighs.

The arrival of six doe eyed recruits heralded departure. Excitement ran the length to the 
coffle like a ripple on water after the twenty girls had been inspected by Seth Burdett and his 
male helper. Their owner had been cynically silent as he prodded pudendums and tilted chins; 
his check on collars and shackles had been intent. Cheryl had been bursting with questions 
but had only received a caustic wink. Selim, like a Corporal in the army, was more down to 
earth and might even answer questions.

“Tomorrow e go. You march like good girls, never pull on chain. You be slow or make fuss 
Selim whip real good.” He beamed paternally on his bright eyed charges. “The Master and 
Selim fuck only best behaved – “

As term of reference, Cheryl supposed it adequate.

Motion was glorious; to walk again a privilege. It took the twenty slave girls an hour to 
establish a rhythm. Selim and his whip were questionably helpful. Even Cheryl collected a 
stripe, more for good measure than a misdemeanour. But as the chained beauties fell into 
stride, she found herself choosing titles for the new chapter. ‘Trek to the Wilderness’ or ‘March
into Slavery’. She liked both. But, what the hell, they would never be used! Ahead, Seth Burdett
rode the lead. At the rear the burdened burros followed in docility. The twenty shackled right 
arms discovered their appropriate swing. The twenty female necks distanced themselves to 
allow their chain to loop. At the end of half a day they were a unit; each girl finding 
exhilaration or despair as her bare feet followed the narrow path. On one of its curves Cheryl 
looked back to find their number increased by twenty-one. Head high, her fettered feet now 
free, the white girl, Corey, wore her chains with practiced ease. She walked with an effortless 
grace as though sauntering in the park; her serenity beholding a vision far away.

The pace was not forced, but by day’s end Cheryl was thankful to slump with the rest on 
the ground between the two trees chosen for their padlocked anchorage. She supposed that 
as the days passed she would tauten and condition. It would be almost worth the travail to 
emerge as lovely as the lioness herself. She judged her Master’s slave girl to be high among 
the most beautiful women in the world. It was with surprise she discovered Corey freed with 
one other maiden to do the chores. Her surprise was compounded when, after the slaves had 
been fed and the clean up complete she was singled out by the tawny haired slave and 
unlocked from her companions. She watched the replacement of the holy keys, looped on 
string, around the pale gold throat, and asked stupidly: “You can unlock yourself anytime?”

“Just a temporary custodian, love. I have to give ‘em back.”

“Something’s going to be done with me?”

“A bit of humiliation, Cheryl. Our Master wants you to eat a little crow. Don’t feel badly: it’s
for the edification of the girls and the good of your soul.”

“It probably hurts?”

“Most evenings at dusk there’s a little something. Keeps the sweet things amused and a 
little apprehensive. You’re right, it hurts.”

“I’ve already been whipped . . . once?”

“That’s a few days back. This is sort of freshener, real kid’s stuff. You’re going to cut a 
switch, trim it, then bend over where all the girls can get a good look while I give you five real 
juicy ones across your bottom.”

“Oh, no! Oh . . . C-O-R-E-Y-!”

“Yes I know. I’ve felt like that too. But any bottom that belongs to a girl has to expect this 
sort of thing . . . around these parts.”

Cheryl motioned awkwardly. “I’m free! I mean, I’m not tied or anything - !”

“Part of the training, love. Self control. Obedience. Don’t let this knife give you ideas! Take 
it and cut a few switches! Come back here and trim ‘em smooth so they won’t cut your can; 
then give it back! Oh, and there’s a little ritual . . . . We’ll get to it in a minute.”

“Oh, Corey . . . please!”

“Orders, love. Do it!”

Without joy in unexpected freedom, Cheryl took the small knife and did as she was told. 
Humiliation was the word. For a girl to be compelled to cut and trim the whiplike withes with 
which she would be punished was mortification indeed. The doe eyes on the coffle watched 
her with an almost tangible empathy as she plied the knife.

“This one, I think, love.” Corey picked the wickedest of the instruments of pain. “Kneel 
down in front of me and ask me politely to whip your bottom! I want it sincere as though you 
long for the pain, and I want it in a good clear voice so all of the poor darlings can hear. Oh, 
and by the way, kiss it lovingly as you hand it up.”

Miss Cheryl Chase looked at the fringe of trees and at the hateful thing she did. How good
it would be to run . . . and run! But that was dreaming. Carefully, she knelt. Lovingly she kissed 
the rod she herself had trimmed. In a clear contralto she pleaded. “Please, Mistress, I want you
to whip my bottom with this switch.”



“Pick a nice place, dear and bend over so the girls can all see your bottom.”

In an urgent whisper, the girl to be punished pleaded: “Corey, if I bend too tight my pussy 
pops out behind.”

“Gorgeous! Make sure it does!”

There was no hope, no reprieve. She was a slave. Cheryl chose her stage and bent forward 
to grasp her ankles. From the coffle came giggles. Blushingly she guessed why.

“Arch your back down, dear! Knees very straight. You’ve got a superlative bottom.”

Hating every tautening of a muscle, Cheryl did her best.

“It’s five, love. If you don’t hold still you’ll be tied and get ten.”

So easy to call the shots! So hard to obey. Out of the corner of one eye the postured girl 
could see the interested figures of Seth Burdett and Selim. How they would love her to run so 
they could bring her back, writhing. Determinedly, Cheryl clutched her slender ankles and 
gave thanks no one from New York could see her now.

The whipping helped, she could not deny the fact. The panicky shock from the first agony 
was beyond bearing, but she bore it without breaking pose. Her bent hips swayed; that was all
as pain explored every nerve centre she possessed. The slave woman’s whip had been a 
preparation for a slave girl’s travail. Cheryl focused on the figure five – Five, five, five! That was 
all . . . . Hold still, hold still, hold still as the switch laced her taut skin and cut viciously at her 
rear protrusion of a fronded pussy that should have stayed between her thighs.

“You may stand up now, dear! Congratulations! Oh, and you’d best thank me, and don’t 
call me Mistress! Call me ‘Number One’. I’m only a slave, y’know.”

With a bottom aflame in a vast scorch of heat, Cheryl stood demurely and gave her best: 
“Thank you for whipping my bottom, Number One! You did it beautifully.”

“Really get to you, love?”

“It hurt me terribly. Thank you.”

Their eyes met. Somehow they had become very close. Corey’s whisper was urgent. “One 
more thing, pet . . . guess!”

Cheryl guessed. Her request was clear. “I am a slave, Number One. Please lock me back on 
the coffle!”

While the collar was being fitted on her neck and the shackle on her wrist, the girl with the 
burning bottom heard Seth Burdett’s sardonic clapping from the wings.

Miss Cheryl Chase could not deny benefit from the trek. As the days passed she ceased to 
tire; she was always hungry; her senses were more acute than they had ever been; she was 
tremendously aware. At the end of each day she sat amidst the coffle and sniffed girl sweat, 
girl scent and female musk. She made her own contribution to this pervading sexuality, so 
could not complain. Whenever the coffle encountered stream or pond or spring it was 
thoroughly ducked or dowsed for the sun to dry. Each evening one of the girls was punished 
in full view of the rest; just as she herself had been. The damsel’s suffering bestowed the dual 
benefit of entertainment and stern warning. The girl form New York now wore her collar and 
shackle with unconscious grace; they had ceased to irk her pride in the same manner as she 
had rejected the nagging hope of escape. At night she slept easily with her chained hand on 
the ground above her head. Each girl slept thus to endow the coffle with a neat and tidy 
symmetry. On the fifth night Seth Burdett took her into the trees.

“You don’t have to tie me.” Cheryl eyed the rope and her Master’s obvious intent with 
distaste. “If you want to talk to me or . . . or do something I won’t run away.”

“Too right, love, you won’t. I always tie a girl uncomfortably in conversation – holds her 
interest. Turn round!”

Cheryl had been piqued by his lack of interest on the trail. Now, she suspected, she was 
about to get too much. “Do you tie that girl, Corey like this every time you talk to her?” She 
asked sulkily as he knotted her wrists together behind her back.

“None of your business, love. Now, here . . . with this poor little scrub tree in back –“

“Oh no! Don’t do that! I’ll fall!”

“No you won’t. You’ll just wish you had two legs instead of one – and you’ll pay attention.”

Cheryl was sure she would. The caustic slaver had pulled her left foot from the ground, 
bent it back at the knee, and was tightly tying her ankle at that level to the side of a narrow 
bole. It meant she was forced to stand on the other foot, unable to lean back for support; her 
bound hands denying aid. Her only option was to fall awkwardly on her face, but a patch of 
thorny briar made even this resort unattractive. “I’m not a dangerous felon, y’know.” She 
complained bitterly. “You never give me an even break – mostly you don’t even notice I’m 
chained on your damn coffle . . . Master.”

“Not enjoying it?”

“The exercise is good for me. You can shove the rest. I want out.”

“Your pelt heals nicely, kid.”

“So I’m ready to be whipped again, is that it?”

“Yes, that’s it. You actually need to be whipped again., and again after that. There’s a streak
of rebellion in you. Your superiority shows through.” Burdett cocked an appraising eye. 
“Maybe I’ll whip a bit out of it out of you along the way. On the other hand . . . . ! It’s an asset 
on the auction block. The boys pay high for flashing eyes and haughty tits.”

Cheryl bit back her anger. The posture in which she was tied was breaching her defence. 
She hated it and him. Morosely, she asked: “Is it true you can make more money out of selling 
me than I could get you in ransom?”

“Yeah. Makes it hopeless for you, eh!”

“Everything’s hopeless for me. Look at me now!” She struggled ineffectually. “All I can do is
look silly. I can never escape your coffle, I know that. But I’m white and you’ve already got one
white girl for your personal slave. Why not make it two?”

“Am I supposed to be flattered?”

“You should be.”

“Hell, girl, I give you the freedom I give her, and you’d be long gone.”

“Don’t give me any freedom then. If it doesn’t work out for us you can always sell me.”

“That’s about where you’re at right now anyway, love.”

It was true. He owned her totally. She only weakened her pride by trying to bargain. 
Abjectly, she asked: “You’ve brought me here and tied like this for a reason. What do you want
of me?”

“This reason enough, kid?”

It was a small enough whip. It had hung, without ostentation, from his belt. Cheryl eyed it 
with sinking heart. To be whipped again . . . . ? And in this demeaning posture . . . . ! “I suppose
I’ve said something wrong?”

“Can’t think of much you’ve ever said right, kid.”

“Please don’t whip me, not while I have to stand in this beastly position . . . all awkward 
and untidy. Besides, I’ll fall over.”

“Adds a bit o’ something.” Idly, he flicked at her exposed hip to make her wince. “Lots of 
places to whip a girl, y’know. Would you sooner I hung up by your wrists?”

“ . . . Yeeeeeeees.”

“No dice. You take it as you are.”

“But what have I done?”

“Shit, girl, you don’t have to do something! You should know that by now. Call it part of 
your training, sort of furbishing up the merchandise.”

It was hateful and frightening. Cheryl was naked; she was standing on one foot; her hands 
were tied behind her back; she was about to be whipped by a man who had no specific reason
for whipping her at all. She could not quench indignation. “But I’m – I’m – all front. I’m wrong 
way round. You’re supposed to whip a girl’s back!”

“Who said so?” He flicked her other hip with obvious enjoyment.

“Well, doesn’t ordinary decency - ?”

“You do concede a certain decency to a girl being thrashed?”

“If it has to be done to her – Ohhhh . . . Ouch!”

Seth Burdett whipped Miss Cheryl Chase with care and absorption in his task. The position 
in which her nudity was bound offered him thighs, loins, belly and breasts. He treated the 
latter lightly but did not ignore their twin and vibrant contours. The rest of her exposure 
received shrewd snapping impacts from the short thong. It was hardly a flogging but the 
unkind plight in which she was bound rendered it doubly shameful in its bitter pain.

Cheryl bore her punishment under two anxious compulsions. One, that she did not topple 
and fall. The second that she did not scream. They could surmise what they chose about her 
being taken into the trees but she passionately did not want the vocal sounds of her whipping
to filter back to amused ears and to the white girl, Corey. She braced herself against her tied 
ankle and endured the cuts and slashes on her skin with as little sound and motion as she 
could contrive. Suddenly the whipping stopped.

“You’re taking it like a lady, love.”

“I – I – “ She was gasping with pain. “Oh, never mind!”

“Tell me! I’m curious?”

“I don’t want the coffle to hear me scream and I don’t want to fall on my face in that briar 
patch.” Cheryl sniffed disdainfully. “If it wasn’t for that I’d wriggle and howl enough to give 
you an erection.”

“Interesting.” Seth made the confession in an offhand manner that drove the bound girl to
a wish to batter him with her tied fists. “I’ve got the erection, love. O. K. for me to carry on 
whipping you?”

“I’m all yours.” Said Miss Cheryl Chase bitterly.

By the time Burdett was satisfied with the stripes he had placed on Cheryl’s skin she was 
crying; a deep persistent sobbing of helplessness and despair. She did not even know a good 
reason for his whipping her, and the shrewd searing blows went on and on, forever catching 
her off guard on a part of herself she least expected. With a satisfied smile he stood in silence 
and watched her tears and listened to the small moans she continued to make as though he 
was not there. He had taken her across a borderline to where she was oblivious to all else save
her weals and the ropes deep in her flesh. His voice, when it came, said something that no 
longer mattered.

“I’m going to fuck you now, kid.”

Tonelessly and without caring, Cheryl muttered. “Why not? It’s your perquisite, isn’t it?”

Untied from the tree, she obediently lay on her tied arms and disposed herself for his 
pleasure. She tried to stop sobbing but could not. She closed her eyes and resigned herself to 
whatever reactions her whipped body chose to register. After her Master’s first thrusts within 
her swollen sheath she knew herself betrayed. Her sobbing ceased; her tears were licked from 
her cheeks by an amused male tongue; soon she was moaning in the most ancient female 
agony of all.

Cheryl’s return to the coffle was silent. There was nothing worthy of comment. A slave girl 
had been whipped and used by her Master; that was all. The collar and the shackle were an 
almost welcome weight on neck and wrist; the click of their locks an assurance of safety from 
the whip and the comfortable anonymity of the coffle. Miss Cheryl Chase made herself adjust 
to the slave chain and went to sleep.

It was in darkest night that the warning hand sealed her mouth. Cheryl’s initial dismay 
vanished under Corey’s anxious regard.

“Keep quiet! I’m going to unlock you.”

Two miracles. First the collar, then the shackle. When they lay open on the grass Miss 
Cheryl Chase was a free girl. With only wonderment in her mind she allowed the tawny haired 
white slave to lead her into the dark of trees.

“I’m setting you free, Cheryl. Run back on the path! You’ll find someone. Make them take 
you to Darouba.”

“But why?” Cheryl was genuinely lost.

“You know why. Two women and one man. It won’t work. I’m jealous: my jealousy sets you 
free.”

“But, Darling, he’ll punish you . . . terribly?”

“Probably.” Warm lips found hers. “I’ve been punished before. I expect I’ll survive.”

“I’m not in love with him, y’know.”

“I don’t care about that.” The female words were fierce. “But I won’t share him! I won’t . . . I 
won’t! No matter how he whips me it will be worth it.”

“But are you sure? What he did with me tonight may never happen again.”

“I won’t take that chance. He’s a lustful brute and you’re white. Here, Cheryl, it’s all I can 
find for you to wear. Tie it over your hips!”

With feminine magic Cheryl tied the knot. Unless someone lifted her brief cotton covering 
her black triangle was hidden. Trifling as it might be it felt like a Fifth Avenue Creation. “But 
what about you?” She asked anxiously.

“I’ll lock myself back on the coffle and take my chances.”

“You love him very much, don’t you?”

“Too much! I suppose you’ve figured out who I am?”

“It’s hard to believe. But you’re Corey Gibson?”

“That’s right. My father’s resigned to me. You be resigned too.”

“But you could escape with me?”

“No I couldn’t! Seth may write you off. But he’d tear the whole damn place apart to 
recover me. And anyway I want to stay with him. After he’s whipped me I’ll be happy again. 
Don’t feel guilty; none of this is your fault.”

“Yes it is. You’ve guessed who I am. I’m a nosey parker who should have stayed where she 
was safe.”

Again the warmth of lips. “So O. K. you’re a journalist. You’ve probably got a few miseries 
ahead of you before you get back to New York. Feel sorry for yourself, not me. And, Honey, 
run like hell!”

It was a glorious exhilaration. Never had Miss Cheryl Chase been in such superb physical 
condition as now; never had her legs flickered so fast on a path to freedom. Her whip weals 
were tender as her torso responded to her need, but it was a lovely tenderness like the caress 
of an encouraging hand. Behind her were the whip and the chain . . . . Surely whatever she was
feeing towards would be better! There was Hassan Darouba . . . she had a friend in this 
impossible land. She also had a story; an incredible story that now might reach the press . . . . !
The escaping slave girl leaped forward into the night.

Dawn brought reality. A sudden awareness of being naked, fatigue, apprehension of 
pursuit and punishment; the silent mockery of a wilderness in which she was alone. Cheryl 
sought the refuge of a bush and slept.



She awoke to a sun that had crept several hours across the sky, and to the sound of 
hooves upon the path. Three donkeys, two men and a woman, all of them somnolent and 
slow in mid-day heat. When Cheryl walked into their range of vision, they stopped and 
regarded her with the same degree of disbelief they would have accorded the Prophet 
himself. No doubt the donkeys were glad of a rest.

Cheryl Chase had rehearsed this scene many times during her flight. She played it straight. 
“I am an American. I was kidnapped. Please help me!”

She judged them a father with son and daughter, or perhaps the son’s wife. The father 
possessed English and appeared to be a man of business.

“You haff money?”

Did the idiot think she carried a pouch under the triangle so scantily covering her loins? 
Unhappily aware of vulnerability, she countered:

“I can get money, much money.”

He dismissed her personal solvency with contempt. “You are slave who escape a coffle. You
are worth much dollars.”

“I am not a clave. I have never been sold.”

Dialogue chattered. Cheryl guessed her legal status was under debate. She was aware of 
the potency of that first sale which, in her case, had not been consummated. Praying th trio 
might be admirers of the Russian Rouble, she played her political ace.

“Take me to Hassan Darouba at Amphala!”

The chatter stopped. Darouba was by way of being a minor Prophet himself. Father was 
curious. “Why you want Amphala?”

“That’s where the money is.”

“And Hassan Darouba?”

Cheryl plunged. “Because I’m his woman.”

Dialect volleyed again. Then: “You escape his brothel, eh?”



“No!” She stamped her foot in exasperation. No matter how she played it, no one here 
would ever regard her as anything but merchandise. “I tell you, I’m Hassan Darouba’s woman. 
I belong to him. He will be grateful to you for helping me.”

“You belong him, you slave.”

Why quibble? As a slave she had some sort of status in their eyes. As a free white 
American running around naked in the forest she had little credibility. Resignedly, she 
consigned herself back to square one:

“Yes, I am Hassan Darouba’s slave. I was stolen. Please return me to him! He will pay you 
well.”

The flow of dialect became audibly more cordial. The trio dismounted. They viewed her 
diffident approach with grave approval. But father instantly discerned a flaw.

“You have been much whipped?”

Cheryl wanted to expel a hearty ‘damn’. How does a girl explain whipmarks on an already 
unseemly nudity? “I was whipped several times by the people who stole me.” She explained 
truthfully.

“Only slavers make girl naked and whip much.” It was an accusation.

It was dangerous ground. A white slave girl on a coffle spelt millions; impossible sums she 
could never match. Unhappily, and blushing, Cheryl stood while the girl of the trio took her by
the arm and ran exploring fingers round her neck then scrutinized each wrist. Her report to 
father sounded explicit.

“You have been chained on a coffle. You bear the marks.” Father’s tone was more accusing 
than before.

“They stole me.”

The trio faced decision. They dealt with it volubly. Their verdict was terse. “We tie you.”

Cheryl shrank from thoughts of helplessness. Dismally, she asked: “Why?”

“We no trust. Is something not right.”

She saw their point, but answered flatly: “I don’t want to be tied.”

They shrugged. They remounted. The burros came awake. The wilderness closed in on the 
naked girl like a hostile claw. Desperately, she demanded: “Where will you take me?”

“Amphala. Darouba no want, we take you to slave market.”

Dejectedly, Cheryl held out her hands. The, obedient to a gesture, turned and crossed her 
wrists behind her back. She was not to be trusted.

Cheryl bit its welcome to a new captivity.





Chapter Five


Agony At Amphala





Hassan Darouba knew himself a lucky man. The Russians had safely parachuted a delivery 
of arms in the mountains and with it a useful quantity of negotiable paper. His guerrillas were 
loyal; their raids upon the infidel were profitable and without defeats and often provided new 
feminine staff for the bordello which was one of their most popular perquisites in their fight 
for a ‘Freedom’ none of them believed in. The United Nations were making vague sounds of 
recognition. It had been an altogether good day. His cup runneth over . . . . !

And now this!

Darouba had not forgotten Miss Cheryl Chase of New York City. He had made further 
inquiries and confirmed his opinion that she could be a useful ally. She had also piqued his 
interest and aroused his libido. She had an enticing body and an active mind. He retained an 
amused reservation about sequestering her and assuring an inquiring world that she had 
never happened. It would be all too easy. But it lacked challenge. Her entertainment value was
far greater when she was running around loose and able to get herself into trouble. He was 
looking at her now and trying, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

“Funny, funny . . . . !” Said Miss Cheryl Chase bitterly. “You might at least try and act like a 
gentleman. But go ahead and laugh! Don’t pay any attention to me! Have fun!”

“But I am paying attention to you.”

“It’s the wrong kind.”

Striving, ineffectually, to cope with merriment, Hassan blandly inquired. “What kind would 
you like?”

Cheryl was furious. This reunion was for the birds; everything was wrong, particularly 
herself. Acidly, she sniffed. “Please don’t bother! I’m just a silly female and I probably look 
sillier than I am. Please keep laughing . . . . !”

Hassan obeyed. He knew a good thing when it came his way. He would enjoy this one to 
the full. “If I had to be a gentleman instead of a guerrilla I wouldn’t be enjoying this half as 
much.” He confessed between chuckles.

“You should spell that with an ‘o’.”

“You look altogether delicious, dear girl. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“What I look is just plain old dirty. Filthy would fit me better.” Cheryl glared, resolute in 
martyrdom. “If I’d known I’d be laughed at I’d have stayed on that damn coffle.”

“But I’m adoring you - !”

“I hadn’t noticed. All I’m noticing is that I’m standing in front of you stark naked; my hands
are tied behind my back; my hair’s a mess; there’s a lousy rope round my neck by which I’ve 
been dragged behind a donkey for the past five days; and there’s enough soil caked on me to 
plant a garden.”

“You look delectable – “

“And I also stink.”

“The sweet essence of girl –“

“Essence my ass; it’s plain old sweat. What did you give those vultures for delivering me 
back here?”

“Enough. It will go on the accounts as a Russian contribution to world freedom. You 
should be grateful.”

“W-E-L-L-L . . . I suppose I am.” Cheryl twisted against the cords on her wrists. “D’you think
there’s any chance I could be untied?”

“There is every chance, dear girl, but not right at this moment.”

Safety was beginning to seep in. Cheryl’s disdainful sniff was less belligerent, but she was 
still conscious of a disadvantage. “I suppose you feel a fine male superiority over the general 
fuck-up of my big adventure?” she asked irritably.

“I feel nothing but admiration.”

“Oh yeah! I’ve been tied and chained and whipped and screwed – in fact, I’m still tied, and 
apparently likely to stay that way.”

“I did not say that.”

“Well, if this isn’t rope round my wrists I don’t know what it is! I can’t get them free – and I 
hate this blasted tether on my neck so damn bad . . . . Five days looking at a donkey’s ass!”

“I am an absolute bastard.” Hassan admitted. “But you are a far too delightful picture to 
part with.”

“I’d be far more delightful after a bath, and some clothes, and a drink, and some help with 
my hair. Leave my hands tied if it amuses you. I don’t really care; they’ve already been tied this
way five days.”

“You touch my heart, dear girl.”

“Glad to hear it. I certainly can’t touch anything else.”

Hassan Darouba clapped his hands.



***



Amphala gave of its best for The Leader’s favourite. The ministering maidens giggled 
respectfully, and with envy, as they bathed, laved, perfumed and coiffured. The even produced
scanty female coverings . . . . ! But steadfastly refused to untie her hands. The rope round 
Cheryl’s wrists got washed with the rest of her but remained intact. She knew herself a pretty 
package when she was delivered back to the huge mezzanine, with its Moorish arches and sun
drenched terrace.

Hassan Darouba paid homage with a longer than needful scrutiny. He was mixing drinks. 
The girl who was still captive gulped greedily as he held hers to her lips. She surfaced for air, 
and said with tremendous sincerity: “Gosh, I needed that . . . It’s been a long time . . . . !”, then 
drank again until he had tilted the last drop between her lips. Their eyes met assessingly as 
she pleaded: “Can I have another?”

He did not give her one. Instead, he put down the glass and enfolded her in his arms. His 
strong fingers reached round and tugged at the knots which had made her subject to the will 
of others. When the rope fell to the floor Cheryl Chase did not stop to massage her wealed 
wrists but reached her arms around The Leader’s neck and returned his kiss with a fervour. It 
felt comfortingly good to be held by a man who had no immediate plans for selling her at 
auction.

“And now it is you who will mix and serve, beloved.”

In a glow of unconfined motion the freed girl went to the bar. She was unsure whether it 
was the drink or the heat of male lips that was painting roseate hues upon everything she saw.
She found herself entranced with her own wrists. She had not seen them in a long time, but 
now the indentations left by the rope were gaudy bracelets to be admired. She rubbed them 
gratefully before reaching for the bottles, well aware of Hassan Darouba’s dark regard.

Pixie humour, or some unsuspected emotion, prompted Miss Cheryl Chase to serve her 
Master’s drink in slave girl fashion on one knee. The act was instinctively, leaving her blushing.
“It sort of slipped out.” She apologized. “I’ll have to watch it – could be habit forming.”

“You did it charmingly.”

“I’d crawl for you right now.” She admitted candidly. “It feels so damn good to be looked 
at with honest lust instead of as cash merchandise.”

“Please stay as you are for one moment!” Hassan’s hand was gentle on her hair as she 
sought to rise. “You are too beautiful . . . . “ His voice was rich with promise. “But get your own 
drink and sip it as you kneel! It is a picture I will cherish.”

It was good to know herself adored, and to possess hands. Once more kneeling, she lifted 
her cocktail and twinkled a toast at him across the rim: “To Freedom!”

Hassan Darouba clinked glass, and added fervently: “And may it be of short duration.”

“You like to see me . . . fastened?”

“It makes you doubly feminine. It also erases New York and printer’s ink.”

“I’m in an absurdly submissive mood. It won’t last. But d’you want me to get the rope; it’s 
still on the floor?” Cheryl sipped prettily and became practical. “I really don’t mind being tied. 
If you bind my wrists in front I can go on being useful?”

“Mmmmmm, the thought is touching. I’m not sure Burdett’s coffle hasn’t been good for 
you. But keep your freedom while we talk! I have much to say to you.”

“And all I’ve got to talk about is physical sensations. Freedom seems to be a complexity of 
not hurting.”

“What are you going to do now, Cheryl?”

“Write like crazy.”

“Here?”

“Yes. The mood’s heavy on me. I can still hear the clink of chain . . . and I’ve still got 
whipmarks on my skin – or didn’t you notice?”

“I noticed. I envied whoever put them there.”

Cheryl Chase’s eyes were alight with journalistic joy. “I may ask to borrow that awful cell to 
write in. The air’s alive with what I want to put into words.”

“You can be locked in it whenever you wish.”

“I hadn’t thought that far – “ She broke off in confusion; then looked up at Hassan 
Darouba knowingly. “Are you cherishing visions of keeping me a prisoner; a comfortable 
captive mistress . . . or concubine?”

“I think of it constantly.”

“I suppose my feelings would be hurt if you didn’t.” The former slave sipped thoughtfully. 
“It would be easy, and eminently practical.”

“You sound as though it’s something you wish?”

“Oh, it is – while these drinks are potent! But tomorrow I’d be beating at the bars.”

Hassan’s eyes were dark and enigmatic. “We tend far too much to absolutes.” He said 
slowly. “Nothing is forever. Sometimes we hold the best of two worlds in our hands and allow 
the wind to scatter . . . . “

“You’re going to proposition me.”

“Yes. You must write, drain yourself of creativity. Use me in this to replenish yourself! When
it is done, yield yourself to Taruma as the captive you have already described.”

She did not see it as outrageous, only as a curiosity. “What then? Would I be a prisoner 
with a purpose, or just a prisoner?”

“Nothing between us is without purpose, idiot girl.” He bestowed a lewd and outrageous 
wink. “A purpose would exist if it was only to cater to my capricious enjoyment of a 
provocative slave girl.”

“I’d get atmosphere and concrete lodgings.”

“New York is beginning to return. Have another drink!”

Thinking hard, Miss Cheryl Chase rose to her feet. Two drinks on an empty stomach . . . . ! 
And now a third! She felt delicious. But her admonition was cautious. “Look, Hassan, I’m not 
bound by anything I agree to while under the influence?”

“You are already committed, dear girl.”

She poured the drink anyway. Pouting, she listened.

“I have an operating mail service that will get your material to where it must go. It will also 
bring you returns. Except during periods important to me you may write whenever you wish.”

“In chains?”

“If that proves expedient.”

Voluntarily, Cheryl resumed her slave girl posture at his feet. Her loins were aflame, 
vibrating with a passion she had never known before her journey to Malenka. She knew she 
should make instant tracks for the nearest airline, but she also knew she would not do so. She 
had found a strange magic she must explore. If it consumed her, so be it! Rhetorically, she 
asked: “Why do I even consider this, and why am I on fire with an absurd lechery?”

“Why are the stars in the sky, beloved?”

“Oh, sure, sure, sure!” Miss Cheryl Chase shrugged in a grand dismissal of care and 
concern. “We both know I’m going to say “yes’, so give me some more details!”

“Mmmmmm . . . I will punish you for every pout, but don’t stop pouting! I will whip you for
every wile, but never deny me their challenge. You will be chained for every caprice: yours and 
mine. You will be tied for every taunt of temper . . . ?”

“How charming. Please continue!”

“You will write favourable articles on my Noble Cause. You will play hostess for me at social
affairs. You will entertain certain of my guests – “

“With my body?”

“Should I so decree.”

Cheryl sipped nervously but said nothing.

“More probably the entertainment will be by way of whipping your bottom or the soles of 
your feet.”

“The last one probably hurts like hell. Mind I have another drink?”

Hassan waved a negligent hand. While she was filling both glasses he continued. “I’m not 
forgetting you as a person; your work adds piquancy. How’d you like to accompany my men 
on a raid?”

Her heart leaped. “Could I - ?”

“Of course! Be sure and don’t get yourself captured by the opposition; their jails are 
dreary.”

“Oh, Hassan . . . !”

“And there’s the whimsy that fool woman interfered with when she set you free of the 
coffle. You never did reach the auction block – “

Cheryl was suddenly breathless with a vision. She knew it a common female fantasy but 
concupiscence enveloped her nonetheless. To stand naked on the block before a roomful of 
men and be sold to one of them . . . . ! How vividly the memory of such a moment would flow 
from her pen! She gazed up adoringly at this man who made things possible.

“The coffle you were on was headed for the town of Ben Sirah; That’s where they hold the 
auction and have the holding pens they keep the slaves in. It’s only a brief hop by air. I could 
easily go with you and arrange for you to be put in one of Burdett’s pens and sold along with 
his other girls. Like I said before, I can arrange to have you bought in – no chance I’m going to
loose you . . . . But the auction would be genuine enough. Your pretty pussy would be on full 
view.”

“Hassan, it’s – it’s stupendous!”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Of course we do! Oh, Darling, don’t be pragmatic about it! Scheherazade and her Sultan 
never had it so good.”

“I’ll extract my pound of flesh, y’know.”

“Oh fiddle on your male egotisms! I’ll gladly put up with your chains and whipmarks.”

Hassan Darouba gazed down at the kneeling girl in whimsical affection. “You’re in the grip 
of euphoria and slightly tipsy.” He cautioned. “But I’m accepting your commitments. We both 
know you’ll have regrets, but you can damn well put up with them.”

“But, Hassan, if you’re going to allow me so much freedom . . . ?” Cheryl paused and 
considered. “That means I’m going to be constantly faced with AWFUL DECISION! When it 
comes time to return to chains and slavery I may not want - ?”

“Right! I’m curious to see how you’ll weather the stress.”

“And if I run away - ?”

“I pass on that one.”

“You mean I’m not to know whether you’ll bring me back by force or let me go?”

“Probably a mood thing, beloved. Don’t fret!”

“Sometimes the bastard shows though, Darling, but I adore you. How’d you like to take 
me to bed now before I’m utterly consumed?”

He picked her up and carried her with ease.



***



The raid was disappointing but the girl was not. She ran towards Cheryl with awkward 
loping strides out of the night. Naked, her breasts bobbed with each footfall. Her hands and 
arms were behind her back, presumably bound. At sight of a female her face came alive as she
gasped: “Help me . . . Oh, please help me! Take me with you - !”

From a guerrilla standpoint the raid was not disappointing at all. Simply routine. Two male 
prisoners, a burning warehouse, a goodly haul of arms and ammunition. One jeep in good 
condition. As far as Cheryl knew, the exchange of gunfire had brought no casualties to either 
side. One truck and the jeep had already roared off into the night; the other truck awaited her 
return. If she had not wanted pictures of the conflagration she would have missed the girl.



Hassan would be angry with delay. In battledress and in battle he was fearsome; a dark, 
intent killer. At such times she would obey him implicitly; heatedly aware of the times he had 
entered her, and urgently aflame with a need that he do so again as soon they were safely 
home. Cheryl had become aware of the warrior’s need of sex after a flirtation with death. She 
had written one scorching article on it and would write another.

“Thank heavens I found you! Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me!”

The girl was standing beside her now, bare breasts rising and falling in agitation, youngish,
attractive, dishevelled by flight. Grasping a bare arm, Cheryl turned her about.

“It’s no good. I’m handcuffed. There’s no key.” The girl turned and bestowed a wan and 
imploring look. “But it doesn’t stop me running. You saw me run - ?”

In her own battledress, Cheryl felt clumsy beside the lithe nudity. They ran together to the 
safety of retreat and an unexpected welcome.

“Oh no, not her again!”

“Iss ‘Conscript Connie’. Very bad girl.”

We shoot her now and have done.”

Stricken, Cheryl turned imploringly to The Leader. Hassan managed to be in a hurry and 
bored at the same time. “She’s a plant, beloved. Call her a spy! Poor girl keeps trying it on. 
They’ve likely got some leverage on her.”

“But, Hassan, we can’t just leave her!”

“We have before.”

“But she’s so – so . . . bereft!”

Hassan Darouba picked up both girls and tossed them in the truck. Cheryl felt guilty at 
being so easily duped. Along with the grinning soldiers she watched her master run wise 
fingers through their spy’s luxuriant hair and extracted a tiny key. He held it, sardonically, to 
view. “Let herself loose anytime and go home with the information.” He said tersely. He put 
the handcuff key in his pocket. “Maybe we’ll teach her a lesson.”

The girl wept.

No cell. No bonds. Only the heat of her master’s body and her master’s bed. Cheryl Chase 
had learned to be grateful when guerrilla vagaries bestowed rewards. She took them and 
asked no questions. But, clutching thankfully to male muscularity, she asked one now:

“What are you going to do with her, Hassan?”

“Probably a flogging and turn her loose.”

“But she’s American!”

“So are you.”

“But . . . a flogging! And turned loose in the desert!”

Playfully, he clutched her crotch. “Alright. A flogging and the brothel?”

“W-E-L-L-L- . . . I suppose that’s better. But must she be flogged?”



“Yes.”

Cheryl let it rest. She lived within tolerances. To violate them was always extremely painful. 
She pursued a different thought.

“Darling, before she goes to the brothel, could I be locked in a cell with her overnight?”

“Collar and chain, or full set of irons?”

“Don’t laugh, Darling, and you know I don’t mind. The poor girl should make a wonderful 
copy.”

“I bet!” Hassan chuckled. “She’ll be sore as blazes from the flogging, and won’t be viewing 
the brothel as a good start in a fresh career.”

Cheryl accepted it as a minor victory. Early the following afternoon Taruma locked her in 
the cell. Darouba’s humour confined itself to a collar and a chain and irons on her wrists. She 
supposed it could have been worse. And, after all, she had asked for it . . . outrageously!

The whipping post stood starkly where she could view it through the bars. Her master was 
providing her with an instructive afternoon. With hands weighted with metal the elective 
prisoner clutched two of the metal inhibitions to liberty and gazed wistfully at the waiting 
post. Quite probably she would soon wish she was somewhere else.

A ritual was understandable. A girl was to be taught a lesson from which others might 
profit. And besides, everybody liked to see girls whipped. It was a female function. The crowd 
that soon began to gather was happily expectant.

The same could not be said for the girl. She was still naked; still handcuffed with her own 
equipment, but had been washed and tended. She listened with petulant disgust to the 
reading of her sentence. Cheryl wondered if she had ever been whipped or had some inkling 
of what she was in for. Her hands were then unlocked from behind her back and joined again 
in front. She was hoisted so as to place the link over a metal peg high on the post. When the 
supporting hands fell away she stood tautly stretched on tip toe; her hands high; the cuffs 
biting wickedly at pinioned wrists. She was now ready to be whipped. Guessing the awful 
moment at hand, she turned this way and that in a fearful need to observe the preliminaries of
her punishment. Her eyes were wide, and became wider when she saw Achmed with the whip.

Cheryl knew herself privileged. Before taking position, the jailor dispersed the crowd to 
one side so as to leave a clear view of the proceedings for the prisoner in the cell. He bowed 
to the girl behind the bars; then gently stroked the quivering back he was about to weal. 
Achmed was a showman and enjoyed his work. Hassan Darouba was nowhere to be seen.

The handcuffed girl danced and screamed. She made no pretence of heroism beneath the 
outrageous pain as Achmed cut at her flesh with his searching thong. In sympathy, Cheryl 
could feel the agony of the cuffed wrists and the burning scald of each stripe as the naked 
delinquent leaped and twisted in futile struggles to ease her plight. It would have been kinder 
to have bound her fast to the post. Tethered only by her wrists, she could make a complete 
turn should she wish to endure the pain. Sometimes she essayed to do so, only to receive a 
fresh blow across breasts or belly or from hip to hip. Achmed stood still while his agonized 
target gyrated for his convenience. But soon the girl found wisdom; she thrust her breasts 
hard against the post so as to present only her back and buttocks to the whip. For the 
easement of motion she flailed wildly with her legs. The blows fell upon her skin in a measured
cadence to which her screams made an intermittent accompaniment. She did not faint. If 
anything, her consciousness was heightened by each stroke.



The word ‘flogging’ had evoked ugly pictures in Cheryl’s mind. But Achmed wielded no 
wicked ‘Cat’; there were no knots or bits of metal. It was simply a whip; cruel enough when 
used on the bare flesh of a girl, but still a whip. When it had laced the palpitating skin to the 
appointed end there was no blood. The punishment had been cruel or kind according to the 
point of view. Cheryl wondered if the victim could possibly feel gratitude for the absence of 
open wounds. She was soon to know.

“Is well whipped young lady.” Said Achmed with pride.

“I’m glad it wasn’t me.” Cheryl said with feeling.

“Maybe you next time.” The jailor offered grandly. “I make very good whipping especially 
for you.”

“Gee, thanks! I say, Achmed, do you have to load the poor girl with chains? I mean, any 
more than I’ve got?”

“Is orders. She not well behaved.”

Cheryl stood to one side while the weeping nakedness was placed on the wooden bench 
and locked in metal as she herself was locked, but with the addition of leg irons and a band 
around the middle which made an attractive belt but bore another tethering chain to the 
stone wall. The girl bore these weights of imprisonment without comment; seemingly satisfied
to weep despairingly until Achmed had gone. Alone, she eyed her cellmate tearfully.

“Can you get me out of this mess?”

The question was direct and not a bit tearful. Puzzled, Cheryl held up her chained hands, 
then fingered the collar on her neck and asked acidly: “Do I look as though I can get out of 
anything?”

“Oh, those chains on you . . . “ The girl dismissed them with a sniff. “You’ve been planted in
here with me to see what I may have to tell.” She laughed bitterly. “There’s fuck all I know. I’m 
a damn fool tourist they caught with a bag of grass. They tossed me in a stinking jail and 
whipped me in a way that makes what I’ve just had seem fun.” She mused in retrospect. “It 
really broke me down. When they said the only way I’d ever get back to the U.S.A was to spy 
for ‘em I jumped at the chance. The whole thing’s nonsense. Right now I’m more on your side 
than theirs. By the way, my name’s Amy.”

Cheryl felt foolish. The girl’s story could be had for the asking; the shackles were a 
needless irritant. “Supposing I can get you set free?” She asked gently. “Could you get back to 
the States?”

“Aw, shit! Didn’t you hear what that guy read out for me? I’m sentenced to Darouba’s 
brothel. Everybody’s heard ‘bout that place. Now I’m going to get bunged in there and 
screwed by his whole rotten army.”

“But just suppose?”

“ ‘Bout getting back to the U.S.A? Hell, there’s no way! I don’t have a dime. The place is 
just one big open jail for girls like me. I’d be picked up and tossed in the slammer the first 
day.”

“But the Consulates - ?”

“They don’t want to know. They’re ashamed of girls like me. Look, I’ve heard a story . . . ! 
There’s supposed to be a real slave trade up around here somewhere. A white slave trader 
who sells girls like me to rich old bastards . . . . Don’t sound all that good, maybe, but I reckon 
it’s my best bet. Would you happen to know - ?”

“Yes, the story’s true.”

“You mean . . . ,” Amy was incredulous. “Look, you ain’t been sold on the auction block 
yourself, have you?”

They talked far into the night. Amy made very good copy. The even managed to joke 
about their chains. The following day Amy went to the brothel and Cheryl to her typewriter. As
her fingers sped across the keys she was naggingly conscious that between her present 
condition and that of the whipped girl there was only the thinnest of thin lines.



***



Cheryl’s lovemaking with the Leader was spasmodic and subject to chance. But this added 
spice; neither complained. Her transformations from free journalist to naked slave girl 
demanded of her far more acute adjustments. The change could come from her own choice or
from Hassan’s command. If his command arose from anger she could expect pain: perhaps 
the whip or some tight and unhappy bondage in which she would be left to weep alone. 
When she erred, Hassan Darouba was inflexible, punishing her cruelly as though they had 
never loved. She had given up asking herself why she endured such travails. She knew the 
answer. She was totally in love with Darouba; she was besotted with the sensuality of being a 
naked slave and submitting to punishment. Scream as she might while it lasted; there was no 
agony to which she did not look back in retrospect with a burning sexual excitation which 
would return her to the cord and the whip for the replenishment of a need inherent in her 
loins. Her days on the coffle had accentuated and awakened needs she had only dimly sensed.
She wished the long trek on the slave chain had continued to take her to its destined 
conclusion on the block. But there was still that chance; she thrilled at the thought of it. She 
had Darouba’s promise . . . . !

Along with retrospect, Cheryl knew the spine tingling excitements of apprehension 
possessing her whenever she knew herself delinquent, or had reason to believe the Leader 
was going to be cruel to her simply from caprice. At this moment she was suspenseful with 
such knowledge, but whatever she would suffer would emanate from something more than an
erotic wish to heat their loins.

He was one of the faceless ones, who belonged nowhere but had money and influence. He
called himself Hamel. At the moment he was nursing his cheek and glaring at Cheryl in shock.

“I’m sorry . . . . Oh, honestly, I’m terribly sorry. I should not have done that.”

“Indeed you should not, young woman.” Mr. Hamel regarded her with disfavour. He 
continued to rub his slapped cheek as though mortally wounded. “You will be punished.”

“Yes, of course. But I was going to fix you a drink when – when - . May I get you one now?”



“You may. No arsenic.” Mr. Hamel allowed his hand to return to normal, gazing at it as 
though expecting blood. “Do you always slap the faces of guests who put a hand between 
your legs?”

“Well, no I don’t. It was the way . . . the way – “

“There is more than one way of holding a girl’s cunt?”

“Well, actually . . . yes.”

“And my way offended you?”

“I’ve said I’m sorry. I really am. And I know I’ll be punished . . . . Could we leave it at that, 
Mr. Hamel?”

The honoured guest accepted his cocktail and inquired politely: “This punishment? What 
will be done to you?”





“I can’t be sure, Sir. Most probably I’ll be whipped or hung up by my wrists for a long 
time.”

“Hmmmmm, most inadequate. I will suggest you receive both.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hamel. Would you like me continue to kneel?”

“Yes. Your legs further apart to give me a good view of your pubic hair. You have a fine 
bush.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“If you belonged to me I would pluck it a hair at a time.”

“What an original thought, Mr. Hamel!”

“You know perfectly well it is not original at all. Men have been plucking cunt hairs for 
centuries. You are seeking to placate me.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I am. Would you feel better, Sir, if you punished me yourself? I can 
get a cane or riding crop if you would like to whip my bottom?”

“Hmmmmm, your bottom . . . ? I am weary of bottoms. A man gets bottoms thrust at him 
from all directions these days. It’s that absurd English legend about six of the best.”

“Perhaps some other part of me, Sir?”

“Your attitude is improving,” said Mr. Hamel cordially. “And I’ve just remembered 
something I brought with me that will entertain us both. Have you a bit of rope or handcuffs?”

“Both are in the drawer, Sir.”

“The rope; it is more painful. Oh, any you may refill my glass.” Mr. Hamel chuckled hugely. 
“While you still can.”

There was always the transient sensation of Miss Cheryl Chase back in New York watching 
this happening to another girl far away. At such times it was hard to believe herself real and 
that what was happening would happen. But the fire in Cheryl’s loins burned heatingly as she 
knelt and tendered her guest his drink and the length of cord by which he would make her 
helpless.

“Thank you, my dear. You may stand.”

With wrists crossed behind her back, she had to brace herself against the savagery of his 
binding. The cord bit into her wrists venomously. It was a punishment in itself. But she stood, 
naked and passive, while it was done to her.

“You may stand at ease, legs well apart.”

It was going to be something beastly. Mr. Hamel was that sort of man. Obediently, Cheryl 
exposed her crotch and took a deep breath.

“Have you enjoyed one of these previously?” Mr. Hamel had produced what appeared to 
be a suppository, and was removing the foil.

“No Sir. It looks like – like a –“

“Precisely. Your sensations will be exquisite.”

She knew him wise to have tied her hands. She was glad to be relieved of her reactions to 
revulsion. Without the cord on her wrists Mr. Hamel might be nursing another wound. It was 
strangely exciting to be able to look down and watch herself tortured but she did not like him 
for what he was doing to her.

“I moisten it with saliva . . . and now, if you will forgive – “

Her cheeks were aflame; her arms tensed against their pinion. Cheryl swallowed hard as 
male fingers separated her vulva und thrust the lubricated small torpedo well up within her 
sheath. She guessed Mr. Hamel had performed this operation many times.

“You may stand with your feet together, my dear. Otherwise at ease.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hamel. It’s kind of you to take this trouble with me.”

He looked at her sharply, uncertain of sarcasm. She countered with sweet girlish 
innocence. But he could not see her fists clenched tight against his cords or note her 
trembling. “The effect is not immediate. We may continue to converse. By the way, are you for 
sale?”

“No, Sir.”

“Huh, you sound damn positive. D’you work in Darouba’s brothel?”

“No, Sir. I am Hassan Darouba’s personal slave. He has loaned me to you for this 
afternoon.” Hastily, she added: “Permission is granted to fuck me.”

“Hmmmmm, I’ll make him an offer anyway.”

“There is a town called Ben Sirah where girls are sold, Sir.”

“For twice what they’re worth . . . and damn few white ones – “

It came like a stab in the dark. One moment normalcy; the next a searing pain within her 
sex. Cheryl gasped and swayed.

“Ah, got to you, eh! You won’t mind if I watch?”

Cheryl did not mind anything except what was happening within her vagina. Her eyes 
widened in distress and she began to bend.

“Thoughtless of me, I should have tied your ankles.” Mr. Hamel knelt and made good the 
deficiency with cruel strictures deep in Cheryl’s flesh. “That’s better. I do believe the effect is 
worse when you have to keep your legs closed.”

She knew it was worse! Everything was worse. She was being consumed, burned asunder. 
Pitifully, she gasped: “Oh, please . . . please! I can’t stand it, I just can’t. I’m going to fall . . . !”

“Do what you must, dear girl. I am an interested audience.”

She forgot him. His avid eyes no longer mattered. He could ogle her breasts and pubic 
hair to his heart’s content and she would not care. Sobbing in the misery of her violated 
womanhood, Miss Cheryl Chase rolled in agony on the rug.

It was something that should not happen; an ultimate indecency. A kind of pain in a kind 
of place where none should be. Cheryl could compare it to nothing; its malignancy was 
unique. Bound hand and foot, she rolled despairingly on the floor. To bind her thus had been 
a subtle and needless deviltry. She would have found comfort in the flailing of arms and legs; 
she could have clutched herself and widened her thighs apart . . . . Perhaps the pain would 
have been no less but she could have vented it in natural expressions of motion. As it was, she
could do nothing, nothing . . . ! The cords bit her mockingly at wrist and ankle as she rolled 
and writhed and gasped. Sometimes in her contortions she caught a glimpse of Mr. Hamel’s 
interested regard.

Her internal punishment died slowly. Cheryl could have believed in hours, but guessed at 
fifteen minutes before the first easement; and then ten more of spasmodic writhing and 
moaning as the evil within her dissolved and ceased to burn. At the end she lay exhausted, 
fearful of a recurrence or another punishment.

“Many of the elements of an intense orgasm?” Mr. Hamel inquired politely.

“No . . . oh, no! It’s . . . awful.”

“Please resume your kneeling position! You look untidy. Most girls tell me they would 
prefer the whip to a second insertion. Would you agree?”

“Yes, Sir.” Cheryl was kneeling uncomfortably within her bonds. “Are you going to whip 
me?”

“No, it’s a hackneyed business I’ll leave to Darouba. I think perhaps a good fuck is more in 
order.” Mr. Hamel produced a formidable member erect and ready. “I appear I have 
something to offer . . . !”

Cheryl was disgusted, but even more astounded. “You mean . . . ? You actually intend . . . ?”
She could not find the right words. “You want to put that inside me – in there!”

He chuckled, delighted. “You applaud my temerity, dear lady. You fear for my safety 
within? Your concern touches me. But no! I intend to penetrate a more virgin passage.”

She had once experimented. It had been a giggling affair and unrewarding. But it had 
taught her it was not a fate worse than death; she had not emerged riven and torn. Cheryl was
grateful now. The shock factor would be less. Wanly, she enquired: “How do you want me, 
Sir?” Adding unhappily: “I’m tied terribly tight.”

“Ah yes. But I find your crossed wrists charming. I will untie your ankles . . . . There! And 
now, your knees well apart and your forehead on the rug!”

It was unkind and uncomfortable, but practical to his intent with her. Cheryl felt as though 
her anus was flowering in total vulnerability. She gasped, hatefully, as Hamel entered her. 
Under his impaling thrusts she tried hard to turn her mind to journalistic triumphs.





Chapter Six


The Awful Decision





“A difficult guest,” said Hassan Darouba musingly.

“Difficult!” Cheryl put a wealth of disgust into her exclamation. “He’s a dirty S.O.B.”

“But a useful S.O.B. And you’ve emerged charmingly.”

“No I haven’t! Please untie my hands, Hassan, and let me have a bath! They’re tied so 
damn tight . . . !”

“Friend Hamel made a point about your hands. Says he once kept a girl tied like that for 
five months. He wants me to do it to you.”

“Oh, Hassan, please . . . !”

“He also wants you whipped. He says you slapped his face?”

It was in the tied girl’s mind to tell of what Hamel had done to her, and to plead that 
surely it was punishment enough. But to tell her Master of the ugly violation of her sex was 
distasteful; a shaming admission she did not want to make. It was obscene. Obedient to their 
code, she accepted guilt. “Yes, I slapped his face. He’s . . . he’s – Oh, never mind!” Cheryl 
cocked a rueful eye at her master. “I blew it. You’ll have to punish me.”

“Tomorrow, beloved. I will whip you myself.”

She shrugged. She did not believe in tomorrows. “He also wanted you to hang me up by 
my wrists.”

“Inconsistent chap. Not practical when they’re tied behind your back for five months.” 
Hassan was enjoying her confessions.

“Master, are you really going to – five months?”

“I like the idea. It would give you a rest from the typewriter. Oh, and you’ll be glad to 
know, your punishments aren’t in vain. I got some useful concessions from Mr. Hamel.”

“Mention that while you’re whipping me. I’m sure it will help.” Cheryl wriggled and twisted 
irritably. “Hassan, I’m not a bit sure you love me - giving me to that oaf, and now making me 
stand in front of your desk in this . . . this . . . untidiness.”

“On the contrary, dear girl. Everything about you when you’re in a delinquent situation is 
so shockingly erotic I can never bear to part from you. Rest assured, you are adored above all 
women.”

“I love you too, and altogether too damn much, you outrageous brigand. Look, Darling, if I
can’t have my hands untied, can I go and find a girl to give me a bath and do my hair? Your 
friend, Hamel, messed me up.”

“Come here, little idiot!”

Cheryl was breathless with happiness as he untied her hands. She had become 
accustomed to being teased, but a girl could never be quite sure; not a girl who was also a 
slave. She had little doubt that on the morrow she would actually be whipped. Hassan could 
not possibly let her get off scot-free. She threw her loosed arms round his neck and kissed 
and kissed again.

“Go and have your bath, slave girl! Then I want you back here. I also want a favour.”

She twinkled at his amused grin. “Anything, Master.”

“When you walk back in here I want you looking as svelte and sleekly New Yorkish as you 
can manage. O.K.?”

Cheryl looked penitent. “Not another S.O.B. to entertain? Oh, Master, please . . . ?”

“D’you want me to add a few stripes to your back as well as your bottom?”

“Oh alright . . . you . . . you lovable brute. I’ll be about an hour. And, Master Darling . . . 
thank you!”

A haze of happiness had become a familiar state to Cheryl Chase. Hassan Darouba 
replenished and sustained her in a way she had never before known with a man. She knew 
their happiness stemmed from a code of behaviour, absurd, impossible, improbable to 
maintain. But each knew that to abandon their code would leave a vacuum. There was 
nowhere else for them to go; no other pattern they could sustain. Their erotic game had never
been a game at all. For them, it was reality.

Cheryl had given up dubbing herself with the tags of Freud and Kinsey. If her impassioned 
need to be a slave was deviant; so be it. In New York it would have remained latent. This land, 
the coffle, Darouba had fanned it into a flaming urgency of the libido. She cherished a 
glowing pride in her ability to accept the whip; she wore her weals with immense panache and
flaunted them in a deliberate invitation for more. Punishment subdued her only temporarily; 
or not at all. Constantly confronted by a decision to end so strange a love, she realized she 
could not do so.

She looked at the stranger in the mirror and realized how far she had come since that 
stranger had been herself. She was uncertain about Hassan’s wish but it did not matter. She 
was amused by this recreation of what she had been. She felt uncomfortable, overdressed. 
Entering her Master’s sanctum, she felt herself prepared for anything.

But not for Seth Burdett.

“My, my, quite the lady, love.” His Australian cynicism was unperturbed. His craggy 
features, his cockeyed eyebrow, his attire, were all as she remembered them. He was noting 
her shock with undisguised enjoyment. “Dropped by to make a collection.” He added heartily.

He was a force, just as Darouba was a force. Cheryl Chase felt herself bombarded by male 
vibrations from divergent origins – Or were they divergent . . . ? She looked from one to the 
other in dismay.

“I – I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know – I’ll leave.” Her heart was thudding painfully as she turned 
to the door.

“Running away, love? Come on back and face the music!”

The caustic Aussie drawl was like a tough hand reaching out to draw her back. Back to 
what? She had been through with Seth Burdett when the collar of his coffle had fallen from 
her neck. She turned and looked at him resentfully, only to be mocked by his frankly lecherous
stare of admiration. “I don’t think we have anything to discuss.” She said in a tone more even 
than her pulse.

Hassan had watched them both in quizzical surmise. “I think Mr. Burdett wishes to 
propound a thought.” He suggested gently. “Perhaps we should hear him out.”

“Too right, I do!” The slaver’s jaw became a jutting menace. “What I’m going to propound 
is getting back my property.” He swivelled his full focus on the immaculate New York creation 
who was secretly quaking in her shoes, and launched the single word: “You!”

“Don’t be silly Mr. Burdett. I do not belong to you, I never did.” Cheryl made her voice as 
icy as she dared.

“Then how the devil did you get on my coffle?”

“You acquired me from kidnappers.”

“Come off it, love. Think back a bit!”

Miss Cheryl Chase sensed an abyss, but her retort was haughty: “I was delivered to you 
naked and bound. That hardly constitutes ownership of my person.”

“Think back a bit more! I got the story from the boys, y’know.” Burdett leered enjoyably. 
“You entered into something of your own free will. You ruddy well used me. I’ve read some of 
that stuff you’re written.”

“In that case you are aware of who and what I am. You can hardly expect to deal in me as 
merchandise.”

“Horseshit!” He bestowed an amiable wink. “You’re the same girl I had on my coffle. Those 
duds you’re wearing are damn pretty but they’ll look bloody silly on the slave chain.”

She had a momentary vision of herself, as she was, linked to the naked slaves on their way 
to Ben Sirah. The thought possessed an erotic stimulus to send heat flaring between her 
thighs. Cheryl had never denied or ignored the influence of the coffle on her libido, or the 
impact of Burdett’s masculinity on her psyche. “I am not going back on a slave chain.” She said
flatly.

“Want to bet, sweetheart?”

“Hold on, Burdett.” Hassan was still amused. “Don’t push so hard!” He grinned 
sardonically. “We may be moving in a right direction, but I want it clearly understood that I 
surrender Miss Chase to no one, and that includes you.”

“O.K., O.K. . . . . !” Burdett waved a tolerant hand. “I could guess that one before I came. But
I’ve still been cheated. Would you concede that?”

“Wouldn’t ‘disappointed’ about cover it?”

“This girl will fetch a couple of millions on the block. That’s a lot of disappointment.”

“I can hardly ask the Russians to donate that in foreign aid to the oppressed.”

“You don’t have to. Let the sale go through, then repossess her afterwards. Clear case of 
‘Caveat Emptor’.”

The exchange was doing strange things to Cheryl’s self possession. In an effort to elevate 
herself above the status of merchandise, she said, tartly: “You don’t think I’m crazy enough to 
go back on that coffle, do you? You’re got the damndest nerve – “

“Sure, I think you’re that crazy, crazy like a fox. The exercise is good for you, and you’ll 
come out the other end with the story of a lifetime. Dammit, girl, you should be grateful – “

“In some fat Arab’s harem!”

“Darouba can fix that.”

Cheryl was sexually aroused. She could not ignore the excitation engendered by this 
outrageous man and the pictures he evoked. The slave block . . . . It was every girl’s dream! 
And she had felt cheated by Corey’s charity. If Burdett had not whipped her so cruelly that 
night she might not have run. Dissembling, she went off a tangent:

“There’s a white girl named Amy . . . . She belongs to my Master. Why not make him an 
offer? You don’t need me.”

“That’s a thought.” Hassan volunteered. “Nice easy solution.”

Seth Burdett sighed heavily. He looked from one to the other of them as though forced to 
explain something to children. “No girl escapes from a coffle.” He enunciated distinctly. 
“Certainly not from mine!”

“It is a tradition, a matter of face.” Darouba explained to his slave’s rebellious expression. 
“Mr. Burdett has a point.”

“But, Master - !”

“Hark at the girl!” The slave trader was mocking. “Master, no less . . . and prepared to 
argue to boot. Darouba, this female needs her ass whipped.”

“He doesn’t spoil me. I’m going to be whipped tomorrow.” The words were out before she 
could check them.

“What’s he use, a feather duster?”

“Go away and leave us alone!” Cheryl could feel herself slipping and was desperate. Seth 
Burdett was a relentless force. She turned to Hassan appealingly. “Master, send him away! I 
love you.”

“I’ll be glad to whip her ass for you.” Burdett offered genially. “The girl needs it. Look, tell 
the silly bitch to get herself back on my coffle and honour is satisfied. I’ll even return you my 
cut on whatever you have to bid to get her back – if that’s the way you want it.”

Cheryl Chase could feel the flow of masculine vibrations. They aroused her deplorably. The
coffle and the auction block were experiences much to be desired if it was not for the slaver’s 
demands of humiliating submissions. Breathlessly, she remembered that Darouba could do 
whatever he pleased with her. He obviously had no wish to offend Burdett. There was also his 
tentative plan to place her on the block by an expedient to satisfy her journalistic need. Was 
she resisting the slaver’s hand simply out of pride? Irritably, she declared: “It’s not as though 
you’d leave me alone on the coffle; you’d screw me and whip me and goodness knows what 
else.”

“O.K., love, you got my word. You don’t get touched between here and Ben Sirah.”



“But the ropes and chain - ?”

“I’m talking ‘bout whips and pricks, love. ‘less you ask for ‘em you won’t get ‘em. Fair 
enough?”

“That’s a fair offer.” Hassan interpolated. “Burdett will keep his word, beloved. I know.”

“Are you telling me I must go on his slave chain?”

“Is it not a means to an end, dear girl, a piece of unfinished business?”

He was right and her loins were rampant with desire. “But, Darling . . . ?” Her concern was 
genuine. “All that money to buy me . . . ?”

“I also buy honour. It’s a bargain.”

“Y’see, love, there’s things you don’t understand.” Burdett winked at her tolerantly. “And at
the end of the trek you’ll be more beautiful than you’ve ever been.”

Cheryl met his gaze, breasts heaving, ashamed of her physical responses. “I’ll have a 
chafed neck, a chafed wrist, and I’m not sure about the whipmarks.” She declared defiantly.

“You’ll get the whip only if you earn it. As for your neck and wrist, you’re quibbling.”

She turned to Darouba. “Master, must I?”

“No. But the decision is yours. We are speaking of less than a month. It is not forever.”

“I’m frightened.”

“Of course. You are also hot with excitement. I know.”

He knew her too well. She was indeed vividly aroused. No doubt Burdett could discern it 
too. The coffle, the slave pens, the auction . . . It was the story of her career . . . . She flushed 
pinkly at her obvious feelings . . . . ! Damn them both! In this country it was hell to be female. 
In a last ditch appeal she reminded Hassan: “But, Master, you have to whip me tomorrow?”

“It can await your return. It will not be forgotten.” Darouba smiled. “Or if you wish to 
dispose of the matter I can instruct Mr. Burdett? I assure you he is capable of moderation.”

“Please do!” Cheryl said tartly in a flash of pique. “He will enjoy every stroke.” She turned 
to the grinning slaver. “Well, Mr. Burdett, when do we start?”

“You’ve already started, love. You’d started before you entered this room.”

“Never mind the analysis! I presume you’re transporting me to where your coffle is 
assembled?”

“Right, love. There’s a truck, same as last time.”

Cheryl trembled inwardly. “Surely you don’t mean - ?”

“Yes, I do. You’ll be stripped and tied.”

“In that case, I refuse.”

The two men looked at her. They said no word. Defeated by an endless silence, she 
snapped: “Oh, very well! Tell me what to do! I’m – I’m a – nothing.”

“Take those lovely clothes off!”

“Here?” She flamed at the violation of an intimacy.

“Yes, here. Off with ‘em love.”

She had known from the start. She had been instructed to put them on only so they might
be taken off. Irritated, she knew her own eroticism the equal of theirs. To strip . . . ! But, after 
all, nakedness was now her natural state. Deliberately, with provocation, she removed the 
finery of another world. “There,” she mocked sarcastically. “Two breasts and a patch of pubic 
hair. I hope you enjoy me.”

Hassan’s eyes smoldered, but the slaver’s quip was ever ready. “They’ll enjoy you on the 
block, love. That’s what counts.” He reached into one of the capacious pockets of his jacket 
and produced cord. “How ‘bout turning round and backing up?”

No chance to save face or leave with dignity. Why in hell couldn’t the oaf give a girl a 
break? “You don’t have to tie me.” She said stiffly. “You’re just rubbing my nose in the dust.”

“A bit o’ rope stops a change of mind, love.”

“It hurts, and it’s not necessary.”

“Over here! C’mon, love, don’t spoil things!”

Cheryl shrugged. It was hopeless, of course. To quibble would demean her further. She 
took the several steps and presented Seth Burdett with her naked back and two passive hands
and arms.

He bound them cruelly. But she had expected this and made no demur as her hands were 
tied palm to palm and her elbows circled and drawn tight as with the lacings of a corset. While
it was being done to her she gazed steadfastly at the man she called ‘Master’. Hassan Darouba
nodded; he approved. Under the pain of the cords, Miss Cheryl Chase felt herself going back 
into that other time: the time of high hopes never consummated . . . . Already she could hear 
the clink of chain! When her arms had been taken from her and her breasts thrust forward in 
compensation, she stepped away and abandoned further pretence. She was a slave and she 
was helpless. They could do what they pleased with her. She could not protest.

“Damn lovely bit o’ stuff.” The slaver’s tone was reverent.

“Keep her lovely!” Hassan’s voice held steel.

“Oh, aye, the trek’s good for ‘em. When you get her back she’ll be lovelier than now.”

“Am I allowed to say good-bye?” Cheryl was suddenly forlorn in the grip of panic that 
comes from too much too soon.

“Dammit, love, you ain’t loosing him. He’ll have you back in a month.” Burdett winked 
lewdly and marched out on to the balcony beyond sight and sound.

“Darling,” Cheryl twisted her naked shoulders ineffectually. “I feel so silly, tied up like this in
front of you. That bastard ties brutally.”

“But he is right: you are very lovely.” Hassan took her trussed nudity in his arms and kissed 
her eyes, her lips, the hollow of her neck. “I will never let you escape. I will bring you back. Can
you trust me?”

“You know I can.” She longed for arms but made do by burrowing her breasts against his 
shirt. Petulantly, she complained: “See, I’ve lost my hands, and my arms, and my freedom, and 
I’m naked for him and not for you, and I’m helpless and I want to stay here with you.” She was
breathless. “Hassan, keep me! Send him away! Damn the story.”

He held her tight while she wept, then dried her tears. “It was the same last time, 
remember?” He consoled gently. “It is best you go: just as it was best then. Have you 
considered that if I buy you from the block I will have title to a slave. It is a law of the Land.”

The thrill returned. Hassan was right. But the ropes on her arms were hurting and she was 
in love. “We’ve had something so good; I don’t want to end it.” She said wistfully.

“It will never end. This is an interlude.” His arms tightened again round her tautly tied 
nakedness. “We both know this is something best disposed of.”

“Mmmmmmm . . . Darling must I be tied like this? I mean, just to go and ride in a truck? 
He’s so damn demanding.”

“It’s his pride; his standing in the community. In this land it is best respected. There 
actually exists a dictum to the effect that no girl escapes a coffle. It is regarded as a law too 
obvious to dispute.” Hassan kissed her again. “For Burdett you represent unfinished business, 
a loose end. The auction block is the same for you; a destiny unfulfilled. The ropes in your 
scented flesh are an affirmation.”

The tears had helped; Hassan had helped; her own ambition had spurred her pulse. Cheryl 
ruefully recognized that the overriding sensuality of what was being done with her was a 
powerful influence all its own. Burdett’s crude masculinity was a part of that too.

The journey to the waiting truck was shaming. She did not want to be seen like this in 
Amphala. Hassan Darouba’s woman should not be stripped and trussed by a slave trader 
known to all. She could not be walking by his side as though for an evening stroll. Bitterly, she 
exclaimed: “I suppose you know how I hate this?”

“You’re loving every moment, kid.”

“You’re so blasted arrogant, Mr. Burdett, you don’t leave a girl with anything.”

“She doesn’t need anything. Here, I’ll show you.” He grasped her arm to bring her to a 
halt. His other hand cupped and kneaded her sex. When he raised it for inspection she beheld 
it glistening with her wet secretions. “See what I mean?” His tone was complacent, infuriatingly
patronizing. “Like I said, you’re getting a charge out of what we’re doing. Girls don’t need a 
damn thing; they’ve got all they need between their legs.”

Cheryl sniffed and changed the subject. “D’you think you could loosen these ropes a bit? 
You’ve tied me too tight.”

“No.”

“You really are a S.O.B.”

“S’right, love. You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

The waiting truck and the waiting helper were another shock. “Why can’t I ride in the cab 
with you?” Cheryl demanded. “It wouldn’t affect your holy image, would it? Dammit, Mr. 
Burdett, a naked girl bounces around in the back of that truck like a rubber ball.”

He did not deign to answer, but picked her up and sat her on the tailgate, legs dangling. 
He then tied her ankles as tightly as the rest. When he also began to tie her knees she said, 
resentfully:

“You’re punishing me, aren’t you? Or softening me up. There’s no way you need to tie my 
knees together.”

“S’right, love. I’m being a right bastard. You’re going to have a miserable ride and it’ll do 
you a world o’good.” He tugged the final knot hard for emphasis.

The ride was worse than her memory of the first. It was accentuated by her aloneness. 
There were no soft and sympathetic female bodies to cushion shocks. Miss Cheryl Chase 
endured it with several bouts of tears and with bitter regrets. Even when the rough and 
tumble miles were done with there was no surcease. Burdett clambered up to where she sat in
forlorn helplessness, tied a rope round her neck, and the other end of it anchored to a bolt 
she could not reach. When, without a word, he turned to leave, she demanded in desperation.

“You’re not going to leave me like this?”

“Too right, I am, love. It’s late. Too late to whip your ass. Consider yourself parked for the 
night. Go to sleep!”

“But I can’t! Not like this! I hurt, and I can hardly move.”

“That’s the general idea, kid. You’re a slave, remember?”

“I’m not! Oh, damn you - !”

Burdett paused and looked down at her angry features. “You forgetting something, 
sweetheart? I’d be entitled to whip you for that.”

“Go ahead and whip me! Feel a real big man.” Prospect of a night in such tight bondage 
robbed Cheryl of caution. “You don’t feel right unless you’ve got a girl hurting – “

Seth Burdett spoke no word as he slipped off the tailgate. But Cheryl knew she had made 
her first mistake. When he climbed back in he held a whip.

“I – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that . . . Master.”

“Damn right you shouldn’t. And I’ll just bet you’re sorry.”

Hating herself and the whole business of slavery, she pleaded:

“Please forgive me – It’s just that I hurt so bad . . . and these boards . . . and all night . . . !”

“Like it or not, that’s it, love.”

“Yes, alright. I expect I deserve it some way. But please don’t whip me! This isn’t easy for 
me, y’know.”

“That’s what I love ‘bout you girls.” Burdett said expansively. “You talk to a man like a dog; 
then expect to sweet talk yourself out of what you got coming.”

“Yes, I know you’re right; we’re a bunch of conniving bitches. But please, Mr. Burdett, don’t
whip me!”

“If it was Darouba who was going to stripe your hide you’d be sticking up your ass.”

He was right. But that made it worse. Cheryl knew she might as well resign herself to being
whipped. But it was always worth a try to evade such bitter pain. She made her voice piteous:

“Please, Mr. Burdett, I know I deserve to be whipped . . . Oh, and I will call you ‘Master’ 
from now on. But you’ve already promised to whip me on account of Hassan’s wishes. 
Couldn’t that be enough? I mean, lying in this truck all night tied the way I am is a 
punishment.”

“Sooner be on the coffle?”

“Oh yes, Master.”

“You know damn well you’re not foxing me, kid. You’re going too be whipped. Be a good 
girl and tell me the truth!”

It was hopeless. Wanly, Cheryl said what she must: “You are going to whip me, Master. I 
deserve it. Thank you!”

“That’s my girl!” Burdett sounded genuinely pleased. “Now lay yourself whatever way you 
want.”

It was a final cruelty before the lash. However she positioned herself would be wrong. But 
not her breast, not her breasts and belly! Dismally, Cheryl made a painful turn to lay face 
down. Her breasts were chafed by the rough wood of the truck bed. She felt a hundred times 
naked. Bound as she was, she could not even raise her hands to uncover her bottom for his 
attention. “If you want to untie me, I won’t resist.” She offered pathetically.

Seth Burdett whipped his disrespectful slave girl. He was handicapped by her bonds but 
there was enough of her exposed for his need. Her shoulders, her flanks, the side of each 
buttock, her thighs, the soles of her feet! To Cheryl Chase it was as though she had sprouted 
six new places; all virgin; all tender and responsive to pain. Against her will, she found herself 
rolling, until a cut across her belly below her breasts sent her back into position. Her arms 
must be striped horribly; she was sure of it. She could not move them and the lash scorched 
them constantly as though seeking the flesh beneath. But that would be for tomorrow! She 
had to be whipped again tomorrow! Miss Cheryl Chase moaned in desolation and wished 
herself back in Amphala.

“Well?” The query was caustic. The whipping stopped.

It took the naked girl a moment to adjust. There was no thought of rebellion left in her. 
Panting in the ebb tide of agony, she muttered: “Yes . . . Master, I’m sorry. Thank you for 
whipping me!”

“Think it’s done you a bit o’ good?”

“Yes, oh yes . . . I’d forgotten.”

“Let’s hear the rest of it! What are you?”

Cheryl did not care. He could humiliate her all he liked, but she wanted no more of the 
whip. In a weak but clear voice she paid her humble dues to male strength: “I’m a foolish slave
girl who’s been taught her place, Master.”

“That’s a lot better. Now, let me hear a promise!”

“I’ll behave and be obedient on the Trek, Master – and on the auction block.”

“Good thing I got you away from Darouba when I did; the idiot was spoiling you rotten.” 
Burdett surveyed the tightly bound girl with immense satisfaction. “And now, what’s waiting 
for you tomorrow?”

“I have to be whipped again tomorrow, Master.” Cheryl had to swallow hard to get out the
hateful words. “Please whip me again then as my – my – as Hassan Darouba requested.”

Surprisingly, he patted her cheek paternally, and then was gone.

Again she dissolved into tears. The empty truck, the raised tailgate, the rope tether on her 
neck . . . ! It was the most miserable prison of her captive career. The Amphala cell was 
luxurious by comparison. On top of her dismal loneliness and the hurt of the whip, the cords 
by which she was trussed were a malignant enemy biting at her flesh in a constant bitterness. 
But Cheryl dared not scream or cry out for mercy. In a true slave girl resignation she wriggled 
her nudity up against the side of her wooden prison and into a corner to accommodate her 
bound arms. Against all probability she slept.

Cheryl Chase had not forgotten Corey Gibson. The tawny haired number one slave girl had
been often in her thoughts. But she had dared ask no questions. Burdett’s woman was a 
touchy subject. But when it was Corey who released her in the morning she was not surprised.

“So he’s got the both of us again!” Corey’s voice was ruefully resigned. “I should have 
known enough to leave you on the coffle.”

Massaging the deep indentations on her skin, Cheryl sighed blissfully. “O gosh that feels 
good! He tied me so damn tight!” Hesitatingly, she asked the inevitable question. “Did he 
punish you for letting me loose? Was he very cruel?”

“Hell, he didn’t punish me at all.” Corey laughed disgustedly. “He’s been saving it for when 
he got you again. He’ll punish me now, and he’s going to make you watch.”

“I’m sorry. Oh, Corey . . . !” The words were inadequate, but Cheryl was sorry for herself 
too. “But how did he know he’d got hold of me again?”

“Just egotism. His male arrogance. He never had any doubt. We sold the coffle you were 
on, and now he’s gathered another collection of sad and happy damsels. They’re out there on 
the slave chain now, waiting for you.” Corey took a hand in rubbing a wealed arm. “This is 
your own fault, y’know. You and your journalism . . . your damn book, You brought it on 
yourself.”

“So did you, Corey Gibson.”

“You know who I am, don’t you? We’re a pair of idiots.”

“Can I use you, your name?” Cheryl’s eyes were once more shining. “You were one of the 
world’s ten most beautiful – “

“No. There’s my father. He’s hurt, and he thinks I’m nuts.”

“Can’t we start this truck and make a run for it?” Cheryl was finding courage in the lithe 
sun drenched nakedness by her side.

Corey Gibson patted an eager cheek. “Poor little darling, you’re so naïve! He’s waiting for 
us to do just that. He’s always setting traps. We wouldn’t get half a mile – and then we’d get 
punished horribly. We’ve got enough on our plate today without that.” She shrugged ruefully. 
“Besides, I love the big brute. I won’t leave him.”

“But he’s going to whip you . . . or something!”

“So what! It’s not the first time for either of us.”

“But – but – we’re free. No rope, no chains . . . ?”

“That’s Seth’s sense of humour. He tantalizes a girl to bits. C’mon there’s a creek . . . and 
you need a bath.”

“But we’re both going to be punished!”

“Forget about it, Darling! And I’m going to feed you too.”

Cheryl followed the lioness to the water. But not for a moment did she forget the waiting 
penalties and the man who would inflict them.

It was the same big tent; the same two sturdy poles. Even the sarcasm remained 
unchanged. “Two good little girls, eh. Both anxious to pay their dues.”

Corey knelt and embraced a male thigh, rubbing her cheek against the rough whipcord 
like an affectionate cat. “Yes, Master.” Her tone was vibrant. “May I have my punishment today,
please?”

“You may indeed, love.” Burdett was in his masculine element. “But first, tie little Trixie here 
to her pole.”

Corey Gibson actually seemed happy that her time had come. No doubt she would be 
glad to be done with it. She kissed a huge rough hand, rose erect, and went to where the 
ropes were ready.

“Your hands, Darling?”

The re-enslaved nudity held out its hands. This matter-of-factness was unreal but 
obedience was implicit. Cheryl Chase watched her wrists crossed and tied together without 
any sense of incongruity. Two girls were going to be punished and then chained on a coffle. 
All was well in the world of Seth Burdett.

“Nice and tight, Darling?”

“Yes. I can’t get them loose.”

“Back against the pole, Darling!”

“Dammit, you two got something going?” Burdett wrinkled his nose. “All these ‘Darlings’?”

Cheryl managed to look guilty as she thrust her naked back against the pole and raised 
her bound hands. Corey was unperturbed. With casual competence she tied the crossed wrists
high on the rigid wood; not immovably. It would be possible for the re-possessed slave to 
turn . . . . The slave knew why . . . . !

“The slave is tied, Master.”

“I suppose you two know what’s coming next?”

“We are both to be punished, Master.”

“Too right you are.” The slaver was cheerfully making the most of an occasion. “Want to tell
us why, Corey?”

“Of course, Master!” The response was without emphasis. “The new slave is to be whipped 
at the request of her former master. I am to be punished because I loosed her from the coffle 
weeks ago.” Corey smiled without bravado. “I am guilty; I don’t pretend I’m not.”

“Hmmmm, you’re a bit of a bloody miracle, Corey girl, but it’s not going to do you any 
good.”

“No, Master. Have you decided my punishment?”

“Want to get it over with, eh?” Burdett laughed. “You’ve been carrying the prospect around
a long time. How’s about a real dowser of a whipping?”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Haven’t whipped you near enough lately, sweetheart. This one’s going to catch you up.”

“Do you want rope, Master?”

“I’m not tying you yet. You can whip little Trixie for Darouba before you get yours. A single 
thong, shortish.”

Corey’s pause was brief. But she was accustomed to her owner’s vagaries; this was in 
character. She did not wish to whip the naked girl she had tied to the post, but she would do 
so; she had no choice. She met Cheryl’s startled gaze with a rueful grin of apology. Without 
ostentation, she selected the appropriate instrument.

“Her back, Master?”

“Aye, her back and her arse – couldn’t get at either last night. I think Darouba just tickles 
her up a bit, but you can do better.”

The two naked slaves exchanged sympathetic glances. Each understood a shared distaste 
for what must happen. With a wry shrug, Cheryl turned herself about so that her breasts were 
bisected by the pole and her magnificent expanse of back and buttocks was delivered to the 
whip. Her hands and fingers twisted unhappily against the cords but made no true effort for 
release.

“How many strokes must she have, Master?”

“Whip the pretty bitch until I tell you to stop. You don’t have to hurry.”

As the first stripe etched her back, Cheryl Chase tried to think of the right word for what 
was happening: Casual, nonchalant, routine . . . They all flashed through her mind as the pain 
of number one seeped into her flesh. She supposed she would not be flogged. She would be 
whipped enough to give her much pain as a punishment. That was all. At least, it would be all 
if Darouba’s wishes were respected. She steeled herself to endure . . . . With her forehead 
pressed against the pole and her wrists afire she awaited number two.

“Am I whipping her hard enough, Master?”

“That’s about right. She isn’t enjoying it.”

Cheryl counted the strokes, according each the gasp and writhe of tribute it deserved. It 
was a beastly searing pain she knew too well; the pain of punishment for a girl who had not 
watched her tongue. The number of strokes did not really matter; what mattered was pain. 
Pain was the quintessence of what was happening; both for her and for those who ordered 
her whipped. As Corey’s strokes cut at her she delivered the moans and small cries of anguish 
she knew the occasion demanded. They were not feigned.

“That’s a damn pretty girl. She takes a whipping well.”



Cheryl was absurdly pleased with the tribute. She was fighting hard not to scream. She was
also fighting her instinct to turn and twist beneath the lash. She believed that if it was a male 
who was whipping her she would be taking these desperate evasions; risking the hazards of 
where his whip might strike. She was certain she was tied as she was to enable this. She could 
not escape but she certainly could contort in the motions of desperation so dearly beloved by 
those who imposed a whip upon feminine flesh. But she was not whipped by a man. She was 
being whipped by a naked girl who would soon, herself, be whipped - and far more cruelly. 
Between them was the understanding and rapport of girls; each feeling the other’s pain; yet 
each erotically aroused.

“Take a breather, Corey. And you, slave girl, turn around!” Burdett was enjoying the 
piquancy of Cheryl’s punishment; he was in no hurry to speed it to conclusion.

Shrinkingly ashamed of tears and the sweat of pain, Cheryl Chase turned painfully on her 
toes and against the hurt of her wrists to face her surrogate master. For her, Hassan was the 
only man to whom she owed fealty, but as long as the slaver’s bonds were on her flesh she 
would pay him the homage of submission. She gazed at him now through her tears without 
any hope of mercy or the remission of her punishment. She hurt, but not in the same degree 
Corey Gibson was going to hurt. Cheryl was sure of this, and wondered at the tawny haired 
beauty’s lack of concern.

“D’you feel you’re getting a square deal, love?”

“I – I – expect so . . . Master. Thank you!”

She hated the humility in the same way she hated her glistening exposure, but she dared 
offer no less. She offered a pale smile to Corey who was standing back; the whip hanging 
negligently from one hand; awaiting instruction from her lord.

“Darouba whip you this hard?”

“Yes, Master. When he punished me it was always for real.”

“And you wanted it?”

It was a bad question. Cheryl twisted awkwardly against the pole. “I wanted it from him, 
Master.”

“But you don’t want it from me, eh?”

“No girl wants to be whipped, Master, except by the man she loves.”

Burdett guffawed. “Little Trixie making any sense, Corey girl?”

“Yes, Master, that’s the way we are.” Corey spoke with the air of a woman repeating the 
obvious. It was almost with amusement that she added: “You are going to punish me. I t will 
hurt me much more if you order someone else to inflict it.”

“How ‘bout me giving little Trixie here a drink and telling her to flog you purple?”

All three of them understood this masculine probing of feminine response. The slaver was 
enjoying himself with his slaves; he wanted to strip their minds as he stripped their bodies. But
Corey managed a smile.

“Of course, Master, if you wish it.”

“I can’t whip her, I just can’t!” The exclamation burst from Cheryl’s lips like a small bomb. 
She looked at her new owner in appeal. “I’d be no good . . . you’d be angry with me.”

“She’s whipping you, love.”

“That’s different.” The reluctant slave twisted unhappily. “She – she loves you . . . . And I 
guess she’s more used to this sort of thing than I am.”

“This sort of thing?” He mimicked her words. “You make us sound as though you’re 
slumming, love.”

“I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” Cheryl looked at him wanly. “Could I be given the rest of my 
whipping, please?”



“Dammit kid, that sounds more like the grand lady than ever. Sure you can have the rest of
Darouba’s love pats. But suppose we make ‘em twice as hard and twice as many unless you 
decide to lace that lovely pelt that’s standing there waiting?”

“But you promised! You promised that if I went back on your coffle you wouldn’t whip me 
without good cause and you wouldn’t do that . . . other thing either.” Cheryl was indignant.

“Other thing? Oh, you mean fuck you! And if disobedience isn’t good cause I don’t know 
what is –“

Corey Gibson slipped to her knees before the man who owned them both. She was calmly 
self possessed; her voice clear. “Please, Master, I want you to punish me. You, no one else. But 
if that is not your wish then please have one of the girls on the coffle do it. There’s that one 
called ‘Tana’; she doesn’t like me. She’ll be cruel.”

Burdett raised her to her feet and kissed her with surprising tenderness. “Finish your job, 
sweetheart!” His voice had become as tender as his hands. “And you, slave girl, you’d best turn
round – unless you want the rest of your stripes across your tits.”

Cheryl Chase twisted herself back to face the pole. She closed her eyes and listened for the
snicker of the thong as it sliced the air before it cut her skin.





Chapter Seven


Corporal Punishment





The quiet of the big tent was only lightly disturbed by intermittent gasps of feminine 
distress; apart from these small tributes to pain there was silence between the two nude girls 
who were the only occupants. The atmosphere was heavily charged with the slothful passage 
of time; for those in pain it passes slowly.

Cheryl was still tied as for her whipping. Her back and bottom were well striped and were 
tender if she thrust them against the pole to which she was still securely fastened. From time 
to time she turned to ease aching muscles and tired toes, but whether she faced one way or 
the other her wrists hurt just the same. Mostly she faced outwards to observe, with shrinking 
sympathy, her companion in distress.

The legendary white slave girl was being punished. The lion’s mane of tawny hair fell 
forward to the ground as its owner bent in agony against the stress of arms raised behind her 
back and wrists tied immovably one on each side of the pole at a height precluding motion 
without pain. Corey Gibson was discovering that even to remain utterly still helped but little. 
Her glorious breasts were heaving distressfully.

“He won’t do any more to you. He can’t!” Cheryl’s voice lacked conviction.

“It’s just the prelude, Darling. I was a very bad girl.”

“But after all this time . . . . ! You’d think he’d have forgotten.” Cheryl’s journalistic mind 
never tired of dissecting the Male. “I don’t see how he can do this to you; not if he loves you?”

“It’s me who loves him, sweetheart. I can’t tell if he loves me or not.” Corey gasped and 
shook hair out of her eyes. “There’s a bit of Seth Burdett no girl ever gets to know.”

“But why do you stay - ?”

The punished girl managed a small bitter laugh. “Have you ever seen me actually able to 
walk away? I mean escape? I can’t do that any more than you. Long ago I made a choice – It 
wasn’t Seth’s; it was mine. He was going to sell me with the rest. Hell, why not, I was just 
merchandise. But I managed to touch him some way. He didn’t sell me. He kept me as his 
personal slave.”

“You poor darling!” Cheryl was seeing the white goddess in a new light.

“Hell, I wanted it!” Corey twisted her wracked shoulders to contrive a reassuring grin up at 
her fellow captive. “I wanted Seth Burdett so bad – and I still do! He’s a sort of beautiful 
perpetual pain for me. I’ve been alight with sensuality ever since he first chained me on his 
coffle. Sure, he never gives me a chance to escape, but I wouldn’t if I could.” The lovely voice 
changed. “Not unless I knew for sure he’d changed his mind and was going to sell me.”

“But his punishments! Don’t you hate them?”

“Cheryl sweetheart, do you hate Darouba’s?”

The whipped girl digested the implications in brief silence. “We’re hopeless, aren’t we?” 
She said slowly. “I mean us girls. Men do what they please with us. We even hold out our 
hands to be tied.”

“Sure we do, as long there’s a streak of cruelty in ‘em.” The tortured girl admitted ruefully. 
“If he’s a real nice guy who wouldn’t hurt a fly we get bored. We deserve all we get.”

“But we’re happy . . . ?”

“More than I ever was in my life.” Again the small bitter chuckle. “Not at this moment, of 
course, but yesterday . . . and maybe the day after tomorrow.”

“He really will have you flogged, Corey? Gee, I hate that word!”

“Oh sure! I’ve been resigned to that ever since I decided to set you free. Don’t worry, 
Darling! I expect I’ve been whipped just as bad in times past. I’ve been a coffle slave for a long
time, y’know.”

“And this hateful thing he’s doing to you now - ?”

“I expect it’s for the day. I’m resigned to that too. Don’t feel too bad about me! I’m simply 
nourishing my man’s ego. It’s in a good cause. He’ll ravish me like a hungry tiger after I’ve 
been punished.”

As the hours passed, Cheryl Chase could well believe she was being punished too. To stand
naked against a post with hands tightly tied above her head rapidly became a misery. She had
no doubt of the slaver’s purpose with them both. Corey’s punishment followed a code; hers 
was to induce the submission desirable in a coffle slave on her way to the auction block. Seth 
Burdett would be quietly chuckling at thought of their plight. Shifting in one more futile effort
at easement of strained arms and toes she thought longingly of Amphala and Hassan.

It was not a happy day.

Burdett released them in the evening. Without bonds, they stood with useless arms 
awaiting the return of circulation and the response of muscles and sinews taxed beyond 
endurance. The two girls looked at each other and at their master in mute conjecture.

Burdett gave them no clue. “You’re free, sweethearts. Run for the desert or go and take 
your places on the coffle!”

They were in no mood for his banter. With shrugs of resignation they walked to where the 
chains awaited them, and to where nineteen pairs of dark and curious maiden eyes viewed 
them in speculation. Automatically they sank to the ground and lifted the open collars to their
necks and placed their wealed wrists within the iron shackle. With intent pleasure the slaver 
inserted the locks and snapped them shut. Two errant slave girls had returned home.

“Kind of him to chain us together.” Corey’s tone was only slightly sarcastic. “Today the 
preliminary, tomorrow the main bout.” She lifted her ironed wrist and examined it fondly. “I 
never cease to get the hots over these things.” She commented reflectively. “Do they do the 
same for you?”

“Outrageously. I’m always ashamed of myself.”

“You silly girls to like chain.” It was the coffee coloured beauty fastened next to Corey 
Gibson. Along with her admonition she bestowed a wise and knowing smile. “Tomorrow you 
get whipped real hard.”

For a moment, Corey froze. Then in a deliberately nonchalant tone, enquired: “Oh, is it you
who’s going to whip me, Tana?”

“Very hard. I much enjoy.”

Cheryl examined the happy girl. Tana was a beauty; lithe, supple and strong. The white girl 
shivered and wished she had Corey’s insouciance. “Why do you want to whip us, Tana?” She 
asked without interest.

“You know why. You white. You hurt more. For Tana to whip rich white girl is very good. I 
whip your cunt.”

“Who told you we’re rich?”

Tana giggled. “Coffle find out everything. You rich bitches who find big cock and likes yo’ 
ass whipped. You on slave chain ‘cause it keep yo’ hot between your legs.”

It was hard not to laugh. Amusedly, Cheryl held up her chained right hand: “D’you think I 
could get this unlocked just by asking?”

“How I know!” Tana retorted resentfully. “You white girls always best off – ‘cept when yo’ 
whipped. Richest man buy you for best big price. Tomorrow Tana get even. I whip white girl’s 
cunt and white girl’s tits. I make you scream.”

“Thank you, Tana, you’re a sweet girl. Someday I’ll get to whip you.”

“You not get to whip Tana. Tana best girl on the coffle. Tana get sold before you get 
chance.”

The girl was too smug too argue with, and in any case she was right. Tomorrow would be 
her day. Cheryl and Corey shrugged and settled themselves in the familiar chains for sleep.



***



The big tent. Two naked girls and a man. Corey Gibson sank to her knees before the man 
she called Master. Her voice was more abject than Cheryl had ever heard it.

“Please, Seth, not before the girls!”

“That gets to you, eh!” Burdett was pleased. “Corey, love, you’ve got to learn a lesson.”

“I know, Master, and I don’t mind. But don’t shame me in their eyes! I’ve got to be chained
with them for days and days.”

The slaver patted the tawny mane of the slave girl who adored him. “You let little Trixie 
loose because you were jealous.” He said heavily. “It wasn’t any noble cause. You were just 
scared I’d screw her every night instead of you . . . Right?”

There was a sad and pregnant pause before the whispered: “Yes, Master.”

“You took my law into your own hands.” He looked down quizzically. “You deserve more 
than simply getting your pelt striped.”

“But look at what you did to her all day yesterday!” Cheryl exclaimed indignantly. “That 
was torture – and all day! That ought to be enough.”

“Who asked your opinion?” Burdett asked dourly. “You want your arse welted some 
more?”

“No I don’t. But someone has to say something for the poor dear. Don’t you realize she 
loves you?”

“Keep quiet, Darling – But thanks anyway.” Corey’s cheeks were flushed. “Don’t get 
yourself punished! Our Master knows best.”

If there was sarcasm in the last words it was impossible to detect. Cheryl sniffed and 
tugged fretfully at her tied wrists which Burdett had thoughtfully bound behind her back. She 
knew herself wickedly vulnerable so, prudently, lapsed into sulky silence.

“Well, now that’s all over maybe I can get in a word.” There was no mistaking Burdett’s 
own special brand of sarcasm. “Corey’s going to be hung up where the girls can all get a good
look, and then sure she’s going to get it good.” He frowned. “You sure, kid, you want that little
coffee coloured little cupcake to use the whip on you?”

“I did, Master – “ Corey paused unhappily. “But not if I must be whipped in public.”

“That really bothers you, girl. So that’s the way it’s going to be. Like I said; a real lesson.”

“Yes, Master.” Another doleful pause. “But I will lose face with the girls; any authority you 
have given me over them will vanish.”

“You don’t need it, love. You’re absolved from your usual chores. You’ll stay chained on the
coffle night and day until Ben Sirah.”

“It will shame me utterly, Master.”

“Only for one coffle. When we gather the next you’ll be your own lovely self again; the 
white goddess they’re scared of.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Burdett grinned as he caught the almost imperceptible sideways glance his kneeling slave 
sent in the direction of her tied companion in disgrace. “And don’t be worrying about little 
Trixie!” He jeered. “She stays chained right beside you. I won’t be screwing her every night any 
more than I’ll be screwing you. You two didn’t know when you had it good.”

Both girls were blushing when they walked to where it would happen.

The two lonely small trees were not impressive, but the pole from one to the other was 
mutely eloquent. Without being told, Corey Gibson stood herself beneath the clear intent of 
the horizontal bar. Shamed and awkward, Cheryl Chase leaned her bound arms on one of the 
scrubby trees. Beside the other stood Tana, nubile and proud, the whip in her hand as wicked 
as the sparkle in her eyes.

“She’ll tie you, sweetheart. May as well do it right.” The slaver stood to one side with Selim 
who was grinning from ear to ear. Excited whispers from the coffle floated through the hot 
African air.

For the two white girls it was a hateful moment; for Tana it was a pinnacle of pride. She 
picked up rope and stepped to her golden victim with an erect arrogance that made Cheryl 
long to kick her, hard. In passive obedience, Burdett’s number one slave girl held out her 
hands and watched them bound. With care and pleasure Tana circled the chafed wrists three 
times; drew a cinch rope between and knotted it tight. This done, she raised her eyes to those 
of the girl she was about to whip. For perceptible moments they read each other’s minds and 
smiled at what they saw. The smiles were different but something female had been 
exchanged.

Cheryl supposed herself privileged. She was not chained on the coffle; she had a front row 
seat. Her hands were tied, presumably to keep her out of mischief, but apart from that she was
free. Or perhaps it was one more manifestation of Burdett’s humour to have her thus. Chained
on the coffle she would have been uninvolved; here she was almost a participant. Breathlessly,
she watched Tana’s triumph and Corey Gibson’s shame as the rope from the tied hands was 
thrown over the pole and pulled tight by the supple strength of a dusky maiden who, for an 
hour, was not a slave but the wielder of the whip to mark a white girl’s skin.

Tana moved with joyous precision. Corey’s hands were high; they were now drawn higher 
until a curt nod from Burdett brought the snubbing of the rope to leave the nude loveliness 
standing on her toes. At another time Cheryl would have seen only female beauty, but now 
she beheld the cruel vulnerability of a girl behind whose composed features must lurk a 
terrifying fear. The girls on the slave chain were silent; their whispers awed into silence as 
Tana’s nubilety positioned itself for the purpose of inflicting agony on white flesh. The tawny 
maned beauty’s feet had been left untied, but now Tana gathered the lovely hair, confined it 
with a loop of string, and placed it forward over a bare shoulder to drape across a tight breast.
The number one slave was ready for her punishment. Once more Burdett gave his dusky 
executioner a brief nod.

It was worse than either of the white girls expected. The whip, the agile strength of the girl 
who used it, the severity of the sweeping blow placed with precision to cut across the waiting 
back, across an armpit and snap itself into limbo upon an unsuspecting breast. Corey Gibson 
screamed piercingly in shock and danced in pathetic futility from the tractioning rope.

The scream and the wildly writhing nudity was Cheryl’s undoing. Having been whipped 
herself she knew a girl must eventually scream even when determined to be stoic. But that 
Corey Gibson should peal out such agony at the first lash told clearly the cruelty of the chosen
whip and the viciousness of the girl using it. The weal rising across golden skin drove her into 
instinctive revolt.

“Stop it! Oh, stop it! You can’t do that to her; you can’t.” She leaped at Tana and dealt the 
surprised damsel a sharp kick with a bare foot on a bare hip. With hands bound behind her 
back she could do no more, but stood panting and breathless and very much afraid.

“You’re a hard girl to teach, Trixie love.” The casualness of Burdett’s comment made it 
doubly menacing. His Australian bulk was suddenly beside her; his fingers grasping a handful 
of hair. “Want me to put you on later for an encore?”

“Can’t you think of anything but punishing us?” Cheryl was throwing caution in the winds. 
“It’s that pert little bitch; she’ll cut Corey to pieces.”

“No, she won’t.” The slaver shook her handful of hair admonishingly and painfully. “I’m 
running things, not you.”

“She wants you to whip her; you know she does, not that grinning girl. If you whipped her 
she’d be able to bear it.”

“And you’d stand quiet like a good little girl?”

“Yes . . . .”

“Kid, you mean well.” The slaver’s voice was almost kind. “But you’ve been on top of the 
heap too long, and Darouba’s spoiled you. You actually think you amount to something.” He 
shook her head again, this time playfully. “Maybe I can think of something.”

It happened very quickly. Burdett handled her nakedness with frightening ease and 
competence; his intent simple and terrifying. A rope noose took possession of Cheryl’s left 
ankle. A few moments later she was hanging upside down, her hair falling to the ground a 
foot below her head. As from a distance, she heard Burdett’s voice.

“You know what to do, Tana. But you get too playful and I’ll flay your hide.”

Disoriented and distraught, Cheryl tried to pant her way back into reality. Viewed upside 
down, the scene of which she was a part became doubly promising of pain. She tugged 
desperately at her bound hands and sought to dispose her one free leg into some posture of 
normalcy it could not find. Her roped ankle screamed its own distress.

Cheryl was hung, like a side of beef, at the end of the pole to which Corey’s arms were 
tautly raised. She was beside the tree and could thrust at it with her free foot, but the act was 
without profit. She was more incongruously helpless than in any previous subjugation. 
Despairingly, she gazed at a lopsided view of Seth Burdett walking casually towards the 
distant tent. He had abandoned them to Tana. An entranced Selim in the background was not 
likely to be much help.

“Nice little cunt sticking up.” Tana stepped the few paces to her new victim and probed 
and handled the hairy mound within the cleft of Cheryl’s thighs. She giggled happily. “You 
think maybe she like to be whipped?”

“Leave me alone!” Cheryl protested with a weaving but ineffectual leg. “Don’t you dare 
touch me!”

“Why I not touch? You tell Tana.”

There was no answer. The girl could do as she pleased with the two white slaves delivered 
to her mercy. Their only protection would lay with whatever orders Burdett had given the 
dusky maiden with the whip. Cheryl disdained to answer. She longed to cry.

“You watch upside down while I whip rich white lady.” Tara’s order was pure gloat. “You say
rude things I whip you too.”

To hang thus was the most frustrating posture of her captivity. Cheryl’s hands fought their 
cords steadily; her free foot explored space in the only expressions of frustration she was 
allowed. Inverted, everything was distorted and wrong. But, unhappily, she watched and 
listened.

“You like nice way I whip, dear girl?” Tana’s fingers caressed the angry weal she had placed 
across Corey’s shoulders. “You ready for more?”

“You whip cleverly, Tana.” The lovely voice had regained control. “But, please, not so hard! 
You don’t have to hit me like that.”

“I whip you how I like, white lady.” The young voice was smug with its temporary authority.
“Now you open up legs so I whip your cunt.”

Slowly, Corey obeyed. Tana’s lash snickered in a wicked upward sweep to a snapping 
impact within the white girl’s crotch. But this time there was no instant scream, only moans 
and the spasmodic jerking of a leg. This time there had been no shock, only agony.

“Thank you, Tana, that was better.” Corey’s voice was weak but under control. “I’ll try not to
scream too much.”

“You like whip on cunt?” Tana was interested. “I want to whip your breasts and tits, but 
Master he say no.” She giggled lewdly. “No matter ‘bout whip cunt; you not use it many days.”

“I won’t use my beasts either.” Corey was fighting for breathing space between blows. 
“And I don’t like my cunt whipped. I hate it!”

“Then Tana whip it one more before cut nice white bottom.”

The golden legs once more spread themselves for the dusky damsel’s need. The thong 
marked Corey’s most female privacy; extracting from the soft moist labia a sound to make 
Cheryl flinch in sympathy. Corey’s legs were even more eloquent than before.

“Nice noise, nice marks.” Tana’s hand explored her work on pubic flesh and came away 
wet. Pleased, she wiped the secretion on its owner’s hip. “You not like cunt whip, but little cunt
enjoy. She all wet.”



Cheryl had ceased to struggle. It was hopeless and it caused her to swing like a pendulum. 
It was best to be resigned. Her free leg, bent back at the knee, abandoned itself to gravity. She
longed to say something in Corey’s defence, but there was nothing . . . . ! Corey was sentenced
to be whipped and that was all there was to it! She would add her own screams to those of 
Tana’s victim if the whip became too brutal. Maybe Burdett would hear . . . maybe intervene . . 
. . !

“Some girls get wet when they’re whipped, Tana.” The hurt voice was placating. “I don’t 
think it means anything. I always get wet, so does Cheryl. Are you sure you don’t?”

“I never be whipped.” Tana announced proudly. “I just be tied or chained. I slave girl. I very 
obedient to Master. And you not tell me you no like whipped cunt! Tana know different. Now, 
you hold still for bottom.”

Cheryl saw the twin resilient spheres receive the sudden indentation of the thong; saw the 
white line turn to pink and then to scarlet; saw Corey’s golden body tense against the pain, 
and heard her gasping moans. It was when the writhing nudity disclosed a bare hip cut by a 
careless lash that her anger flared.

“You rotten bitch; you’ve cut her. You’re not supposed to lap over her hip.”

Tana diverted her pleased attention. “You telling me I not know whip, white girl? You call 
me bitch?”

“That’s right. You don’t know how . . . and you are a little bitch.”

“And you most silly girl.” Tana turned her full attention on the girl suspended by an ankle. 
“You now stick free leg way out to side.”

“I won’t! You’re not supposed to whip me. Certainly not there!”

“Tana do what she like with you. Master gone. You stick out leg or I whip breasts many 
times.”

Cheryl screamed. The scorching cut bisecting her most tender place was beyond bearing 
in silence. She did not care. She screamed and screamed again.

“You make too much noise, I whip again. You be quiet or get more.”

It took a control Cheryl had not believed she possessed to confine her sounds to moans 
when the thong cut its second bite across and deep within the juncture of her thighs. She felt 
sure it had found the slit labia and entered within on its passage to expend its venom on her 
belly. But she clenched her teeth and her pinioned hands and prayed that Tana was as good as
her word.

“White girl take orders; she stay quiet and do what Tana tell.” The sibilant words were 
gloating at the supremacy of coffee coloured skin. “Fine white ladies wish they stay at home. 
Now Tana must whip very hard and very fast on girl who not upside down.”

To a sobbing Cheryl Chase the whole world was upside down. Everything was wrong, and 
hateful, and hurt like crazy. Through the haze of her own pain she beheld the lash etch Corey’s
back again and again and plant its weals upon one buttock and then the other. The lovely 
wracked shoulders bore the whipmarks in an erotic blazoning of shame and pain . . . and 
pride! After a little while the delinquent’s screams were a constant and heartbreaking 
threnody of anguish.

“Wasn’t as bad as you expected, eh?” Burdett was making a careful inspection of Tana’s 
work. His tone was almost kind.

“No, Master. Thank you.” Corey’s words were pale between her sobbing gasps. She was 
still stretched taut from the pole; her eyes half closed; her skin glistening with sweat.

He turned her about and saw the cur hip with its line of blood. “I told you not to cut her, 
Tana?” He cocked a sardonic eye at a now submissive girl who held a whip she would use no 
more.

“Is sorry, Master. Is accident.”

“Huh, maybe.” Burdett opened Corey’s legs. “And you really laced into her cunt.”

“White girls like that, Master. I do to please.”

“I bet! But not a bad job. No worse than I figured.”

“Thank you, Master. Tana glad to serve. Tana good slave.”

Burdett gave his full attention to the tied and punished nudity. Gently, he cradled the 
tearstained cheeks in rough hands and kissed his number one slave girl again and again. 
What’s the word, sweetheart?”

“I am glad you had me whipped, Master. I needed it.”

“You’re a treasure, Corey girl. You won’t mind if I leave you tied like that awhile; you look 
damn pretty!”

“I am your slave, Master. I don’t mind.”

The slaver sighed. Perhaps he knew his good fortune. Perhaps the golden girl of the 
legend meant more to him than he was willing to show. He switched his regard to the captive 
who still hung by her ankle. His voice returned to its jocular normalcy: “Well, well, here’s our 
little Trixie; all upside down. Feel a bit less starchy, kid?”

Cheryl longed to vent her bitterness and hurt, but she dared not. She was a slave, and 
naked, and tied. She paid her dues humbly. “Yes Master.” Then added for good measure. “I will
try and keep my mouth shut.”

“Dammit, I’m going to send Darouba a bill for knocking some sense into you. How’s the 
upside down bit?”

“It’s awful, Master, I hate it. Please forgive me!”

“And let you down, eh? I know you girls. It sure does put your cat on view.” The slaver 
reached to pat Cheryl’s nakedly exposed sex. “Hey, what the hell goes - ?”

“I was whipped there, Master.”

The craggy features swivelled to the quaking figure of a dusky damsel who was no longer 
arrogant. “Did you whip this girl’s cunt?”

“Yes, Master. She very rude.”

“Did I tell you to?”

“No, Master. I sorry.”

“And you’ll be sorrier – “

Tana turned and ran. She was neatly plucked from freedom by an amused Selim who 
returned a wildly kicking bundle of dusky arms and legs to its owner. A minute later Cheryl 
was sitting on the ground and Tana was hanging by her ankle from the same rope. Selim 
thoughtfully bound a pair of coffee coloured wrists behind their owner’s back.

“Master, I sorry . . . I sorry! Please not to whip Tana!”

“And you know where, eh?”

“Oh, Master, not on Tana’s cunt! Please to whip Tana on bottom.”

Cheryl watched a tense tableau of which she was no longer a part. Her hands were still tied
behind her back but she had forgotten their loss. Her ankle bore a chafed and scarlet circle 
and her Venus mound throbbed resentfully in memory of Tana’s whip. Now, in the wild 
gyrations of Tana’s inverted nubilety she saw herself as she had been, and blushed and was 
shamed that a girl could be so nakedly nude. Upside down, the most prominent and notable 
feature of a female was her black haired sex. Her face had vanished and was replaced by a 
plumpish slit within which man found his ultimate joy and an which woman used for sundry 
female satisfaction; one of which was love.

Tana was vividly concerned with a feature of her sex most women would never know. The 
slit between her thighs with its svelte mound and wiry ebony thatch was about to be whipped 
by a man who was unlikely to show mercy. Apart from this horrible prospect the suspended 
girl was cringingly conscious of eighteen pairs of dark eyes viewing her plight with carnal 
interest. Life on a coffle could be dull. Here was drama! Tana did not want to hang upside 
down; she did not want to be whipped; she did not wish to be seen thus by her peers. In a 
wild revolt against the implacability of justice she kicked and contorted in a manner to evoke 
sighs of pure pleasure from all present. Even the two white delinquents felt she was getting no
more than her just desserts.

“Please fuck me, Master! Not to whip poor Tana’s cunt . . . ?”

“That’s a reward, girl, not a punishment.”

“I suck cock most nice . . . . ! Please, Master!”

“You want I gag you with donkey dung?”

Tana wailed into silence. She recognized defeat and wanted no excrement from an ass 
insider her mouth. In a futile hope of placating her owner she swung her free leg as far to one 
side as she could and hoped for the best. It came in a resounding lash across the region of her
loins she offered to view. She screamed and screamed again.

The coffle was entranced. Its whispers could not be heard above the screams but they 
were there. Cheryl was still seeing herself in Tana’s place and feeling Tana’s pain. Corey looked 
sideways at the dusky delinquent with a curiosity more clinical than sympathetic. Cores still 
hurt. It took Burdett’s caustic comment to sum up:

“Damned if I don’t think that’s the best place to whip a girl.” He chuckled. “Gets right down
to where it’s at.”

“Please, Master, Tana be very good girl! Oh, not to whip . . . Oh, Master, not to whip poor 
Tana’s cunt!”

Seth Burdett whipped Tana’s pudendum with methodical precision. Ten stroked between 
the coffee hued thighs until tears were streaming from dark eyes and promises pouring from 
rich full lips. All was liberally interspersed by maiden screams.

“Master, I never disobey again. Tana be nicest girl on coffle.”

“You said that before.”

“Oh, Master . . . Oh, Master . . . !”

When Seth Burdett was through with his punishment of a slave girl’s sex he walked away 
to the tent, leaving three punished girls in varying degrees of distress or surcease. All were 
grateful for the cessation of stripes but they were still bound and they still hurt.

“The worst of it’s over.” Corey said wearily. “This keeping us tied is just the male ego hard 
at work.”

“Piss on male ego!” Said Tana with deep sincerity.

Cheryl got to her feet. She had no thought of running into the trees; her bound hands 
would defeat her. But she had a feminine longing to comfort the girl who had been so 
unkindly whipped. With female wisdom she rubbed her nipples against those of the tractioned
girl and thrust her wet lips against Corey’s in a kiss neither of them wanted to surrender.

“Master whip you good for that.” Tana informed resentfully. “Girls not supposed to make 
love.”

“Go peddle your papers!” Cheryl told her brusquely. To Corey, she asked: “D’you think I 
dare kneel and – and - ?”

“No, Darling, it’s not safe, not while I’m being punished.” Corey was breathless with both 
longing and caution.

Cheryl sank down; her mouth finding lodgement; her tongue avid.

“No! No! Oh, Darling stoppit! You mustn’t! He’ll punish you terribly . . . Men are so funny . .
. . “

“I tell Master. He punish you good.” Tana affirmed piously.

“Get up now! Oh, please, Darling!” Corey was frightened. “If you don’t stop that I’ll – I’ll . . . 
I’ll stop wanting you to stop.”

Prudence won. They had both been punished. Neither wanted more. Sulkily, Cheryl got to 
her feet. “Oh shit!” Her disgust was heartfelt. “It’s all I can do. The bastard’s got my hands tied 
so damn tight . . . ! Oh, Corey!”

“Not to worry, Darling. He’ll untie me before night; then ravish me until morning. I’ve 
taken this trip before.”

Cheryl wept in frustration. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do; her bound wrists 
mocked. An hour later Selim loosened the cords and locked her back on the coffle. He did the 
same for a meek and penitent Tana. But the damsel who had wielded the whip was not 
chained back beside her erstwhile victims. She was locked at the far end well away from 
welted white skin. Perhaps she found sympathy for her wounds . . . .

Cheryl Chase wished devoutly she had stayed in Amphala. Without having marched a mile 
she was already disgustingly marked by the whip; only her breasts had remained immune 
from the thong. Reflectively, she fingered the shackle on her wrist and the collar round her 
neck. She did not resent them but they were only the beginning. She was glad the metal 
bands would deny her the foolishness of escape; a girl on the slave chain knew where she was 
at. But the trek was ahead, and the trek took many days . . . . ! She wept in loneliness. Hassan 
was far away. She wanted Corey, wanted her bad! In the African dawn Corey was locked 
beside her on the chains. When they tried to weld their nudities they found the controlling 
chains too taut against the weight of nineteen girls. They went back to sleep holding hands.

“Don’t think too badly of him!” Corey pleaded. “Seth’s had a rough tough life, and slave 
trading isn’t the easiest job in the world.”

“But we’re striped like a pair of zebras – all these weals!” Cheryl was still thinking wistfully 
of Amphala and Hassan. “You’re ahead of me on the chain; I have a lovely view of your poor 
back and bottom. I don’t see how it can possibly fade in time for the auction block.”

“But it’s not me who’s being sold, Darling, it’s you. If you don’t get yourself whipped any 
more you’ll be O. K. Try and be sweet to him!”

“Well, at least he’s chained that perky little bitch at the far end.” Cheryl conceded. “I 
wouldn’t want her admiring her work on our skins every day.”

“And he’s chained us together, Darling; it’s something to be grateful for. Don’t stay mad at
him! I love the big oaf.”

“He’s got a damn funny way of loving you, Corey, keeping you chained on the coffle all the
time like merchandise; like me.”

“I asked for it. I’m a voluntary slave. I could have let him sell me. The coffle and getting 
whipped sometimes is the price I have to pay for having him. It was a deal.”

“You love the whole thing, don’t you?” Cheryl mused reflectively. “I suppose I’m just as 
bad. I don’t know what’s with us . . . . Gosh, if the boys at the office could see me now!”

They were seated on the ground, sprawled under the dictates of their chains. It was a rest 
period in the first day’s trek; a time to gossip. Gossip was more difficult when they were on the
march; a single file of twenty-one naked girls shackled at neck and wrist. Selim patrolled the 
clinking line watchfully; his whip ostentatiously on view. Seth Burdett the slaver rode in the 
lead. Sometimes he looked back at his marching merchandise, but never at the two white 
girls.

“You already know what this trek is like.” Corey continued. “We just walk and sleep. After a 
week we’ve forgotten we’re chained. I’ve got so used to the collar and cuff I don’t notice ‘em.” 
She shrugged ruefully. “Except when I want to make love to you. That bothers all the girls – 
they get themselves into the damndest tangles until Selim whips them apart and straightens 
out the line.”

“What about Ben Sirah? Is our auction soon over?”

“Nothing’s ever soon, Darling. There’s a big sort of warehouse . . . very ordinary outside 
but inside it’s all cages, iron bars and clanging doors. We have to sit inside while they organize
and advertise the sale. Rich old gentlemen in funny robes come and peer at us through the 
bars and make notes for the auction. If they get really keen on one girl the management takes
her out of the cage so he can get a better look and prod around a bit.”

“But in a cage! Don’t we all . . . smell?”

Corey laughed. “Oh, they watch out for that. We get hosed daily, and there’s a couple of 
girls work on us with cosmetics, and they spray us with perfume by the gallon. They use the 
most potent stuff; it will cause an erection at fifty paces.”

“And where’s your craggy Australian all this time?”

“Off on business. He usually takes me with him. In public I have to wear the yashmak. 
Beneath that horrible black cloak the women here have to wear outdoors here I’m handcuffed.
He doesn’t need to handcuff me, but it impresses the locals and both of us like it.”

“If he takes you this time, that leaves me the only white girl in the cage with all these dusky
darlings!”

“I’ll ask him not to. Maybe he’ll listen, though I doubt it. By that time he’ll probably need to
use me – you know men!”

“I’ll hate that cage. I sort of like this coffle, but cages in a warehouse . . . ugh!”

“There’s usually a white girl or two in other cages; Seth isn’t the only dealer. You can talk to
them through the bars.”

“Bit different to New York - !”

Corey laughed. “But business is about the same. Bribes, deals, contributions . . . and there’s
always the police. The cops of Ben Sirah do very well out of us girls.” This time her laugh was 
bitter. “On my first trip another white girl and I got ourselves arrested. We were tried in court, 
sentenced, and sent to the most bloody awful prison – “

“But why – How come?”

“Just so the local big-wigs could whip us for fun and fuck us for free. They did both before 
Seth managed to steal us back. He had to use a small army.”

“Good gosh, Corey, you mean there’s a danger I may never reach the auction block?” 
Cheryl was aghast.

“There’s always a chance, Darling. But either way you get the damndest story . . . . ! And 
put your trust in Seth Burdett; he’s a giant in more ways than one.”

In response of the crack of Selim’s whip the girls rose and resumed their march to the 
strangest destiny a girl can know.



***



They were ignored. Both white girls were chagrined that their naked charms failed to 
attract Burdett’s interest. But Cheryl had been promised . . . and Corey was still being 
punished. So they marched and slept and talked and unashamedly pined for male attention.

“The S. O. B. won’t be going without.” Corey affirmed bitterly. “There’s a girl missing from 
the coffle every night.”

“But it could be for Selim - ?” Cheryl ventured.

“Sure it could be! But I’ll never know.” The golden girl sniffed disdainfully. “He sure knows 
how to get to me. Maybe he just takes the little trick out of sight and ties her to a tree, but I’ll 
never be sure of that.” She grinned. “Life with our Master is never dull.”

Cheryl Chase began to revel in the challenge of the trek. Perhaps by the end of it, her 
figure would match Corey’s. She had never felt more vividly alive. Ahead was the block, and 
then Hassan Darouba . . . . ! Life was good! Temporarily dampened by the whip and 
disappointment, her reporter’s instinct had returned to life. She was living vivid and potent 
stuff the readers would love. She could see the title of her book: “Chained Cargo”. It would sell
a million.

Cheryl found herself possessed by an erotic preoccupation with chains. They could be 
called fetters, shackles, irons, but their end use was the same. The two long strands of metal 
links, their cuffs and collars, which created and controlled the coffle, kept twenty-one naked 
young women exactly where a single man wanted them. They remained his property by virtue 
of metal bands on neck and wrist; a pretty collar and a sleek bracelet by which their slavery 
was proclaimed, and from which they could never escape.

It was the stuff of unreality, but wickedly erotic. In fiction there would have been files, 
hacksaws, bolt cutters, or a hammer and chisel. But, for a naked girl, these things did not exist.
Their fingers were impotent against the circlets by which they were held captive. After the first 
day’s explorations of their bonds they resigned themselves to bearing the weight of their new 
condition.

But why erotic? Why this constant stimulation of the flesh by a fastening she could not 
discard? Cheryl had supposed it was because a male had clicked shut the lock, but now she 
knew differently. The thrill would be as potent, perhaps more so, if it was Corey Gibson who 
put her in irons. She savoured the ancient term over and over . . . . ‘In irons’! There was 
something beautifully personal about it. She wondered if the thrill would still exist if her 
shackling was imposed by someone old or physically unattractive. She did not know. It made a
curious conjecture.

Within her mind Cheryl’s musings about her bonds inevitably became an article still to be 
written: ‘Confinement and the psyche’ or some such title. For centuries and millenniums a 
large segment of mankind had intermittently been chained. Chains had been a household 
item along with the cutlery and the pots and pans. Chains had been present in childhood and 
throughout life. Did some memory remain . . . ? Did these shadows of the past become sweet 
longings . . . or an actual need?

It was unlikely that she and Corey were the only females extant who adored the clasp of 
steel and trailing links. But it had taken roped elbows and the coffle to fan the dormant spark 
into the flame by which they were now constantly in a state of arousal. Females back home 
were reticent about such desires; they would be difficult to interview; their own brand of 
modesty compelling denials of truth. But there were the girls on the coffle. They were chained 
closely enough for her to talk to a couple.

“Do you hate having to wear this thing?” Cheryl held up her own shackled right hand.

Almost any question evoked a giggle. That preliminary dealt with, the coffee coloured 
maiden became more helpful. She raised her own fettered wrist and examined it as though 
not having noticed it previously. “Is very nice. It stop Aletha running away.”

“But don’t you want to run away?”

“Mmmmmm, not in forest or desert. That very bad for poor girl with no clothes.” She 
shook her arm to extract music from the links. “This pretty thing make sure Aletha be bought 
by fine rich man.”

They were off at a tangent. Cheryl got back on course. “I expect you’re right. But when 
you’re tied or chained or punished do you get nice feelings . . . down here?” Cheryl blushed 
and pointed to her own pubic hair.

“Oh, is always wet cunt with whippings.” Aletha made it sound like a fact of life. “Even 
when Papa whip I get wet pussy.”

“But how about being tied up or chained . . . the way we are now?”

Aletha tittered. “You white girls very horny.”

“But what about you? When you’re tied or chained does it feel good, make you excited, 
here and here?” Cheryl fingered her own nipples and vulva.

“Oh that!” The dusky damsel shrugged off the question as too mundane for comment. 
“When man tie me I know I get fucked and whipped. It make me very wet indeed. Is nice 
feeling.”

“But now? Right now?”

“Aletha chained to be sold. Rich man buy and fuck and whip me. Here, you feel . . . !”

The journalist from New York cupped the coffee cunt with her free hand. It came away wet 
from the plump heat between Aletha’s thighs. She supposed it was as good an answer to her 
question as she was likely to get. All women were sisters but it took the coffle to tell them it 
was so.

And the coffle was two long chains . . . !

Corey contributed but was unconcerned. “It’s because we want to be owned, Darling. Or 
because we were constricted in the womb. Or because we unconsciously remember being tied
six times a day in diapers . . . .“ She chuckled. “I don’t really care; I’m just grateful.”

“I wish I could get my mouth at you.”

“I wish I could get mine at yours. But we’d need the co-operation of the whole damn 
coffle. And anyway, Selim’s watching. Selim’s never whipped me yet but I know he longs to. 
Maybe when you write about this coffle you could call it ‘The Finger File’; that’s us!”

Cheryl continued to write the article in her mind. She longed for her faithful I. B. M.

Ben Sirah greeted them without trumpets. The drab stone warehouse absorbed the 
twenty-one girls in the dusk of evening and provided them with a large cage whose door 
fastened with no less than three padlocks. They had all the room they needed to walk around 
or dispose themselves as they wished. But there would be no squeezing through the bars; the 
bars were close. For reasons unexplained, each girl was handcuffed, presumably to help her to
behave, or deport herself with docility. It did not matter; there was nothing they could do with
free hands if they had them – except to fight! Perhaps this was the reason. But handcuffs did 
not inhibit the act of female love. The girls of Burdett’s coffle went to sleep that night in sweet 
satiety.

The warehouse was a business establishment; it did its best for the clients and their 
consigned merchandise. Four caged held an inventory of girls. In the most distant of the 
barred enclosures were several who were white. But they were too far off for speech and must 
be content with a motion of the hand in recognition of a shared captivity. Routine was dealt 
with by an ebony hued overseer and a small staff of variously coloured females with 
obsessions about sanitation and hygiene. They were also cosmeticians. Their fingers probed 
feminine privacy and opened lips to peer within. Possible the merchandise, when it went to 
the block, was guaranteed.

Their day began with the hose. They filed into a small concrete stall and were soaped and 
rinsed with vigour and dispatch. They were returned to the cage for food; then delivered to 
the cosmeticians to be polished and perfumed. At the end of these attentions their handcuffs 
were closely scrutinized in case of hanky-panky. After that they could do what they liked 
behind the bars.

“It’s mostly boredom, Darling. I hated it. Right now I don’t know if I’m still being punished 
or I’ve been left behind to keep you company.”

“Either way I’m grateful.” Cheryl Chase shivered. “There’s something daunting about these 
cages. But the handcuffs are rather sweet. Mine are marked: ‘Made in Taiwan’. That’s a hell of a
long way to come just to keep my wrists close together.”

“Mine are made in Spain, Darling. I expect good old ‘Smith and Wesson’ are too expensive 
for ‘em. The handcuffs go along with the girl, so they have to watch costs.”

On the third day came disaster. Corporal Eliah marched grandly to the cage. Behind him 
the black overseer was vehemently vocal.

“But is property of Burdett effendi!”

“I am aware of that. It does not affect the intent of the Law.” Corporal Eliah was prepared 
to enjoy himself. His pomposity made Cheryl want to giggle.

“But I cannot give these young ladies to you – “

“I have here a warrant for their arrest.” The Corporal produced a magnificent parchment; at
sight of which the custodian wilted and produced keys. Corporal Eliah cleared his throat. “If 
you will kindly extract them from that cage . . . . “

Two naked white maidens stood before darkest Africa and quailed.

“Miss Corey Gibson.” Black Africa intoned with relish. “Escape from prison. Assault on 
prison personnel. Damage to prison property. The kidnapping of prison staff. Prostitution and 
contempt of Court.” He raised his eyes and added, piously: “Is very bad girl.”

“Burdett will pay you off, Eliah. Go and see him!” Corey was angry and frightened. She had 
memories . . . !

The Corporal made a note: “Also a attempt to bribe officer.” He turned his official attention
upon a Cheryl Chase who was still prepared to be amused. The official voice was sonorous:

“Miss Cheryl Chase of New York City. Accused of espionage; spying for a Foreign Power, 
banditry and prostitution.” Virtuously, he added the emphasis of an admonitory: “Naughty, 
naughty!”

“Oh, drop dead! This is too absurd –“

“I have Government issue handcuffs.” Corporal Eliah folded away the warrant and 
produced shining chrome. “Please remove inferior product from the young ladies wrists!”

The custodian of the keys was defeated; he knew his Eliah. A moment later two girls from 
New York were rubbing their wrists. This time it was Cheryl Chase who tried: “You arrest us, 
you jackanapes, and I’ll have the Press of two continents on your neck.”

“As well as the State Department.” Corey Gibson added.

Further notations were made with pencil. “Threats against the State . . . . “ He sought for 
something impressive. “Ah yes! Declaration of hostilities and defiance of vested authority.” He 
smiled on them benignly. “You poor girls, you be in prison for life.”

“Eliah, go away! Leave us alone! Have us put back in the cage!” From Corey it was a cry of 
despair.

“And now your hands, young ladies, if you please!”

“You know perfectly well you don’t need to handcuff us. We’re civilized. We’ll come 
quietly.”

“Is regulations. Please not to make fuss! I have but to call – “

Two naked white girls held out their hands.

“Behind your backs if you please, Ladies!”

Corey Gibson and Cheryl Chase exchanged woeful glances. Each had a sense of doom. 
Without Burdett they were too utterly alone. Corey tried once more: “Look, Eliah, it’s 
customary to chain her left wrist to my right. That controls us. There’s no need – “

“Behind backs!” It was a bark of command.

Two frightened young women turned obedient backs and offered passive arms. The 
handcuffs were clicked a notch tighter than need be but they made no demur. Corey knew all 
too well they were up against something far worse than constricting chrome. They followed 
the Corporal meekly to the car.

“I’ve been here before.” Corey Gibson said bleakly. “It’s bad.”

“It’s a cage.” Cheryl looked at the surrounding bars. “I didn’t remember we were naked 
until they shoved us in here.”

“It’s so every S. O. B. and his dog can get a good look at us.” Corey wrinkled her closely 
joined toes. “The bastard didn’t need to put handcuffs on our ankles. He’s made mine so tight 
it hurts to stand.”

“Mine too. But, Corey, they can’t do this to us! And this leaving our hands cuffed behind 
our backs . . . !”

“They’ve done it. You’ll find the Corporal can justify anything with some sanctimonious 
cliché. He keeps a stock . . . Oh Darling, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s not your fault. But does this mean I’m to be cheated out of being auctioned? Cn your 
Australian hero get us out in time?”

“I don’t know.” Corey admitted morosely. “But here’s Syroid. He calls himself a lawyer, and 
they’re very punctilious about lawyers. I expect he gives ‘em a cut – “

“My dear ladies . . . . !” Mr. Syroid was obviously shattered with grief. “To find you like this . 
. . !” He waved a vague arm to include their nudity and their chains, and possibly the bars. “I 
have acquainted Mr. Burdett with your misfortune; he will acquaint New York. I am sure all will 
be well.”

“Good! Can you get these things off our wrists and ankles and get us something to wear?”

His hands were gifted. They expressed an infinite dolour. “I fear that police regulations are 
beyond my province – “

“You mean they can keep us helpless and naked in a cage?”

“Alas, yes. They deem you most reprehensible. You are unlikely to be accorded privileges 
until committed to prison – and even there - !”

“Syroid, I’ve got money! This can’t possibly happen. Bribe whoever you must but get us 
out of here!”

The hands again became symphonic. “Since you were last a guest here, dear lady, there 
has been a change in government. The new regime does not view Washington kindly. There is 
the matter of the tractor shipment . . . long delayed – “

“I’ll buy ‘em all the tractors they need but get us out of here! You know damn well they 
plan to fuck us both all night.”

“Please!” Mr. Syroid held up a deprecating hand. “Our loyal police . . . they must not be 
maligned.” He suddenly brightened. “Besides, with your ankles so closely confined intercourse 
would be most difficult.”

“Every asshole who comes in here will have a key. They sell tickets. I remember last time. 
Syroid, G-E-T U-S O-U-T O-F T-H-I-S!!!”

“I will do everything possible. But the charges are grave.”

“They’re nonsense!”

He shrugged. “Perhaps . . . But they are tinged with politics. The Guerrilla Leader, Hassan 
Darouba, has an interest in Miss Chase. She has co-habited with him . . . . Mr. Darouba is NOT 
in favour with the new government. I regret, too, that the U.S. State Department these days 
seems little concerned with their nationals in trouble abroad. There was a time . . . !” He 
shrugged expressively. “But now - !”

It was like the bite of a rope drawing her elbows tight together – this implacability of a 
blind justice guided by political policy. They could not rot in prison forever . . . . ! Cheryl Chase 
beheld an endless vista of bars . . . . ! Mr. Syroid did not help.

“Our Magistrate, Mr. Mussuba, is still in favour. He presides over our court. He does not 
view kindly the crimes with which you are charged.”

“Dammit, Syroid, isn’t there a Habeas Corpus or something? What about bail?” Corey was 
distraught. “Damn and blast this whole business, Syroid, but you’ve got to get us out of here 
right quick before we get interjected with nine million sperm!”

“Dear Lady, please!” Mr. Syroid was shocked.

“You don’t know what goes on here after visiting hours!”

“But I cannot believe – “

“You’d better believe it! Look at us, Syroid! Naked, chained hand and foot, locked in a 
cage! What more evidence d’you want? Get the nearest U.S. Consul!”

“He would only be embarrassed – “

“Don’t you think we’re embarrassed? Get us OUT!”

Mr. Syroid departed, shedding promises as a dog sheds hair. The two girls remained, 
tightly chained and securely caged. Cheryl asked, miserably. “Can he do anything?”

“If he can see a profit. My dad’s the best bet. He can wire money.” Corey sighed. “But that 
isn’t going to help us tonight. Darling, do you feel really bad about being screwed?”

“You mean on a sort of assembly line?”

“It’s kinda’ like that. There’s one after the other – and they watch through the bars. We’re a
real fun day for the cops.”

“Will it do me any good to mind?”

“Well, no I suppose it doesn’t.” Corey eyed her nude fellow captive dolefully. “What I was 
trying to put across was that this has happened to me and I survived. O. K. Actually it doesn’t 
amount to a hill of beans. I even enjoyed some of the bastards who had a bit of finesse. I’m 
trying to tell you, Darling, not to think of that ‘fate worse than death’ bit. It’s not true. Our 
pussies can reduce a surprising numbers of cocks . . . as many as they’re likely to stick inside us
here.”

“You will not object if I remove the handcuffs from your ankles, dear ladies?” The 
Corporal’s voice was honey.

“You mean you’re going to screw us?”

“Oh please!” He held up a deprecating hand. “Let us call it the making of love.”

“Thanks, I’d sooner keep the handcuffs on my ankles. I’ve become fond of them.”

The Corporal released both pairs of white ankles. There was a limit to the indulgence of 
capricious Caucasian captives. With commendable vigour he fucked Miss Corey Gibson, 
formerly of New York City. Her friend, Miss Cheryl Chase, looked on in shocked disbelief. From 
beyond the bars there were other pairs of eyes . . . .

“You are a most charming girl to fuck.” The Corporal rose after his coupling with one of the
ten most beautiful girls in the world came to its gasping conclusion. He turned to the 
watching journalist, also from New York, and suggested cordially: “Perhaps you will be so kind 
- ?” He proffered the glistening weapon he had just withdrawn from Miss Corey Gibson. 
Helpfully, he added: “It is done with the lips and tongue.”

“You’d better do it, sweetheart.” Corey advised wearily. “If we don’t obey him he’ll find 
ways – “

Cheryl Chase knew defeat when she saw it. Unhappily, she knelt before the beaming 
Corporal and put her mouth to work. In the course of laundering the male member of Ben 
Sirah’s Corporal of police it regained its vigour. Beneath Cheryl’s lips and tongue it reached 
surprising proportions. It was inevitable therefore that she be invited to lay upon her pinioned
arms and offer a second female sanctuary for its virility. Throughout the violation of her sex 
she was bitterly conscious of the watching eyes beyond the bars and of Corey’s stricken face. 
When it was done she was compelled to one more laving with her lips. When the Corporal, 
having zippered himself back into military precision, suggested gently: “And now I have a 
friend - ?”; both girls were close to hysteria.

“Take your friend and shove him!” For Cheryl Chase, Eliah’s friend was one too may. 
Angrily, she added: “And you can lock my ankles together again, I won’t be opening my legs 
any more.”

The Corporal beamed and produced a parchment. His voice was unctuous. “Section ‘B’ of 
the code: item number 24316 provides for the correction of recalcitrant prisoners. You will 
please to come with me.”

It was a bad dream from which the handcuffed girl knew there would be no awakening as 
she was ushered from the cage and led to punishment by Eliah’s firm grasp on her bare arm. 
Cheryl was frightened but her pride forbade protestations. The room into which she was 
ushered told her all she needed to know. Before she could speak, the parchment was again in 
evidence and she was listening:

“Sub-section number 2. A. sanctions up to six strokes for female prisoners. The instrument 
to be used being item 7. 8. X of standard equipment issue. The area to receive punishment is 
confined to the buttocks.” The Corporal took from the wall a heavy leather strap. He held it for
Cheryl’s inspection. “This, Miss Chase, is item 7. 8. X.”

“You’re going to beat me with that thing! It’s not civilized!”

“Such statement is misdemeanour.” The Corporal warned stiffly. “We are most civilized. 
Behold comfortable trestle for female delinquents! You will please bend across.”

The bar was, admittedly, padded. The rest of the contraption held bleak promise. Cheryl 
twisted against her cuffed wrists and surrendered miserably. “Oh alright, take me back to the 
cage! I’ll spread myself for your friend – and his friend too.”

“Ah, so sensible a young lady!” The Corporal beamed. “But is now much best you receive 
your correction. We are here. You will find the effect of item 7. 8. X most salutary and helpful.”

“Look, I’ve promised to let myself be fucked! You don’t have to beat me as well. I apologize
for whatever I’ve said.”

The Corporal sighed happily. “For disobedience, the Code provides a second correction of 
six more strokes – “

Cheryl marched firmly to the waiting engine of her shame. “If you’ll show me just how . . . 
?” Her voice was close to breaking.

“Of course, dear lady! The small feet inside the slots . . . Ah, that is right! And now I close 
the other side . . . . “

Cheryl looked down at her ankles held in stocks. Her feet were invisible below; she could 
not move them. They were also far enough apart to warrant a blush. She stood, quivering, 
while the minion of the Law looped her handcuffs with rope. A moment later her pubic 
triangle was thrusting hard upon the padding as her hands were drawn up and over her bent 
head. The rope was tested and tensioned to bend her fully across the bar and to protrude her 
bottom in cruel exposure.

“You are most comfortable, I trust?” The Corporal was solicitous.

“Well, not really. But I expect I could be worse. Couldn’t you fasten my hands some other 
way?”

“This most convenient and saving time. You are ready for correction, Miss Chase?”

“I – I – I suppose so . . . Please, Corporal, don’t hit me too hard with that thing! It’s beastly 
heavy leather.”

“Is well oiled and supple for proper contact.”

“It bet it is! I – I – Owwww! Ohhhhh, oh damn!”

The sound of impact was almost as shocking as the pain. The percussive slap filled the 
room with sound; agony blossomed and burst upon Cheryl’s helpless derriere and spread in 
hot waves of pain. She moaned and gasped: “But that’s terrible; it’s an awful strap. Please, 
Corporal, don’t hit me so hard!”

“Is worth doing, is worth doing well,” said Corporal Eliah sententiously, and struck again.

Cheryl screamed. She was sure the room was soundproof; she did not care. Item 7.8.X was 
providing her with a whole new experience in agony. It might be only a strap, but its weight, 
its flexibility, the force with which it was being applied to her person . . . ! She moaned and 
tugged desperately at her bonds. She could not move.

“Is very fine whipping horse.” The Corporal approved. “Please to struggle. Is making most 
pretty picture.”

“I can’t struggle; I can’t move – and my arms are breaking – and I can’t bear any more of 
that strap . . . . Oh please, take me back to the cage!”

“Is much fuss for small correction.” Eliah slashed the bent and blushing bottom again. “Is 
now half way through. Be brave!”

She was not being killed. Cheryl knew it. But the strap was so much worse than it looked. 
And afterwards . . . ! There was nothing to look forward to. The punished girl wept in bitter 
misery as the supple leather moulded its length across the curved contours she could not 
protect. Three demoralizing sounds of impact . . . three agonies!

“I am proud of lovely lady’s bottom. Is fine red.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” She deemed it best to be polite. Cheryl kept a shrinking silence as 
male hands explored between her legs and fingered the welted ridges across her bottom.

“Is again an erection. I have fine cock. Pretty lady in most interesting position.”

Miss Cheryl Chase endured the act of sodomy without complaint. Nothing mattered any 
more. She wanted to move against the impaling thrusts but was held motionless. She 
wondered how many other girls had been pierced thus as they lay bound across the bar. Her 
wrists and arms hurt horribly under the stress of their odd binding. Her tears returned.

It was good to be freed and to stand normally as the rope was untied; a sad small pleasure
but very real. “Must my hands always be handcuffed behind my back?” She asked wearily. “I 
can’t possibly escape this place, y’know.”

“You have no need of hands.” The Corporal explained patiently. “Handcuffs keep nicely out
of way.”

The cage held a new visitor. A perspiring Constable was hard at work with thrusting loins 
upon the golden figure of Seth Burdett’s number one slave girl. Corey Gibson lay nonchalantly
beneath the Law; her cuffed hands out to one side so that only a single arm was burdened 
under her back. Completely detached from what was being done to her, she winked and said, 
brightly: “Welcome to Mabel’s whorehouse.”

“She is pleased to joke,” said Eliah reprovingly. “Policemen do not pay. Girl keep good 
reputation.” He ushered in an eagerly waiting client. “You will find this gentleman very nice –“

Miss Cheryl Chase lay down on her chained arm and her burning bottom and opened wide
her legs.



***



Mr. Syroid bestowed his most earnest regard upon Magistrate Mussuba. He spoke at 
length in native dialect. There was a back and forth exchange. When it trailed to silence the 
Magistrate gave his full attention to the two young women in the dock. Both were naked; 
both appeared to be without arms; their breasts pointing hopefully at the Judge. Magistrate 
Mussuba beamed at them impartially and spoke briefly in a slow and ponderous declamation. 
The Corporal translated.

“Our good Magistrate Mussuba is most sad.” He informed pompously. “Such lovely girls so
very bad. Because of naughty influence of U. S. childhood he be most lenient and sentence 
you both to twenty years in Imballa prison with irons and punishments. You are so lucky he so 
kind.”

It was shattering. About it was the morbidity of a sentence to death. It was forever – all 
their youth . . . . ! And in irons! Corey turned upon Mr. Syroid in anger: “But that’s ridiculous, 
absurd . . . . ! We’re supposed to have a trial.”

“You have been tried and found guilty.”

“But twenty years - ?”

“Is most kind sentence for such crimes.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. We’ve been railroaded.”

“Please to be polite!” The Corporal warned reprovingly.

“We have a right to see the U. S. Consul.”

“He has been deported for same crime as Miss Chase: espionage.”

“That’s bullshit too! Look, we demand an interview with Hassan Darouba.”

“Mr. Darouba is not in favour with present regime. He is not welcome. Association wit 
guerrilla most bad. It is noted on list of crimes.”

“Then we demand a phone call to our fathers.”

“The rich dogs of Imperialism also are not welcome.”

“Then Mr. Burdett? He can vouch – “

“Mr. Burdett has disappeared.”

“Look, we’re his slaves! Don’t you respect that?”

“He may repossess you at the end of your sentence. Your enslavement to him will be noted
in your file.”

The girls wilted before the wall of cynical authority. They were dazed and groping as do 
the trapped: “But irons . . . on us!” Cheryl gazed despairingly around the Court. “There’s no 
need to fasten horrible chunks of iron on our hands and feet – we’re only girls!”

“Is not because of need, Miss Chase. Is for punishment.”

“Is that why we’re handcuffed like this - and naked?”

They were hustled from the Court back to their cage.

The Corporal had the quality of inevitability. He followed close upon the warden’s heels. 
The girls were too dispirited to complain when he again locked handcuffs on their ankles. “Is 
easy to take off when have visitors.” He explained blandly.

“Oh, Eliah, what’s going to happen to us?”

“You stay here a few days for nice policemen to fuck, then you go to Imballa.” He smiled 
sincerely. “We very sorry to lose you.”

“I’ve been to that place once – I’d sooner die.” Corey was vehement. “Look, our fathers are 
rich. If you’ll only help – “

“Is against law to bribe. But must not despair. Every month I visit and fuck you both nicely. 
Will be something for you to look forward to while you sit in dungeon.”

“Dungeon . . . !”

“Perhaps just nice cell. But for such bad girls - !”

“Look, Corporal, can’t you fix a fake escape for us? Get us out of here and away from 
Imballa? Keep us prisoners in some place of your own so you can fuck us all you want? You 
can easily chain – “

Corporal Eliah registered interest. Both girls were shocked that their physical charms were 
a more potent bribe than cash. “Most terrible thing if get caught.” He said slowly. “But I am 
enjoying you too much. Is nice idea.”

“We’re already handcuffed and helpless.”

“We’d be ever so polite and respectful to you. You’d be our Master.”

“And would be no charging - !” The Corporal was beholding a cost free paradise.

“We don’t eat a lot, and we don’t wear clothes, and you can punish us if we’re naughty.”

“Such economical young ladies!” He eyed them almost with affection. “It is my fine cock 
you are wanting?”

“But we like you too, Corporal. You can pick us up just the way we are; we’re nice and 
helpless . . . . ! It’s easy for you.”

It was absurd! It was incredible. But it was their first ray of hope since their arrest. The 
Corporal might be ridiculous but he was not stupid. If he set out to divert their charms to 
himself he might easily succeed. “But are you sure we’d be better off as his prisoners?” Cheryl 
asked doubtfully. “The way he laid that strap across my bottom - !”

“Anything’s better than Imballa.” Corey affirmed with conviction. “In that place a girl just 
wants to die.”

“But we wouldn’t be constantly fucked - ?”

“Yes, we would!” Corey’s vehemence was tearful. “In this damn country it doesn’t matter 
where a girl’s kept prisoner; she can figure on being screwed.”

They looked at each other bleakly; tugging fretfully at the metal constrictions they could 
not escape; their constant revolt against the handcuffs was instinctive; a habit they could not 
curtail. “Look at it this way,” Corey said reflectively. “Eliah’s almost likeable. Whatever prison he
finds for us can’t be worse than Imballa, and it will be a far, far easier spot for Seth to break us 
out of. He won’t abandon us, but I’m not sure he could repeat that raid he did on Imballa last 
time. It was almost an act of war. If we can contrive an accessible prison it’s only a matter of 
time before her gets us out.”

The escape of the American spies from the police station of Ben Sirah was handled with 
neat dispatch. Cheryl Chase saw it as one of the miracles achieved by the slit between a girl’s 
legs.

“You not mind nice gag,” insinuated the Corporal as the first movement in his planned 
symphony of seduction. “While I fix you good, Constable Ali use hacksaw on door so look like 
outside job.”

It was well past midnight. The doubly handcuffed girls had been asleep. At sight of the 
industrious Constable they looked up in doubt. A doubt instantly dissipated by Corporal 
Eliah’s explanation.

“Constable Ali my cousin. He will fuck you too. Is nice arrangement. No one else on duty, 
all gone home.”

Logic won. Hope flared. Corey reckoned that assuaging the lust of a Constable and a 
Corporal was a small price to pay against Imballa. But she was not enthralled by the gag.

“You don’t need to gag us, Corporal, we’re on your side.”

“Is best to fix for transit. Eliah take most big risk.”

The girls shrugged; they could see his point. Probably he was risking a firing squad in 
return for their pubic hair. They opened their mouths for wads of wet rags, and then clenched 
their lips for the adhesive tape which ensured their silence. They saw it as no more than a 
cooperative gesture.

The sweating Constable was wreaking havoc with the cage door while each girl was turned
around by his superior to have her elbows trussed tight in a painful emphasis of helplessness. 
By the time the Corporal had knotted these needless strictures they knew themselves in good 
hands. They would have liked to complain about the pain but their gags forbid. Instead, they 
watched the grinning cousin handcuffed to the bars as proof of an complicity; then were 
carried to the back door by their new owner and placed in a waiting jeep. Thoughtfully, Eliah 
rammed the vehicle into the wooden door in a competent vandalism of break and entry. He 
then tightly bandaged their eyes. “What you do not see you do not know.” His voice was 
vibrantly exultant. “And now we go!”

In their bound darkness each girl made her own silent assessment of her new captivity. 
Their ride must be short; the Corporal could not use them daily if a long journey was entailed. 
He must keep them accessible – and therein lay their hope of rescue. Undoubtedly he would 
ravish them on arrival; that was to be expected. The centre of their concern was their new 
prison. But they would never see it; the blindfold made sure of that.

The first thing they did see when the bandage was removed was bars. They looked around
fearfully at three stone walls; the fourth was a latticework of metal through which they could 
be inspected. It had a door and an immense lock.

“Is ancient fortress.” The Corporal exclaimed proudly. “Is out of bounds and locked up. No 
one come. You very safe here. Is so close no one think to look. You scream, no one hear.”

It figured. Eliah was no fool. When he peeled away their gags each girl said a heartfelt: 
“Thank you, Corporal!”

“You are most welcome, dear girls. Now I take first fuck.”

It would have been churlish to quibble, and anyway he could do as he pleased with them; 
they were helpless in their handcuffs. Each girl watched her ankles freed then paid her dues; 
kneeling after the orgasm to use her mouth for the regeneration of the male. After her 
function had been utilized her ankles were re-locked. “Do you need to handcuff our ankles, 
Corporal?” They asked wistfully.

“For tonight. Tomorrow make better arrangements.”

He was a kind man. After the ponderous locking of the door the two girls slept.

“If only we weren’t so bloody helpless I’d feel better about this.” Cheryl sat up on the hard 
floor; sunlight streaming through a small barred window high in one wall, and wriggled 
distressfully against her bonds. “We can’t do a damn thing; we’re like a pair of rag dolls.”

They made love, awkwardly and painfully, their handcuffs an enemy. But it was better than 
the police cage. Hope was still a tender flower but it was growing.

“Not much of a prospect, is it?” Cheryl mourned. “Look at those lousy rings and chains and
things in the walls. You sure Imballa wouldn’t be better?”

“Don’t fret, Darling, give the guy a chance! Anything’s better than Imballa. If us two girls 
can’t butter the Corporal up for some kind treatment we don’t deserve it.”



Cheryl Chase wished she had Corey’s resiliency. Corey could be violated by a dozen boors 
and come up smiling and immaculate. Her secret, of course, was her faith in Burdett; a faith 
Cheryl found hard to share. Burdett dealt in girls; he had girls up the hoop. Why would he risk 
his living and his life for a pair of white maidens lost in African avarice and African lust? “You 
think he’ll come smashing through those bars.” She accused. “Gosh, I wish I had your faith!”

Corporal Eliah helped feminine morale. He arrived with food and those items needful to 
young women in prison. These included contraceptive pills, a thin mattress and pillows. He 
took the handcuffs from their wrists but not from their ankles. “Cannot fuck this morning.” He 
apologized. “Am most busy.”

“We love you, Corporal! Gee, it’s good to have hands!”

He watched them eat, glowing with pride. “Jailbreak most successful.” He informed. 
“Everyone blame Darouba. Corporal Ali fuck you this evening.” He paused, embarrassed. “You 
not mind if I now give your bottoms good strapping?”

“Of course we mind, Corporal. What have we done?”

“Is no need to do anything.” He assured earnestly. “Is to give me much pleasure . . . and is 
customary on arrival in prison.”

They digested the news. It was not really a surprise. But the food had heartened them. “Do
you like hurting us, Corporal?” They enquired in poignant reproof.

“Is not for hurt. Is strapping young ladies bottoms with leather strap.” He beamed 
ingenuously at Cheryl. “Like I strap yours.”

“But that hurt me terribly!”

“Is coincidental.” He shrugged. “Hurt happen when girl get whipped. Is nothing can be 
done.”

They exchanged glances. Corey winked warningly and took over. “We’d love to have you 
strap our bottoms, Corporal, you’re ever so kind.”

The Corporal glowed; his judgement was proving sound. From his pocket her produced 
issue item number 7. 8. X. Corey viewed it with interest; Cheryl with dismay. “Couldn’t you use 
something a little lighter?” She asked hopefully.

“Is prescribed by Law. It no damage ladies bottoms.”

“I’m sure the Law knows best.” Corey intervened anxiously. “What position would you like 
us in, Corporal?”

The pedestal was small but stout and solid. Corey went to it on hands and knees; her 
handcuffed ankles prohibited walking. They cut painfully, when she stood, but she dutifully 
bent over the crosspiece and passively allowed her wrists and knees to be strapped each side 
of the short vertical post. When it was done she could only sway her shoulders. She was ready 
to be strapped on her bottom. She realized it reared invitingly and exposed part of her labia. 
“You’re so clever.” She cooed winningly. “You think of everything.”



Cheryl realized their impotence. Cuffed ankles prohibited walking or fighting. Dolefully, 
she watched Corey’s nudity strapped tight – If only Corey knew! But that was silly: Corey was 
about to find out. “Please don’t strap her as hard as you did me!” She pleaded pathetically.

“I do things right.” The Corporal assured genially. He smoothed the taut curves with 
appreciative hands and struck them with issue item number 7. 8. X with what seemed to 
Cheryl the full strength of his arm.

Corey Gibson snorted in shock. For many moments she heaved and swayed and fought 
the timber to which she was fastened. The pedestal did not move, nor did the golden girl, but 
her muscular writhings conveyed an illusion of motion. She was hurt. From her bent over 
posture she looked back and up in urgent appeal. On the verge of complaint she clenched her
teeth.

“Is most excellent strap, Miss Gibson?”

“Yeeeeeees . . . I expect it is. Oh, Corporal, it hurts something bloody awful.”

“As prescribed by Law, dear lady.”

“But this has nothing to do with the Law! It’s – “

The second impact welted and bounced Corey’s bottom in a way to make Cheryl shrink. 
The golden girl screamed.

“I’m – I’m sorry, Corporal, I couldn’t help it. Oh, gosh . . . !”

“Why don’t you fuck us instead?” Cheryl urged. “Enjoy yourself!”

“I do that too, but later. I much enjoy strapping ladies bottoms.”

His logic was irrefutable; his possession of them total. In between cutting into their flesh 
with the strap his hands explored those portions of their immobilized nudities in which he 
found interest. Their pleas for carnal alternatives to item 7. 8. X were ignored. Each of his 
captives ended the session with a scorched and welted bottom which radiated heat like a 
glowing stove.

“Is nice way for young ladies to start day.” The Corporal was proud of their multi-hued 
rumps. “And now have another nice thing.”

Their fingertips testing ridged and tender skin, the Corporal’s captives viewed the box with
interest and concern. It was stoutly wooden and heavy.

“Fortress stuff very old, very rusty, not pretty on girls. This very nice chain, but not too light
. . . . very modern padlocks.”

“Thank you, Corporal, you’re sweet.” Their relief was sincere. The ugly irons hanging from 
the walls would have been hard to bear.

“You look pretty; you not escape.”

“Oh, Corporal, as if we’d even try!”

The job finished, Corporal Eliah took away the box, his tools and his smile. He oiled the 
lock in the door and snapped it shut with a dramatic click. Through the bars, he and his 
prisoned young ladies exchanged their most kindly regards before he went from view.

“It could be worse, Darling.” Corey acknowledged.

Cheryl wanted to chuckle. It was too absurd! Their necks were snugly encircled by shining 
chain; a new and weighty padlock ensured it would stay. The far end of its eight foot length 
was padlocked to one of the ancient rings in the stone. She fingered her new pendant without
pride. “These damn things weigh a ton . . . and all this chain . . . ! Oh, damn!”

“But, Darling, he’s left us our hands! And the cuffs on our ankles don’t really matter. We’re 
not walking – and this mattress is a blessing for our bottoms.” Corey was still remembering 
Imballa.

“But, Corey, is the idiot going to blister our bottoms with that rotten strap every morning? 
I’ve had two doses and it’s too damn much.”

“And the chain doesn’t stop us making love, Darling.”

“Well, no . . . but these things on our ankles don’t help.”

“We’ll soft talk him into taking them off. He’s got us safe enough with these chains on our 
necks. He’s right, Cheryl, they are rather attractive. Let the lock hang in front and the chain 
trail under one armpit – I’ve had a lot to do with chains.”

Cheryl Chase sighed. “I’m never going to stand on that auction block now.” She mourned. 
“It seems like a silly dream: me up there naked and all the men bidding like crazy. Corey, can’t 
you see what this is for us . . . ? We sit here chained all day. In the evening we get fucked by a 
collection of wogs. It’s not much of a life.”

Corey kissed her, kissed her long, then pushed her back upon their mattress; her lips 
seeking . . . lower and lower . . . . Impatiently she pushed aside her chain.

Loving sustained their first day as the prisoners of Corporal Eliah. Deliberately they ignored
the bars and the locked door and immersed themselves in each other. Over and over they 
cursed the handcuffs on their ankles but did not accept defeat. After the evening had brought
the rampant male and the hard working Constable, and their new owner was ready to leave 
them for the night they won a doubtful victory.

“Please, Corporal, don’t put the handcuffs back on our ankles! It’s been so nice to be able 
to spread our legs while you make love to us.”

“But I will not be here and making love.” Holding the open chrome circlets he beamed 
affectionately as though explaining the obvious to children. “And you will not be walking.”

“But we’d still like to stretch our legs. We’re trying to please you, Corporal. Be nice to us!”

“Is regulations. Prisoners wear handcuffs.”

“But we’re not that kind of prisoners!”

“But I am still policeman.”

“Well, yes. But it would save you a lot of trouble when you fuck us. You wouldn’t have to 
take them off and lock them back on.”

“Is true.” His official mind groped. “Perhaps you prefer older type hanging from wall? Is 
heavy with longer chain?”

“Oh Corporal! Please . . . ?”

“Is best wear handcuffs. Is very legal.”

“But we can’t walk in them. We have to hop or roll. And they’re not necessary; these chains
you’ve locked on our necks would stop us escaping even if you left the door open.”

“Should have feet so can’t run . . . “ He was wavering. “Is not good for prisoners to run – “

“But we don’t want to run. We’re so glad we’re your prisoners. What would we want to run
for – you fuck us so beautifully.”

“And you’ve got such a lovely cock!”

It won the day. Eliah beamed with pride. “Yes, I know, I have been told. You are such nice 
young ladies – Perhaps the little hands?”

The girls exchanged a swift glance, computing confinements. By a narrow margin the 
hands won. They looked up at their owner adoringly: “Oh, thank you, Corporal . . . but not 
behind our backs?”

“Hmmmmm, is best behind backs.”

“But then we can’t do anything at all! Oh, Corporal . . . ?”

Corporal Eliah sighed. He looked at their breasts and pubic hair. Never had a man of Ben 
Sirah been so blest by feminine charm, and it was all his! “Very well. In front. Is very pretty in 
front.”

“We love you, Corporal!” Both captives held out their hands.

It got them through the second day of what they now, laughingly, called their ‘corporal 
punishment’. It was good indeed to have their feet back; to walk and to make love. True, it 
must all be done within a radius of their eight foot chain, but at least they could do it! They 
played kittenish games of marching up and down; snubbing their necks against their tethers, 
and kicking their heels in the pure pleasure of having feet to kick. Their handcuffed wrists 
stopped them doing nothing. It had been a good exchange.

But the day had not begun well. Issue item 7. 8. X had made an early appearance and been
viewed askance. Their plaints held something of the piteous. “But, Corporal, look at our 
bottoms now! They’re awful.”

“You don’t want to injure us, do you?”

“If you beat our bottoms every morning we won’t have any bottom.”

Their owner was perturbed. Item 7. 8. X had planted weals of truly horrific colours. It had, 
no doubt, been designed as a one time only punishment. Or perhaps the rumps of Ben Sirah 
were made of less sensitive flesh. “Is very sad looking bottoms for young ladies.” He agreed 
regretfully.

“And you do want us to lay on them, don’t you?”

“Indeed yes.” He looked around for inspiration; then pointed to a stout hook high on the 
wall. “I put your handcuffs up over the hook and whip your backs.”

Two girls eyed the hook with distaste. “But if you whip our backs every morning they’ll get 
as bad as our bottoms. We have to lay on them too, y’know.”

“Just six strokes each day . . . ? It take a very long time.”

“It’s forty-two lashes a week.”

“You ought to look after us properly; we’re valuable. Any man who owns us is rich.”

The Corporal examined the premise and found it valid. He visibly preened. “I get very kind 
whip.” He announced generously.

“But you hit us so hard with whatever you use. We’re only girls, y’know.”

“I go and bring whip. You like him very much.”

His captives eyed the retirement of item 7. 8. X with relief. While Corporal Eliah was absent 
on his errand of mercy they sought the consolation of hope.

“A decent sort of whip won’t bruise us so horribly.”

“But somehow, Darling, we’ve got to wean the silly twit away from his obsession with 
hitting us with . . . things.”

“It’s that rotten code of regulations. Gosh, Corey, are you sure we wouldn’t be better off in 
a proper prison?”

“Damn right I’m sure! Imballa’s got Codes and cocks up the hoop.”

They looked at each other wryly. Two naked girls, their necks chained and padlocked, their 
wrists handcuffed. To one side the bars and the locked door. Cheryl shook her head dazedly. 
“This is unreal. Here we are discussing ways of being whipped as though it was the grocery 
list!”

“But we have to, Darling. Being whipped is part of our life now. We have to work at making
it bearable.” Corey shuddered. “That bloody awful strap . . . !”

“But we’ll always be black and blue!”

“For awhile. Then he’ll tire of having us striped and discoloured; he’ll want us white again. 
Hush, here he is – “

They brightened. Morale rose. The whip looked bearable. Three slender thongs, not too 
long, a short handle. Cheryl recognized the incongruity of being grateful for a whip. “Which 
one of us do you want to whip first?” She asked politely.

The Corporal wanted praise. “Is it not a very fine whip for young ladies?” He held it up for 
their approval. “Can whip a long time without nasty marks.”

“It’s a lovely whip, Corporal.” Corey breathed. “We’re ever so grateful for your trouble.”

“Is nothing.” He was the lordly male. “I much enjoy whipping young white ladies. I am glad
you enjoy too. But now I am police; I must hurry - !”

“We’ll help you whip us, Corporal, tell us what to do!”

It was very simple. The wooden box enabled them to place their cuffed wrists over the 
hook. The box was then removed. The resultant agony on their wrists was incidental; their toes
teetered on the floor. They were stretched invitingly.

“You look most beautiful. Now I whip pretty back.”

Corey had been whipped many times. She recognized this infliction as humane. It hurt like 
hell but would not incapacitate. But her pulse leaped when number seven followed number six
and number eight followed number seven across her shoulders. “But, Corporal, I’ve had my 
six!”

“Because so mild is now ten.”

They endured their lashes. When he was gone they examined each others backs. “It’s one 
helluva’ lot better.” Corey asserted. “No welts and the marks won’t last. It keeps him horny and
happy – that’s our main job now.”

The day was theirs.

Boredom was inevitable; it came with the third day. After they had been whipped they 
surveyed the hours until they would be violated by male genitals they had to pretend to enjoy.
“The hell of it is I’m beginning to like it.” Corey moaned. “He’s actually damn good for a girl, 
and even the Constable’s improving.”

Cheryl Chase reluctantly agreed. “I’m getting so bored I look forward to being fucked by a 
pair of wogs.” She wailed. “We’ve been reduced to two sets of female glands. Remember 
Pavlov’s lousy dogs?”

“We’ve got each other, Darling.”

“I’d go hairy chained like this alone. Oh, Corey, we’ll never be free again.” Cheryl Chase was
a hard nosed realist. “If the Corporal blows this deal there’s that damn prison waiting for us.”

“But, Darling, there’s Seth and Darouba out there somewhere with stiff pricks. Have a bit of
faith in male erections!”

Cheryl tugged irritably at her chain. The ring in the wall did not budge. “We’ll never, never 
be free girls again.” She mourned. “Look at us . . . Chained, naked, fucked . . . Oh shit!”

It seemed a good summation.





Chapter Eight


Sold





“Which one of ‘em will you take?”

“It doesn’t really matter.” Darouba’s voice was utterly casual. “I’ll take whichever one you 
don’t want.”

The two male voices were like whipcuts on the two naked prisoners. They had been 
making their own kind of love and had been oblivious of all else. They sprang apart, guiltily. 
Then leaped for the bars; forgetting the tethers on their necks.

“Seems as though they’re attached to this place.” The Aussie voice was impersonal. “Look 
at the silly bitches, flopping over backwards.”

“It’s the chains round their necks.” Darouba mused. “I expect they find it inhibiting.”

“Nicely marked though – look at those bottoms!”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Cheryl exclaimed happily. “Get us out of here!”

“They talk,” said Hassan Darouba in mock surprise.

“Not all that respectful either.” Burdett was bellicose. “What say we go have a drink and 
come back later?”

“I am your slave, Master.” Corey Gibson was on her knees; head bowed in adoration of her 
lord. “Please rescue me!”

“That’s better.” Burdett’s tribute to female submission was grudging. “Think yours can do 
as well?”

Cheryl Chase was instantly on her knees; no arrogance left. “Please, Master, I adore you. 
Please take me from this place!”

It happened very swiftly. The door yielded to experimental probings with a piece of steel, 
so did the padlocks on their necks. Their handcuffs were ignored.

“Selim, bring ‘em in.” Burdett’s bellow held its usual caustic humour. “They’ll love it in 
here.”

Amy was well trussed with rope. She was also gagged. Cheryl recognized the other girl as 
an inmate of her Master’s brothel.

“Fair enough exchange.” Burdett guffawed. “Got to keep our Corporal happy.”

Selim propped his naked burdens against the wall. A moment later their necks were firmly 
padlocked and circled with the same metal that had robbed Cheryl of hope. Neither girl 
looked pleased.

“They’ll keep him busy.” Seth opined. “A couple of good looking girls!”

“And free!” Hassan added. “They were well thought of in the brothel. Your Corporal’s a 
lucky man.”

“Saving face is important here.” Burdett surveyed his repossessed slaves benignly. “We’re 
doing this without fireworks. You two have already disappeared. We’re bribing Eliah with these
girls, and he himself is well in the clear. What we intend now is to keep the Slave Market and 
The Auction going as a regular institution. Darouba here has his army and could level this 
dump in an hour, but why spoil a good thing? The regular auction’s going to take place on 
schedule.”

“And there’s a girl I intend to bid on.” Hassan Darouba said reflectively.

“Forget it!” Said Miss Cheryl Chase. “Get me the hell out of this whole mess! Take me 
home!”

“I’ve heard of that wench.” Burdett conceded. “White, eh? Some sort of writer? Wants to 
write a book?”

“I’m cured.” Cheryl said humbly. “I’d like to go home.”

“Women with a notion must either be whipped daily or indulged.” Hassan Darouba 
observed sagely.

“I’d advise you to do both with this one.” The slaver suggested dryly. “Buy her first, then 
whip her ass! She can write standing up.”

“An excellent precept, my friend, you must have read the Koran.”

“Alright, you guys, you’ve had your fun! Now, maybe you’ve noticed we’re both 
handcuffed?” Cheryl was overjoyed but wanted out.

“Says she’s handcuffed.” Burdett shook his head sadly. “The damndest things women beef 
about!”

“All women should be handcuffed,” declaimed Darouba sententiously. “I believe it is so 
written – “

“Horseshit!” Declared Miss Cheryl Chase vehemently. “And you haven’t even kissed me . . . 
I think I’m going to cry.”

Both slaves were soundly kissed; their bottoms patted and the welts admired. “That 
Corporal can’t be all bad if he can do that to a girl’s bottom.” Burdett observed with feeling. 
“I’ll have to find out what he uses.”

“We know what he uses, Master.” Corey whispered into his sweaty shirt. “It’s called a 
number 7. 8. X.”

“I’ll see him about getting one.”

“We’d rather you didn’t, Master.” Corey snuggled deeper into male protection. “We’re very 
happy with your whips and things.”

“If you buy one of those straps I’m going back to New York,” said Miss Cheryl Chase 
decisively.

“You’ve spoiled that girl rotten, Darouba. Let me have her for one more coffle, no holds 
barred, and I’ll return her to you in a proper state of mind.”

“You do both she and I honour, old friend. Consider her yours.”

Cheryl wailed in outrage. “I won’t, I won’t – and you’re both teasing us – and you ought to 
be ashamed. Please take off our handcuffs!”

Shaking his head in mock despair, Burdett untied a length of rope from Amy’s arms. There 
was plenty left. Thoughtfully, he made a noose at each end. Divining his intent, Cheryl backed 
away.

“No you don’t! You mustn’t – I won’t . . . I won’t - !”

“Hush, Darling, you’ve forgotten what we are.” Corey Gibson sank to her knees before her 
Master and meekly pleaded. “We are slaves. Bind us as you wish, Master!” Her voice began to 
tremble. “But please take us from this place! We will be obedient.”

“I won’t – I don’t want that rope on my neck - !”

“Cheryl, kneel down and behave!” Corey’s command had the snap of authority. “You’re 
being unreal. This isn’t New York.”

Friendless and frightened, Cheryl knelt. She had indeed forgotten. She bowed her head 
and let her linked hands rest meekly in her lap. When Burdett placed the rope noose upon her
neck and its other end on Corey Gibson she did not move. Then, hastily, she sought to recover
lost ground.

“I’m sorry . . . . And thank you, Master.”

The two males led their slave girls from the cell.



***



The warehouse and the big cage took them back to its bosom. There had been a night of 
ecstatic lovemaking; then deep sleep. When they awoke their Masters had once more 
disappeared. Selim, elevated to a new importance and backed up by grinning guerrillas 
dressed as servants, did his best.

“You soon to be sold, ladies. Masters very busy. Not here.”

“Our hands are behind our backs, Selim! Who handcuffed us?”

“Was done when fast asleep. Masters do it. You no give Selim trouble.”

“We can’t do anything else either. Selim, change ‘em round to the front! We promise not 
to struggle.”

“No, Selim not crazy.”

“But we’re helpless. We can’t even feed ourselves.”

“You go now to where are girls. Very well looked after.”

“But you can’t walk us through Ben Sirah like this.”

Selim snickered. “We put in box.”

The boxes looked suspiciously like cheap coffee coffins. It was hard not to laugh. The girls 
stepped into them gingerly.

“You lay face down. We help. We tie feet and elbows and put nice gag in moth. Everything 
quiet.”

“You don’t need to tie us, you idiot; we don’t want to escape.”

“But must be quiet and still. Is not for long. Masters leave Selim in charge.”

The gags came first. No doubt Selim wished to inhibit feminine argument. A wet wad 
within and adhesive tape across rebellious lips. Cheryl reflected it was just as well. The ropes 
which now bit at her ankles and elbows would have spurred her to anger. Now she could say 
nothing. She made sounds of protest at the pain. No one paid attention. The lid was closed.

“Back to square one.” Corey Gibson surveyed the familiar cage and the familiar girls in 
resignation. “Dammit’, Cheryl, I’ll be glad when you’re safely sold.”

“At least we’re back with females. I’ve had a bellyful of policemen.” Cheryl sighed. “I’m 
sorry, Darling, I’ve caused you a lot of grief. – I got you whipped . . . and now!”

“Forget it! We’re coffle girls together. But you have to give the boys credit. They’re going 
to give you your ambition whether you want it or not. You’re going to be sold on the slave 
block and for real.”

“Corey, I’m frightened.”

“So you should be. All those gawking eyes on your pussy. I felt at least ninety percent 
pubic hair. Darling, have you ever considered the degree to which the world revolves around 
these hairy triangles of ours; it’s really absurd.”

“They’re such a general utility; so many functions.” Cheryl giggled. “Looks like this is where 
we get hosed down – “

There was only one difference in routine. Corey’s handcuffs were locked in front as were 
the rest of the girls, but Cheryl’s were discarded. Instead her wrists were tied and then her 
elbows. Her wrists with cord; her elbows with webbing. Her protest was instant:

“Why? What have I done?”

“You talk, talk. You think you fine lady. Must learn different.”

“But who ordered it done?”

“Your Master. He think you saucy.”

Cheryl knew it useless to argue. But, at least, they had used webbing on her elbows, 
though that probably meant they would stay belted together a long time. She looked down at
her breasts and felt proud of their arrogance. The coffle had tautened them.

“It’s no use me untying you, Darling.” Corey was distressed. “We’d both be punished 
worse, and this cage is like a goldfish bowl; you wouldn’t be free two minutes. Oh, sweetheart,
if only you didn’t snap at them so.”

Cheryl took a deep breath to swell her breasts even further to the fore. “Oh, never mind. 
Maybe it’s a sign he loves me.”

“It’s certainly a sign you’re very beautiful.” The golden girl raised an enquiring eyebrow. 
“Cheryl dear, are you really sure . . . about . . . about New York and – and Amphala?”

“Of course I am.”

“It’s a choice I made. It’s not always easy. We’re not wives, y’know, we’re slaves. We’ll never
be free of chains and bits of rope, and they’ll go on whipping us whenever they feel like it.”

“Yeah, I know. I have to be crazy.”

“Is that what I’m saying?”

“It’s what New York would say.”

“Yes, but they don’t know. Only the ones like us know.” Corey used cuffed hands to 
arrange her hair. “I think I’m telling you there’s only the faintest chance you might be allowed 
to go back, but if there is, d’you want to grab it?”

“I’m in a cage; I’m trussed up tight. I can’t grab anything.”

Corey made a wry grimace. “I don’t know your guerrilla too well or what he may do with 
you. Maybe I don’t even know Seth. I’ve never tried to escape but I’ve often wanted to just to 
see if I could.”

“Why don’t you? Might be fun.”

“No. He’d take it as a disloyalty. It would spoil something we have. Besides, whether he 
caught me or whether I walked sheepishly back into camp; he’d punish me horribly. I’d get the
whipping of my life. Maybe not because of what I’d done but because of pride. Slave girls get 
a lot of whipmarks because of male ego. What it amounts to is that once a girl ‘s gone as far 
as I have she’s trapped.”

“But you’re happy!”

“Yes. But another girl might not be.”

“Meaning me? You think I should run first chance I get?”

“Yes. There’s a rebellious streak in you. I don’t get whipped all that much. You will.”

“But, I love the guy!”

Corey Gibson shrugged. “Right there’s our real shackle. It doesn’t have a key.”

Cheryl took a deep breath. It was as though she needed to regain a lost equilibrium. She 
gave her mind a moment to reflect. Here she was, a mature and successful young woman, 
naked in a cage with twenty slave girls waiting to be sold; her hands and arms were painfully 
bound behind her back as a lesson in deportment; she had been whipped and would be 
whipped again as the personal odalisque of the leader of a guerrilla army whose life 
expectancy was far from an insurance risk. All of this was vivid stuff for the writing of a book. 
What more could a sensational journalist ask? But she was also in love. In a choice between 
Hassan Darouba and her typewriter Hassan would win.

Her captivity as a slave had started in fun and grown into reality. She had avoided analysis;
content to be absolved of decision. But now, in honesty and under the amused scrutiny of 
Burdett’s slave girl, she was forced to acknowledge a small secret belief that, always, there 
would be a way out; that if her need to escape became urgent a door would open. But 
suppose the door refused to open, what then?

“Hassan isn’t going to let you go, Darling.” Corey had read her mind. “You’ve stuck around 
long enough to become a habit and involve his ego. He won’t hand you the key.”

“All I’d have to do would be to reach Malenka; there’s a phone and wire service.”

“Can you reach it with an chained ankle or a collared neck?”

“Oh, Corey!” Cheryl’s voice was stricken.

“Sorry, Darling, just wanted to be sure you’d read the rules. We’re in the same boat, 
y’know.” Corey tenderly held and kissed her near helpless companion of the cage. “There isn’t 
an answer; there never is an answer for us girls.”

They left it at that.

The next day was a rehearsal. The twenty handcuffed girls to be sold took the place of the 
male bidders who were not there. Their eyes were bright; there were giggles as they gazed up 
at the block on which they were to stand naked to be sold. Cheryl stood among them. She 
could not deny the thudding of her heart. Corey was dreamy eyed; she was remembering.

A dark eyed girl was used for demonstration. Coyly clad in a spotless white sheet, she 
minced her female way up the steps to stand, shrinkingly beside the auctioneer with his whip. 
She looked at him fearfully and clutched the sheet tight above her thrusting breasts; her every
motion speaking of her nakedness beneath its immaculate sham. She stood with downcast 
eyes through his initial harangue. Her performance was superb: innocence upon the block, 
shrinkingly modest. It would sell.

But there was more. The auctioneer accepted imaginary bids around the room; then 
rapped a bare shoulder with his whip. The girl, simulating outraged modesty, recoiled and 
shook her head. She was immediately taken from the block; her hands were tied; she was 
suspended, naked, for all to see. She was then whipped; her young nudity circling upon its 
tether from above. Her screams were piteous. Cheryl suspected simulation, but real or false 
the message was clear. When their moment came it would be best to obey. When she was 
freed, the whipped girl put on a magnificent performance. Submissive yet proud, she flung 
aside her sheet at the crucial moment and offered her youth to any man who wished to buy. 
The room was breathless.

When they were marshalled back to the big cage it held a single occupant. It was Amy. Her
ankles were heavily ironed; her wrists handcuffed. The two white slave girls were a vent for her
indignation.

“That Corporal guy, he’s selling me. The son of a bitch!”

“But there was another girl - ?”

“He’s keeping her to fuck. Poor little trick chained alone in that rotten cell! He figures I’ll 
fetch the most money. Look, is there really an auction? Do we stand up an a block, all naked?”

“We sure do. Tomorrow.”

“I don’t really mind.” Amy kicked at the weight of iron on her feet and examined her 
handcuffs ruefully. “That brothel got to be a bore. And that cell . . . and those coloured cops . . 
. ugh!”

“Where’s the Corporal?”

“Who cares! He left me here on consignment, hardware and all. He’ll come and collect his 
money after some wog bastard’s yanked me off to his harem.” She gazed at them anxiously. 
“Or is there a chance I’ll be sold to a brothel; I’m sort of tired of laying on my back?” She 
diverted her attention to Cheryl. “What in hell did you do to get tied up like that?”

“I’m impudent.”

“Oh shit!” Amy shook her head sadly. “I wish I could get back to the U. S. A . I never will 
now – not after being sold. In this asshole of a place that makes me legally a slave.”

They consoled her as best they could. On the following day she was sold for a price that, 
even after all the palms were greased, would make Corporal Eliah a rich man.

“We’re close to the end, Darling.” Corey’s handcuffed fingers were soft on the slave’s bare 
arm. “I don’t know what they’ll do with us after you’ve been sold. My Master’s almost certain 
to take me with him when he goes back for the next coffle.”

“Can’t you visit me at Amphala? Hassan doesn’t keep me in a dungeon, y’know.”

“Sweetheart, we belong to two different men. We’ll do what they want.”

“But we can ask – sweet talk?”

“Sure, and get ourselves whipped. Cheryl, grow up!”

“Well . . . “ Cheryl found herself hating separation. Corey had such a strength. She grasped 
at a straw. “Hassan said he’d put me back on the coffle . . . to be disciplined. D’you think he 
might?”

“Darling, would you put up with that just to be with me? We probably wouldn’t even be 
chained together.”

“It’s only for two or three weeks. I’ve never felt so good as I do on that damn chain.”

“Don’t do it, dear! Seth would be mean to you. He’d feel he had to. You know, deliver you 
back meek and well broken.”

It was auction day. They had been placed to advantage to whet appetites. Each had a 
sheet; neither was restrained. Both knew Cheryl’s time was close. Corey was upset. “I won’t say 
good-bye, Darling, I just won’t. When they signal, just walk up there and don’t look back!”

Female lust at blatant exposure! Or was it an author’s fervour for authenticity. Cheryl 
Chase was unsure, but she mounted the steps to where she would, supposedly, find her 
greatest shame with a heart beating in nothing more than gladness. She was more excited 
than she could ever remember. Sight of the auctioneer’s whip prompted circumspect docility, 
but soon her eyes were bright and seeking.

Hassan Darouba was not there.

Cheryl clutched her sheet. She had been kept naked for weeks, but now the square of 
white was suddenly precious; beneath it was something these men had no right to see. If 
Hassan had abandoned her she would sooner die than let it fall. Frantically, she searched for 
the man she loved.

She could not follow the bids. The language was local; she knew no word of it. But the 
auctioneer’s staccato barks and suave suggestions told her well enough that the rest of her 
life was being decided for her. She was a slave, and she would soon have a new owner. She 
should have been flattered by the bidding but she was not. Her anxious search for her love 
was unrewarded.

But there were two others who intended to possess her. Cheryl shuddered at sight of 
them. They were exactly what no girl wanted: fat, bristly, beady eyed. The rise and fall of their 
fingers or the nod of their head was deciding her fate – and there was nothing she could do! 
The rap of the whip on her bare shoulder told her time had come.

Why be whipped . . . and then sold anyway? Convictions dissolved. And, after all, what was 
nakedness? Miss Cheryl Chase hesitantly divided her covering. For a moment she stood with 
arms outstretched; one hand clutching the cotton which had covered the nakedness she now 
proudly made taut and thrusting. She let the cotton fall and clasped her hands at the nape of 
her neck.

There was tumult; bids flew like bullets. Despite agony of spirit Cheryl Chase was engulfed 
in a wave of female pride. She was beautiful; she was desired. She thrust out her breast; daring
a man to buy them. Beneath the platform a favoured few gazed up between her legs. For 
them she separated her feet and emphasized her pubic hair. She knew herself wet, but they 
would pay a huge price to discover it for themselves. The auctioneer’s arm fell limp; this girl 
would need no whip. He wished he had the money to bid himself for her; she would be good 
in bed!

Like an ebbing tide the bids engendered by her breasts and pubic hair fell silent one by 
one. Insolently, she sought her lover. He was not there. Indolently, the plumpish fingers made 
their signals; heads nodded to the auctioneer’s importunities. When the last bid had been 
made Miss Cheryl Chase learned she had been sold to a fat man for two million seven 
hundred thousand American dollars.

The warehouse had class; sales were handled with dispatch. Proud new owners of naked 
girls were not embarrassed by the mundane. In actual fact, they vanished; no doubt to write 
the cheque or heft the bag of gold. Cheryl found herself in the care of a pair of grinning 
servants who promptly tied her hands behind her back, and then her elbows . . . . ! They did it 
far tighter than they need have done. It hurt. She wanted to complain, but there is no use 
complaining to lackeys. She was aware of having lost caste. After they had gagged her she 
could not complain about anything. The blindfold that followed was no more than might be 
expected. But it prevented one last loving look at Corey and was soon wet with a slave girl’s 
tears.



***



Caring little of direction, Miss Cheryl Chase took blind steps at the dictates of prodding 
fingers and rough hands, all male. Sometimes, there were pauses, at which times the hands 
would search her crotch and breasts. The sheet had been replaced. It was fastened over her 
bound arms and provided no protection at all from prying hands. There were male chuckles 
and male speech but she did not understand a word. There was a ride in a car, then the smell 
of gasoline. The motions she sensed around her became more purposeful.

The surface was hard. Before she was laid on it they took the sheet from her nudity and 
spread it for her resting place. They tied her ankles; they tied her knees; they checked the 
ropes already on her arms. Then she was turned face down and hogtied; hands and feet 
touching; her back bowed. She wondered why she must be so helpless and if they understood
how much she hurt.

When the motor started she knew instantly it was a helicopter. In part, it explained their 
wish for her immobility. Her heart leaped in hope: a helicopter could mean Darouba! 
Helicopters were military hardware . . . . ! On the other hand, any man who could afford the 
price bid for her on the block could also afford expensive aircraft. Aircraft meant distance! As 
the noisy box in which she lay lurched from the ground, Cheryl miserably knew each 
revolution of the blades would take her away from those she needed most. Her mind carried a
vivid picture of the unsavoury male who had purchased her. His bristled face would soon be 
above her own; beating her down with foul breath; his weapon impaling her between the 
thighs. Of all those who had used her body in the past days he was by far the most repulsive. 
She struggled in futile disgust and flopped over on her side.

Blind, she was denied time and space. There seemed a lot of both. Sometimes she 
struggled, and wondered if she was watched. She could scarcely move but the pain of revolt 
was a vent for anger. Miss Cheryl Chase felt bitterly abused.

When they landed and the motor died she became a package in rapid dispatch. She was 
carried, dumped, tossed . . . . There was a ride in what she suspected was a jeep; more lifting 
and carrying and a sense of the indoors. Finally, she was relieved of the hogtie and stood erect
upon trussed feet. Hands held and tested her balance; then went away. She felt positive she 
was standing before a man, and the man was examining her nakedness. She blushed, and 
suddenly knew for sure. When the gag was taken from her mouth she exploded.

“Hassan, you bastard, to do this to me! You’ve scared the daylights – “

The gag muted her. It was again strapped tight. Without warning, her bottom flared in 
agony, bouncing under impact. Once . . . twice . . . ! The pain was shocking. This time, when 
the gag was removed, she said humbly to an unknown presence: “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . 
!”

“But you do now, beloved.” It was Hassan’s voice.

Miss Cheryl Chase crumpled into his arms.

It was their favourite room with the Moorish arches and the open wall to the terrace. They 
had loved exhaustingly and now sat in repose. Hassan in his favourite chair; his slave girl 
reclining at his feet; her head on his knee when she was not looking up at her Master in 
adoration. Hassan Darouba sipped a drink. From time to time he held the glass to the lips of 
the naked girl.

“Must my hands always be tied behind my back, Hassan?”

“It becomes you, and you have no need of them.”

“I could make love a lot better.”

“That I doubt. In fact, quite the reverse. You have just been superlative.” His hands caressed
. . . pinching her ear.

“If I had my hands I could fix our drinks.”

“Stop being kittenish! I could make you mix them anyway – with a little care you could. 
And you know perfectly well you love having your hands tied.”

“Well anyway, it’s a nice change from the Corporal’s handcuffs.” Cheryl cocked an 
enquiring eye at an object draped across the arm of the chair. “You didn’t have to go and buy 
his horrible Issue Item 7. 8. X.”

“We purchased two. Burdett did not want his slave girl to feel deprived.”

“If you burned it I wouldn’t feel deprived at all. My bottom’s still on fire.” She pouted 
prettily. “Would you please consider burning it, Master?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would. But I wish you knew how it hurts.”

“I suspect you are getting an erotic enjoyment out of talking about Item: number 7.8.X. 
Would you like a couple more to keep your bottom appreciative of its quality?” He tilted up 
her chin and kissed her. “The coffle was good for you. You’ve returned to me a bundle of 
sensuality.”

“Darling, what is it about the coffle?” Cheryl’s voice lost its banter. “Corey and I ought to 
hate it but we don’t. Immediately we’re locked on it we get horny.”

Darouba chuckled at her earnestness. “It is simply that you are then subject to the will of 
the Male.” He said complacently. “Your psyche has found its place. At the end of the trek a 
male will by you – why the devil wouldn’t you feel hot between your legs?”

She was about to make a sarcastic retort when she remembered the coffee coloured girls. 
In essence, she had said what Hassan had just told her. In vexation, she wailed: “But we’re 
white! Those other little baggages are just twitching glands!”

He patted her hair. “You’re the author; you figure it. Actually, it’s because you’ve both been
well whipped. In any assessment you make of female reactions never forget the whip. You and
that girl of Burdett’s have certainly been whipped more than the rest of the coffle . . . you’re 
lucky.”

“Oh, Hassan, are you saying we’re broken; whipped into submission?”

“What’s wrong with that? For you girls the whip is the natural reagent deciding your 
chemistry.” Hassan chuckled at his slave’s obvious distaste of male analysis. “A girl who’s never
been whipped is not a mature female.”

Cheryl examined his premise. She knew it sound. Irrelevantly, she demanded: “If I asked 
you to let me go – I mean back to New York, would you?”

“No.”

His negative sent the heat surging through her loins. It was the answer her femininity 
demanded, but it was also frightening. “That’s the reason my hands are tied like this.” She 
accused. “You’ve never going to free me.”

“It’s what you wanted. You still want it.” His voice was patiently understanding.

“Well . . . yes. But –“

“You still want to keep a loophole, don’t you? Have your cake and eat it too. That’s been 
the female ploy since chivalry got started.” Hassan Darouba looked down at her with love. 
“You want to write your book, use me, and then go home in a blaze of glory – and royalties.”

“Hassan, you make it sound all wrong.”

“I’ve spoiled you. Burdett was right.” His eyes were dark pools in which Cheryl knew herself
lost. “But, get this straight: there’s no escape for you. You gave yourself to me. On top of that I
bought you at auction – the fat old hedgehog who bid was my agent. You’re mine. For every 
escape attempt you’ll get a whipping.”

“Oh, Hassan . . . Darling - !”

“Get up and bend over!”

An hour ago she would have quibbled. She did not quibble now. Miss Cheryl Chase stood 
erect then bent forward; her bound hands lifted into the small of her back.

“Three. Not a sound! Break position and you’ll be tied for six.”

Horror on horror! A violent surge of lust. Fear of agony to come! A slave girl’s adoration of
her Master . . . . ! Cheryl did not care. Her beloved was about to find joy within her flesh. She 
clenched her teeth.

Pain on top of pain! She could feel the welts rise and glow with heat. Her bottom 
screamed in outrage; its flesh consumed. Issue item number 7. 8. X told her clearly she was a 
woman. She would not want to sit down for days.

“Thank you, Master.” She did not even need to cry.

“At ease, sweetheart, back the way you were.” As his slave settled herself on one hip 
against his knees he shook his head in mock resignation. “I can’t be whipping you every hour, 
beloved girl, but it’s only after being whipped that you shape up. The rest of the time you 
keep a reservation; that loophole of an escape you’re sure is there.”

“Then whip me every hour!” Cheryl was vehemently sincere. “You’re right. I know you are. 
Corey told me the same thing.” She reached with her bound hands; fingers questing the 
ridged and tender flesh Item 7. 8. X had raised across her bottom. She smiled ruefully. “I don’t 
know how I can stand that brute of a strap. Oh, Hassan . . . !”

“I’ll give you a chance to get used to it. Go and fix me a drink and bring it here without 
spilling! You know what happens when you goof.” He laughed at her dismay. “Sure, sure, I 
know all about your tied hands.”

Quivering, Cheryl got to her feet. Item 7. 8. X was inevitable but she would try. She was 
half way to the bar when the unmistakable Australian drawl invaded the quiet mezzanine. 
“Told the boy not to bother, Hassan, old chap, we’d announce ourselves. That’s some fine 
welts you’ve got on little Trixie’s arse.” He beamed at Cheryl’s shock. “Just a social call, love, 
Corey worries about you.”



She was hugged and kissed by a golden girl wearing a bit of torn print across one hip. 
Corey took the empty glass from tied fingers; she knelt before Hassan Darouba and asked, 
demurely: “May I serve the drinks, Lord?” Completing her task, Corey Gibson knelt in slave 
submission on the rug. Before she bent her head she sought Cheryl’s admiring stare and 
naughtily winked.

“Now, there’s a slave for you!” Burdett pronounced with pride. “She’d fetch three million 
on the block. Want to buy her?”

Darouba laughed. “You would as soon sell your right arm, my friend. Besides, I already 
have one.”

“Oh, her!” Burdett dismissed Cheryl Chase with a wave of his near empty glass. “Impudent, 
untrained, escape prone – “

“I’m not! I’m not!” The slave under discussion stamped an indignant bare foot, then 
blushed pink: “Ooops, sorry - - !”

“See what I mean!” Burdett was complacent. “Needs a lot of work done on her. I’d take her
in on trade, but she’s not worth much.”

Gravely, Hassan Darouba played the game. “Make me an offer, old friend! I am aware of 
her deficiencies.”

“A hundred thousand on a straight purchase, or I’ll train her for you for thirty.”

“Perhaps the training.” Hassan mused. “I must admit to some affection for the wench.”

“No holds barred, old boy. She’ll come back to you well striped?”

“If such is the will of Allah.” Hassan piously intoned.

“You men, you’re . . . you’re . . . Oh, you’re both impossible!” Cheryl stamped her foot again
and would have said more, but suddenly Corey was beside her with a glass. “Quiet, Darling! 
Put a cork in it! Here, drink this and shut up!” She held the cocktail to the bound girl’s lips.

In fury and apprehension Cheryl drained it dry.



***



A fuzzy head. Something changed and different. A blushing but uncertain memory . . . ? 
Miss Cheryl Chase reached for her hair but discovered something wrong with her hand. There 
was something wrong with her neck too . . . as though working against a weight . . . . !

She sat up, angrily, and in a terrible knowledge. Selim was tending the campfire; he 
grinned and nodded. In the distance Cheryl could see the big tent. From it, Seth Burdett 
briefly appeared but did not look her way. She examined the familiar shackle on her right 
wrist; it was dauntingly secure, so was the collar on her neck; its chains looping in both 
directions to other open circlets awaiting maidens not yet captive. Miss Cheryl Chase was back
on the salve coffle of the slaver, Seth Burdett. Judging by the long length of trailing chains 
with their waiting shackles she was the first of a new consignment.

Anger flared. Hassan would be laughing; so would Seth Burdett. They were having fun. 
Training . . . ! She snorted at the word. They knew what they could do with their training! Miss 
Cheryl Chase got to her feet against the drag of chains; her fists clenched; eyes ablaze . . . . ! 
Then, suddenly, she wilted. Before her on the grass, and out of reach, was the least loveable of
Burdett’s stock of whips. Beside it, as a firm evidence of intent, was the sinister length of Issue 
Item number 7. 8. X.

She knew what to do. She would drag the whole damn length of the chains to the tent and
have it out with the chuckling slaver. It would be a great weight, but surely she could manage 
- ! But when she turned to clasp links she beheld defeat. The ends of both chains were 
padlocked to trees . . . . ! It was the same at the far reach of the coffle. She would go nowhere. 
Her radius was the same as if the slave chain held twenty girls. In total frustration she sat on 
the grass and wept.

In the evening Selim escorted a coloured damsel to be shackled in the most distant collar. 
Defeated by distance, they acknowledged a shared captivity by the wave of their free hand. An
hour later Selim did the same service for a golden girl with a tawny lion’s mane of glorious 
hair. Both were as naked as the girl chained far away. When Selim had gone, Corey Gibson 
waved, motioned to the chain, and gave an eloquent gesture of defeat. Her clear voice 
bridged the space between.

“Sorry, Darling!”

Training! Cheryl longed to scream . . . to beat her fists.

Mocking her from the grass was the whip and Issue Item number 7. 8. X.
