Pamela Prentiss
by F.E. Campbell


CHAPTER ONE - DUO IN DISTRESS 

Pamela Prentiss had become accustomed to her nightly pilgrimage. After her 
first several attempts at escape, her lonely Walk to the jail had become 
routine. It was a joke between herself and Bessie Naguie that her room was 
always ready. The room was a barred cell; Bessie Naguie was the prison 
wardress. Their evening greeting varied little. 

"How you want I fix you tonight, Miz Prentiss?" 

"Handcuffs on my ankles, Bessie." 

"That's what you always ask." 

"Because it bothers me the least." 

"How 'bout a collar and chain?" 

"Sure, if that's what you'd like me to wear." 

Pamela sat on the bench and tilted her chin for the metal band around her 
throat. When she slept she could dispose the chain to the wall in a small 
cluster of links beside her neck to relieve the tug. It was not too bad. 
When the padlock clicked on chain and collar she said a mechanical, "Thank 
you, Bessie." 

"You're welcome," the wardress laughed. "One day I fool you good. I do your 
ankles." 

"That will be nice. I'll look forward to it." 

"Boss man fuck you good tonight, Miz Prentiss." 

"He always does. He's clever at it. You should know." 

"I knows. He done me just that once, but I remembers it." 

Bessie grinned knowingly. "You gotta be pretty good yourself or he wouldn't 
take you every night." The wardress giggled archly. "You two just as well be 
married." 

The same vagrant thought had crossed Pamela's mind often enough since she 
had been made Jacob Makinda's prisoner. She mused on it now as she sat alone 
after Bessie had gone and locked her in for the night. From habit she lifted 
the chain from her collar to ease the drag. There was quite a lot of chain. 
It allowed her to go as far as the barred door and look beyond. But it was 
not long enough to allow her to leave the cell. It had taken Pamela a long 
time to realize the chains Bessie locked on her were a matter of pride. Not 
hers but Jacob Makinda's. He held the key. Bessie would unlock the cell in 
the morning, but the steel ring around Pamela's neck would await the ruler 
of Saunda's pleasure. 

Pamela Prentiss had abandoned logic. Saunda had no patience with it. She had 
several times pointed out the needlessness of locking her in a cell and also 
chaining her to its wall. One or the other would keep her safely prisoner. 
But Saunda had smiled and paid no heed. So it had joined the ranks of those 
things that did not matter any more. Being whipped as often as she had been 
in the early days of her captivity had made normal much that once would have 
been unthinkable and impossible. Saunda had its own ways of converting the 
heathen, the stupid, or the outright rebellious. 

Playing with the chain hanging pendent from her collar, the captive girl 
thought back to her first meeting with Jacob Makinda. She had been pitched 
out of the sack onto the floor in front of where he sat. His chair was not a 
throne but might as well have been. Pamela had been hogtied and helpless 
within the stuffy hemp. She had also been angry and frightened, but she had 
held in check her flood of protest whilst the handsome male creature perused 
her passport. Then, since he seemed in no hurry to do or say anything, she 
had demanded, "Untie me! This is an outrage!" 

"Yes, isn't it?" 

Jacob Makinda' spoke with an educated voice. He scrutinized her briefly, 
then returned to the passport, flipping its pages as though oblivious to the 
woman on the floor. Pamela tried again. 

"You might at least speak to me." 

"I did. I agreed with you." 

"I'm in pain. I've been tied like this a long time." 

Without comment, the man who ruled Saunda with an iron hand bent and untied 
the cord joining his captive's hands and feet. Pamela stretched gratefully 
and said a grudging "thank you." Then, after the male had resumed his seat, 
she asked petulantly, "My hands and feet are still tied--would you like to 
tell me what this is all about?" 

"I am thinking of purchasing you, Miss Prentiss. If I untie you, you will be 
required to remove your clothes so I may assess your quality." 

"Buy me! That's crazy!" Pamela wriggled herself into a sitting position and 
glared. "Who would you buy me from?" Lamely, she added a doubtful, "I'm not 
for sale." 

Makinda nodded as though amused. "The film unit, of which you were a member, 
was killed off by a group of political dissidents who were practical enough 
to salvage you for profit. I have been given first refusal." 

"You'll have the State Department and the United Nations jumping on you with 
both feet." 

"No." He smiled down at her, enjoying her fluster. "My country and I are in 
the clear. It is reported that you and the rest of your party are dead and 
buried. The group responsible are little better than bandits. There are no 
traces, no loose ends. Miss Pamela Prentiss has ceased to exist." 

The tied girl was conscious of a sinking heart. They had been warned not to 
enter the territory. Disappearance of a small, intrusive unit was not 
uncommon. Makinda was probably right--she had ceased to exist. There would 
be only a token protest and no search. She repeated without conviction, "You 
can't possibly buy me." With her new semi-freedom she twisted desperately 
against tied hands. 

"They tied you will, eh?" Pamela was close to tears. She stopped struggling 
long enough to retort. "They tied me too well. If you were a gentleman, 
you'd untie me." 

"I have quoted you terms." 

"You can't possibly be serious. No girl's going to--" 

"You are." 

She had been dealt with like a bundle of dirty washing. Taken to where there 
was a small cage in a small room, she had been thrust within the heavy mesh 
and the door locked. She had been curtly told to call when ready. 

It seemed silly now, so much fuss about being naked before a man. The girl 
chained in the cell looked down at her bare skin and black curled pubic hair 
in wry amusement. She had forgotten when she had last worn clothes. She had 
ceased to be conscious of nakedness. Now the awful exposure only afflicted 
her when she was to be whipped. But she had not been whipped for a long 
time. 

Miss Pamela Prentiss had remained mute and tightly bound within the tiny 
cage for only the balance of that day and through the night. The darkness 
and cramped immobility had broken her. She had called out her readiness, but 
it had been past noon when she was released. Servants had helped her stand, 
then untied her and ushered her to a bathroom. Only then was she granted 
audience. 

"A trying night I fear, Miss Prentiss." 

"You should know. You condemned me to it." Pamela had looked around the 
strictly business office and found its austerity a strange atmosphere in 
which to remove her clothes. Resentfully she asked, "You wish me to do it 
here?" 

"You would prefer a bedroom?" 

She blushed. Angry with him for reading her thoughts, angry with herself for 
having them. She tried to sound indifferent. "Whatever you wish." 

"Here." 

Pamela had accepted defeat so paid her penalty with dispatch. She would 
simply undress as though going to bed, robbing the act of all salacity and 
the man of carnal satisfactions. When she was naked she stood, without 
poise, to give Jacob Makinda a blatant exposure of her womanhood. Sparing 
her charms only brief attention, he curtly ordered, "Put them back on and do 
it properly." 

"What do you mean?" 

"You know what I mean." 

She knew. Dispiritedly she dressed, then stood, fighting rebellion. She had 
accepted shame. It was not fair she should do so twice. 

"Well?" The single word was a command. 

"You want a strip tease?" 

"Of course. Be a woman." 

Pamela Prentiss supposed the first time of deliberately making herself naked 
was a moment to remember for every girl. It was the man who undressed you, 
wasn't it? Making fun and making love. No girl should be asked to strip in 
the austerity of an office and before the studied regard of an African 
potentate, a man of color. She wondered what the title should be--dictator 
probably. 

Coldly she said, "It's an art I haven't studied. I'm bound to disappoint 
you." 

"Try." 

She shrugged and for the second time took off her frock. 

The girl in the cell laughed in memory of that other girl long ago who had 
strived to strip herself bare, and with artistry, for her Master. She had 
not fully known then that Jacob Makinda was her Master. She had known almost 
nothing except that she did not wish to spend another night bound in the 
little cage. She had not even realized that stripping this time would leave 
her naked forever. She had been a most truly innocent young woman. 

Music would have helped. Anything rather than this cold, impersonal place of 
business. But resolutely, thinking only of the cage, the abducted girl had 
done her best to please. Her best had left her scarlet faced and chagrined. 
But, panting and bare, she had faced the inscrutable male regard. This time 
she posed, her foot upon a chair to give him no chance to say she had 
withheld her femaleness. 

"Bravo!" 

Jacob Makinda had actually clapped, his eyes suddenly alight. He had pressed 
a bell and a servant had come and gathered Pamela's clothes, every last 
stitch of them. Her wide-eyed query was instantly answered. 

"You will have no further need of them." Then, after a further detailed 
scrutiny, he said, "This afternoon you sleep. Tonight we make love." 

The chained girl sighed. That had been the beginning of the awfulness. She 
had supposed her stripping the final shame, but, of course, it was not. To 
her the yielding of her body to this man had been unthinkable, an obscenity 
beyond bearing. She had expected rape, but was to be denied this mercy. She 
must give herself freely as though she loved. 

In the twenty-four years of Pamela Prentiss's life to that point any mention 
of a whip had been utterly abstract, as were all things that never happened 
to a girl. Quite suddenly it was real, and now, and by her own choice. She 
did not need to be whipped. It was then she discovered what it was like to 
be ten times naked. 

"I shall enjoy your whipping, Miss Prentiss. Since it's your first it should 
be a remarkable experience." 

Jacob Makinda was deliberately suave and a trifle British. It was one more 
way of savoring Pamela's agony to the full. He did not whip the newly 
captive white girl himself. That pleasure was delegated to the capable hands 
of Bessie Naguie. The ruler himself had sat comfortably to one side, sipping 
brandy in an over-emphasis of sybarite enjoyment of a girl's pain. As she 
was tied and spread, Pamela Prentiss kept looking at his calmly smiling 
visage in disbelief that any of this could be happening to her. She had been 
told she could avoid the whip by carnal compliance now, but that once her 
back had been streaked by the first cut of its thong her punishment would 
continue to the end, no matter how ardent her pleas and assurances might 
become. Grimly she phrased it in her own mind, "Ask him to fuck me--or 
else!" She had not asked. It was not possible. 

Pamela's memory of that time was chaotic. Spread out nakedly between two 
posts, the singing lash had its way with her. She could shield nothing. She 
could only writhe, tug, pull, and scream. She did them all in shame and 
mortification under the wise and knowing regard of the man who knew what she 
did not--that sooner or later she would say yes. 

But it had not been that time. Semi-conscious, she had been loosed and 
returned to the cell and its chains. There were more of the chains in that 
early time--for neck, wrists, and ankles. Their effect upon her was almost 
as potent as the whip. She had seen them as shameful things, proclaiming 
themselves with a metallic rattle every time she moved. Actually, they made 
little difference to her in the cell. They were simply one more infliction 
of authority. After she had been told she would be whipped again tomorrow 
Pamela Prentiss cried herself to sleep. 

She reflected on it now with that self-satisfied complacency granted by 
understanding. Now she could cope with Jacob Makinda, his chains, and his 
cell. She had not coped with the whip--no girl ever did that--but she was no 
longer whipped as often as in those first days. Pamela's complacency did not 
cover being whipped, but it comprehended all else in her captivity. She saw 
the female who had rolled out of the sack at Jacob Makinda's feet as a 
callow girl who cherished and fought for absurd notions of virtue and what 
was "right." That girl had suffered so much so needlessly. 

With each fresh whipping Bessie had admonished, "You crazy, gal, not to give 
in. All you gotta do is give him real nice fucks. Then you lives like a 
queen. Maybe he marry you. You a real beautiful gal." 

It had taken three and a half of the whippings before Pamela capitulated to 
meekly and resentfully offer her person to the ruler for "nice fucks." In 
the middle of her fourth whipping she had screamed, "Yes! Yes! I'll do it!" 
But the whipping methodically continued to its conclusion just as promised. 
Release found her sobbing and hysterical, so absorbed in pain she scarcely 
noticed her return to the cell and its chains instead of Jacob Makinda's 
bed. 

The ruler of Saunda was a handsome man of less than middle age, virile, an 
immensely competent lover. It took only a few couplings, plus Bessie's 
ardent envy, to make the captive girl aware of good fortune. Before long 
Pamela was going to his bed each night to match him thrust for thrust and 
glorying in the resultant conflagration in her loins. 

Chastity had not been Pamela's only misconception. She had faults which were 
painstakingly explained and painfully punished. The list of them read like a 
child's primer in deportment: banish resentment, don't pout in petulance, 
avoid sarcasms, obey without demur, never complain or be importunate. One by 
one the whip excised them all. As she was tied to receive her stripes she 
was told why she got them. It was a very simple way of teaching--and most 
effective. Her instincts now were almost always the right ones. 

Pamela's intimacy with the whip was prolonged by her escape. She realized 
now that when she was sent on errands in a total freedom from bonds she was 
not really free at all. Saunda contained her as surely as the chains. But 
this knowledge had not come easily. She had been warned not to run away, and 
told what would happen to her if she did. But freedom is heady stuff and 
vastly tempting. It had seemed so natural and so easy to run away naked into 
the bush or across the veldt. There was a morality about it too, a guilty 
insistence on escape as a duty. But always, within a mile or twenty miles, 
she had been apprehended and returned to Saunda's capitol city, Rabaul, and 
to the ruler's mansion--there to be confronted by her sin, Makinda's 
displeasure, and a smiling Bessie with the whip. Gradually Pamela came to 
accept that escape was not a possibility. It was something best forgotten, 
but by that time her whole body and the soles her feet were an interlocking 
tracery of weals which took a month to heal. 

Jacob Makinda was the product of a sergeant in the British Imperial Army and 
a Bantu maiden. His ascendancy to his present eminence was the result of 
chance, threats muttered in the Kremlin, and some signatures in the United 
Nations. His education had been by virtue of one of those benevolent 
institutions which forever strive to save the Africans from themselves. It 
took Pamela some time to realize his interest in her did not lay solely 
between her legs. Jacob Makinda wanted an educated woman he could talk to in 
that time between the last of their coupling and Pamela's banishment to her 
cell. Laying together on his bed in the twilight time of satiety, communion 
had come easily. They used first names. Pamela had been forbidden to call 
him "Master." 

"There's no need to send me away every night, Jacob. Why can't I share your 
bed?" 

"I sleep alone, girl. I always have." 

"I could not harm you. I come to this bed naked. I could not conceal a 
weapon. If you wanted, you could chain my neck, my wrist, my ankles. It 
would not stop--" 

"No." 

Pamela accepted his wish to sleep alone. She thought she understood. If one 
day she overcame it, it would be a major victory. Each night she made her 
lonely journey to her cell and Bessie's choice of shackle. She was still a 
prisoner, not yet a wife. 

The chained girl upon the bench behind the bars sighed and thought of sleep. 
But her day was not as long as the ruler's. She was allowed to sleep late. 
Moreover, these ruminations on her enslavement held an endless fascination. 
They supported her growing conviction of happiness in a condition in which 
she should not have been happy at all--not by the standard of that other 
world now lost. It was as though she had passed through tribulation to reach 
a safe harbor. Pamela let it go at that. She lay down, arranged the chain 
from her collar to the best advantage, and was soon asleep. 

Awakening in the morning, Pamela found the cell door open wide. This was a 
tantalization providing Bessie endless delight, but only irritation for the 
chained prisoner. The tether to her collar kept Pamela Prentiss as much a 
captive as the door had done. She would have to sit and wait for someone to 
obtain her key from the ruler and set her free to pass through the inviting 
door. Sometimes the ruler forgot his slavegirl in the cell and took the key 
away with him, in which case Pamela must resign herself to sitting naked on 
the bench to await his return. At such times Bessie provided a pain and her 
breakfast. If she was not busy, she shared coffee. She was not busy today. 

"Looks like you gotta sit awhile, Miz Prentiss. Boss man--he's off 
someplace." 

"See, if you'd just handcuffed my ankles like I asked." 

"He'd still have the key. You wanna hop--" 

"Oh, all right. I should be used to this by now. Bessie, why don't you call 
me 'Pamela'? 'Miss Prentiss' sounds silly when I'm your prisoner." 

Bessie sniffed. "I got orders to treat you respectful--unless you 
misbehaves." 

"How can I possibly misbehave in here--naked?" 

"Well, maybe you can't, but orders is orders. You is a real important gal 
since you learns to fuck." 

"I didn't learn; I was taught." 

"I teaches you with the whip, eh!" Bessie beamed at the tribute. 

"You taught me a lot of things with that whip of yours, Bessie. Have you any 
idea how terribly it hurts?" 

"Oh, sure, I gets whipped plenty before I get sensible. Most gals need their 
little asses whipped." 

"You really believe that, don't you?" 

"Well, look at you, Miz Prentiss--the way you made me lace that pretty 
skin!" 

"All right, all right! I needed my bottom whipped, and maybe my top as well. 
Now I'm trained. I think 'trained' is the word. You haven't had to whip me 
in ages." 

"You sounds real sorry 'bout that, Miz Prentiss. I'm sorry too. I surely do 
love to whip you." 

"Well, don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll get another chance. I'm bound 
to forget something--and then you've got me." 

"We both awful lucky, Miz Prentiss." 

They laughed at that--a statement Pamela could not deny. In a sudden 
recollection she asked, "Bessie, am I supposed to teach school today?" 

"Sho' 'nuff you was," Bessie chuckled, "but if boss man don't show up, you 
not doin' nothin' 'cept sit." 

They were always there,, these reminders of what she had become--reminders 
of a lost freedom. Her teaching at the Rabaul Junior High School had been an 
idea of Makinda's. 

It kept her occupied in his absences and provided the school with a service 
it had been unable to obtain from any other source. Jacob Makinda was well 
aware of the political punch engendered by good works. He cultivated them 
assiduously. If Pamela failed to give satisfaction to Sister Angela, the 
black nun who was head of the establishment, she was whipped. As yet that 
had only happened once when the captive girl had sought the sister's aid in 
escape. Pamela's rebuff, and the stripes across her back had discouraged 
further efforts. Her admonition had been pious. 

"All of us were sent for a purpose, child." 

"But look at me! I'm naked, and half the time I'm chained. I get whipped for 
everything." 

"It is doubtless the will of providence." 

Pamela had ceased to batter her head against the brick wall of Sister 
Angela's faith. Even her nakedness did not offend the headmistress. Most of 
the pupils and their parents wore little or nothing. With ceaseless exposure 
to the sun, Pamela's Nordic white had modified itself to a pleasing ivory. 
She noticed, with a cynical amusement, that when visiting dignitaries were 
at the school she was sent elsewhere. 

Pamela Prentiss's use of her spare time had been a source of debate between 
herself and the ruler. 

"I can easily keep you locked behind bars, Pamela." 

"And watch me slowly shrivel?" 

"I could keep you chained by an ankle to this bed." 

"Your arrival every night would be an anti-climax." 

"Tied to a tree? Chained in the patio? A cage?" 

"Oh, Jacob, please!" 

"Of course, I could always allow you to run free." 

"I'd escape. I'd be gone the first day." 

"You don't really believe that, do you?" 

"Why not? I'd find help." 

"You can never escape Saunda. All you can do is get yourself whipped for 
trying." Makinda looked at her musingly from beneath lowered lids. "But I 
think that best. You must try. Get it out of your mind. Escape and see what 
happens." Pamela had supposed him having sport at her extreme, but Makinda 
was serious. He wished her to confront the realities of his possession. She 
was his property. She would try to leave but would fail. She would be 
punished. 

"You'd have me watched and followed every minute." She eyed him doubtfully, 
unsure of sincerity. 

"No." Makinda waved the suspicion away. "Go. Let Saunda absorb you. Become a 
part of it. See what happens." 

"But you'll punish me horribly." 

"Not unless your attempt to escape is serious and you are caught." 

And so it had come about. She had been granted colored cloth with which to 
enhance the slenderness of nude hips and cover pubic hair. Her breasts must 
stay uncovered as was Saunda's fashion. Rabaul was by no means a metropolis. 
It boasted no foreign colony. But it accepted her with few raised eyebrows. 
She was regarded as one more evidence of the ruler's omnipotence. Makinda's 
possession of a white slave-girl added a touch of class they all approved. 
Was it not the forerunner of the day in which every black man was thus 
served? 

The first escape of Pamela Prentiss had been most enterprising. In her 
wanderings in Rabaul she had come upon a jeep with the motor running. She 
had simply got in and driven off down the main road, such as it was, at top 
speed. She had been allowed a distance of some ten to fifteen miles before 
the military closed in and brought her to a halt. There had been much 
ribaldry but no molestation. Pamela had been handcuffed and attached to the 
saddle of a mule ridden by a jovial corporal who accepted his chore with 
great good humor. The tether was a length of chain from the pommel of the 
saddle back ten feet to the handcuffs. Pamela had been made to trudge in the 
dust the full length of her abortive attempt, the cuffs and the links 
defeating her completely. It had been a bitter walk, knowing what was 
waiting at the end. 

"I shall make an example of you this time, Pamela." 

"Oh." She had been too tired to argue. 

"You've earned a punishment, don't you agree?" 

"I suppose so." 

"I'd prefer a more positive response." 

"Yes, I deserve to be punished." 

She had looked up at her judge, the man whose power in this place was 
limitless. She was standing before him, dusty and still handcuffed. "But 
couldn't you be merciful this once? You knew I was going to try. It was 
inevitable I would try." 

"Tomorrow in the Barrack Square--in public--thirty strokes." 

"That's a terrible punishment, Jacob." 

Makinda had shrugged. Pamela had been washed and taken to her cell. There 
she was well loaded with shackles and left to contemplate her punishment. 
The following day her whipping had been ritualistically planted on her bare 
skin. 

The second escape had been less ambitious but more cautious. She had stowed 
away behind the cargo of a truck believed to be leaving Saunda for distant 
parts, but she had been misinformed. Its destination was an inland village 
fifty miles distant. When the cargo was unloaded on arrival she was 
disclosed, cowering, and apprehensive. She spent the night tied to a tree 
while her status was verified. The following morning there was another mule 
and another grinning man in uniform. This time her hands were cuffed behind 
her back and a rawhide noose trailed its length from her neck to the saddle. 
The demeaning trek took two and a half days. 

"So you learned a lesson, girl?" 

"I've learned one this time, Jacob. I won't try again." 

"Ah!" His exclamation had been a long sibilance of sound. "How may I aid you 
in this noble resolve?" 

"Oh, all right! I know you're working up to giving me some awful 
punishment." 

"A whipping is evidently not enough, Pamela." 

She could see his point. There was no answer. Her behavior made her a 
problem. She herself could not even be sure she would never try again. How 
could she blame Makinda? Handcuffed and dusty, she stood before him while he 
considered deterrents. 

Makinda chose the bastinado. Pamela knew only sketchily what it was, but was 
desperately afraid. In the bathing process and then the chaining in her cell 
for the night Bessie had been a fund of information. 

"It's real bad, Miz Prentiss. They ties you down and whips the soles of your 
feet. You don't walk for awhile." 

It had been incomprehensible, a nightmare to carry into sleep. In the 
morning it had been done to her. She had fainted under the agony, and 
thereafter had not walked for a week. But each evening she had been freed of 
shackles so that she might crawl to her Master's bed and appease his lust. 
That it also appeased her own was a shame she tried to hide. The whipping of 
her feet and their inability to walk filled her with an avid sexual craving 
she did not understand. Her wounded feet and memory of their wounding set a 
fire ablaze in her loins only Jacob Makinda could temporarily quench. 
Chained in her cell, it built and flared again. Her nightly crawl to her 
Master's bed was the only happiness in her day. 

But that had been the end of her escapes. Pamela realized the bastinado had 
been her friend. It ended her indecisions. Thereafter, her intimacy with the 
whip arose only out of slips of the tongue or earless behavior. The severity 
of the infliction matched her sin. Often it was small. 

"You are still free to roam, Pamela." 

"Thank you, Master." 

"Why do you call me that?" 

Pamela laughed at his question. She knew her permitted tolerance of 
familiarity. "If you'd had your feet whipped the way I have, you'd 
understand. You are my Master, it's that simple." 

"Hmmmm. Should I feel pride?" 

"Of course you should. You've broken me. I won't try to escape again. You 
don't need the chains or the cell or anything. I'd come and go as you 
order." She giggled. "That day I was sent to the school in handcuffs Sister 
Angela sent me right home. She felt sure they were immoral." 

Makinda was intrigued. "You walked around Rabaul all day in them?" 

"Of course. Your affairs of state must not be interrupted for the key to a 
pair of handcuffs." 

Jacob Makinda nodded, seeing pictures in his mind's eye. "I like the idea. 
On your wrists in front they hinder you little, but they mark you as 
belonging to me." 

"The color of my skin does that. Only the ruler has a white slavegirl." 

"Nonetheless, you will wear them. I will speak to Bessie. Perhaps even when 
we make love." 

The handcuffing of Miss Pamela Prentiss had been intermittent. Sometimes 
Bessie forgot. Often the ruler wanted Pamela's hands free so she could 
perform the acts he demanded of her in this intimacy. It was one more thing 
she learned to bear and which really did not matter. She became a familiar 
sight about Rabaul, her skin increasingly amber and her handcuffed hands 
held always in some naturally graceful pose. Pamela became aware of her 
handcuffs as enhancement of femininity--the men looking twice, the women 
unsure of her. She began to flaunt her joined hands roguishly. 

Rabaul was no city--it barely met the requirements of being a town. Saunda 
was sorely in need of foreign air, but occasionally a white face would enter 
on business or affairs of state. These visitors posed a problem to the near 
naked slave. To approach them directly laid her open to suspicion of escape. 
It was best to allow herself to be seen and let them approach her. They were 
usually embarrassed. 

"Er, good afternoon. I noticed you." 

"That's nice. My name's Pamela Prentiss." 

"You are, uh, white, aren't you? I mean--" 

"Yes, I'm white." 

"Ah, yes." There was an awkward pause during which her breasts were looked 
at with varying degrees of shock. "Er, I almost have to ask--are you in need 
of help? You're not here against your will, are you?" 

"It would be nice if you'd give me a ride to the coast." 

"Yes, of course, but those handcuffs--do they have some sort of 
significance?" 

"Oh, these?" Pamela held them up as though just noticing them herself. 
"They're effective, don't you think? Better than slave bangles and 
bracelets." 

Pamela's response was usually taken as facetious. It was about this time 
that the visitor began to recall gossip and decry defenses. 

"Is it possible you are Mr. Makinda's... associate? I have heard local 
gossip." 

"I'm Jacob Makinda's slavegirl." 

It was at this point they melted away, aware of pitfalls. Jacob Makinda was 
not a man to cross. Their mission was invariably dependent on his goodwill. 
Pamela always made her responses outrageous in hope they would be commented 
on in the right places. Enough such contacts might bring rescue. 

But Jacob Makinda himself summed it up: "You talked to Gerald Whitney today, 
eh?" 

Pamela's heart seemed to miss a bit. "Was that his name? I didn't ask him 
for help." 

Makinda always laughed at her ingeniousness. "No, you just flaunted your 
tits and handcuffs at him so he'd remember you." 

"If you don't want me to talk to visitors, I won't." 

"I think you earned yourself a whipping." 

"Oh, Jacob, please!" Pamela's stomach flip-flopped in memory of her own 
imprudence. "I didn't say single thing wrong." 

"What about that ride to the coast?" 

He had her! She had gone a step too far. But she would not plead when proven 
in the wrong. Then she retorted, "Oh, all right, have someone whip me." 

Makinda laughed, delighted by her submission. "I'll let you off this time. 
It doesn't mean I will again. The fact is it doesn't matter. The only white 
men who will rescue you want you for themselves. You're a lot better off 
with me. Your country won't bother itself over a single errant maiden who 
probably brought her troubles on herself anyway. The worst your State 
Department would do is threaten to cut off shipments of free cod liver oil 
and then conveniently forget." 

Pamela Prentiss knew he was right. Saunda embraced her in a vague but 
relentless grip. This man owned her, his possession confirmed more and more 
each day. Absurdly, she wished she was unhappy, but she was not. She was the 
chosen consort of an African rising star. Or was that the right word? Every 
woman in Saunda envied her. 

Bessie's footsteps broke the reverie. The wardress held the key. Released, 
Pamela rubbed her chafed neck and awaited information. 

"Sister Angela says it's too late, you don't need bother." Bessie fished in 
her pocket. "I remembered these." 

Pamela held out her arms and watched herself being handcuffed. It was as 
routine as washing her face or having coffee. Bessie took some care to click 
the metal bands around the unresisting wrists in exactly the right place and 
properly snug. "There you is, Miz Prentiss. All ready for the street. I got 
you a nice clean square." 

The wryly amused captive stood, arms raised, while the bright trinagle was 
deftly knotted over her right hip. She could have done the job herself if 
Bessie had not handcuffed her first. Dryly she commented, "Saunda's 
fashions--metal is being worn on a girl's wrists this year." 

"Well, if that's all you has to complain about, you is lucky," Bessie 
admonished primly. She slapped a half exposed bottom cheek. "Run along now, 
and don't get into no trouble." 

The hot Saunda sun embraced the near naked girl like a cloak, but Pamela had 
grown used to it. She wandered through the Presidential gardens and out into 
the roadway. The sentry at the gate saluted as she passed. The salute was 
comforting. It made her feel her colorful triangle, her handcuffs, and 
herself were real and rational. Walking into the dusty streets of the town, 
she toyed with a pretty vision of herself as Mrs. Jacob Makinda. It was a 
hope to be cherished. Without such legal bond she would remain a slavegirl 
to be eventually discarded. The wish was one more emphasis of Saunda's 
possession of her body and, increasingly, her mind. Musing thus carelessly, 
Pamela made her way towards the main street and the shops and a jostling 
crowd who viewed her with respect and unconcern. 

It was then that a feminine American voice impinged upon her consciousness 
as from a great distance: "Well, well! Jacob Makinda's prize possession, I 
do believe. " She was blonde and brash and pretty. The camera, pendant from 
her neck, bisected fine breasts beneath a scanty covering of bra and silk. 
She was assessing Pamela's semi-nudity with bright-eyed satisfaction. Her 
card, inserted into Pamela's surprised hand, read, "Sally Driscoll. 
Journalist. Assignments." 

"I've been hoping to run into you," she continued with pert assurance. 
"You're just what the doctor ordered. There's twenty million people waiting 
to read about Jacob Makinda's white slavegirl." 

Feeling dazed, Makinda's slavegirl handed back the engraved slip. "I'm 
afraid I don't have anywhere to put this," she apologized. "You may as well 
keep it." She found her linked hands suddenly obtrusive and hard to cope 
with under Sally Driscoll's amused regard. "I don't see how I can possibly 
be that interesting." 

"Oh, come off it! You read the tabloids once. You're a treasure." 

Pamela was torn between a wish to pour out her heart and a terrible fear of 
what would happen to her if she did. Regaining composure, she retorted, "All 
right, so you've met me. I'm glad to have met you too. Write your story. I'm 
real enough." She clinked her handcuffs. "But don't get me into trouble. 
Goodbye." 

Sally planted herself squarely in her subject's path. "What trouble can I 
possibly get you into?" she demanded slyly. 

"You can get me whipped, that's what!" 

"Oh, boy! This is priceless." A pad and pencil made their appearance. "Tell 
me more." 

"There's nothing to tell. I'm not supposed to ask white visitors for help. 
If I do, I get punished." 

"Only whipped? Doesn't your local dictator have other goodies?" 

"Yes, he does. I don't want any of them. Please leave me alone." 

"I don't see anyone paying attention. Look, if you want, I can get those 
handcuffs off with a flat bobbie pin." 

"No!" Pamela instinctively held her prisoned hands as far back as possible. 
"That would be asking for trouble. I do wish you wouldn't bother." 

The camera clicked twice, neatly arresting her frightened pose. When she 
irritably allowed her chained wrist to resume position below her waist it 
clicked again. 

"Marvelous! Simply Marvelous!" the busy blonde enthused. "You just don't 
seem to realize what gorgeous copy you've become. We'll make our fortune out 
of this." 

"We? Look, don't count me in." Pamela was both pleased and frightened. "Let 
me by, please. I simply mustn't--" 

"What do you mean? Nothing's going to happen, not to an American girl in 
broad daylight." 

"Something happened to me." The prisoner raised her cuffs. "Or am I dreaming 
these?" 

"You must have wanted what you're getting. It didn't just happen, did it?" 

. "It did! I was kidnapped. The rest of the crew was killed." 

"So, okay, I read something, but I can have those handcuffs off in a jiffy." 

"No!" 

"Okay, then you're in love with Makinda. Give me the story." 

"You're getting things all wrong!" Pamela wailed. "I wish you'd go away and 
leave me alone. People are starting to notice." 

"We can soon fix that. My car's right here." 

The dismayed slavegirl was caught unaware. The link between her wrists was 
grasped and painfully tugged. Unwilling to fight, she found herself in the 
front seat and the door closed. She sat erect, tense in indecision, hands 
clenched in her lap, as Miss Sally Driscoll got behind the wheel and started 
the motor. The car had jolted the length of Rabaul's main street before she 
protested. 

"What are you doing? This is crazy! " 

"Saving you from yourself, honey child, and getting the story of the 
century." 

"You'll get both of us thrown into prison and horribly punished." 

"Nonsense! I'll have you safe at the coast in two or three hours." 

"But I've tried this before! I always get caught." 

"You haven't tried it with me. Look, I do wish you'd let me get those 
handcuffs off. They affect your reasoning." 

"No, I won't! And what's more I'm getting out!" 

The door handle was in her grasp when the car ground to a stop and her hands 
were again seized and dragged back and down. There came to Pamela's ears an 
all too familiar snap, and she was looking down at a padlock and chain 
holding her hands at a level between her knees. 

"Had this ready, just in case. Stops you being silly." Sally Driscoll's 
voice was complacently pleased with herself. "By the time you've got over 
being mad and scared I'll have you safe at the ocean." 

"But I don't want this!" Pamela was desperately fighting the chain. "Can't 
you understand? I don't hate Makinda. In his own way he's kind to me." 

"Horseshit!" 

"Well, it's true! Let me go, please!" 

"He whips you. Is that kindness?" 

"But he only does it when I play the fool--like now!" 

"I'll make sure you're never whipped again, sweetheart. But do please keep 
talking about it. It's the most wonderful copy." Pamela stopped tugging and 
hurting her wrists. Examining the chain at both ends, she knew herself 
secure. She would sit primly with hands in lap. No one would see. They were 
just a pair of tourists on their way out of Saunda. Grudgingly, she turned a 
more friendly eye upon the girl behind the wheel. 

"If I thought we could possibly make it, I'd be eternally grateful." 

"We'll make it." 

"I wish you hadn't chained me like this." 

"For your own good, honey bunch. You know that as well as I do. Besides, if 
they catch us, this way it puts you in the clear--I've kidnapped you." 

"No one is going to believe that." 

"For Pete's sake, why not? You were handcuffed in the first place. It was a 
cinch." 

"It wouldn't have been if I'd fought. That's what I should have done." 

"Stop worrying. If they did catch us, I'd put you in the clear. I'd take all 
the blame. Enjoy the ride." 

The girl who was still a captive did not stop worrying. Instead she took a 
closer and more appraising look at her present captor. What she beheld might 
be endearing, but it did not reassure. Sally Driscoll was young. Suppose her 
brash unconcern arose only from inexperience. 

"How long have you been a journalist?" she asked doubtfully. 

"First case," Sally assured blithely. "A new girl can't get any place in the 
States, so when I got this legacy and read the rumors about you I packed up 
and came. With your story I'm going to burst on the U.S. press and networks 
like a bomb. We'll both get rich." 

"You mean you've had no experience? You're just a kid!" 

"I'm almost as old as you. What's that got to do with it?" 

"But--but you don't know what you're doing. You're playing with fire. That's 
the reason nobody's rescued me before. They're all scared of an 
international incident." 

"Good, that makes it better." 

"But you don't understand. There won't be anything glorious and exciting if 
we're caught. No one outside Saunda will know. We'll both be whipped and 
tossed in some rotten little cell--that's the best we can hope for." 

"Gosh, you're a real ray of sunshine," Sally sniffed disdainfully. "Look 
around. We're doing fine. Not a policeman in sight." 

"In that case, why don't you unchain me? It's no fun having my hands locked 
like this." 

"Hell no! You're capable to leaping out and running. That chain's a 
blessing. Try and see it my way for an hour." 

Pamela snorted. "The only difference between you and me is I've been 
whipped--and more than once." 

"You mean, your spirit's been broken." 

"Call it that if you like, but what it really is is I'm sensible. I wouldn't 
ask for trouble the way you're doing." 

Sally Driscoll laughed. "How about drying up the moans and telling me about 
your life with Makinda? I'm dying to hear why he keeps you naked but allows 
you to walk around Rabaul in handcuffs." 

"I'm not naked--there's a bit of cloth--and we understand each other. He 
trusts me. I'm sort of on my honor," Pamela sniffed unhappily. "Now you've 
made me blow it. He'll never trust me after this. I'll spend the rest of my 
life chained up someplace safe." 

"I don't believe a word of it." 

"You'll be lucky if you're not chained up along with me." 

"Does he do... you know what to you every night?" 

"You make it sound horrible. But, yes, he does, and he's very good at it." 

"Then I'd be a lucky girl too, if we were caught." 

"Don't count on it. After we've been whipped he could put us in one of 
Rabaul's brothels. What a fate!" 

"I'm getting wet pants. It sounds beautifully dime novelish. Gosh, whipped 
and brotheled--what a fate!" 

"You won't laugh when it happens." 

"But, darling, it's almost too late for it to be even possible. Another few 
miles...." 

"It's not too late to take me back and release me. If you'll do that, I'll 
give you your interview on the way. That way it's just me who'll be 
punished. You'll be safe back in the U.S.A. Maybe, by the time Makinda reads 
your article, I can talk myself out of it." 

Sally Driscoll sighed. She was genuinely perplexed. There was no doubt it 
her mind Pamela should be overjoyed at what was taking place. That instead 
she was badly frightened could be attributed to cruel treatment as a slave. 
The poor dear had been conditioned--brainwashed--but what a story it would 
make! Sally could see the interviews on TV, and there would be a book and 
maybe a movie. Matched against such rewards, her companion's fear was just a 
momentary distraction. Happily she said, "Do try and look on the bright 
side, dear. Now tell me the juicy bits about Makinda and his slaves and the 
way he makes love and why you were whipped. It's all so exquisitely 
saleable." 

Pamela sighed. This delightful young woman was like a child, exuberantly 
irresponsible. Her gaze raised anxiously ahead. What she saw caused her to 
tug at her handcuffs in dismay. "Please turn around," she pleaded. "Hurry, 
oh please hurry! Drive like crazy and maybe we can pretend it was all a 
joke." 

But it was too late. The trucks and jeeps converged on the tiny car. Boxed 
in, Sally exclaimed, "Oh, shit!" Then she added mournfully, "I wonder what 
they want, as if I didn't know." 

To Pamela it was one more enactment of an old script. The officer was 
studiously polite; the soldiers grinned. Sally Driscoll's passport was 
examined but not returned. The query was courteous. 

"You were thinking of leaving Saunda, Miss Driscoll?" 

"Gracious no! Just out for a ride. We were so busy talking...." 

"Ah!" The exclamation was heavy with disbelief. "And the chain from Miss 
Prentiss's handcuffs?" 

"Just a fun thing between us girls." 

"Ah!" This time doubt was patent. "No doubt you have the key." 

Beaming ingeniously to hide a fluttering heart, Sally handed over the small 
bit of metal. A moment later the padlock fell away and Pamela raised her 
handcuffed hands. They were ignored. 

"You will both get out of the car, please." 

"I'm sorry, I have an appointment." 

Sally Driscoll was plucked from the shelter of her tiny car like a berry 
from a bush. Pamela had a more sedate exit. Both girls were breathing fast. 
They were in trouble. But Sally was still innocent of Saunda's ways. Her 
tone was haughty. 

"Get your hands off me. I have only to speak to the American consulate." 

"We do not have an American consulate, Miss Driscoll." 

"Then the charge d'affairs." 

"We do not have one of those either." 

Journalistic fervor visibly wilted, but Old Glory was waving proudly in 
Sally's demand. "I insist on being allowed to continue my journey. You have 
no right!" 

"Our ruler is displeased. " 

"Too bad for him! Let go of my arm! " 

"The first charge will be that of transporting slaves. You had Miss Prentiss 
chained and padlocked. The Geneva Convention...." 

"Piss on the Geneva Convention. Let go of me!" 

Pamela stood in silent misery. She well knew what was taking place in 
Sally's mind. A girl could never believe it at the start, that a net had 
closed and she was helpless within its mesh. You kept right on protesting 
against the implacability of black smiles. 

"Kidnapping will be a separate charge," the officer said thoughtfully. "It 
will be a long time before you again see your native land." 

"You can't possibly get away with this. You won't dare hold me. And look, 
about Miss Prentiss, she's innocent. If there's any fault anywhere, it's 
mine." 

"Quite so. But I fear you both have a long walk back to Rabaul." 

Pamela wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream in hysteria when she beheld the 
two mules unloaded from a truck. Her return to her owner had been well 
thought out. Two delighted soldiers saddled the animals and loaded them with 
what was required. 

"You have a long hot walk, Miss Driscoll. Perhaps you'd like to shed some 
clothing." 

"Like hell I will!" 

"We can do it for you." The tone was as thoughtful as ever. "I strongly 
suggest removal of bluejeans and shirt." 

"You son of a bitch!" Sally was red-faced and panting as she angrily obeyed. 
Standing, still clad in panties and bra, she disgustedly dropped her camera 
in the small pile of discarded clothing. Her breasts jutted, straining at 
their constriction of lycra and tape in indignation. 

"Miss Prentiss may wish to advise you as to the removal of the rest." The 
sauvity continued slyly. "She has had some previous experience." 

"No way! You can kill me before I'll strip naked in front of a bunch of 
grinning niggers!" 

"As you please." 

What happened then was with forethought and dispatch. Pamela wanted to cry 
out in fury at what she must now suffer because of this girl's thoughtless 
exuberance, but Sally's plight tempered her own self pity. Abjectly, she 
raised her chin for the collar to be locked around her neck, then clutched 
with her still handcuffed hands the rope leading to the saddle. It was long 
enough rope. By Saunda standards she was getting off easy. She could walk 
behind the mule with no more than shame and fatigue. Sally was not as 
privileged. 

The blonde maiden fought furiously against the rope until Pamela's pleading 
reached her consciousness. "Don't fight, Sally. Please don't fight. They'll 
only hurt you more and tie you tighter." 

The binding of Miss Sally Driscoll was done with care and precision. Cords 
bound her wrists, hands palm to palm--neat bands unkindly cinched. When her 
elbows were compressed and bitten by the first stricture she said testily, 
"There's no need to tie my elbows. It will hurt, and I'm already helpless." 

"They'll do it anyway, Sally," Pamela mourned. "It's no use complaining. " 

"They haven't done it to you." 

"I suppose it's because I'm handcuffed." 

"More likely because you sleep with His Highness." 

Pamela let it pass. Silent and sad, she watched Sally Driscoll's 
introduction to Saunda justice. With the final knotting of the strands 
around rebellious elbows, the blonde girl's breasts protruded themselves as 
a prominent presence. Their owner flushed anew as her chin was roughly 
raised to accommodate another metal collar locked upon another feminine 
neck. Then the rope. It trailed into the sand from the prisoned neck and up 
to the saddle. Bound arms prevented her clutching it to ease its stress. 

"By the ruler's orders." The officer professed sympathy but was obviously 
entertained. "Your third walk, I believe, Miss Prentiss. You will be able to 
lend moral support Miss Driscoll in her travail." 

"Up your ass," Sally Driscoll said with bitter feeling. "Look, I'm properly 
impressed and frightened, but there's still time to let me loose without 
anyone getting hurt." 

Her suggestion was ignored. Trucks backed away and wheeled across the sand. 
Soon two soldiers, two mules, and two disgruntled girls were all that was 
left of the Saunda rescue mission. 

"Is this where we get fucked?" Sally asked without preamble. 

"They won't do that to us. We belong to Jacob Makinda." 

"What's with this walking business? I don't get it." 

"You will! It's the first of our punishments. Figure how many miles you 
drove the car; that's the number of miles we walk leashed behind a mule." 

"I don't believe this is happening--almost into the Twenty First Century!" 

"They don't have centuries in Saunda. Anything can be done to us, and no one 
will raise a finger. Sally, you have to face it." 

"This whole damn thing is my fault, isn't it?" Sally sniffed tearfully. "Go 
ahead, say 'I told you so.' " Their tethers jerked demandingly. 

 CHAPTER TWO - HER MASTER'S WISH 

Dire as it might be, Pamela felt a guilty satisfaction with her condition. 
It was infinitely more comfortable than on previous occasions when she had 
been bound as Sally Driscoll was fastened now. But there was another nagging 
guilt she could not erase. Why oh why had she not fought and made a fuss so 
Sally would have left her on Rabaul's main street? She had dithered. She saw 
it now, just as Jacob Makinda would discern it from the evidence. She would 
be punished. She could hope this desert trek might be considered punishment 
enough, but that was optimism. For the blonde maiden trudging at her side it 
would be no more than a beginning. 

The two soldiers rode side by side so they could talk. The leashed girls 
were correspondingly close in their enforced obedience to the rope. For the 
first mile the soldiers had turned laughingly in their saddles to enjoy 
maiden mortification and to make appropriate comment on maiden form, shape, 
and deportment. Even though they used the local dialect their remarks were 
easily interpreted. 

"I bet you they're talking about our tits," Sally said, still sniffing. "How 
long will I get to wear what I've got?" 

"I expect you'll be stripped when we get to Rabaul. It's not all that bad 
when a girl gets used to it. Makinda says bare is beautiful." 

"Yeah, I bet! Pamela, I'm hurting. Can you get these idiots to loosen my 
ropes? My elbows--they're murder." 

Pamela looked at her companion's bonds and quailed. The strictures around 
the blonde girl's elbows were cruel. The lovely forearms were clamped tight 
together, the cords deep in soft white skin. It was a wicked tie, but she 
had borne it herself on two previous occasions. A girl survived. 

"They'll most likely untie you when we camp for the night," she told the 
neophyte captive dismally, "but not before." 

"I can't stand it. I'll die. I'll go crazy." 

"I thought I'd die too, but we won't. You'll be surprised how durable girls 
are. " 

"It's making my breasts enormous, as though I'm flaunting them." 

"They're lovely breasts; don't be ashamed of them." 

The newly captive girl paused until the rope jerked her neck. "Oh, damn! I 
keep forgetting I'm on a leash. Pam darling, what's going to happen to us?" 

"I don't know. If I had to make a guess, I'd say we'll both. be whipped." 

"Does it hurt something awful? I mean, more than a girl can bear?" 

"Oh, we bear it! We have to. We're tied enough so we can't evade a stroke." 
Pamela's tone turned bitter. "I seem to recall mentioning it once or twice." 

"I thought you were kidding. Now I'm not sure." 

"You'll find out, dear. We're getting closer to the whip with every step. 
And look, I'd try and untie your arms if I thought there was a hope. These 
handcuffs give me a partial use of my hands, and we'd have to keep walking, 
but it's no use. It would take too long. They'd catch us and then I'd be 
tied the same way." 

"Yeah, I know. I envy you those handcuffs. Don't worry. I expect I deserve 
this. I seem to have been a complete idiot. Pam, if they do whip us the way 
you say, what then? Will they let me go?" 

"They didn't let me go." 

"Yes, but with you there was the bed thing. You sleep with him." 

"Well? You're the same between your legs as I am." 

Sally was visibly shocked, her features reflecting horrific visions. "You 
really mean... ? He wouldn't dare!" 

Pamela could not restrain a caustic chuckle. "He doesn't have to dare 
anything. They can tie you down to a bench, all spread out so you feel about 
ninety percent pussy and pubic hair. It's Saunda's way of courting difficult 
girls." 

"But when I get home and tell!" 

"You mean, if you get home and if anyone will listen." Pamela reached over 
and touched a pinioned arm commiseratingly. "Darling, we have to grin and 
bear the whole thing. I didn't believe I could possibly endure and survive, 
but a girl does. We surprise ourselves. I've even been happy. I'd probably 
be happy right now if I hadn't been given a ride in a car." 

"I'm sorry." 

"It's done. Now I have to practice what I preach. But I'm not looking 
forward one bit to being whipped again. A girl never gets used to it. Each 
time it happens the shock's as fresh and awful as ever." 

Gradually silence possessed them. They trudged behind the mules in dreary 
resignation, Pamela clutching her rope leash with cuffed hands, Sally's 
reluctant neck constantly tugged by her tether when she forgot to keep pace. 
It was hot. It was dusty. It was hopeless. They were two maidens going where 
they did not wish to go. From time to time they were vouchsafed an enquiring 
glance by their guards. A vulgar quip would evoke a chuckle. The relentless 
ropes were without mercy. The captives were reduced to exchanging woeful 
grins. 

Evening brought a few trees and a trickle of water. The girls drank 
thirstily and sank down upon the sand with an infinite relief. For minutes 
they did not move but panted their sweat-stained bodies into a return to 
normalcy. When Sally's ropes were peeled from her arms she wept in pain and 
relief and at sight of the purple weals she would wear as a symbol of her 
new status. Pamela's handcuffs remained untouched; they were a part of her. 
They were given a rag and told to clean themselves but were watched by 
sharp, lewd eyes as they did so. It was a measure of Sally Driscoll's 
distress that she removed her bra and panties without concern. Saunda had 
brought both girls down to basics. Nudity no longer mattered. When she 
rinsed out the scanty things and draped them on a bush to dry she evoked no 
more than quiet guffaws from the male audience. Supper was a few dates. 

The sleeping arrangements were simple. One of Pamela's cuffs was unlocked, 
her arms placed around a slender tree and locked again. She could stand, she 
could sit, or she could lay down with hands and arms helpless above her head 
and one cheek cradled on a captive arm. Sally was treated the same but 
without handcuffs. Her wrists were crossed and tied on the other side of a 
narrow trunk. To keep her from reaching the rope with her teeth, her left 
ankle was pulled well down and loosely roped to a stake. No matter how she 
struggled, her mouth could come no closer than twelve inches from her tied 
wrists. Exhaustion brought both prisoners the relief of sleeping as though 
drugged. 

Morning was routine. Its only drama was the snapping of Pamela's handcuff 
and the binding of Sally's arms. They had slept with collars and leash 
intact around their throats. The blonde girl's wails were no more than 
Pamela had feared. 

"Pam, there must be some way of making them understand that I can't be tied 
like that again. Look at my arms." Sally exhibited purpled flesh. "Darling, 
can't you talk to them?" 

Pamela tried but met only derision. Wounded skin was common in Saunda; the 
girl was being silly. A Saunda maiden would have borne fresh strictures with 
stoic unconcern. A sulky blonde was turned roughly around and bound as 
carefully and cruelly as the day before. Two leashes tautened up to the 
saddles and the punishing march resumed. In her concern about being tied, 
Sally had forgotten nakedness. Behind them on the bush her bra and panties 
bore mute testimony that one more foolish white girl had become a slave. 

Rabaul met them with amused stares as they were led down the main street as 
though on display, but no one threw stones, and there were no catcalls. 
However, there was much chuckling comment oh the ruler's omnipotence. His 
slavegirls might escape, but they always returned in disgrace. Makinda's arm 
was long. There might even be a public whipping. Sally blushed at the 
exposure. Pamela stared back. Past experience blunted the edge of shame. 

Arrival at Makinda's mansion brought surprise. They lost their escort and 
were repossessed by a reproachful Bessie Naguie. Her greeting was in 
character. "You foolish girl, you got no sense at all." She tugged the rope 
leash as an assertion of authority on a captive neck, then tossed it to the 
ground. "You wait here. I fix you soon. Don't you dare go 'way." 

It was suddenly very lonely and a little frightening. There was nowhere to 
run to. Besides, there was a twenty foot length of rope attached to a collar 
around her neck, making an effective anchor. Anyone could pick it up and 
lead her back. It was welded to the iron collar by bands of wire. There was 
no getting rid of either. Pamela looked around. She was alone in the garden. 
The first flush of servants had clustered around the captive blonde and 
borne her into the house to a fate at which Pamela could only guess. She 
wished they had not been parted. There was something ominous about the 
division. It meant they were to be punished in different ways. Resigned to 
the inevitable, the slavegirl sat down on the flagstones of the patio to 
wait. She felt like a runaway child who could expect a scalded bottom. 

When Bessie returned she was accompanied by a male servitor carrying a load 
of links and metal Pamela eyed askance. They led her to the center of one of 
the areas of lawn to where a stone slab had been planted in the turf to make 
a ten foot square of paving, in the center of which an iron ring protruded, 
implacable in its size and shape and anchoring. The armload of metal was 
dumped, and the male departed. Bessie and the naked girl gazed at each other 
in rueful surmise. Bessie summed up the situation in a neat sentence. 

"You got yourself in shit, Miz Prentiss." 

"Yeah, I just bet I have. What's all that chain for?" 

"It's for you, that's what, you damn fool girl." 

"Bessie, it wasn't all my fault!" 

"That's why you ain't gettin' flogged. You gets let off .easy." 

"Why can't I go in the house?" 

" 'Cause he's mad at you," Bessie chuckled, "but I sorta 'spect he's scared 
to get too close for fear he forgive you and takes you back to bed right 
quick. This way he ain't tempted." 

"I'm not going to be allowed to see him?" 

"That's right, love." 

"But I could explain!" 

"You ain't gettin' no chance," Bessie chuckled again. "What you is gettin' 
is a real royal treatment. Now all you has to do is stand right still while 
I does all the work." 

Pamela stood still and cocked her chin for the removal of her collar and its 
replacement by a more ornate but much heavier iron constriction upon the 
feminine slenderness of her throat. The padlock securing at the nape of her 
neck also snapped shut on the first link of a length of chain. The chain was 
long. It swirled across the stone as Bessie seized its other end and 
padlocked that too. The formidable lock anchored both the final link of 
Pamela's new leash and the daunting ring set well into the stone. "There, 
honey, you looks real pretty." 

"You mean I have to stand here--chained?" 

"You got lots o' chain. You can sit. You can lay down." 

"Lay down! Oh, Bessie, on this hard stone?" 

"Well, it's a lot better than hanging up by your thumbs," Bessie pointed out 
reasonably. "You gettin' off real light, if you asks me." 

"How long do I have to wear this beastly thing? I don't care how beautiful 
it is, it's heavy and makes me tilt my chin." 

"I dunno." 

The chained nudity tensed. "What do you mean? Of course you know. What is 
it? An hour? A day?" 

"Could be quite awhile, Miz Prentiss." 

Pamela's fingers flew to the metal bands around her neck. They confirmed its 
weight and security. "Okay, then, how long is 'quite awhile'?" 

"I dunno. Honest, I don't. Don't ask me no more. You just be glad things 
ain't no worse. That little blonde girl what runs off with you gets herself 
a public whippin'." 

Pamela sighed. It was no more or less than was to be expected. Her real 
concern for Sally was if that was all or would she be made a slave for life 
too. Most probably she would. As a Saunda slavegirl she could cause no 
embarrassment in the outside world, and her body was lovely. It would be 
silly to part with so beautiful a girl. "How many strokes has she been 
sentenced to?" Pamela asked mechanically. 

"I ain't sure. At least fifty, maybe a hundred." 

"That would kill her." 

"If it's a hundred, I'll lay 'em across her pretty back easy. She ain't 
goin' to die. If Jacob Makinda don't want her, she'll fetch a good price on 
the market. " 

"Is there really a market for girls, Bessie?" 

"Sho' is. You oughta watch yourself." 

Pamela ceased to finger the collar. It would hold her without mercy. She 
allowed her handcuffed wrists to fall listlessly over her navel. "Can't I 
have something to sit on?" she asked woefully. 

"No, you can't." 

"How about a blanket?" 

"You'd use it to cover yourself. And that reminds me--you can have over that 
there bit of cloth. You gotta be naked." That figured too. Pamela could 
handle the single knot. She parted with her single covering without regret; 
it needed laundering. "It's filthy, Bessie, take it. I'm filthy too." 

"I'll get a pail o' water out to you. Then you scrub yourself." 

"Why can't I go inside and have a proper bath? You could chain me back here 
after." 

"Because he says you can't. Be grateful for a pail." 

The now naked girl made a petulant motion with joined hands. "All these 
things I have to be grateful for." Her tone was bitter. "The end of all of 
them is I'm still chained to this damn ring." 

"You is a lucky gal." 

"Must I still be handcuffed? I don't need to be." 

"Them handcuffs is as much a part o' you as your hands and feet, Miz 
Prentiss. You'd miss 'em for sure if I took 'em off." 

Wryly, Pamela conceded the point. Handcuffs were a part of her; she scarcely 
noticed them. Guiltily, her thoughts returned to the captive blonde maiden 
in the house. "Will Jacob do something else to Sally besides having her 
whipped?" she asked anxiously. 

"Maybe he'll take you both to bed," Bessie chuckled. "He's man enough. But 
most likely she'll get herself well chained in the dungeon or sent to one o' 
the jails to spend a few years in a cell." 

"Oh, no, he couldn't!" 

"He sho' could. But ain't no use askin' me. The two o' you only been back a 
little while. Give him time to look her over." 

Pamela sighed in frustration. Bessie was impregnable, but at least she was a 
friend who would be kind where kindness was permitted. Dismally, she asked, 
"So I just stand or sit here on the stone chained to this lousy ring?" 

"That's right, love. You won't be bothered much by visitors. Everyone's been 
told to stay away, and the public don't come in here. Want me to tell you 
again how lucky you is?" 

Pamela stood and watched Bessie retreating back. It was one of the loneliest 
moments of her life to be thus isolated from Jacob Makinda's mansion. The 
big house would seethe with a life from which she was divorced, banished, 
set aside. The knowledge that eyes would laugh at her from the windows did 
not help. She would be constantly observed. Among those who viewed her 
plight would be Jacob Makinda. Angrily she grasped the chain and tugged, but 
the links laughed mockingly, their clatter when she let them fall a 
complacent jeer. They had her and would not let her go. 

The tethered girl did the obvious. Taking the steps to where the chain 
limited her range, she circled the ring to discover herself confined to the 
stone slab. Here and there she could place one foot upon the grass, but what 
good did that do! Blinking back tears of frustration, she sat down beside 
the ring and played with the links pf her chain as a nun might tell the 
beads of her rosary. 

The delinquent girl played a mental game with hope. It was small solace, but 
she could be sure of nothing. Jacob Makinda might be playing with her, 
teaching her a lesson. In an hour she might be released. Or two hours--or 
three! At the worst she would remain chained to the ring until night. 
Surely! 

A giggling servant girl brought the pail of water, a tiny bit of dirty soap, 
and a rag. She refused to speak and made a swift retreat. Hating the eyes 
she knew were watching from the house, Pamela soaped and laved away the dust 
and sweat of her enforced march behind the mule. She even dunked her head in 
the pail to cleanse her hair and thought longingly of brush and comb. The 
Saunda sun substituted for a towel. The whole ablution took no more than ten 
minutes. The pail was taken away as swiftly as it had come. The slavegirl 
stood awhile, playing with her hair, helping it dry. Then there was nothing. 
She drearily lowered her nakedness to the stone. Her fingers played idly 
with the ornamentation of the metal by which she was held, but her neck knew 
only its relentless clasp. It might be beautiful, but it was heavy and 
unkind, a constant reminder of Makinda's displeasure. 

It was evening before Bessie brought water and a handful of dates. Pamela 
drank gratefully but viewed the food with distaste. "Bessie, is that all I 
get, six lousy dates?" 

"Could be only five, Miz Prentiss." 

"That's right, cheer me up. You're always a ray of sunshine." Pamela 
selected a date and licker her fingers. "And for goodness sake, don't keep 
calling me 'Miss Prentiss.' I'm not 'Miss Prentiss' any more; I'm only a 
girl chained to a ring in the ground. Call me anything else you like." 

"Okay, Miz Prentiss." 

Pamela sighed and ate another date. She was hungry, but her mind was 
concerned with only one question: "When I've eaten these horrible things you 
are going to let me loose, aren't you?" 

"No, I ain't." 

It was like a blow, but one she had expected. The shadows had told their own 
story. Abruptly Pamela demanded, "What happens to me then?" 

"You stays right where you is." 

The vision was horrific, her protest a wail of anguish. "Bessie, you're not 
leaving me chained here all night!" 

"Ain't me, love, it's him." 

"Well, all right, but neither of you can leave me chained out here in the 
dark--all alone!" 

"Don't see why not. You doin' fine." 

"I'm not doing fine. I'm naked, and I'm frightened, and I can't move off 
this slab." 

"That's the way you supposed to be. Stop frettin'. You got a lot better view 
than in your little cell." 

"I can't possibly sleep on hard stone." 

"You ain't even tried yet. You'll sleep all right." 

"I'll freeze out here naked in the dark." 

"That there stone got itself enough heat from the sun to keep you warm. You 
just curl yourself up." 

Pamela stood erect, her chain a metallic accompaniment to all she did. Her 
voice was heavy with resignation. "All right, I suppose I suspected this all 
along. What happens to me tomorrow?" 

"I told you, I don't know." 

"And tomorrow night, and all the other nights!" 

"You mustn't plague me with these questions." 

"But you've got a pretty good idea, haven't you?" 

"I 'spect you stays by that ring with that collar and chain safe on your 
neck," Bessie imparted her surmise reluctantly. "Guess there ain't no sense 
tellin' you lies, but I ain't sure how long it's goin' to be for you. Boss 
man get hungry for that little pussy you got--well, there ain't no tellin'." 

Alone again, Pamela ate her last date, then sat down and reflected on her 
punishment. She would have preferred the whip. The whip was over in an hour. 
But this--it could go on and on. Experimentally, she advanced to the limit 
of her leash, then extruded her nudity out upon the grass beyond the stone. 
The wiry growth and the sand beneath was kinder to her hip. Spreading her 
linked arms across the stone, she cradled her head on them, but it was no 
good. The chain dragged, the collar chafed. Unhappily she settled herself on 
her belly by the ring. She thought longingly of Makinda and his bed. Her 
little cell seemed nostalgically snug and safe. It was then she remembered 
Sally Driscoll. Where was the blonde girl now? The answer was all too easy 
to surmise. She would be safe and warm and sharing the ruler's couch. She 
might be publicly whipped tomorrow--but tonight! 

Pamela wept herself to sleep. 

It was past noon of the following day when Bessie brought the gag. "You 
don't ask no questions," she admonished. "You just wears it a couple of 
hours. Open up that pretty mouth." 

The wad compressed her tongue and filled her cheeks, the supple band biting 
her lips together tightly as it was buckled at the nape of her neck. There 
was a familiar click. "It locks on, Miz Prentiss. You can't get it off. But 
don't you fret, you'll soon see why you has to wear it." 

In spite of the discomfort, Pamela was intrigued. Almost anything was 
welcome to break the monotony of the ring. When she beheld the trio leave 
the house and advance in her direction she began to understand. There were 
two soldiers and between them a naked girl with golden hair. Sally's hands 
were tied behind her back, and she was gagged and blindfolded. Black hands 
on white arms propelled her to where she must go. They brought her to stand 
beside Pamela's square of stone. They turned Sally slowly around so as to 
enable her fellow delinquent to view every inch of her loveliness. No word 
was spoken. They resumed their march towards the big gate and Rabaul's main 
square. Sally Driscoll's time had come. 

It was useless to agonize. Pamela Prentiss spent the time of Sally's public 
punishment playing with the gag. She found it a work of art, a small padlock 
preventing its removal. She tried speech and a hearty scream, but both were 
unsuccessful. She was mute, but it did not matter any more than the 
handcuffs mattered. There was no one to talk to or to hear her scream. Her 
sense of desuetude deepened. Even the girl to be whipped had been unable to 
see her or to speak to her. The isolation of the ring was total. 

Pamela guessed it to be two hours before Sally was returned to the big house 
with a brief stopover at the stone square. The golden maiden was constrained 
in the same manner as before, but now the black hands did more than propel; 
they gave partial support to a sagging white torso cruelly marked. Grinning, 
the soldiers stood away from their charge to reveal her fully. Once more 
Sally Driscoll was gently turned to disclose the severity of the whip. But 
Bessie had been clever; the hundred lashes had drawn no blood. They were 
distributed from neck to knees, both front and back upon the lovely 
nakedness. Sally's back was latticed with red and purple, her bottom bored 
raised ridges of crisscrossed weals. Sally's legs had been spread and the 
whip snapped up between. Her ordeal must have been agonizing. She was still 
panting and sweating, her arms listless in their bonds. Pamela drank in the 
punishment in mute misery. There was nothing she could do, nothing either of 
them could do. They were helpless. Makinda held them tight. Dismally, she 
watched Sally led back to whatever imprisonment the house held for her. She 
sat down and waited patiently for Bessie. What else was there for her to do? 

Pamela remained captive to the ring for more than a week. It was a bitter 
alternation of lethargy and anger, a frustration against which she longed to 
scream. Bessie, under orders, told her of Sally spending each night as the 
ruler's favorite, sharing his bed, occupying Pamela's cell while her wounds 
faded. "She gets herself fucked real good, Miz Prentiss. You missin' out." 

"Don't be so mean, Bessie. I think about it all the time. I haven't anything 
else to do." 

But in all other information Bessie had little to say. She even threatened 
to lock the gag back inside a too demanding mouth. She caustically offered 
her own remedy for boredom: "You can play with yourself, Miz Prentiss. You 
can think o' that blonde girl up in your bed while your finger's busy." 

"Don't be horrible. Besides, I've tried that. It doesn't last. I'd need a 
perpetual orgasm to keep me amused chained the way I am." 

"I'd send a little gal out to work on you, love, if it wasn't that the 
Master often takes a peek. He's real interested in the way you're handling 
your collar and chain. Sometimes he uses binoculars." 

The naked captive flushed, wondering what of her intimacies had been 
observed and chuckled over. She knew herself cruelly exposed to any curious 
eye. "Couldn't you send the girl out after dark?" she asked hopefully, but 
feeling ashamed of the request. 

"You don't really want that, Miz Prentiss, and it ain't never safe. You use 
your finger. Them handcuffs won't stop a thing." 

Pamela had to be satisfied with her own resources. It was both comforting 
and dismaying to know herself so often watched by the man who owned her. At 
least Jacob Makinda was not wholly engrossed with his whipped blonde. She 
wondered hw Sally spent her days, and what was being done to her, but she 
could learn nothing. After spending an afternoon tightly gagged because of 
importunities she kept her questions to herself. 

The change came unexpectedly. It took the form of farce or drama according 
to the point of view. The medium by which it arrived was Sally Driscoll. The 
blonde delinquent emerged alone from the house. Pamela saw the door close 
behind the young nudity and Sally take a hesitant step into a semblance of 
freedom. She was naked, her hands tied behind her back. That was all--or was 
it? There was something else not yet close enough to see. Achieving 
orientation, Sally caught sight of her chained companion and, still 
hesitant, started to walk towards the ring. 

It was hard to believe, but it was typical Saunda. As Sally drew closer and 
her shamed features became distinct the ring pendant from her nostrils 
proclaimed itself in flaunting silver. It was a big ring, hanging over its 
new owner's upper lip. It imposed a delightful lisp. 

"Oh, darling, look what he s done to me. It won't ever come off--not ever." 

When the ringed maiden stepped upon the stone, Pamela raised cuffed hands 
and enveloped the slender nudity in comforting arms. She kissed tears from 
bright, hurt eyes, then sought the ripeness of eager lips. 

"Darling, my hands are tied behind my back; I can't hug you." 

"It doesn't matter. I can hug you enough for both of us, but, sweetheart, 
that ring--did I hurt you kissing?" 

"It doesn't matter. It's always hurting. I don't think you've seen 
everything yet. Back away and have a look." 

The handcuffs raised again. Pamela stepped back and gasped. Beneath Sally's 
gorgeous breasts was a message, a message indelibly planted in her skin by a 
tattooist's needle. From left to right across her chest it read: "I am a 
nosey bitch." 

To laugh! To shed tears! To offer sympathy! Pamela knew not what to do. She 
could imagine the enormity of a girl's desolation at being thus marked and 
thus ringed. Nothing was adequate, nothing could assuage the welter of 
emotions filling Sally's mind. Lamely, she comforted the girl: "It's awful. 
You poor darling, you didn't deserve this. But we're in Saunda. Neither the 
tattoo nor the ring will matter half as much here as it would back home." 

"But I'm not going to stay here." Sally's voice rose to a wail of 
mortification. "I'm being deported--kicked out, sent away." 

"You're what?" 

"Yes, that's the way I felt when he broke the news. Darling, he fucked me so 
beautifully--and then to do this!" 

"But why?" 

"It tickles him. It's also a punishment. Gee, he was mad over the way I 
kidnapped you." 

"But that doesn't justify--" 

"Maybe not. But I lipped him--right at the start. I didn't realize." 

"How bad?" 

"I guess he must have figured it was real bad. All I called him was a black 
bastard and a nigger asshole." Sally managed a rueful giggle. "I also 
referred to his silly little country as a gravel pit and a sand dune. Gosh, 
he's touchy!" 

"You weren't exactly tactful." 

"I didn't get tactful until after I'd been whipped. Right up to the last 
moment I didn't believe it would happen. I mean, he's so gorgeous in bed and 
sometimes he's fun to talk to. It was a terrible shock when I found myself 
hung up naked in the marketplace with every nigger in town gawking at my 
pussy with his mouth wide open. They hung me there blindfolded. Then, when 
they took it off--jeepers!" 

"You poor dear. Bessie marked you terribly." 

"She claimed she was hitting me easy, but it hurt so bad I couldn't tell the 
difference. I was sure I'd die. Gosh, I wish I'd listened to you that day." 

"Bessie was kind to you, dear. If she hadn't been, your skin would have been 
cut. But being whipped is just plain awful no matter how it's done to you." 
Pamela kissed the anxious eyes, the soft cheeks, and, very carefully, the 
hungry lips over which the silver ring imposed its presence. Her jealousy of 
this delightful creature vanished under the cruelty of what had been done to 
her. It was good to have someone of her own race and kind, and to listen to 
Sally's ingenious recount of misfortune. She was assailed by a terrible 
yearning for freedom for them both. If only they could be dressed and in the 
little car and given free passage. But that was just a dream. Carefully, she 
raised the silver ring from Sally's lip. "Darling, it's so heavy and such a 
size!" 

"The better to shame me with," Sally mourned ruefully. "They had some guy 
put it in my nose yesterday. He must have made an awful hole inside. Then, 
after he'd got it into me, there was a click. They told me it won't ever 
open again. I just have to wear a ring in my nose until I can find someone 
clever enough to take it out." 

"You'll find someone easily in civilization, dear." 

"Well, maybe, but think of the embarrassment first. I'll die if I have to go 
back to the U.S. with a ring in my nose." Sally suddenly smiled pensively. 
"Of course, it would make a wonderful story." 

"Nobody will believe it. They'll say you're a kook." 

"That's what Makinda believes, and anyway, he's making arrangements to be 
quite sure. He's having his soldiers deliver me in my car. They'll say they 
picked me up in the desert after I'd been kidnapped and violated by some 
bunch of rebels whose name I've forgotten. The soldiers are going to say the 
rebels fucked me and whipped me and the whole bit. Makinda's going to come 
out of this smelling like a rose." Sally mused pensively again before adding 
brightly, "Of course, I suppose that story would sell as well as the true 
one." She nestled against Pamela's breasts. "Pam dear, tell me the truth. 
How horrible does this make me look?" 

"Darling, you're not horrible at all. You're gorgeous, you're enhanced. I 
almost envy you." 

"Honest?" 

"Yes, honest. You're utterly erotic." 

"When they did it to me I nearly went wild. It was a good thing I was tied 
down so I couldn't move." Sally's voice took on its pensive tone again. "I 
pleaded with our Master to keep me here as a slave. The last thing I wanted 
was to face the world. But as a slave in Saunda it wouldn't be too bad." 

"Why wouldn't he?" 

"Because he's in love with you, silly. He doesn't need two of us around. 
Besides, he thinks making me go back into civilization like this is a 
marvelous punishment. He's right, of course. The first time I meet someone 
white I'll simply die of shame." Sally backed away and mourned afresh. "Look 
at me, darling. Will the tattoo show below a bra?" 

"I'm afraid it will." 

"I just knew it! I can't wear a halter. I can't go to the beach. 

I can't go to bed with a guy. Oh, shit!" 

Pamela's mind was racing, putting herself in Sally's shoes. "You could get 
away with it," she offered thoughtfully. "You could boast you'd had it done 
on purpose, that it's a sort of avante garde, tongue in cheek thing. I mean, 
journalists are supposed to be nosey, aren't they? Make a joke of it." 

"Do you really think so?" Sally asked doubtfully. 

"Why not! Most of the time no one will see that tattoo, and you can get that 
ring cut off and removed right quick when you get home." Pamela stifled a 
giggle. "But why not keep it awhile? It makes you the most exotic female 
I've ever seen. You'll cause a riot. Besides, it will add authenticity to 
any story you choose to write. 

Sally visibly brightened. "You're terribly sweet, Pam. Do you know what I'd 
like most of all now? It's to be chained right here with you. That's a 
simply scrumptious collar." 

"It weighs a ton. You wouldn't like it." 

"Yes, I would. You've no idea how good it looks." Sally sighed. "But it 
isn't going to happen, and he isn't going to let you go away with me. He's 
going to keep you. He told me so. Gee, I wish some man wanted me that bad." 

"And kept you on the end of a chain?" 

"You're only like this because of me. I bet he lets you loose after I'm 
gone." The blonde girl made a disparaging gesture. "I can understand now why 
you didn't want to get in my car that day. And I thought I was doing you a 
big favor! Aw, shit, I feel like a silly kid." 

The two girls confronted each other in a wry acceptance of something they 
could not change. Pamela's heart went out to this youngster whose brashness 
cloaked a childlike ingeniousness. Makinda had changed this golden haired 
maiden just as he had changed herself. It was surprising he would part with 
anything so lovely. Why had she herself not been tattooed and ringed? She 
had transgressed enough in the past. Was it true he loved her? Was it? 
Sally's judgement might not be sound. It was a question she had better not 
ask, but Sally read her thoughts. 

"I bet he'll marry you, darling. Maybe not right now but .sooner or later. 
Wouldn't that be something! You'd be a sort of queen." Sally giggled 
delightedly. "Just think--a queen the king keeps handcuffed. Golly, I wish I 
wasn't being sent home." For a moment the young voice fell silent, its owner 
pensive until a female musing continued. "Pamela, it's crazy. I'm covered 
with whipmarks, I'm naked, my hands are tied behind my back, and there's a 
ring in my nose, but here I am talking about Jacob Makinda as though he's a 
nice, rich guy we'd both like to marry and have our relatives approval. I 
mean, he's black--a nigger--and he's raped us both. What is it with us?" 

Pamela considered the question. Her answer was a rueful admission. "I've 
thought about that too. I'm afraid it's because we've both been whipped. It 
changes us. I don't mean it makes us sniveling and servile, but our 
perspectives are different. We can't help seeing the male as a force, a 
power we can't counter. Compared to Jacob Makinda, most white men are weak; 
a pretty girl can twist them around her finger. I've often thought back to 
how pathetic those fellows were who forever pestered me for a date. I did 
what I liked with them. I bet you did too." 

Sally Driscoll shrugged. "I expect I'll do what I like with them again. I'll 
use 'em to get even. But you're right, I'll probably despise the idiots." 
She fell silent, stubbing a bare toe in dry grass. "They told me not to stay 
here with you too long," she imparted sadly. "There was the usual promise of 
punishment if I disobeyed. I do wish they wouldn't talk about whipping me 
all the time." Her voice turned wistful. "This is a hell of a way to say 
goodbye. Me with my hands tied behind my back and you handcuffed. I'd love 
to hug you. Put your hands back over my head the way you did before and give 
me your very best hug. Then I'd best run." 

It was easy for Pamela to obey. Breasts against breasts, they kissed 
passionately in a sudden realization of something ending, of the unseen 
hovering to claim their lives. When Pamela reluctantly brought her cuffed 
hands back over the golden head, Sally sobbed once and wheeled to run the 
first half of her return. Chained and standing, Pamela watched the young 
nudity disappear within an opened door. Sally Driscoll was gone, another 
chapter in her own enslavement come to an end. She stood, wistfully, for a 
long time, holding up a handful of links to ease the burden of her collared 
throat, then sat down resignedly to resume her shaming captivity to the 
chain. She had no real belief in immediate release. To coincide with Sally's 
departure would be too obvious. She must be kept guessing. If Makinda truly 
used binoculars to gaze At her, he might read the longing on her face. She 
turned her back to the big house and leaned forward on raised knees to wait. 
Her seat had become accustomed to the stone. She did not notice it. 

The message came with supper. Delivering dates and water, Bessie was 
obviously ill at ease. "You expectin' to get loose now little Miz Goldie 
gone, Miz Prentiss?" she enquired diffidently. 

"That sounds as though I'm not going to." Pamela's heart fluttered. "You act 
like the bearer of bad news. What is it?" 

"Well, it ain't that good, love. I'd just as soon not talk 'bout it." She 
twisted in embarrassment. "The boss man he send you a message." 

"When do I get beheaded?" 

"It ain't nothin' to laugh at, Miz Prentiss. You ain't losin' your head 
nohow. But how'd you like to stay chained the way you is the rest o' your 
life?" 

"I wouldn't like it! But, Bessie, stop dithering and tell me the bad news. 
I'm sure that wasn't it." 

"It was, sorta," Bessie said mournfully. "Jacob Makinda say you can choose 
to stay the way you is, or you can ask me to let you loose so you can go to 
him and say you been a bad girl and you want to be publicly whipped, same as 
that there Sally gal." 

"Bessie, he didn't!" 

"He sho' did. He say you don't have to give no answer til tomorrow." 

Pamela was breathless, her demand urgent. "Bessie, be honest with me--is it 
a hundred lashes?" 

"Yeah, I guess so." 

"If I choose to stay like this--how long?" 

"Way he say it, Miz Prentiss, could be forever." Bessie twisted unhappily. 
"I ain't sure I'd know which to choose if I was in your place, love. But the 
way he's smilin' I figger he thinks he knows what you'll choose." 

Pamela's mind was racing. She was appalled but strangely excited. "Suppose I 
say I'll stay chained to this ring," she said quietly. "Would you believe 
he'd relent after a week or a month and take me back?" 

"I don't know. That's a real bad one." Bessie was thinking hard. "If I has 
to say, I'd bet on him leavin' you here forever. His way o' thinkin' you'd 
have hurt his pride. You knows these crazy men." 

They considered quietly for a minute before Pamela asked, "Would it be you 
who whips me?" 

"Yes. I'd do it as light as I dared--you knows I would--but it would still 
be bad. Trouble is there's goin' to be so many watchin'. I ain't goin' to 
kid you." 

"He's a real S.O.B. He's got me figured. I bet he's watching right now and 
laughing." 

"That's right, Miz Prentiss, he sho' is. You want I give him a message?" 

"You said I could have until tomorrow." 

"That's right. He say you gotta have til then. He say no quick decision. He 
say you gotta think 'bout it all night." 

"He's a real bastard, Bessie. Why don't we hate him?" 

"Guess it's 'cause we is females and we hot between the legs," Bessie mused 
sadly. "Not sure I really know. You want to tell me which way you goes?" 

"Oh, Bessie, not right now. But I'm so damn sick of being chained here like 
this and having this collar locked on my neck. I'll admit I'd hoped he'd set 
me free today or tomorrow, but he could guess that without me telling. Oh, 
damn!" 

Pamela watched one more retreating back. Bessie was a friend. Better a 
friend mark her skin with the whip than a stranger. Most decidedly better 
than a male arm! She shuddered and turned her thoughts toward tomorrow. She 
had already made up her mind. She supposed ruefully there had never been a 
doubt either in Makinda's mind or her own. She would choose to be whipped. 
Makinda had sentenced her to the whip the moment he had propounded the 
question. But the way he had done it added a piquancy. They would think of 
each other through the dark of night. She might toy with doubts, she would 
shiver in anticipation. Makinda would squeeze in every ounce of sensation 
for them both in what was destined to happen. But Pamela found herself 
strangely at peace. Makinda might have felt cheated had he known. She thrust 
the whipping from her mind, she had been whipped before. She dwelt upon the 
glory of release from the ring. Tomorrow, hopefully, she would walk away 
from the stone square and resume her former life. After she had been 
whipped, of course. But the whipping would not last as long as had the ring. 
. _ She slept soundly without a dream. 

 CHAPTER THREE - THE RING 

Bessie evinced no surprise when Pamela said, without preamble, "Please 
unlock me, Bessie, and tell me where I'll find our Master." 

"Figgered that's the way you'd go. Ain't you goin' to wait and eat your 
dates?" 

"Oh, all right. Keep me chained until I'm done eating. It's a nice last 
minute sentiment between us girls. It's crazy, but I'll miss this ring." 
Pamela chuckled. "At least it let me know where I was." 

"Hold out them hands, love." 

Pamela extended her arms and watched in wonder as the handcuffs were 
unlocked from her wrists. Their absence left her feeling twice as naked. 
Dazed, she asked, "But why?" 

"I dunno. Guess it's 'cause you're goin' to have to be stretched out to be 
whipped. Ain't you pleased?" 

"Am I ever! Look, I can spread my arms. It's a sort of miracle. I've been 
handcuffed ever since that awful day--remember? You put them on me while I 
was still in the cell." 

"Enjoy yourself, honey, while you can." 

"You mean I'm going to be allowed to walk to the house totally and 
absolutely free?" 

"That seems to be the idea, Miz Prentiss. Guess the boss man wants to see if 
you'll make a break for it." 

"I'd be crazy!" 

"Well, I guess! But he's real interested about you. You better watch your 
step." 

Pamela was still waving her arms, sparing small attention for the dates. 
Ardently, she exclaimed, "Bessie, thank you for being so sweet!" 

"I ain't done nothin'." 

"Yes, you have. If you hadn't come to visit me twice a day I'd have gone 
mad." 

"Someone had to free you, love. Just happened it was me." 

"Well, anyway, you're a dear. Look, I've finished the dates." 

"Okay then, Miz Prentiss, stand up." 

Pamela did not try to control her trembling. This was an ecstatic moment. If 
her nerves wanted to quiver, they were welcome. She stood, tense and 
expectant, while Bessie fumbled with a key. The padlock clicked open, and 
the chain fell with a clatter to the stone. The padlock clicked again. 

"But, Bessie, you've locked the collar back on!" 

"Seems like everyone thinks it suits you, Miz Prentiss. I gotta admit it 
sho' do look good." 

"But it's so heavy!" 

"Ain't no chain draggin' it now. You know you like it." 

"Well...." Pamela was loathe to concede, but freedom was heady stuff. "If 
you really think so." 

Once more there was no doubt. The girl and her collar trod lightly across 
the grass. Freedom was an intoxicant which Bessie tempered with reason. 
"Don't you try an' cozen him," she warned. "You gotta say exactly what I 
told you. Do what you like after that. But he'll be watchin' fo' excuses to 
put you back on that ring. I got a feelin' you sorta on trial. What they 
call it--on probation?" 

"I'll watch it. Oh, Bessie, this is gorgeous. I'm free, I'm free!" 

"You about as free as a goldfish in a bowl, honey." 

"I know. I'll behave myself, I promise." 

Once within the house, they parted. Jacob Makinda was in their bedroom, 
waiting. One foot was raised to rest upon an ottoman, and he was bare to the 
waist. It was a characteristic pose. Keeping tight control beneath his 
enigmatic regard, the naked girl spoke her submission. 

"Master," she began, allowing the title to sink in, meeting his gaze without 
evasion, "I have been a bad girl. I wish to be punished. It is fitting I be 
punished. Please have me whipped--one hundred lashes." 

For moments Makinda was motionless. Then he opened his arms. Pamela sought 
their refuge with a cry of joy, clutching his near nakedness with a rare 
freedom, her bare arms encircling his giant torso. Easily, Makinda picked 
her up and tossed her on their bed. A moment later he was as naked as she, 
his maleness rampant. 

When it was over and they had slept, the slavegirl nestled within her 
Master's arm and whispered, "I'm so terribly happy. Oh, Jacob!" 

"So you should be." 

"I know you slept with Sally. I don't mind." 

"I did not sleep with Sally; I fucked her. There's a difference." Makinda 
placed a cautioning finger on his slavegirl's lips. "We do not speak of 
Sally. If you do, you will wear a gag for the rest of the day." 

"Yes, Master." 

"You said that exquisitely," Makinda laughed. "I'll never know if I'm being 
cozened. You're a plausible bundle of girl." 

"Of course you'll know," Pamela said, sighing happily. "If I ever try to 
twist you, you'll punish me horribly. Do you think I don't know that?" As 
though just remembering, she asked, "When are you going to have me taken out 
into the town square to be whipped?" 

"When would you wish?" 

"Oh, Jacob, don't make me choose! Don't be mean." 

"You must. I insist. I'm curious." 

Pamela consoled herself with the thought that it did not matter. It would 
hurt just as much one day as the next. But she shrank from the agony of 
anticipation. On the other hand, it would be trite to demand the punishment 
instantly on the score of getting it over and done with. She rejected the 
temptation to try and talk herself out of the hundred strokes. 

Makinda's gentleness was subject to sudden change, and she might earn 
herself even more severe punishment by trying. "May I have two days with you 
before it happens?" 

The quiver in her voice delighted him. "Both of them in bed?" he asked 
genially "If you can spare the time." 

"I can't, but I'll give you all I can." He pinched her nipple. "You're the 
most carnal creature on two feet." 

"I've been chained to that ring a long time, remember?" Makinda laughed. 
"I'll remember that ring simply because you dislike it so badly. If you ever 
make yourself a nuisance, you'll be out there again," he said, laughing 
again. "Or would you sooner have a smaller one in your nose?" 

"Jacob, that was cruel. Why did you do that to Sally--and the tattoo? She's 
really sweet." 

"Teach her tongue a lesson." His voice hardened. "She called me a 
nigger--and a few other things. Besides, she nearly robbed me of you." 

"Was I chained to the ring because I got in her car, or did you want me out 
of the way while you sampled her delights?" 

"Watch it, girl! You're getting as lippy as she was." 

"Sorry, but I just want you to know I've been kicking myself ever since for 
letting her drag me into that car. I should have fought, but it happened so 
quickly, and I didn't think she was serious." 

"It was a small sin, beloved chain. You have expiated it." 

"If that's the case, why do I have to get a hundred lashes?" The words 
slipped out. She wished them unsaid. Lamely she apologized: "I'm sorry. Oh, 
Jacob, I didn't mean it!" 

He patted her bare breast consolingly, his reply amused rather than angry. 
"You paid for your small sin by your time out there on the stone. You 
purchased release from the ring by asking to be whipped. It is very simple." 

Makinda's reasoning seemed specious--Pamela could not follow it--but she 
left well enough alone. She had punishments enough without incurring more. 
Her owner was a lovable bear who could become ferocious from one wrong word. 
But Pamela was female and curious. 

Cautiously, she ventured, "What sin would I have to commit to be punished 
the way Sally Driscoll was?" 

"I'll be damned! You'd like that done to you," Makinda accused. 

"No! Oh, no! Oh, really--I didn't mean that." 

"I heard a trace of longing." 

"It made her gorgeously erotic--ten times as feminine--but the poor dear 
will die a thousand deaths from shame before she deals with it." 

"Deals with it?" 

"I told her to brazen it out--wear it and be damned to the stares. That ring 
could make her fortune if she writes it up properly." 

"Hmmmm, I'll think about it." 

"Jacob, no! I don't want a ring in my nose!" 

"Yes, you do, I can tell." He chuckled at her dismay. "Sometimes when you 
misbehave...." Pamela sniffed. "I should wear that gag. Everything I say 
comes out wrong." Brightly, she changed the subject: "Would you be 
interested in making love to me again?" 

"You want to be fucked?" 

"Well, if that's what we're calling it today." 

Makinda kicked her legs apart and entered. 

There was a change. For the first time Pamela was allowed to share her 
Master's bed the whole night through. The little cell remained empty. For 
two complete days Pamela Prentiss enjoyed total freedom. Even her handcuffs 
had vanished. When the ruler was busy she walked the town and shopped, her 
loin cloth back in place. In the time she was vouchsafed them she never 
became used to the freedom of her hands. The town's folk noticed the absence 
of metal on her wrists. She was the object of stares. Her public punishment 
had been well advertised so the males had a tendency to leer, and females 
viewed her unmarked back with sympathy. There were even a few printed 
proclamations posted here and there proclaiming her hundred lashes and 
quaintly describing her lapse from grace as treason. 

Jacob Makinda laughingly confessed to showmanship. His people had a 
primitive need for drama, especially if it was free. Pamela was something 
for them to treasure. She could be scorned, pitied, or revered as their 
temperament dictated. For one day now she would provide them with a Roman 
holiday. There was no circus or tiers of seats, but the effect was similar. 
She was the golden haired damsel ten days ago--and now just Pamela. Their 
cup was full. Their ruler was a great man. 

It was a measure of the extraordinary rapport between Pamela and her Master 
that they were able to speak of and even joke about her imminent ordeal. The 
ruler teased her with his suspicion of Bessie's humanitarian intent to 
lighten her blows and threatened to substitute a well muscled male. In bed 
he would turn her over and run playful fingers up and down her back and the 
curves of her bottom, gloating over the creamy satin of her skin and the 
manner in which it would soon be wealed and welted from the whip. He 
delighted in dwelling on the enhanced performance of a whipped girl upon her 
back. Since this experience was new to neither of them, Pamela did not 
bother to deny her fervid carnality at such a time, her incandescent 
eroticism while making this fleshly tribute to her Master. She had screamed 
in passion and would scream again. 

During these two halcyon days Pamela was often aware of being watched. She 
would turn unexpectedly and find her Master's eyes broodingly intent on her 
nudity. It was as though he knew something she did not. Once he musingly 
spoke of a question she must answer in the days to come after she had been 
whipped. Pamela let it pass. She could seldom be quite sure when she was 
being teased. The line between her Master's tease and his intent was often 
finely drawn. She knew it as part of her enslavement that this was so. It 
did not matter. She no longer questioned her thralldom. It was total. On the 
day prior to the whip it was tested. 

He was briskly businesslike and expensively dressed. He cornered her in 
Rabaul's principle store and wasted no words. "My name's Harrison, Miss 
Prentiss. I can get you out of here." 

When Pamela had caught her breath, she said a prim "no, thank you" and tried 
to move on. 

"I'm in touch with the consulate in Tangiers, and with Washington. This is 
foolproof. Makinda won't dare touch me." He blocked her path with solid 
intent. 

She was annoyed and a little scared. She also harbored a suspicion. "It's 
very kind of you, but I won't ever consider it. Goodbye, Mr. Harrison." 

He was miffed, gazing at her in disbelief. Now his tone was urgent: "These 
posters I've seen--you're the girl, aren't you?" 

"Yes, I'm the girl." 

"You telling me you want to walk around naked and be whipped?" 

"Why not, Mr. Harrison? This is Saunda." 

"You have to be kidding!" He bestowed an irritated glare. "I'm offering you 
freedom. I can get you back to the U.S. The authorities are aware of you but 
aren't prepared to do anything. However, I do have their blessing." 

"You're all very kind, but no, thank you." 

"You in love with this black upstart?" 

"Yes." 

"I don't believe it. You've been brainwashed--or tortured." 

With pixyish humor, Pamela said demurely, "I was tortured, Mr. Harrison. 
Torture is wonderful helping a girl make up her mind." 

"You must be putting me on!" 

"No--really! Are you staying over tomorrow to watch me be whipped?" 

"What the hell did you do to deserve that?" He was sweating and puzzled. 

"I'm not sure I know. It's a private thing between Mr. Makinda and myself." 

Harrison stood his ground, a solid bulwark of good intent. "Look, if it's a 
question of you salving some kind of conscience, I can take you by force," 
he offered patiently. "I can't understand a girl like you walking around 
with bare breasts and that other thing scarcely hidden. " 

"I'd scream for help." 

Harrison stared, shaking his head in bafflement. He shrugged. "Well, can't 
say I didn't try. Goodbye, Miss Prentiss." 

Watching him walk away, Pamela felt like a bitch, an ingrate, but when she 
got back to the house her guilt was dissipated by Makinda's chuckle. "How'd 
you find Harrison? Nice guy, eh?" 

"You set him on to me?" 

"He just happened to be around, and he was willing. He owed me a favor." 

"Suppose I'd told him yes?" 

"Ah, but you didn't! I'm proud of you." 

"Do I get a reward?" 

"Only in bed, beloved child." 

"Jacob, I'm not a child--and I don't see why it would hurt you to give me a 
remission. Say fifty lashes?" 

"I could add them just as easily." 

"Oh, all right. I get a hundred. Now can I get the reward you mentioned?" 

Makinda laughed joyously and picked her up. 

The moment, when it came, lacked drama. Pamela and the woman who was to whip 
her understood each other. Bessie sought her out and suggested diffidently, 
"Guess your time's come, Miz Prentiss." 

"Good. I'll be glad when it's over." 

"I just bet you will. Maybe a couple hours, maybe three. We gotta take our 
time. You a real show for them out there." 

It was becoming real. Pamela's pulse quickened. In the past two days she had 
been able to keep it abstract--at the back of her mind--but that was over. 
Soon she would be in pain. Brightly, she asked, "Where's the handcuffs?" 

"There ain't none. Folks got too used to them cuffs. You gets tied with 
rope." 

"Okay, I don't mind. But there's no need." 

"You and me knows that, Miz Prentiss, but them others don't. Anyways, you 
looks real good with your hands tied behind your back. Turn around." 

The delinquent eyed the rope in Bessie's hand. She shrugged. What did a bit 
of rope matter? Pamela stood erect as her arms were gathered by loving 
fingers and her wrists crossed. She choked back an exclamation as the cord 
bit. But that didn't matter either. Her hands would be bound thus only while 
they walked to her place of punishment. After that... ! "We got somethin' 
new, love. Don't ask why." 

The gag was a surprise. But the now tied girl saw virtue in the beautifully 
crafted thing to make her mute. She could not plead, she could not scream 
when it was locked within her mouth. But, since she wanted neither of these 
shaming things, she was almost glad. 

"I don't mind, Bessie. Maybe it's a good idea." 

"I puts in on you here. You sees yourself in the mirror before we go." 

It was the same gag as had been put upon her when chained to the ring--a 
beautiful, supple, shining thing with a wicked insert for inside her mouth. 
Pamela accepted the compression of her tongue and the filling of her cheeks, 
the tug on the buckle, the snap of the lock. She wanted to tell Bessie it 
did not matter about the lock because her hands were fastened behind her 
back, but it was too late. For the next few hours she would be mute. Led to 
the mirror, she would have wished to exclaim over the beauty of the band 
across her lips, but that too was denied. She was, however, content with her 
appearance. She knew herself beautiful for her walk to the town square. 
After that did not matter. 

Two soldiers picked them up outside the gate, a military escort. Pamela 
walked between them, head high but breathing rapidly. The frame to which she 
would be tied was a surprise. It had not been there the day before. It was 
simple: two posts far enough apart for ample room for whoever used the whip, 
a bar from post to post to which her hands would be secured. Having placed 
her in position, the soldiers busily bound her fast. Arms up and out, wrists 
tied tight against the crosspiece itself to deny her movement, her ankles 
roped and drawn apart --she thus stood free and wholly vulnerable. Only the 
soles of her feet were hidden from the whip. She was not stretched. She 
could writhe. She was structured in a perfect "X." When the soldiers stepped 
back there was mild applause. 

"I gotta take this, Miz Prentiss. I'm sorry." 

Pamela nodded. Loss of her loin cloth was, under the circumstances, 
inevitable. The crowd applauded once more, but whether it was in approval of 
stripped loins or the sudden disclosure of Pamela's abundant bush no one 
could tell. 

"You is panting, Miz Prentiss." 

The girl about to be whipped wanted to say that she was frightened, but all 
she could do was nod. Bessie would understand. 

"That collar on your neck sure do look scrumptious, love--all the rest o' 
you is naked." 

Pamela had forgotten. The collar had become a part of her as had the 
handcuffs. It had been locked on her neck a long time. Makinda admired it, 
so it was likely to become permanent. Besides, it was convenient for 
attaching her when someone wanted her leashed. She tried to smile at 
Bessie's tribute, but it was only with her eyes. 

It was now terribly real: the crowd, the frame, the ropes holding her 
helpless. Because of her enforced posture, she was ten times naked. Fear 
engulfed Pamela like a shroud, a deadly shrinking from what was about to be 
done to her. But the ropes were her friends; they would not let her go or 
change her mind. So was the gag; it stopped her from pleading or making 
silly sounds. She tried to smile at Bessie again, but Bessie was no longer 
there. Bessie was somewhere in back. The pinioned girl looked fearfully over 
a bare shoulder. Bessie held a whip. Bessie shook her head, admonished her 
not to look. Pamela Prentiss stared straight ahead, then closed her eyes. 

Makinda's errant slavegirl was whipped in two groups, each of fifty strokes. 
Either would have been enough. Together, they made a punishment to be 
forever remembered. During the first twenty lashes across her back Pamela 
could concede Bessie's mercy. She had known stripes far more cruel. But 
these were cruel enough, and they went on and on. After the first twenty 
blows everything merged into relentless pain. Pamela screamed and screamed, 
but, in spite of agony, remained grateful for the gag. Without the gag she 
would have been forever shamed before the townsfolk among whom she took her 
daily walk. For a whipped girl there are strange consolations. 

Pamela was helpless. She must stand with limbs outspread to provide a target 
for Bessie's whip--Makinda's whip in Bessie's hand. In her maze of pain it 
seemed incomprehensible she should stand outstretched for the lash. Dazedly, 
she looked up her bare arms to where the neat bands of rope around her 
wrists had withstood her writhings. She knew herself exquisitely tied. She 
gazed down at her ankles and the manner in which they too delivered her to 
the thong. They were circled with the same precision and drawn out to the 
stakes to present her open crotch to the people of Rabaul. Bessie had 
flicked the lash up within this jointure of thighs and sex and belly with 
cunning skill. It felt there should be blood, but there was none, only the 
weals, the weals not yet fully in the flower of their scarlet and purple. 
Most were still in their infancy of red. 

"You all right, love? We halfway through," Bessie whispered, sounding 
anxious. "You had your first fifty." 

Pamela nodded. She supposed she was all right. If a girl was alive in a 
punishment like this, she was all right. Everything was misty and distant. 
She felt the unbuckling of her gag and the wad tugged from between her teeth 
as though it was happening to someone else. She gulped water gratefully, 
then brandy, Bessie's glass at her lips. Bessie's voice was urgent: "Drink 
all you can, Miz Prentiss. You needs all the help you can get." 

"Oh, Bessie, thank you--thank you!" The brandy fire had reached the 
captive's veins, brining her back to perception and acute pain. Her question 
was automatic: "Must I really have all the rest?" 

"You know you must, love. Here drink." 

Pamela gulped and gulped again. "I--I can't move," she complained 
irrelevantly. "I'm tied so tight." 

"That's good, Miz Prentiss. I don't want you movin'. But you sure does twist 
and turn real sweet. You the best show these folks ever seen." 

"Better than Sally?" 

"You a long way from dyin', love," Bessie chuckled at the feminine conceit. 
"Sho', you better than that there girl. She's gone, ain't she? And you still 
here." 

Brandy and Bessie were potent restoratives. Awareness became vivid. The 
crowd, the way she was hurting even when the whip had stopped, the fifty 
strokes still to come--Pamela's mind was crowded with compelling sensations. 
And somewhere in the perimeter of her punishment Makinda was watching. She 
did not ask where. She did not want to know. She hoped he liked the way she 
was tied. She tested her return to sentience by small tuggings at the ropes 
on wrist and ankle. 

"You feelin' better, Miz Prentiss?" 

"I--I suppose so. Oh, Bessie, if only there weren't fifty more." 

"Well, there is. Ain't no use moanin' 'bout it. C'mon now, a few more 
swallows and then I put the gag back in." 

Pamela took the few more swallows of the fiery fluid, then opened her mouth. 
The gag felt the same, only tighter. She shook her head against it and 
evoked the clapping of hands. Rabaul residents were well attuned to the 
subtleties of punishment. They were appreciating Pamela's performance to the 
full. The air itself seemed breathless when Bessie again picked up the whip. 

It seemed worse. Pamela supposed this was because there was no end. The 
blows across her bare skin went on and on. Applause was spasmodic as Bessie 
executed a particularly shrewd stroke to snap through pussy hair and across 
moist lips. Sometimes the thong marked the concave belly too. It was only 
fitting for a girl to be whipped within her secret place. It was there her 
sins were mostly born. Pamela relapsed back into her pain and emotion. She 
was unaware of her writhings and twistings against her bonds. The straining 
motions were natural and implicit in what was being done to her. She 
screamed steadily, but no one heard a sound except herself. When she came 
close to leaving consciousness a couple of pails of cold water drenched her 
back and front. Sputtering and gasping, she reflected inconsequently on the 
convenience of nudity. Bessie's whip sang happily as it now bit bare, wet 
skin. Its impacts had a different sound until she dried. 

"Guess you had it, love. I sure is glad that's over." Bessie tiled Pamela's 
chin above the collar and kissed the bruised lips from which she had removed 
the gag. "You took it real good." 

"Ohhhhh, Bessie!" The exclamation was trite and inadequate but held a depth 
of feeling beyond words. 

"You sho' you all right, Miz Prentiss?" 

"Yes, oh yes--now that it's over." 

"Best drink some mo' brandy. Here, I holds it for you. Guess you knows you 
has to stand like this awhile?" 

".Yes, I know. Don't worry. And this is all the brandy I'm going to drink. I 
don't mind the pain now that you've stopped whipping me. Am I badly marked?" 

"You sho' is, love. You gotta stand alone now so's people can get a good 
look at you real close. The soldiers stand on guard. Mustn't nobody touch 
you." Bessie gathered up trifles and departed. The soldiers smiled, enjoying 
a mental rape. The populace surged forward. 

Pamela did not care about the stares or the lewd comments. She was slowly 
emerging from a cocoon of agonizing punishment and was not disposed to 
hurry. She kept her gaze above or below the curious faces of those who 
slowly passed. She was glad she had long ago lost concern about nakedness, 
glad too her welted femininity was giving pleasure to so many. But she was 
careful to avoid the shame of meeting eyes. She would not know what to say 
or how to smile. But her isolation was penetrated by an American voice: 
"I'll be damned! You must be crazy, girl. You asked for this?" Harrison was 
staring at close range, his features genuinely incredulous. 

The naked girl, immovably bound, could not evade or ignore him. She 
reluctantly raised her head and looked her fellow countryman in the eye. 
"Yes, I asked for this," she told him simply. "Don't worry about me, it's 
all over." 

"Why are you still tied like that then?" 

"I believe it's an ancient custom. Besides, haven't you noticed--I'm a 
national holiday." 

"You're bloody remarkable--I don't get it." He glared fiercely. 

"Thank you. But please move along, you're blocking the procession." 

Harrison left, muttering to himself. He obviously was missing an American 
ear into which to pour his bafflement. Pamela resumed her contemplation of 
the sand. Harrison was a typical man; his interest was more for her vagina 
and breasts than for herself. If she met him clothed, he might fail to 
recognize her. 

When the crowd dispersed and Bessie returned, the soldiers untied their 
prisoner and departed. The first thing Pamela did with her freedom was clasp 
in an ardent embrace the woman who had whipped her. The two females clutched 
and clung to each other for a long time. A few residents still lingering 
clapped their approval of such magnanimity. The whipping of Miss Pamela 
Prentiss had been a great success all around. At last, breaking away, Bessie 
grinned and asked, "You ain't goin' to mind these, is you! We're back to 
normal." 

It was easy to laugh now. The whipped girl was feeling increasingly 
euphoric. She could not have cared less about the handcuffs in Bessie's 
diffident hand. "Let me stretch and rub my wrists first," she pleaded. "They 
tied me so damn tight." They worked together on ankles and wrists. 
Cautiously, Pamela reached back and explored her welted bottom. It was 
wickedly ridged and tender and best left alone. Amused, she extended her 
arms to have the cuffs fitted on her wrists and clicked into their familiar, 
snug embrace. She had been free of them for almost three days. Having her 
hands linked was an awkwardness she must adjust to all over again. They 
walked slowly back to the house. 

Halfway there, Pamela's steps became increasingly urgent until Bessie 
exclaimed, "Sho' he's waitin' for you, Miz Prentiss! But I'm goin' to give 
you a bath first." 

"No, you're not. He's going to get me smelling the way I am--sweat and 
whipped pussy and the smell of fear too." 

"Than man sho' is lucky in you, Miz Prentiss." 

Makinda was waiting in their bedroom. Pamela wasted no time in words but 
flung her whipped flesh upon the bed and opened both her arms and legs. 

"The ultimate maiden sacrifice," Makinda said softly "A whipped girl. Take 
me--hurry!" 

Jacob Makinda took his prize. He took her again and again, clutching her 
whipped back with huge hands, thrusting hungrily within whipped loins until 
their mingled moans rose as a paen to Saunda's pagan gods. Once, after the 
first time, Makinda took the time to take the handcuffs from Pamela's wrists 
so that she might use her hands and arms upon his skin. It was a coupling 
they would never forget. As a tribute to Bessie's skill there was not a 
droplet of blood upon the coverlet, but neither of them either knew or 
cared. 

They slept. In the drowsy aftermath of waiting, flesh to flesh, Pamela 
whispered, "Cuff me again." 

"Why?" 

"If you don't, I'll get uppity. I'll take liberties--assert myself." 

"Go ahead, I'll watch." 

"Jacob, you must know what I mean. I'm in a lovely state of stars and 
rainbows. I've been whipped and wonderfully fucked and loved, and I'll 
easily get ideas above my station. Don't let me forget I'm a slave." 

"Okay, you find 'em. They're around here someplace." 

"Here they are, under the pillow. You knew they were there all the time." 

"Sure." Makinda grinned possessively. "I just like to watch you move around 
looking. What do they call it--poetry in motion?" 

"Thank you, kind sir. Bessie told me I did very well with my twistings while 
tied to that contraption you had erected for my benefit in the two square." 

"Think I should leave it there? Might be handy for you another time." 

"There won't be any other time--not for me!" 

"There will be if I say so." 

"Oh, all right then!" She simulated sulkiness. "If I have to have a whipped 
back every time we make love." 

"Hold out your hands." 

Pamela watched. The cuffing of her wrists never failed to give her some sort 
of thrill. Intently watching, her Master deliberately closed the metal bands 
one notch too tight, and indolently asked, "They hurt?" 

"Oh, I'll put up with it." 

"It was you who asked for them." 

The thrust and parry of their repartee was an endless delight. They never 
tired of it. Pamela allowed it to lead her to the brink of Makinda's 
displeasure again and again, finding a delicious eroticism in this playing 
with fire. Sometimes he would tease her over the brink. Then, red faced, she 
would be obliged to bend over and touch her toes to receive one, two, or 
three stripes with a cane across her bare bottom. The childishness of this 
punishment added to its piquancy. It also hurt outrageously and kept her 
alert for at least twenty-four hours. They entered a period of happy days in 
which Makinda's slavegirl discovered only one or two hurdles to cross. 

The first was when, scorning the isolation of shame, Pamela went shopping 
the day after she had been publicly whipped. She flaunted her wealed nudity 
in a stern refusal to be ashamed. She knew her terribly marked skin would 
arouse the men, just as it aroused her Master. But she also knew herself 
inviolate. The public spectacle had made her more Makinda's woman than 
before. Along with the avid glances at her wounds, she also received an 
increased respect. She found herself shamelessly enjoying whatever new 
Saunda status she had attained. On her walks to and from the dusty streets 
she often stopped by the stone square and the ring where she had spent so 
many days of frustration. She did not fail to note the chain and padlock, 
both waiting, just as was the whipping frame in the square. The collar for 
the chain was still upon her neck and seemed likely to stay there forever. 
She often admired it in the mirror, admitting its eroticism even to herself. 
Idly, she wondered what girl would next be forced to sit upon the stone and 
pine or what other maiden would be tied within the frame to scream beneath 
Bessie's whip. She promised herself it would not be her. 

The other aggravation was the disposal of her nights. She was abundantly 
happy sleeping with Makinda in his bed--and was allowed to half the 
time--but when the ruler was preoccupied with affairs of state she was 
humiliatingly forced to resume her humble pilgrimage to discover Bessie and 
to ask her jailer to chain her in the cell for the night until her Master 
remembered to provide the key. Good naturedly, they resumed their argument 
as to what part of her person was to be chained and whether she need be also 
chained to the wall. It was the same sort of repartee she exchanged with the 
man who owned her. 

But Pamela possessed the ancient female knowledge by which she knew that 
anything worthwhile she achieved in life would have to emanate from a male 
source. She was Makinda's slave. She had become fervently glad to be 
Makinda's slave. But her femininity demanded more. She wanted to be 
Makinda's wife. 

Memory of the whip faded quickly, as did its marks upon her skin. Pamela 
expected to be whipped again, but the prospect was pleasantly distant and 
open to chance. More and more she found herself involved with her Master and 
her Master's house which had become her house too. She took to performing 
small domestic chores. In their times together Makinda spoke to her more and 
more freely of his affairs. It was an easy comradeship which dangled the 
enticing prospect of something more. Intruding here and there was Pamela's 
increasing awareness of being watched, of Makinda's speculative regard when 
he thought she was not looking. The same brooding assessment she had first 
seen before she had been whipped. It was intriguing and a little 
disquieting. Being feminine, she eventually turned to him and asked, "A 
penny for your thoughts?" 

"Hmmmm--how'd you know I was watching you?" 

"Oh, Jacob, I'm too close to you not to know. What is it?" 

"How'd you like a trip to England?" 

"With you--oh, yes!" 

"No, not with me--alone." 

It was too much to be easily digested. Pamela stared aghast. Her world was 
slipping from beneath her feet. Puzzled, she asked, "Why? What on earth...?" 

"You could help me. But it's weird. You won't like it." 

"Well, if I won't like it, and it takes me away from you, let's forget the 
whole thing." 

"Would you like to marry me, Pamela?" 

Another shock, another crumbling of the status quo. She was suddenly unsure 
and stammering, wary of pitfalls. Clasping her locked hands between her 
breasts, she wailed, "But, Master! Master, you can't be serious about any of 
this! You're testing me...." 

"Hmmm--in a way. I'd hoped you'd be pleased about being Mrs. Makinda." 

Pamela's wail was real enough now. She threw herself into her Master's arms 
and quietly sobbed while he held her close and gently patted her healed 
back. After a minute of such male attention she stilled her sobbing enough 
to mutter, "It's too much, and all at once, and I don't know what any of 
it's about, but, yes, I'll be your wife, and yes, I'll do anything you want. 
But please don't send me away." 

Makinda sighed patiently. He had not handled any of this at all well. 
Picking up his disturbed slavegirl, he placed Pamela in an armchair and 
fetched a drink. To give her time, he got one for himself and stood before 
her, sipping. 

"Oh, Jacob, you're looking at me that way again! What am I, a specimen of 
some sort?" 

"You're feeling better," Makinda said comfortably. "I'm sorry I muffed this. 
I really made hash of it, didn't I?" 

"That was a terrible proposal. I mean, the way you popped it. But I've said 
yes. Would you like me to say it again--better?" 

"I think I would." 

"Yes, beloved Master, of course I'll marry you." 

"Hold out your hand--the proper finger." 

Heart racing, Pamela obeyed. She held out both her linked hands, designating 
the fateful finger. When Makinda slipped the band of gold on it, she gasped 
with joy. He had the good taste not to be ostentatious. But her engagement 
ring was beautiful and must have cost a lot of money. 

"It's gorgeous! Oh, Master!" 

He laughed. "You're feeling more of a slave than ever," he said dryly. 

"I don't care. I love it. A husband's supposed to be a girl's Master. I'm 
not going to stop calling you that because of a band on my finger." She 
flung herself within the shelter of his ready arm. "I'd hug you, but I'm 
handcuffed." 

"Want 'em off?" 

"Of course not. I can't handle that freedom along with all this. And anyway, 
I'd miss them and feel funny. Master, there's something I don't know. Tell 
me about it." 

Makinda nodded and handed her his glass. "Here, you can do the refills. I 
like to see you kneel. That ring doesn't absolve you from a thing." He 
settled himself comfortably and laughed into her eyes as Pamela knelt and 
proffered his drink. "You do that exquisitely. Don't ever change." His 
features shadowed. "Now sit down and listen." 

Excitedly happy, but still sensing ghosts, Pamela obeyed. Her Master sipped 
pensively, his eyes resting on her with calm possession. The tone of what he 
had to say was without drama. 

"The British colonized Saunda," Makinda said musingly. "It was part of a 
much larger possession which they relinquished far too soon under a Russian 
threat after the war. The Russians tossed us all to the wolves in an effort 
to embarrass the former colonial powers. All they achieved was to embarrass 
us. If it wasn't for your foreign aid, we'd all be up the creek for sure. Do 
you know where Matsuland is?" 

"Isn't it next door to Saunda?" 

"Right. An old charlatan named Nahib Genoa has it under his thumb. He's got 
his eye on Saunda, and his army is bigger than mine." 

"Going to send me into battle?" 

"Yes. But not with a gun. You see, beloved child, the English, in spite of 
allowing themselves to be kicked out of Africa, still retain associations. 
We never did dislike them. I suppose someone must have told you that I was a 
sergeant in the Imperial Army?" 

"Yes." 

"There's a guy in England, Sir Humphrey Tillson, who exerts a lot of power. 
He has influence with the U.S. and with France. He can easily step on Nahib 
Genoa and keep him off my back. We've talked. He's named a price." 

It was impossible. It was an outrage. But Pamela instantly guessed. Reading 
her stricken features, Makinda confessed, "Yes, he's read about you. He 
wants possession." 

"But you've asked me to marry you." 

"He only wants you for a month. He sees himself as a reasonable man. I've 
told him how I feel about you. For him, the whole thing has a piquancy." 

They stared in silence, the air heavy with things unsaid. At the end of a 
minute Makinda added, "If you throw the ring back in my face, I'll 
understand." 

The handcuffed slave choked back bitter words. Again and again she had seen 
evidence of this man's love for Saunda. It was his land. In a way it was now 
hers too. Anger and shock made her crude. "This Tillson--he'll do what you 
want if he can fuck me for thirty days?" 

"Hell no! He's more of a sybarite than that. He wants you around his house 
in chains. He'll show you off to chosen friends. It's the slavegirl aspect 
of you that's intrigued him. He wants a new toy." 

"I'm to be shamed and humiliated. Will I also be whipped?" 

"Perhaps, but not severely. You'll be a trophy he'll take pride in. He lives 
in an ancient family castle--armor, dungeons, draughts, the whole thing. But 
he does have central heating where it's needed." 

"A centrally heated dungeon, ready and waiting for me." 

"I doubt that. He wants you visible." 

The slavegirl compelled herself to a rationale. An idiot nobleman and chains 
for thirty days in return for Saunda. Perhaps a few mild whippings. It 
seemed a bargain. She would do it, of course, but there remained something 
of greater import. 

"Did you ask me to marry you so I'd do this--this month of nonsense?" she 
asked bluntly. 

"Yes. I know it was a mistake. But I saw it only as evidence of my sincerity 
and Saunda's need. Damn it, girl, you must have guessed for weeks that I was 
going to ask you sometime. I thought girls always knew." 

"I didn't know. I hoped. Girls aren't psychic. We're terribly human and 
vulnerable." 

Suddenly Pamela was again in his arms. This time her sobbing was a release 
of emotion. Quietly they spoke their words of love, words which eventually 
spoke of practicalities. In a flash of realization, Pamela ask, "But if you 
send me to England, Master, don't you realize--I can escape? I can simply 
walk away." 

"Will you?" 

Pamela made a wry grimace. "I don't suppose I'll be able to get back here 
quick enough." 

"Actually, I don't suppose you'll have any freedom in which to do anything. 
The crux of Sir Humphrey's desire for you is your captivity, your 
enslavement. He'll want you to try and escape. He's a sporting type. He'll 
enjoy thwarting you. He's even conceded that if you do escape he'll consider 
my debt to him as paid in full." 

Pamela sighed. She was annoyed with herself for a rising excitement. Sir 
Humphrey Tillson and his castle were an adventure. And for only one month. 
Trying to keep the thrill from her voice, she quietly asked, "When do I go?" 

"Tomorrow." 

 CHAPTER FOUR - TRANSPORT OF A SLAVE 

"Her name's Miss Blettishjohn." Makinda could not repress a chuckle. "She 
was a wardress in Holloway Prison. She'll be dressed as an English 
policewoman. I'll deliver you to her, and she'll escort you on the plane. 
Very official." 

"You mean, her hand on my arm and stem warnings?" 

"You've got the idea. Sir Humphrey will get his jollies from thinking of you 
under control. Making you subject to his will is the big theme." 

"We're nearly there, aren't we, Master? With this Blettishjohn woman, what 
about goodbyes?" 

Makinda took her in his arms. "We'll say them here in the car. I have a 
suspicion the beldame will be waiting for us when we get out of the car." 
His lips found hers hungrily. 

Jacob Makinda's surmise was correct. A dark blue uniform on a good solid 
figure was pacing among the luggage. The voice was British, clipped and 
pregnant with propriety. "Sir Humphrey sends his compliments, sir. Is this 
the young lady?" She made it sound as though she was taking delivery of a 
new battleship. 

"Er, yes. May I present Miss Pamela Prentiss?" 

"She will be in good hands, sir." 

"Yes--I'm sure." 

"No doubt you will have said your goodbyes. We will bid you good day, sir." 

It was a breathless leavetaking, absurdly abrupt. The expected hand was 
already grasping her arm, propelling her through doors. She looked back at 
her Master and managed a wave. Makinda stood, a massive figure beside the 
limousine. His features had resumed their pensive look of brooding, but then 
he was gone. 

"I don't hold with long farewells," said Mrs. Blettishjohn. "We'll just pop 
in here for a moment." 

Pamela Prentiss had never in her life been more thankful for a deserted 
ladies room. The impossible had commenced. The handcuff snapped shut upon 
her right wrist with stern finality, its other cuff clicked home on Mrs. 
Blettishjohn's left wrist with a businesslike authority. "No use taking 
chances with you, Miss Prentiss. I'm sure you won't mind." 

"But I do!" Pamela distressfully shook her hand as though to rid it of the 
steel bond. "I've agreed to come willingly. There's no need for this." 

"I've heard that before." 

"But you can't possibly lead me handcuffed among all these people--and on 
the plane!" 

"I most certainly can." 

"I'll die of shame." 

"Unless you make a fuss no one will notice." 

"Take it off. Please, I beg you." 

"Don't be silly. Come along." 

Being handcuffed to Miss Blettishjohn was much the same as being attached to 
Buckingham Palace. The wardress had the advantage of weight. Struggling with 
her would only achieve a hurt wrist. Pamela swallowed pride and stepped out 
briskly. She looked stonily ahead, certain that every eye was focused on her 
chained hand. But the British Airways counter raised its eyebrow only 
slightly, and the forewarned stewardess ushered them to a back seat without 
comment. No doubt they had seen everything before. Pamela's whisper to her 
companion was urgent: "Can't we cover it up some way?" 

"I prefer to leave it as it is." 

Deflated, the captive girl tried again. "I'll give you my parole, my 
promise. And anyway, I can't possibly jump out of a plane." 

"Kindly drop the subject. You will remain handcuffed. If you insist on being 
importunate, I will lock your hands behind your back." 

Pamela accepted defeat and contented herself with looking out of the window 
until they were well airborne. Her cuffed hand was tingling, as were her 
cheeks. She dared not move it. She felt certain a tug against Miss 
Blettishjohn would earn a reprimand. Diffidently, she asked, "Have you been 
with Sir Tillson long?" 

"That is not a proper form of address. I take it you are not part English?" 

"I'm American." 

"Ah!" The exclamation held a wealth of distrust. The former wardress at 
Holloway raised two handcuffed hands and tightened the circlet of her 
charge's wrist two extra notches. "Well, I suppose that's not your fault." 

Pamela dropped an unprofitable subject. No doubt the fault lay with the 
Mayflower and Plymouth Rock. In the meantime, her wrist hurt, but she 
decided not to mention that either. "Will you be looking after me at 
the--the castle?" she enquired timidly. 

"I have recommended your incarceration in one of the dungeons for the thirty 
day period," Miss Blettishjohn advised. "Suitably chained, of course. But 
his lordship prefers you more in evidence. I understand you have been kept 
naked?" 

"There was a loin cloth and a collar, and I was mostly handcuffed." 

"It would never have been tolerated in Holloway. But, of course, at Tillson 
Castle...." Miss Blettishjohn sniffed with eloquent disdain. "It is not for 
me to criticize my betters." 

"He'll want me naked too?" 

"That is my understanding. Perhaps certain--embellishments." 

Pamela did not ask about the embellishments. She could guess. Finding no 
profitable gambit, she fell silent. Heathrow was so packed with Orientals 
eating and sleeping and running to and fro that few noticed her prisoned 
hand. Safely in Sir Humphrey's Rolls, Miss Blettishjohn wasted no time. 

"And now, Miss Prentiss, if you don't mind." 

The statement was rhetorical. While Pamela was still thinking up a plausible 
protest, both her wrists were handcuffed behind her back. And she was faced 
with a new demand: "Your feet--up on the seat, please." 

At the visible evidence of a second pair of handcuffs, she voiced dismay, 
"Oh, please! No! I'm not a wild animal or a criminal." 

"You are a young woman in bondage. Please act like one." The statement was 
revealing. Sir Humphrey evidently cherished a beautiful fantasy of a girl in 
chains. She was to be "in bondage" in a far wider sense than she or Makinda 
had supposed. Pamela remembered William Seabrook who had so beautifully 
translated his dream into lyric prose in his autobiography. Grudgingly she 
acquiesced. "Oh, very well, if you must." She raised her nyloned legs, 
watched her ankles cuffed, then returned them to the floor. She was now more 
helpless than she had been since her public whipping. 

But she was strangely reassured. A man who would keep her in chains because 
he found an aesthetic value in so doing was less to be feared than one who 
took pleasure in cruelty on a helpless girl. She sat back and allowed Miss 
Blettishjohn to point out places of interest. But England seemed a sad old 
place, badly overcrowded, most of mediocre and drab. The Tillson Castle, 
however, was a dream come true--the park, the gardens, the mellowed stone of 
battlements that had never known siege. For a few minutes she forgot the 
handcuffs. 

Sir Humphrey Tillson affected the tweeds and manner of a country squire. It 
included a staccato delivery in which he emphasized the obvious in a manner 
brooking no dispute. But his face belied stupidity. It was a businessman's 
face despite its floridity. Pamela wished she could have met him under more 
favorable circumstances. Miss Blettishjohn dragged her from the car and set 
her erect and insecure for his inspection as he stood at the bottom of a 
flight of steps to offer greetings. "Well, well, so you've arrived, eh?" 

"Yes, sir." Pamela supposed the "sir" appropriate. 

"You all right? Not falling over?" 

"She has behaved well, sir," Miss Blettishjohn interjected severely. "She 
has given no cause for punishment." 

"Of course she hasn't!" Sir Humphrey was heartily approving. "Don't bother 
about the handcuffs. I'll carry her up the steps." 

Pamela supposed it was his library. Sir Humphrey stood her in the center of 
the floor, held her while she got her balance, then took a seat, leaving her 
to teeter on feet whose tendons were hurting from the metal bands. She felt 
untidy and in disarray. 

"Nice fellow, Jacob Makinda, eh!" 

"He has been very kind to me, sir." 

"I'm sure he has. By the way, drop the 'sir' when the dragon isn't around. 
How'd you find her?" 

"Formidable." 

"Good word for her. Not sure I want her around. Frightened of her myself." 
Shrewd eyes roved up and down the helpless girl who stood for his approval. 
"Want you naked, y'know. D'you mind?" 

"I'm afraid I can't undress--the way I'm fixed." 

"Of course you can't, m'dear. But I find you charming like that. I'm by way 
of being a dirty old man, y'know. Proud of it." 

Pamela had the feeling neither of them had said anything. She did so now. 
"If you'll explain my duties, sir, I'll do my best...." 

"Duties!" Sir Humphrey appeared astonished. "You don't have any duties. Just 
do what you're told." 

"I'm really anxious to please." 

"Of course you are!" He guffawed. "Damn good mind to get rid of the dragon. 
There's the maids--and there's me." 

It was the best thing he had said yet. By way of seconding the motion, she 
said a demure, "Thank you, sir, I think I'd like that." 

"Good as done! Can I offer you a sherry?" 

"That would be nice." 

Sir Humphrey decanted two small glasses. It was Pamela's first contact with 
decanters. She was suitably impressed. This was all absurd. She was playing 
Alice to his White Rabbit. But she sipped daintily from the glass he 
gallantly held to her lips, only twisting against her handcuffs enough to 
keep him interested. 

"Splendid girl! I'll change your bondage after awhile. One of the maids can 
take you to the bathroom. You won't mind if I thrash you sometimes, will 
you?" 

The man was ridiculous! Or was he clever? Pamela could not tell. She 
disliked his choice or words. She queried, simply, "Thrash?" 

"Ah! Sounds unkind, eh?" He emitted a bucolic laugh. "Let's divide you into 
parts, dear girl--bottom and back. Your bottom will be caned, your back 
whipped. How's that?" Obviously she was expected to sound pleased. It was 
one of the harder efforts of her life. "Why, of course, sir. You do put it 
so well." 

"That's looked after then. You won't mind a few chains?" 

"Not at all." 

"Damn lucky fellow, young Makinda. I'll also be tying you with rope and some 
thin cord I enjoy. Has to be tight, y'know." 

"Oh, absolutely." 

Pamela's lapse into the vernacular obviously pleased Sir Humphrey. He beamed 
approval. "Cords well into your flesh, eh! Nice weals left when you're 
untied. Wonderful. I knew you were the one." 

"But how did you know, sir?" 

"Know? Oh, News of the World, of course. It's Great Britain's number one 
scandal sheet. You've been featured there several times. Let's see, 'The 
White Slave of Saunda,' and there was 'Chained Beauty Basks in Bondage.' 
That sort of thing. Told me all I needed to know." 

"Then why didn't someone feel I should be rescued?" 

"Eh? What for? Fell in love with the fellow, didn't you?" 

"Well, yes." 

"That's that then. Nothing more to be said." 

"But I'd have thought someone...." 

"Not these days. No more gunboats. Damn pity! But you're here and I'm here, 
that's what matters. I'll ring for young Dolly." 

Young Dolly was pert and pretty. She smiled at the handcuffed prisoner 
without shock. Sir Humphrey clipped out instructions. "Take Miss Prentiss 
along, my dear. Do whatever it is you girls do in bathrooms. Take your time. 
I want her delivered back in the number two ensemble. Understand?" 

It felt good to lose the metal bite from her ankles, and Dolly's hand on her 
arm was gentle. The English tub in the English bathroom seemed cavernous. 
The whole atmosphere of the place was more foreign to the good old U.S.A. 
than Saunda itself. Dolly was inclined to giggle. She did so now. 

"If I take them handcuffs off, miss, you won't give me no trouble?" 

"Of course not. I never needed them anyway." Pamela was longing for freedom, 
absence of clothes, and a bath. 

"I have to put 'em back on after, y'know. You will let me?" 

"Yes. Don't worry about me. I'm a slave. Or haven't you noticed?" 

"My, you really are!" Dolly was delighted. "He's practiced on me a bit, but 
I never seem to get the hang of it. He's a nice old buffer, but he thinks up 
the damnedest things to do to girls." 

"Such as?" 

"All this chaining business. But I expect you're used to that." 

"Oh, sure." Pamela felt gratifyingly sophisticated while splashing and 
soaping herself. "I've come here from Saunda. It's a place where girls like 
you and me are owned." 

"May I soap your pussy, please? I love soaping pussies. I really do envy 
you--the way you handle it, I mean." Dolly giggled. "I say, Miss Prentiss, 
have you ever been whipped?" 

"Yes, often. If you look close, there may be a few marks." 

"Cor lummie, you're right!" Dolly was awed. "I could never handle that. I 
always get hysterics. And the Master, he's a stickler for stiff upper lips." 

For the moment, Pamela was content. Dolly was sweet, the water was hot, and 
Sir Humphrey was less fearsome than expected. Getting rid of Miss 
Blettishjohn was a relief. She allowed her nakedness to be vigorously 
toweled, amused by the maid's lingering and loving attention to her pubic 
hair. After a toilette, longer and more skillful than the prisoner expected, 
there came an awkward pause until Dolly stammered, "I got the stuff, miss. 
It's in the cupboard. 'Fraid you won't like it much." 

Pamela laughed. "The number two ensemble?" 

"Yes--and you ain't 'sposed to wear no clothes with it." 

"Okay, don't worry. Let's have a look." 

Dolly opened the cupboard door to disclose a pile of links and bands of a 
metal Pamela could not place. It was probably bronze, exquisitely wrought. 
Even before it was locked on her she knew it would be heavy. 

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Prentiss." 

"Don't be." Pamela held out her arms. "Lock it on me. I promised I'd 
behave." 

There were wristlets, linked by ten inches of chain, wide and snug and 
heavy. From them, also, chains ran down to a ring on a level with her thigh, 
and from the ring other chains to the bands now locked on her ankles. 

"The number one ensemble has a chain between your feet, miss," Dolly 
explained apologetically, "but his nibs thought you'd be tripping all time. 
He's taking you for a walk." 

"A walk! Like this?" 

"It ain't so bad, miss. Try it." 

It was not so bad at all. Pamela discovered the sum total of all the lovely 
linkage with its ominous weight was to prevent her raising her joined hands 
above her navel. When she did not hold tense their chain curved coyle within 
the shining fronds of her triangle. The same result could have been achieved 
more simply, but with less satisfyingly aesthetic effect. Sir Humphrey knew 
his chains. Except for links bumping her knees, the slavegirl could walk in 
freedom. 

"Lovely, lovely, my dear." The peer of the realm was enthusiastic. 
"Magnificent figure! I was sure of it! There's something about American 
figures--must be the vitamins. 

You do that young fellow Makinda and me credit." He bent to get a closer 
view of pubic curls. "You're a winner. Have to show you off a bit. I thought 
we'd go for a bit of walk. Give you the tour, y'know." 

Pamela did not demur. What was the use? She was sure they made a ridiculous 
couple, his lordship heavily tweedy, and she herself naked and quaintly 
chained. As she was led from the room she ventured, "I make an awful lot of 
noise when I walk these chains?" 

"I like it. Cheerful sound." He guffawed. "Let's hope you don't have to slap 
a gnat off your nose, eh?" 

Pamela hoped she would not be called upon to do anything. She was remarkably 
helpless. True, her feet were not snubbed by chain, but the number two 
ensemble rendered them sadly handicapped anyway. The whole affair seemed to 
work best when she clenched her fists and tugged everything taut. No doubt 
the designer had this in mind. Sir Humphrey noticed it instantly. 

"You were born to be chained, my dear. Wear 'em like a queen. A little more 
of what you're doing and I'll have an erection," he mused sadly. "My last 
one was at the Coronation--one of the bridesmaids." 

Pamela wanted to titter. The elderly nobleman was priceless. But she was 
confined in his chains. At the moment he owned her. In this setting the 
whole thing was incongruous. Clinking and clattering from here to there, she 
admired a great many things she instantly forgot, and drank in the heady 
stuff of English privilege. History was everywhere and, according to Sir 
Humphrey, had been extremely bloody and heavily interlaced with the 
imprisonment of beautiful girls and lovely ladies, all of them tastefully 
chained in dark dungeons. Recounting one damsel's dire distress, he stopped 
short and exclaimed. 

"Damn! Forgotten the dungeons. Have to show you them." 

"That's all right, I really don't mind." 

"You mean, you'd sooner not see 'em?" 

"I'd love to have a look." 

Pamela supposed her lie was justified. Sir Humphrey had sounded so hurt. She 
would look at his damn dungeons and hope she was never a tenant in any of 
them. Clanking charmingly, she followed her new Master down worn stone steps 
into a netherworld and dank smell of centuries. 

"Torture chamber here somewhere too. Hope I can find it." 

Pamela could not have cared less. She was frightened. This place matched the 
chains upon her limbs. All he had to do was slam one of these ironed and 
studied door, and she would be lost for life. 

"Now here's one I've had heat piped into. Doesn't show, of course. 
Everything unchanged." 

Pamela shuddered, but her arm was grasped and she was led inside. Human 
misery emanated from rusty chains and stone walls. The tiny recessed barred 
window provided only enough light by which to visualize horror. 

"Nice, eh? Perfect specimen. Been a few girls shed tears in here." 

Pamela longed to plead that she be not added to the list. But it might fix 
the thought in his mind. It was best to keep quiet. Verbally she praised and 
admired a series of dark, dank chambers she hoped she would never see again. 
The torture chamber, when they found it, looked more like a blacksmith's 
shop. She stood, shivering, while Sir Humphrey rummaged and dispensed 
historical detail of maidens and matrons who had suffered where they now 
stood. Pamela felt compelled to ask. 

"But was it only females who were tortured? I thought men...." 

"Only them!" The distinguished nobleman disposed of his own sex with a wave 
of the hand. "Who's interested in men? Never did care to hear about them 
myself--ugly business. Ugh!" 

Pamela sighed. Sir Humphrey Tillson was laughable in his preoccupation with 
punished femininity. Dungeons and chains pinpointed his heterosexuality. She 
was breathlessly thankful to get back into the sunlight. She rattled her 
chains and said without guile, "I'm glad that's over. Those places 
frightened me. 

"Wanted you to see 'em," he said, pausing thoughtfully. "Dinner, eh? I've 
ordered up some very good wine." 

"It sounds lovely. But do I rate...?" 

"Of course you do! Most beautiful gal I've ever had here. Dolly will dress 
you. Oh, and there's a few decent chaps coming to meet you later on. Hope 
you don't mind." 

It was an amusing and frightening phantasmagoria: dungeons and dinner, Dolly 
and decent chaps, and a very good wine! Pamela wished she could have shared 
merriment with Jacob Makinda. She missed him terribly. She also missed 
Saunda heat. England was chilly. 

For a slavegirl at Tillson Castle, dressing for dinner meant exchanging 
ensemble number two for ensemble number six. Dolly unchained and chained 
again with nimble dexterity. In the middle of the operation, while the slave 
stood free for a moment, the maid looked up from her kneeling position to 
ask abruptly, "You want to do a bunk?" 

"You mean run away?" 

"Right. You could, you know. I don't have you chained, and I could pretend 
you hit me with something." 

"Me? Running around England naked?" 

"There's stuff in the wardrobe. I can make you decent." 

"But, Dolly, why?" 

"I like you. You're nice. You don't deserve to be whipped and all this 
stuff." 

"I can't. Oh, Dolly, I feel so ungrateful." 

The maid scented romance. "You're doing this for a fellow?" 

"Yes. It sounds so silly but--yes." 

"I don't mind, miss. Just thought I'd ask." 

"You're sweet." 

Dolly giggled. "Leastways, I don't have to worry about you running off on 
me," she said, sighing romantically. "Well, anyway, this stuff you have to 
wear for dinner...." It was not clothes. The feeble hope died instantly when 
Pamela felt her ankles grasped once more. This time a chain joined them. She 
would walk slowly and certainly not run. A light silver chain spanned the 
twelve inches between her wrists. 

It was pretty and ornamental. Miss Pamela Prentiss was dressed for dinner. 

His lordship was entranced, his eyes rarely leaving the play of silver links 
between the hands of this female slave he was lucky enough to possess. The 
slave herself, aware of his attention, felt a blend of pleasure and 
irritation. But she was wise enough to understand the immense wealth that 
made this situation possible. Sir Humphrey was not a dirty old man, but he 
was doing something millions of others would emulate if they had the cash or 
could exert the influence. If every man was rich would all women be slaves? 
It was an intriguing thought, but it was already partly true. Women 
gravitated to wealth, at least the beautiful ones did. Women acquired wealth 
through their faces and figures. It made Makinda's capture and possession of 
herself more natural and logical. There was the reality. Girls should be 
captured by the strong. Pamela felt instantly superior. 

"Like your chains, my dear?" 

"They're beautiful. They must have cost a lot of money." 

"Ah, and so they did. Worth it, though. Perfect. Girl can't get free." He 
shot her a shrewd glance. "Were you tempted in those moments between 
chains?" 

"I admit I thought of it." 

"Young Dolly forgets. Not fair to give you the chance. You don't need 
decisions several times a day. I'll speak to the gal." 

"Would you like me to rebel? I could have a good try at escaping. Isn't my 
submitting to everything so willingly likely to become a bore for you? I 
tried to escape from Saunda often enough." 

Sir Humphrey shook his head. "Let me enjoy you as you are, my dear, before 
we move on to something else. You're quite unique, y'know. Saunda did 
miracles. No English girl...." He paused to reflect. "Just our first day, 
y'know. Time may come you'll want to do a bunk." He emitted a dry cackle. 
"We'll see how clever you are." 

Pamela picked up a hint of something unseen. Perhaps she was destined for 
something more than as a mannequin for shackles. Casually, she enquired, 
"The servants--the ones who serve us now at dinner--they don't seem to 
notice me. I'd have thought a naked girl in chains at an English dinner 
table might raise an eyebrow." 

"Huh! Used to it, dear girl. You're not the first, y'know." His face 
softened. "I'm a lucky man. I have a chance to chase my dream. There's chaps 
who'd give half their life to see you the way you are now. And that walk we 
had--mmmmm." 

Had Pamela not been naked and chained it would have been beautifully 
civilized--dinner, coffee in the lounge, quiet conversation. 

"Harrrumph!" Sir Humphrey broke her train of thought. "Chaps start arriving 
soon. Mind if we get ready?" 

Dolly was called upon to remove what Pamela thought of as her "dinner 
chains." For another brief time Makinda's slave-girl stood completely free. 
When she stretched luxuriously her temporary owner could not repress 
exaltation. "My word! Never seen anything like you, my dear. Never! Damn! 
Wish I was young again." 

"Girls look nice even when out of bondage," Pamela said mischievously. 
"Wouldn't you like me to receive your guests in freedom? I'd think my being 
naked ought to be enough of a thrill." 

"When I want suggestions I'll ask for 'em." His tone was suddenly sharp. 
"Remember I spoke of some thin cord? Well, now's the time." 

The reprimand told Pamela to take care. Sir Humphrey was not the bumbling 
idiot he chose to act. Mutely, she offered her hands. Her wrists were 
crossed and tightly bound with the thin cord. It would be cruel stuff to 
struggle against, but the result was an extraordinarily neat and tidy job. 
"You won't get loose, from that, my girl, not even with your teeth." 

Pamela spread wide her fingers and contented herself with a mild agreement. 
"I'm quite sure I won't. It's terribly tight." 

"It has to be tight. No good otherwise. Cords have to bite well into your 
skin." He pulled a rope down from above and knotted it around her prisoned 
wrists. Going to the wall, Sir Humphrey pressed a button. The captive girl 
being placed on display knew a moment of fear. Surely he would not suspend 
her from hands so cruelly bound! But the pull on her arms stopped short of 
even raising her on her toes. When her crossed wrists were only slightly 
above her head and her elbows still bent, the motor stopped. Sir Humphrey 
made a slow circle of the now helpless nude, commenting amiably, "Lovely, 
lovely! Can't improve on that. Could pull your arms up tight, but you'd look 
strained and awkward. As you are now you're beautifully natural. You can 
chat with the fellows without being breathless." 

Chat! Make small talk in a roomful of men while bound and naked! But that 
was the idea. No guest would be there to behold the ordinary. Sir Humphrey 
would have promised them something special. Left alone, Pamela explored her 
plight. It was not yet uncomfortable, except for the twine well into her 
wrists. She could turn in any direction and do what she wanted with her 
feet. She repressed a mental vision of a male clutching his crotch where she 
had landed a kick. Bare feet were a poor weapon. She hoped the affair would 
not drag on too late. It had been a long day and she was tired. She arranged 
her features into a calm serenity for the first arrivals. 

The fifteen men might well be English gentlemen, but they had left their 
inhibitions outside the door. Each greeted her in his own way or simply 
nodded before putting one arm around her waist and then cupping her vaginal 
mound with the other hand as though to reassure themselves of its contours 
and position. Pamela was sure it was a familiarity they would never practice 
on their wives. Having done thus--shaken her hand, as it were--they backed 
away and discussed her merits. 

"Don't know where Humphrey gets 'em. She's a smasher." 

"Think we can talk him out of a fuck later on?" 

"Probably--for a million or so." 

"That's a lovely tie. The old boy certainly has an eye for form." 

"She certainly can't get loose." 

"Beautiful cunt. Doesn't say a word when you handle it. Out of a harem 
somewhere, I understand. Probably well trained." 

"More likely well whipped. There are some faint marks." 

From her vulnerable nakedness Pamela viewed the guests with equal interest. 
Their concern with her pussy and pubic hair was out of character, clashing 
oddly with their impeccable attire and educated speech. Finally, one of them 
took up position at her back and reached around under her raised arms to 
play with her nipples. He performed the act casually but with consummate 
skill. Finding herself breathing heavily, she warned, "Please stop. You're 
getting me aroused." 

"Good show!" 

He did not stop. His fingertips continued their play. The captive girl moved 
restlessly but knew she dare not kick. She would stand, arms helplessly 
raised, while they did what they pleased with her. She fought a losing 
battle against tumescence. 

"I say, chaps, the little beauty's going to give us an orgasm." 

They gathered round, their grave, groomed faces avidly watching her 
responses. When the rising tide of sensation was approaching climax, Pamela 
abandoned pretense and surrendered to the motions and the moans they 
desired. Panting her way back to normalcy, she received undescenting 
approval. 

"Smashing girl!" 

"Did you notice her loin action and the way she writhed?" 

"No English girl could compare. Damn, I'm a good mind to go to the U.S.A." 

"Saunda might be a better bet. I suspect that's where she got her lessons. 
She's on loan from some dictator fellow who wants a favor." 

"Wish I could do him one." 

Pamela fought the blush as she had fought the climax, but with more success. 
Dolly was circulating drinks, almost all scotch and sodas. The bright-eyed 
maid held a glass to captive lips. "Go on, drink. His nibs said you could." 

The captive girl gulped down the fiery potion, then watched Sir Humphrey 
circulate among his guests and realized she was only the icing on a cake of 
serious ingredients. He was a changed man--sharp-eyed, incisive, demanding 
answers. The nude Pamela was not the true reason they were there. Serious 
business was being talked and settled. She felt a substitute for the 
canapes. She also felt neglected. There were plenty of appraising looks, but 
it appeared in England a single orgasm was considered quite enough for one 
day. She assured herself she did not want fleshly attention. But still... 

Lady Samantha Bassett swept into the gathering like a perfumed summer storm. 
She placed a finger on Sir Humphrey's indignant lips. "Yes, yes, the 
servants tried to stop me." Her laugh was pure silver. "You know what chance 
they had of that. I absolutely must have a look at whatever it is you've 
snatched from a harem, or was it a brothel?" She strode to stand before the 
naked girl, her eyes hungry and very knowing. Having looked her fill in dead 
silence, she turned back to the irritated man. "Humphrey, you old toad, 
fancy keeping something as good as this all to yourself." 

"Samantha, this is a stag affair--business. You were not invited." 

"I know I wasn't. I won't invite you to my next affair, then we'll be quits. 
May I cane her bottom?" She smiled radiantly at the tied slave and sweetly 
asked, "You'd love to have your bottom caned, wouldn't you, dear?" 

Pamela was saved from answering by his lordship's cholor. "No, you may not 
cane her bottom! You've had your look, Samantha, now go home." 

He was totally ignored. Feminine fingers were now tracing the contours and 
curves of the girl whose bound hands compelled her to stand and endure 
whatever was done to her. Lady Samantha was enjoying herself. Naked back and 
front received her full attention. She tilted a captive chin to look deep 
into captive eyes. Her voice was delightfully smooth. "We can't do it today, 
of course, but you and I are going to eat each other, darling." 

"Samantha, you're disgusting. Please run along." 

"Humphrey, you old swindle, I know you won't use force. Why don't all you 
men resume your money making while I get acquainted with this charming 
creature and cane her bottom? I know where you keep your canes, Humphrey." 

She was a force. Meeting her gaze, Pamela could do naught but smile. She did 
not want her seat caned, but she had no expectation it would happen. "My 
name's Pamela Prentiss," she said shyly. "How do you do." 

Her effort evoked a small gale of feminine hilarity, and then a hearty 
feminine kiss from lips a trifle to hot. "You're too good to be true, Pamela 
Prentiss," the noblewoman said thoughtfully. "Just think of the things I 
could do with you!" 

"If you're thinking of getting Miss Prentiss into your torture chamber or 
your bed--same thing, I suppose--forget it." Sir Humphrey moved closer to 
the scene of action. "Look, you sensual menace, if you're in your usual 
appetite, I can lend you a bedroom and young Dolly." 

"Dolly? Instead of Miss Prentiss! Oh, come!" 

"Perhaps one of my guests would enjoy an hour's seclusion with you." 

"A man!" Samantha Bassett infused infinite contempt into the exclamation, 
then brightened. "Unless you've got one who'd like his arse whipped." 

"Samantha, go home." It was a new male voice from the crowd. It held 
authority. "If you insist on being an idiot, I can get help to tie you down 
and strip you. You will then get well and truly raped." 

Pamela, engrossed as a spectator, saw a momentary flicker of indecision 
cross the lovely face of this woman who desired her. But the laughing voice 
was as insouciant as ever. "Don't be absurd, Dudley. What's more, don't be 
vulgar." 

The tied Pamela realized these people knew each other. Evidently, this was 
not Lady Samantha's first excursion into a male sanctuary. She was thankful 
all she had to do was stand with her bound hands above her head. For the 
first time, no one was looking at her breasts or bottom. They were looking 
at Lady Samantha Bassett. She was returning their gaze scornfully. 

It happened in seconds. Purposeful male hands grasped Samantha's 
hands,-feet, and waist. Vociferously protesting, she was carried from the 
room, the male guests in close attendance. Only Sir Humphrey remained. He 
surveyed the naked girl standing as he had tied her with a benign approval. 
"They're actually going to fuck her, y'know," he confided comfortably. "Not 
the first time either. It's what she comes for." 

"Was that thing about caning my bottom and the other--was that just talk?" 

"Oh no, dear, don't get that idea. She was dead serious. She'd like to take 
you home and keep you tied down on a bed with your legs wide spread so you'd 
be handy." He chuckled. "That's the way the chaps have her now--stripped and 
spread. Do her a world of good to service the lot." 

"But there were fifteen!" 

"A mere nothing for Samantha--the hors doeuvres as it were." He mused 
quietly for a moment. "Perhaps we'll owe it to the poor girl to let her whip 
your bottom when the fellows are done. She does whip a beautiful bottom." He 
cocked an amused eye. "Or would you prefer to go in and service her while 
she's still tied down after the chaps are done with her?" 

"No, I certainly would not!" 

__ "Don't blame you a bit. Be messy, wouldn't it?" He looked around the 
empty room. "Now, my dear, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go and watch." 
He cackled "Can't pierce the dear gal any more myself, but I can give the 
chaps moral support. After all, I am the host." 

Pamela wanted to laugh and to cry. She longed for the sanity of Jacob 
Makinda and Saunda. These people were adult juveniles playing games. All of 
them were scions of nobility or of wealth. Her own position now, tied 
helplessly to stand for their amusement, was typical of their lives. In 
Saunda she would be tied to keep her from running away or to punish, but not 
here. Here she was a pretty plaything. Dismally twisting against the cords, 
she wondered if indeed her bottom would be caned after the present 
extravagance was done. She felt dismally certain no one would raise a hand 
or a voice in her defense. To cane her innocent bottom would seem completely 
rational to all of them. She looked up hopefully at her bound, crossed 
wrists. They were as tight as ever. She would stand and stand and stand! 

The thirty days of her indenture suddenly loomed as interminable. True, she 
had not yet been hurt. Her present bondage was tedious and tiring, that was 
all. She would not even try to free herself because she knew she would not. 
But, compared to Tillson Castle and its antics, the Saunda sun and Saunda's 
ruler seemed a distant paradise infinitely to be desired. The most 
frustrating fact of her new condition was to know she could probably escape 
but dared not. To escape would cancel out Makinda's deal. She would wear the 
marks of whips gladly to consummate the pact already made. She must try to 
be a model prisoner. 

Sir Humphrey Tillson was the first to return. He was chuckling. "Samantha's 
really getting her just desserts," he confided happily. "The fellows have 
tied her down most ingeniously. She's struggling like hell, but it's not 
doing her a bit of good. She has to put up a bit of a show, of course. Bad 
form to just lay there." 

"I'm glad it's her. I wouldn't like it to happen to me." 

"The fellows would enjoy you, my dear. Some of 'em are in fine fettle, 
lining up to have a second go at her ladyship." He cocked an amused eyebrow. 
"Not what you except from the British upper crust, eh? But the chaps are all 
pukka sahibs who wouldn't touch the dear girl if her blood was blue. But she 
married old Bassett off the chorus line." Sir Humphrey sighed. "Ah well, the 
poor chap died happy. But since the funeral Samantha's thrown her weight 
around. Needs a firm hand a sound thrashing from time to time. Damn gal's 
picked up a silly idea she's a lesbian. You know, cunt nibbling. Lot of 
foolish nonsense." 

"I had a feeling she was looking at me." 

"You can lay odds on it! But I don't know where she picked up this bottom 
caning fad." 

"Will she really cane mine?" 

"Yes, I think we owe it to her. She does enjoy it so." 

"I've had an awfully long day." Pamela tried to look winsome and wistful. 
"I'm tired." 

"I'll drop a word in her ear," Sir Humphrey promised. "Go easy, eh! That's 
the ticket." He paused, struck by a sudden thought. "Y'know, while we're 
alone and you're tied so prettily--I do enjoy cunts, and yours is 
superlative." 

Pamela's tied hands ensured she stood for his attention. But she was aware 
of another problem--she must not look bored or show distaste. She 
compromised by closing her eyes and keeping her head bowed. She hoped she 
looked preoccupied with impending arousal. Sir Humphrey's hand might be old, 
but it was skilled. She could already feel the betrayal of her flesh. But 
before she commenced by pant her quandary was solved by the return of the 
guests. They trickled in by twos and threes, instantly achieving the 
Englishman's imperative of looking bored. 

Dolly was in attendance with her tray. The warriors returning from the fray 
countered ennui with double scotches. At the end of the procession Lady 
Samantha Bassette entered on the arm of one of the older peers. They were in 
animated conversation. Lady Samantha paused long enough to accept a scotch, 
down it instantly, and grasp another. In a loud, clear voice she announced, 
"You're a lot of rotten bastards." She then returned to the attentive male. 
Dolly held a glass to Pamela's lips and giggled. 

Pamela watched everything with intent concern. Her nakedness was shockingly 
vulnerable, and she was inclined to believe the caning of her bottom a 
distinct possibility. Her pulse quickened as she beheld Lady Samantha 
Bassett determinedly rummaging in a drawer. Samantha evidently knew her way 
around. When she returned back to the assemblage she held a cane. It was a 
beautifully yellow, polished English cane. When female hands tested it 
lovingly Pamela knew it was limber and would hurt. 

"Do you chaps want to watch?" Samantha enquired of her rapists in a tone not 
to be ignored. "I'm about to cane this little darling's bottom." She stood 
in front of her palpitating victim, tilting a captive chin to ensure 
attention. "You're a beauty, dear. I'm going to love every stroke." She 
kissed helpless lips. "But I've been told not to be cruel. Isn't that a 
shame?" 

Pamela's tiredness vanished at the first stroke. It was a stinging, 
scorching, bitter pain--but a pain she might be able to bear if it did not 
go on and on. She guessed that to scream against what was probably 
considered a moderate cut would lessen her value. But it was easy to writhe 
and gasp, so she did both. 

"I'd like you to stick your cheeks out more prominently, darling. I know you 
can, your hands aren't tied nearly as high as they could be." 

Samantha was right, it was possible. Pamela obeyed. 

"That's lovely, dear. It hurts more, y'know." Samantha's voice was 
throbbingly affectionate. "Please do struggle all you like between each 
stroke, but I want you to always stick it out again before too long. Your 
lovely little bottom, I mean." 

"Yes, I understand." 

The biting snaps across Pamela's soft flesh resumed their tempo, the swish 
of the cane an exciting accompaniment for those watched the unearned 
punishment of a girl. The blows hurt bitterly, far more than the first had. 
But after each scald had only half subsided, the tied nudity anxiously and 
faithfully returned her bottom to an inviting prominence for the next 
stroke. Pamela soon lost count. 

"Isn't she a sweetheart?" 

Samantha's voice was tender with love. There was a decorously British 
clapping of hands. Pamela wished she could appreciate the tribute, but she 
was too concerned with the next swish across her bottom. It came. She 
responded dutifully. The cutting cane went on and on until her panting gasps 
and small moans drew comment. 

"Got something against the girl, Samantha?" 

"I say, go a bit easy, eh? Don't want her screaming." 

"I've barely tickled the surface," Samantha complained. "Stick your little 
rump out again, darling." 

It would have been easier had she been bound more stringently. Pamela 
realized Sir Humphrey's tying of her hands allowed her a great deal of 
latitude to writhe and kick and generally make a shameful exhibition of 
herself under the cane. Perhaps he had planned it thus. Pamela could not 
control all her responses to pain, but she did her best to provide an 
aesthetic performance for her Master's approval. She was also not a bit sure 
about wildly cavorting legs the cane might easily flick up between. She had 
punishment enough already without inviting more. She kept her legs tight 
together, her back well down, knees stiff, and her punished curves well in 
evidence. Lady Samantha resumed where she had left off. After awhile and 
through a blur of pain, Samantha heard her Master's voice. 

"I say, Samantha, I've counted past twenty. How many strokes are you 
thinking of for the poor kid?" 

"Poor kid, my foot!" 

"You've punished her beautifully. We've all enjoyed it. Let it go at that. 
Look, she's crying." 

Pamela could not help the tears. They had simply come. She sniffed 
gratefully as Samantha gently dried them with a bit of cambric. Once more 
she kissed with what seemed real affection. "Oh, all right, Humpy, I know 
she belongs to you. But just six more--please!" 

Pamela endured them. They were more cruel but with an end in sight she could 
bite her lip and repress the welling screams. When the sixth stroke had bit 
and scalded her flesh she was enveloped in strong female arms and soundly 
kissed by female lips. In her ear was a whisper for her alone: "I'll get 
you, I'll get you. I promise. You're simply gorgeous." 

After the caning of Pamela's innocent bottom the party broke up. Soon there 
was no one in the room except the tied girl still standing with her arms 
above her head and a scarlet bottom. It was Dolly who set her free. The maid 
was informative. 

"I'm supposed to keep handcuffs on you always," she confided, "but if you 
want to make a run for it, go ahead. I'm not going to try and stop you." 

"I wish I could, Dolly, but I can't. There are reasons." 

"He's a lucky guy, Miss Prentiss. But if you ain't going to run, I have to 
lock you in the dungeon." 

"The dungeon!" 

"It's not all that bad. No really heavy chains. His nibs wants to think of 
you languishing in there as he goes to sleep." 

Pamela was simply too tired. Without protest, she dejectedly followed Dolly 
down the frightening stone steps to the frightening door. Inside the 
contrastingly warm chamber she was led to the far corner and a collar fitted 
to her neck. She had no doubt it was a beautiful collar but could care less. 
There came the familiar snaps and she was tethered to the stone wall by a 
length of chain. 

"These aren't all that bad, Miss Prentiss." 

Pamela allowed her wrists to be shackled. Dolly was right, they were not 
that bad, and in this place what did anything matter anyway? She returned 
Dolly's kiss and sank down upon the clean straw. Sir Humphrey was evidently 
a stickler for authenticity. No bed, no cot, no nothing--except the pile of 
straw. She heard the thud of the door and the shooting of the bolts. 
Refusing to think, she closed her eyes and was instantly asleep, the warm 
air of the dungeon caressing her nakedness. When she moved in her sleep the 
chains moved too, making their own sounds, but in the night she refused to 
open her eyes to the blackness of her prison. It was less frightening not to 
know. 

Miss Pamela Prentiss slept remarkably well. 

 CHAPTER FIVE - THIRTY DAYS OF PAIN 

Pamela would always remember them as "The Thirty Days." Her time as Sir 
Humphrey Tillson's slave was an absurd jumble of kindness and cruelty 
interspersed by laughter. Even when being cruel, the nobleman would step 
back to gaze in adoration upon his work and the suffering beauty who was 
trying not to scream. In simple bondage he would discuss with her the most 
appealing pose or the manner in which she might, ineffectually, struggle to 
escape. Often he took pictures. 

It was Sir Humphrey who opened the dungeon door that first morning. The 
sleeping beauty had been awake for a long time, playing with her chains and 
collar and suffering the ancient fear of all such prisoners of being 
forgotten and left to die. Pamela rose in greeting and advanced the length 
of her metal tether. 

"Lovely as ever, my dear. Got a sore rump?" 

Pamela had tenderly rubbed her whipped bottom with chained hands, but the 
worst part of the pain was past. Her immediate concern was to get out of the 
gloom and confinement of the dungeon. She had had enough. Not waiting for an 
answer, Sir Humphrey carried on. 

"That chain from your neck, my dear--simply marvelous effect! Now I'd like 
you to recline on the straw again. You know the pose--a sort of 
all-hope-is-gone despair." 

Pamela obliged. It was not hard to do. She did not have to act. Sir Humphrey 
moved this way and that, almost purring with content--exclaiming over the 
beauty he beheld. "You've a gift for being captive, dear gal. Every motion 
you make is a prisoner's pose. Anyway, we can't do too much more with you 
chained the way you are. I'll send Dolly to free you. Breakfast's in half an 
hour." 

Pamela attended the meal tastefully attired in a metal collar with ring, her 
wrists handcuffed, and heavy shackles on her feet. It was a daunting blend 
of ancient and modern. She was grateful for the handcuffs, she felt at home 
with them. They would impede her table manners very little. The expensive 
rugs deadened half the sound of the span of links snubbing her ankles as she 
walked. Her Master beamed approval. 

"Damn me, if that collar on your neck isn't the best of the lot!" he 
enthused. "Always wondered about those velvet chokers women wore. Someone 
knew something, that's a fact. How was the dungeon?" 

"I slept. I was so tired. But when I woke up and discovered how I was 
chained and could see that awful floor...." Pamela shuddered. "Ugh, it was 
awful! I was certain I was left there to die--that's the effect it has on a 
girl." 

"Go on. More detail, please. Be as graphic as you can." There was something 
engaging about his eagerness, his absorption with the magic of a chained 
maiden. Pamela herself caught a glimpse of the fantasy she made real for 
this aging man. She easily became eloquent.' "It's the hopelessness, that 
absolute cruelty of the bands around whatever parts of a girl you've 
chained. I can't get them off. They laugh at me. They allow me to move just 
so far from the wall, then tug me back. When my hands are chained together I 
have to use both hands at the same time to do anything. Then a girl sits and 
looks and looks at the way she's fastened and never quite believes she can't 
get free if only she knew the right thing to do. There isn't any right thing 
except the key, and someone else has that. You've no idea how wickedly 
frustrating it is for us." 

"You mentioned cruelty. How are the chains cruel?" 

"I suppose in their finality, their implacability. They're a lot more 
comfortable than being tied with that twine you use on my wrists, and I'm 
sure the twine is every bit as impossible to get free from. But with rope 
and twine and straps you cherish a hope, you have something to struggle for. 
But it's silly to struggle against chains, they leave you no hope at all." 

"Wonderful. You articulate superbly. Damn it, that young man in Saunda is 
luckier than he knows. Do you think I could make him an offer--cash, I 
mean--without giving offense?" 

"I don't think he wants to sell me. He values your influence more than 
money. You will help him, won't you?" 

"Of course I will!" Sir Humphrey beamed. "For thirty days of you I'd do a 
lot--and we've made a deal." He gobbled bacon. "Might be a good idea to give 
you a glimpse of what I have in mind for you, my dear." He added toast and 
munched happily. "There's that torture chamber I showed you. Never had a 
chance to try it out. What do you say we give it a go?" Pamela was aghast. 
"You mean... torture me?" 

"Well, not all the way, y'know. Nothing too drastic. Take the rack, for 
instance," he said, beaming benignly. "I could stretch you out up to where 
it starts to hurt bad, then leave it at that. Get the effect but no real 
pain." 

"I don't think you can use any of those things without hurting me." 

"You won't mind a little discomfort, will you?" He gazed at her anxiously. 

"No, I suppose not." 

"Nothing to be frightened about." 

Pamela wished she could agree. The metal locked upon her had become twice as 
heavy as tight. On impulse, she asked, "You keep me chained or tied quite 
helplessly, so what happens if I say no to what you want to do to me?" 

"Do it anyway, dear gal," he assured blandly. "Might have to call in young 
Dolly if you cut up rough. But we'd get you fastened. Shows the value of the 
chains on you now. Makes 'em valid, eh?" 

"Please, Sir Humphrey, don't be too rough on me. I'm only a girl. I don't 
ever want to scream. I hate screaming." 

"Can always gag you. Got some lovely gags," Sir Humphrey offered helpfully. 
"Not that keen on screams myself." 

"I didn't mean it quite that way. I don't want to be put in a position where 
I can't help screaming." 

"Ah, yes. Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Her Master's 
tone was vague. "Can't be splitting hairs." Pamela was willing to split all 
the hairs Sir Humphrey might produce, but deemed it best not to say so. She 
glanced down at her cuffed hands. Sure, she was used to handcuffs, but with 
them on her wrists she could never fight effectively. They ensured her doing 
what she was told. She gave her companion her full attention as he 
continued. 

"There's another thing in that torture place I've always been curious about 
but never tried--a simple device actually--called the horse." 

"It's terrible. I've read about it in books!" 

"Well, all you do is sit, y'know." 

"Yes, but the way you have to sit!" Pamela was concerned. "A girl's feet are 
tied way out to either side, so all her weight is dead center on--on--" 

"That's right, my dear, right on the cunt. But the pose itself is 
remarkable." 

"I know. My hands would be tied behind my back and raised up so as to make 
me bend forward." 

"Wonderful! I can see you know more about it than I do." Sir Humphrey 
beamed. "We must certainly try that one. I can get some pictures." 

"But the thing is torture. Oh, please!" 

"Won't leave you on it long--just enough for a few snaps." 

"But--Oh, well." The captive girl resigned herself to the deed and decided 
not to argue. Perhaps it might never happen. She was not yet certain of the 
strange mixture which made Sir Humphrey tick. Once more, she wished herself 
back in Saunda. Pensively, she ate toast. 

"Young Makinda ever hang you up by your thumbs?" 

The bizarre query was as innocent of cruelty as all the rest, but the 
captive girl made her reply emphatic. "Good heavens, no! I think that would 
be terrible." 

"Interesting, though, eh?" 

"I wouldn't have any thumbs left." 

"Wondered about that. Never heard of a girl losing her thumbs, though. I'll 
give it a bit of thought. Now, with a chamois leather--" 

"Please don't do that to me." 

"Not to worry--wouldn't keep you long." He mused thoughtfully. "Have to be 
away a few hours. Business, y'know. Give us a chance for a nice bit of 
bondage. I do dearly love to tie a girl up." 

"That would be nice." It was a relief for Pamela to honestly agree to 
something. 

"Thought I'd make as much use of the twine as possible." Pamela did not like 
the twine. Innocently, she asked, "Don't you have a cage or something to 
lock me in? Not the dungeon--" 

"Now that you mention it, I do--it's a damn fine cage for a girl--but the 
weather's so lovely I thought I'd tie you outdoors." 

It was pointless to complain. After all, being tied was her reason for being 
at Tillson Castle. With her ankles still shackled and her wrists handcuffed, 
she dutifully walked beside Sir Humphrey beyond the gardens and into the 
park. She was given the privilege of carrying the twine while her companion 
carried the rope with which she would be bound. 

"A nice breath of fresh air, my dear. Give you a change." 

"Isn't there a danger of someone finding me?" 

"None. This is England. No trespassing, y'know." 

The girl about to be made helpless wished she was equally sure. If the 
possibility did exist, it would no doubt act as a titillation for the peer 
at her side. Pamela knew she herself would be alert to every sound. The 
woods were lovely but with an eerie solitude." 

"Big tree's no good," Sir Humphrey said decisively. "A smallish trunk's much 
the best. Ah, here's the one!" 

Pamela thrust her bare back against the rough bark. Her whipped bottom 
complained, but what was the use! Sir Humphrey unlocked her hands and 
pocketed the cuffs, then gathered her bare arms in back and crossed her 
wrists. Heroically, the naked girl kept quiet while the twine bit its way 
into her skin. Around and around, over and under, Pamela's wrists were 
unkindly welded together with Sir Humphrey's favorite twine. There was no 
need to tie her beyond this simple binding, but, of course, it would not be 
considered enough. When Sir Humphrey stepped away, Pamela wiggled her bound 
hands behind the slender tree. She could never get free and said so 
forcibly. 

"Ah, yes, my sweet, but you're forgetting the aesthetics. In a full frontal 
view there's not a bit of rope or handcuff to be seen." 

The omission was soon corrected. Rope circled Pamela's waist, band after 
band, one of which clamped her bound wrists hard to the trunk. It was bound 
so tight into her tummy she felt divided into two parts. At waist level she 
and the tree were one. Sir Humphrey backed away and gazed judicially 
"Lovely, lovely! I'm going to leave you like that, just your hands and 
middle bound. Beautiful picture, yes. Frustrate you no end." 

"It's terribly tight." 

"And so it should be! Think I'll leave your feet shackled the way they are. 
By the way, you walk remarkably well when hobbled." 

"Thank you." 

"And the collar too. I'm thinking of leaving that on you all the time. Could 
get something more ornate, but that black iron against your throat--it has a 
quality! And the ring on it has something of its own--a suggestion." 

"I'm glad you're pleased with me." 

Nobility consulted its watch. "Damn me, I'm going to have to rush. Important 
appointment. Sure you'll be all right?" 

The query was ridiculous, but Pamela said yes, she was okay. She was not 
looking forward to being left alone. 

"I'll be thinking of you like this all day. Exquisite!" 

"Am I going to be left like this all day?" Pamela's query was polite but 
anxious. 

"Yes. Give you a chance to enjoy a bit of good old fashioned bondage. Don't 
suppose you've had anything like this, eh?" 

"No, not exactly." 

Sir Humphrey was still intent on his naked prize. "Marvelous bit of 
composition," he congratulated himself. "Beautiful balance. That collar! You 
make a lovely picture, dear girl." 

"I hope I look as nice when you come back." 

"Of course you will. I must remember to bring the camera. You'll register 
just the right amount of fatigue by then. It enhances. Lens always picks it 
up." 

The girl tied to the tree watched her Master amble off into the trees. Quiet 
settled like a pall. She kicked a chained foot to create sound, then thrust 
her nudity back against the tree. She would save struggling for later. It 
would be something to do even though it was useless. She took a deep breath 
to sigh, but the ropes around her waist complained and bit back. She 
desisted and looked around to assess her plight. She was tied tightly to a 
tree in an English park, far from her home in America, far from the man she 
desired in Saunda. She had become the feminine toy of a British nobleman, a 
living breathing toy which could be hurt, know pain, weep in loneliness. She 
thought of Barbie dolls and little girls. But Sir Humphrey was not a little 
girl; he was an English nobleman who wanted a captive girl, and she was the 
captive girl! She stirred restlessly. 

No doubt her frustration was intentional. Free above her waist and below--at 
the moment her shackled feet did not count. Pamela wondered about freedom 
and the tantalizing fact of her inability to accept it. If someone came and 
offered to untie her, she would refuse. She did not want to be tempted. His 
lordship could tantalize her endlessly with possibilities of escape. It was 
surprising he had not thought of it. Perhaps he had! 

As usual, Pamela reflected bitterly on how a little rope could render a lot 
of girl helpless. The constriction around her middle was brutal, and her 
hands felt lost and far away. She doubted she would struggle at all; she 
would only punish her with pain. But to stand like this against a tree all 
day! She could almost hear Sir Humphrey chuckling over a vision of her 
plight. She could kick her shackled feet, one at a time, but that was all. 

Pamela Prentiss was trying to guess the passage of time when she heard the 
sound. She hoped she had served at least three hours of her sentence and was 
bleakly contemplating the balance of her day when the twig snapped and there 
came the murmur of voices from the rear. She tried to turn but could not. 
Pulse quickening, she awaited the invasion of her captivity--the one thing 
she had been assured would not happen. 

They were a nondescript pair, a boy and a girl about twelve, bright-eyed and 
grubby. There could be no doubt that the discovery of Miss Pamela Prentiss 
tied naked to her tree was a major event for them. All three gazed at each 
other breathlessly. It was hard to be authoritative in her present state but 
Pamela tried. 

"You'd best run along before someone comes. You're not supposed to be here." 

It was as though she had remained silent. They gazed upon her pinioned 
nakedness, entranced. Each part of her womanhood was examined and commented 
on. She was a bonanza, an El Dorado of riches. The tied girl was certain she 
was about to be pawed--and worse. 

With artificial cheerfulness, she suggested, "I expect it would be best if 
you untied me." 

"You wanna be untied?" the girl asked doubtfully. 

"Yes, I'd be grateful if you would." 

"If you wanna be untied, then we ain't gonna do it." 

The captive heart plummeted. These were a pair of merciless brats. Masking 
fear, she strove for a light carelessness. "Okay. Have a good look at me, 
then run along. You'll get in trouble if you're caught inside the park." 

"What do you want, Gertie, her tits or her twat?" 

"I got some of me own. You oughta know that, Sammy," Gertie retorted. "Maybe 
not as big as hers, but you said they was lovely." 

"C'mon, I'm goin' to feel 'er up. She can't do nothin'." Sammy made a brief 
inspection. Satisfied the captive girl could do nothing to defend herself, 
he grasped one of Pamela's breasts in each hand and fingered them gleefully. 
"Crikey, Gertie, you oughta get a feel of these 'ere!" A hand fell lower to 
insert itself between tightly clamped thighs and cup her tied sex with a 
loving intimacy. "And grab a handful of this 'ere cunt. You ain't got 
nothin' like it." 

Gertie sniffed at this denigration of her charms. "It's probably been well 
used," she said disdainfully. "Wonder what she's got her feet chained for." 

"Stop her from runnin', silly." 

"I know that. If you kick her ankle, she'll get her legs apart real quick 
and give you a chance to feel her proper." 

"No, don't!" Pamela said urgently. "I'll spread my feet as far as the chain 
lets me." Unhappily, she did so and was rewarded by a wise finger inserting 
itself between her labia, piercing her sheath. 

"I'm right in there," Sammy said excitedly. "What say we make her come?" 

"She ain't gonna like it--and we are trespassing." 

"She can't do nothin'. We can do what we like with her. C'mon." 

Gertie obeyed. A naked full grown woman, tied helplessly for her pleasure, 
was a rare treat. The untidy little slattern shelved her scruples and took 
possession of Pamela's left nipple between avid lips. She sucked and bit 
busily while teasing the right nipple with knowing fingertips. 

"Stop it! Leave me alone. You'll get into trouble." 

They paid no heed to Pamela's plaint. They had her! All three of them knew 
it. The helpless girl was sickened by the prospect of being brought to 
orgasm by these grubby fingers and hungry lips. But these two were skilled; 
they knew what they were doing. She could not fight their insidious 
attentions. Strive as she might to fight it back, the rising ride of arousal 
from nipples and vagina would have its way, and she would gasp and moan in 
climax for the delectation of a pair of children. In rebellion, she 
struggled--tearing against her bonds, kicking with chained feet. 

"See, she likes it!" Sammy exulted. "We must be gettin' to 'er. And she 
can't do nothin', not a thing. Someone sure did tie 'er tight." 

It hurt to struggle. Pamela desisted. Reason told her it did not matter. 
What was one orgasm, more or less, even though provoked by a pair of 
urchins? Reluctantly, she thrust back against the trunk and delivered 
herself to carnal sensation. It was a kind of rape, and there was nothing 
she could do about it. She closed her eyes while the mouth and fingers fed 
upon her body. The tide rose steadily! 

"You here again! You little twits!" 

The mouth and the fingers were gone. The retreat of their owners could be 
heard, diminishing in the trees. 

"Having the time o' their lives," Dolly said truculently. "I see 'em in the 
park before. Little buggers! I'll speak to his nibs." 

"Oh, Dolly, they made me so ashamed." 

"Tryin' to make you come, were they?" 

"They weren't just trying." 

Dolly giggled. "You're all pink and excited. Want me to finish you off?" 

It was outrageous to be at the mercy of others--to be so helplessly 
dependent--but Pamela's response was instant. "Oh, Dolly, yes! Please! 
I'm--I'm all--" The maid had brought water for the prisoner. She decanted 
some of it on a handkerchief and sponged down two captive breasts. "Don't 
just fancy 'em right after that little so-and-so," she complained. "There, 
that's better. You sure do have lovely breasts, Miss Prentiss." A moment 
later her mouth was even busier than Gertie's, her fingers kinder than 
Sammy's could ever be. The bound girl looked down upon the intent and busy 
head and was grateful. Dolly was a darling. When the maid's cupped hand 
found the captive labia it was like an old friend coming home. Pamela sighed 
in thankfulness and in mounting arousal. Sammy and Gertie were forgotten. 

When Pamela had made her journey to the stars and returned to Tillson 
Castle's park and her tree, she was given water to drink. The eyes of the 
two girls were level, imparting female messages and female longings. Pamela 
voiced a hope her visitors had made urgent. "Dolly, are you going to let me 
loose?" 

"You know I'm not, Miss Prentiss. You shouldn't ask." 

"But it's going to be awful, standing here like this, knowing they may come 
back." 

"Those kids!" Dolly laughed. "No, you won't see them again today." 

"All right then, but what's to stop others?" 

Dolly giggled. "Well, nothing, really. But I expect his nibs wants to keep 
you a bit anxious. I'd say it was a chance in a hundred." She playfully 
tweaked a demanding nipple. "Do you want me to untie you? We could have an 
hour's fun. Then I'd have to tie you up again." 

The prisoner had rarely been more tempted. But she sadly mourned, "You 
couldn't ever tie me the same way, not so Sir Humphrey wouldn't know." 

"I'll take a chance, Miss Prentiss. I'm horny." 

"I'm frightened. He's been talking about taking me down to that awful 
torture chamber and trying everything out. If I make him angry, he might do 
it for real." Anxiously, she added, "Has he ever--has he ever done that with 
any of the other girls he's had here?" 

"Well, I don't think he meant to. But it's so easy to push or pull something 
too hard." The maid tittered. "I don't think his nibs understands the places 
where girls hurt. I suspect we're just pretty female toys with lovely 
breasts and cunts and things to play with." 

"I think we'd best play it safe, Dolly." 

"Yes, I suppose, but you look so sweet tied the way you are to that 
tree--your hands in back, your tummy tucked in." Dolly drank in Pamela's 
helpless nudity and giggled coyly. "Would you like me to--you know--to do it 
again?" 

"Yes, please." 

Dolly did it again. It was by far the best part of the captive's day. It 
kept Pamela in a roseate dream for an hour after the maid had returned to 
the castle. 

The downstairs chamber with its ugly accouterments remained very much in 
Pamela's mind. His lordship, too, was enamored by visions of the lovely body 
now in his possession --bound, clamped, or strapped on or in the ancient 
instruments for imposing pain. "Can't possibly send you back to Saunda 
without a bit of a tryout, can we now?" he enquired amiably. "Young 
Makinda's certain to want you to try everything." 

"I don't think he wants me tortured." 

"You mentioned that before. Who said anything about torture?" 

"Well, it is a torture chamber and they are torture instruments," Pamela 
ventured cautiously. "Couldn't you hurt me in more modern ways?" 

"Nonsense!" Sir Humphrey patted her bare bottom in a fatherly way. "Not the 
same thing at all. What we're seeking is atmosphere. You'll see what I 
mean." 

Pamela saw all too well. She stood with her owner beside the rack, sensing 
the cruel intent of the heavy timbers and the wheel. "Those ropes and straps 
aren't ancient at all," she pointed out reasonably. "They're almost brand 
new." 

"Well, yes, just had 'em on a couple of girls this past year." He vented a 
satyr chuckle. "Can't have things falling apart in the middle of the 
experiment, can we?" 

"No, I suppose not." 

"Cheer up, girl. Trust me. Now, can I help you get into position?" 

"Shouldn't I wear a little something across--over my hips? I'm going to be 
shockingly exposed." 

"Don't be silly. Prisoners to be tortured were always naked. I suppose you 
were referring to your cunt?" 

"Yes, I was, but I suppose it doesn't matter. It belongs to you like all the 
rest of me." 

"Splendid girl! Up you go!" 

It would be so easy to laugh. Pamela wished she could, but the grim 
implement, within which she now disposed her nudity, discouraged levity. She 
was trembling as Sir Humphrey buckled soft leather straps upon her wrists 
and ankles raising her bare arms above her head. 

"Please don't torture me," she begged pathetically. 

"And now the wheel, my dear." Sir Humphrey spun the heavy circle to tighten 
both ropes and girl. Feeling the first tension, Pamela gasped. 

"How's that?" Sir Humphrey enquired. 

"I can bear this," Pamela said comfortably. 

"Of course you can. We haven't started yet. All this amounts to is you're 
strapped up. I must say, you do look most ravishing!" 

"Thank you, sir." 

"Now, one more notch--and another--" Pamela yelped, more in fright than 
agony. The rack was frightening. Each of the last two had taken her further 
than she wished to go. She was now taut, unable to move. She longed to raise 
her head to look, but the strain was too great. Piteously, she pleaded, 
"Please, not any more. Please!" 

"Lovely effect." Sir Humphrey beamed at his work. "Of course, it's your body 
that counts. Pity you can't see yourself. Now we'll try one more." 

Pamela screamed. Once again it was shock and apprehension more than actual 
pain. But pain was present. Her rib cage was distended, her breathing 
difficult, her breasts tautly flattened. Her stomach was a flat plane over 
which Sir Humphrey's hand traced a loving path down through his captive's 
pubic hair to clasp her sex and knead it fondly. "Shame to cover this up," 
the nobleman mused thoughtfully. "Amazing contours this gets out of you. And 
don't mind that scream. They always scream just about there." 

"I can't move. And it's hard to breathe." 

A noble hand cupped Pamela's left breast in clinical concern. Its mate 
continued to ply the moist labia between stretched thighs. "Good strong 
heartbeat," Sir Humphrey announced with assurance. "You're a fine strong 
girl. Just made for this sort of thing. How about one more notch?" 

"I couldn't bear it. Oh, please!" 

The wracked beauty never knew if it was the ropes, the straps, or her own 
nakedness which absorbed the extra turn of the wheel Sir Humphrey now 
imposed. She moaned piteously, knowing herself tightened out of natural 
contours, straight as a boy. The tug was everywhere. All her loveliness was 
paying tribute to the rack. She longed to scream, but could not spare the 
breath. And what good would it do! Pamela was enmeshed in a strange sort of 
pain like nothing she had ever known before. She moaned steadily while the 
aristocratic voice continued its thoughtful comment. 

"Now, the plank you're laying on, my dear--I'm supposed to be able to remove 
it and you remain just as you are. I suppose 'suspended' is the word." He 
fumbled happily. 

One more shock! The naked girl was stretched horizontally from wristlets and 
anklets, without other support, surrounded by air. She knew herself as taut 
as a bow string, unaware of her own moans of distress. Sir Humphrey was 
solicitous. "Wouldn't have missed this for the world," he assured her 
blithely. "You are quite incredible. Oh, by the way, did I get you aroused 
when I was fondling your cunt?" 

"Yes." The affirmative came out doubtfully. 

"Have to do something about that, eh! Can't leave you like this while you're 
hot and bothered. His had rediscovered the taut sex and plied it with skill. 

"No! Oh, no! Please don't!" Pamela's appeal was distraught. To be sent into 
the throes of orgasm while stretched thus was a frightening prospect; some 
part of her would suffer injury. Lamely, she added, "Please, don't do it to 
me. I don't want it. Oh, please, don't make me come!" 

"Poppycock, dear gal! Should be a transcendental explosion you'll always 
remember. You'll thank me." 

"I won't! Oh, really! Oh--oh--oh--!" 

It was wonderful. It was not to be borne. It was terrible. It was also 
glorious, a screaming stress in which all of the stretched nudity seemed 
bathed in a hot incandescence Pamela could not control. She could control 
nothing. She was held suspended, legs apart, while Sir Humphrey's hand 
fulfilled its mission. At the height of the outrageous explosion, the 
screams of Miss Pamela Prentiss were continuous, mounting one atop another 
in a crescendo of sensation she could not name. 

"See, I told you so." Sir Humphrey was complacent in achievement. "You 
should have seen your face, and the way you tossed your head. Simply 
magnificent!" He beamed benignly. "I'll leave you alone for awhile. I'm sure 
you'll want a rest. I think you're stretched enough; this has worked out 
very well." 

Pamela wanted to tell him not to leave her, to set her free, that she could 
not possibly endure being left as a stretched victim of the rack. But Sir 
Humphrey had made good his escape, neatly avoiding the bound girl's 
lamentations. Pamela relapsed into a keening moan that went on and on and 
on. She could not move. All of her was stressed. Her head fell back and she 
closed her eyes. 

Sir Humphrey's prisoner spent most of her fateful thirty days in simple 
bondage, a succession of tyings which she never managed to get free from. 
She spent a great deal of time striving to rid herself of ropes, straps, or 
chains without an iota of success. But it was something to do as the hours 
of her constraints slipped slowly by. Her lonely immobilities were 
interspersed with pain and sometimes agony. Strangely, there was also 
laughter. Sometimes she fell from grace because of thoughtless words and was 
sentence to a night in the dungeon. She hated the dungeon and its heavy 
chains, and knew she was put there as a true punishment. As a prisoner, she 
worked very hard at being well behaved. It was not always easy. 

There was her day in stocks. Sir Humphrey announced it at breakfast, 
assuring Pamela of the pleasure she would derive during his day in town 
thinking of her forlorn nakedness standing with wrists and neck locked in 
the pillory. His approach was, as usual, blithely cheerful. "No pain at all, 
dear girl. You just stand. People can stop and talk if they feel like it." 

"Thank you. I hope I'll enjoy it." 

"Being cautious, eh? Last night in the dungeon did you good." Sir Humphrey 
chuckled. "You'll love our pillory. It's in the middle of the great hall. 
There is one in the courtyard, though if you prefer the outdoors--" 

"No, I'm sure the great hall will be lovely." 

"Finest oak, my dear. All three holes made small especially for females. 
Never been a man in it." The feminine prisoner supposed it would be no worse 
than being tied to a tree or Sir Humphrey's bed post through the night. But 
it was worse. Within an hour of placing her neck and wrists in the waiting 
half circles and having the yoke come down and lock her in place, she knew 
she was going to hate the pillory with a bitter venom. It held and exhibited 
her in shame and discomfort. Her neck and wrists were snugly held so she 
must stand. The rest of her was an untidy nudity to be jeered at. She could 
hide nothing. Anyone could touch her, but she could not touch back. Stiff 
and forlorn after two hours of yoked helplessness, she shed a few tears and 
watched them splash on the stone below. 

Dolly summed it up: "His nibs put me in it once. I thought I'd die. 
Everybody grins as they go by and the fellows grab a handful of your cunt." 

There was not much traffic, and what there was acted with discretion. After 
all, the girl now in the pillory was the Master's favorite. It would be wise 
not to antagonize. Dolly was simply a serving wench who had lipped off at 
her employer; that was different. They smiled in passing or stopped to pass 
the time of day. None offered to set her free. Their calm acceptance of her 
condition made Pamela long to scream. 

There was also Pamela's time on the horse. She explained that she had 
already suffered this agony between her legs, but Sir Humphrey was adamant. 
She must sit upon the horse because she would look extraordinarily aesthetic 
when fastened in place. Pamela disagreed, saying she just looked contorted 
and out of shape. When she pleaded for a broader pole to sit astride to 
lessen her agony, she was sentenced right there to another night in chains 
in the dungeon. Slave and Master were tight lipped as they finished the 
preparation for her torture. It was not until Pamela was solidly fastened 
astride the awful bar, legs dragged wide to each side, bound arms raised 
behind her back to ensure her maximum weight upon her innocent pussy, that 
the question of the duration of her ordeal was mentioned. In agony, she 
dared not ask. Sir Humphrey ran true to form. 

"How about a couple of hours, my dear?" 

The bound girl looked at him askance. Two hours astride the bar was a brutal 
punishment, and she had done nothing wrong! In a sudden compassion, Sir 
Humphrey eased her punishment. "Oh, very well! No need to look like a dying 
duck. You can sit there for an hour. Surely you can manage that." 

The girl, agonized between her thighs, was grateful. She said humbly, not 
telling him that even one hour was awful beyond words. After drinking in the 
punished loveliness of his creation, he abruptly left. The girl astride the 
bar was glad to be alone with her pain. Sometimes she thought of the night 
ahead. 

One by one, they worked their way through the versatility of the Tillson 
Castle torture chamber. But most of the devices failed to please. The girl 
to be punished kept a discreet brake upon her tongue, refraining from 
pointing out the inconsistency of expecting a girl enduring torture to look 
her best. The instruments of another age had been fabricated only for pain 
without thought for feminine shape and form, other than to clamp it tight 
and make it scream. Sir Humphrey waved them all away in disappointed 
disgust. Pamela must always be beautiful. It was a precept for which Pamela 
was supremely grateful. 

To hang his slavegirl from the battlements was an idea all Sir Humphrey's 
own. Neither of them knew of any historical precedent. He was proud of the 
concept and only mildly peeved by Pamela's dismay. 

"Think of the view, dear gal," he urged absurdly. 

"But everyone will be able to see me hanging there. It's bound to cause 
trouble." 

"Nonsense. We'll suspend you on the south side. You'll get the sun and 
there'll be no one there to see." 

"But suppose I fall." 

"How can you? You'll be tied securely. Have faith." Pamela sighed and went 
to meet her fate on the battlements of Tillson Castle. Sir Humphrey and a 
gardener had rigged a scaffold and a winch. The rope from the winch was tied 
around Pamela's bound hands. Both men looked at the naked girl expectantly. 

"Well, over you go, my dear." 

"Am I supposed to jump?" 

"Of course not. How silly of me. Here, Robson, give me a hand with her. We 
have to let her down gently until the winch takes hold." 

She was lowered with loving care, then allowed to swing free from six feet 
from the wall. Below her was an abyss of space, and out beyond the view her 
Master had promised. Pamela gasped as she swung and twisted at the end of 
her rope. The winch lowered her ten feet to divorce her entirely from human 
contact. Her wrists burned, her shoulders were wracked, but she had been 
suspended by her wrists before. She would survive. Still--all the space, and 
the warm air all around and beneath--it was frightening! Pamela spared a 
glance up to her tied hands, then turned in horror from the slenderness of 
the rope by which she was suspended in mid-air. No doubt it was modern 
nylon. But still--! 

Her feet were free. Only her wrists were bound. Pamela kicked, she pedaled 
an invisible bike as though to find stability, but another glance up at the 
battlements showed the pinkly engrossed features of the two men who had 
placed her thus. Instantly she desisted and hung limp. They would laugh at 
her flailing legs. When she looked up again the faces were gone. She resumed 
such motion as gave her easement, but nothing she could do would truly ease 
her travail. She was a nude girl suspended in space--a great deal of 
space--and she would remain thus between the sky and the soil until her 
Master chose to drag her back to safety. She was certain that would be a 
long, long time. 

Pamela the slavegirl turned her thoughts to Saunda and the male there she 
called Master. Wryly, she confessed to herself that she was a slave by 
choice. Makinda's ropes and Sir Humphrey's chains were no more potent than 
the love which compelled her to give herself to his lordship's whims and to 
Jacob Makinda's demands. She hung as she was now by her own choice. Wanly, 
she supposed she should have had more sense. 

The view was undoubtedly good, a charming countryside. Pamela did not repeat 
her look down. If the rope broke--but she banished the thought. Ropes never 
broke when they were used to bind her, so why should they now? She resigned 
herself to a day swinging beneath the battlements. Her wrists hurt horribly. 

The day came when, before breakfast, she was handed a newspaper by a beaming 
nobleman. Its less headlines blared: "Saunda Security Assured" and "Pact 
Makes Saunda Safe." Then, with less ostentation, "Plans for Stupendous Dam 
in South" and Prosperity Insured." Pamela read them breathlessly, then 
looked across the table, eyes bright. "You kept your promise. Oh, thank 
you!" Careless of hobbling chains or handcuffs, she circled the table and 
kissed her pleased Master again and again, pointing out that if he cared to 
unlock her handcuffs she would hug him too. 

"Damn me, I wish some wench loved me as much," Sir Humphrey grumbled in mock 
mourning. "But you've been a damn good girl. You've made me very happy." He 
sighed. "Never replace you, never." He cocked an eyebrow across to where the 
slave had resumed her chair. "Tomorrow's our last day." 

Happy and excited, Pamela threw caution to the wind. "I want to make it good 
for you," she said sincerely. "I don't want to be whipped and return to 
Saunda in weals, but do anything else you like to me. I won't complain." She 
smiled into male adoration and added naively, "I want to give you something, 
and all I have to give you is me. I'll be a good sport about whatever you 
choose, honest!" 

"You're too good to be true, my dear." Sir Humphrey gazed adoringly across 
the breakfast things. "But no, I couldn't possibly." 

"Couldn't what?" 

"Never mind. I do have a few gentlemanly instincts left." 

"Master, don't tease. It's something you'd love to do to me, isn't it?" 

"Never mind. You hate is so terribly." 

Light dawned. Pamela instantly guessed her fate. "It's the horse, I just 
know it. You want to sit me on the horse?" 

"Well, really!" 

"And you want my pussy on it for the longest time?" 

"My dear, I am ashamed." 

"Don't be--it was my idea." 

"Pamela, you are incredible." 

"All you have to do is keep me chained so I won't run away." 

And thus it came about that Miss Pamela Prentiss spent the whole of her last 
day astride the hated horse. But she spent the night in Sir Humphrey's bed, 
and no one was more astonished at the result than Sir Humphrey himself. 

The following day a hired limousine took an excited slavegirl to Heathrow 
Airport. She and Sir Humphrey said their goodbyes at the castle gate. It was 
a warm and tearful goodbye with vows to meet again. His lordship watched the 
limousine out of sight, then turned sadly back to a house suddenly desolate. 
Regretfully, he considered making do with Dolly. The girl did have an 
excellent bottom for the cane. He sighed, and decided a riding crop might be 
best. 

In the speeding car Pamela was agog with happiness. She would soon be in 
Saunda. She scarcely noticed the second uniformed figure beside the driver. 
But when the car stopped outside the park, this figure got out and joined 
her in the back seat. 

It was Miss Blettishjohn. 

The tussle was short. In moments Miss Pamela Prentiss's hands were 
handcuffed behind her back. Her ankles were similarly locked. Helpless, she 
was propped up in a corner of the big seat, her features stricken with 
horror. 

"What you need, girl, is a sound thrashing," said Miss Blettishjohn equably 
and with relish. "I intend to see you get it." 

"But you can't do this!" 

"It is already done." 

"But where are you taking me?" 

"To Lady Alicia Stagworthy," said Miss Blettishjohn. "She intends to thrash 
you too. You will be well looked after." 

 CHAPTER SIX - NO ESCAPE 

Miss Pamela Prentiss wept softly, careful not to wake the woman sleeping 
beside her on the bed. She could not take her grief elsewhere. The metal 
collar around her neck and its eight foot chain to the wall made certain she 
would share Lady Alicia's resting place. But she could not sleep. Misery had 
her in thrall, and the tears fell one by one to wet her pillow. 

It was too cruel. Saunda was gone. Jacob Makinda was now only a dream. Sir 
Humphrey had receded into limbo. Lady Alicia Stagworthy had neatly summed it 
up: "You're too precious to let go, darling. You're simply gorgeous. You can 
eat me forever and ever." 

"Let me go! You can't possibly keep me prisoner." 

"Oh, but I can, you sweet thing, and I will. If anyone comes looking, you'll 
be safely tucked out of sight." 

"That woman! I hate her! She says she's going to thrash me." 

Lady Alicia trilled laughter. "Our good Miss Blettishjohn! She's been so 
useful. She planned this whole abduction for me. Wasn't it super the way 
she's carried you from the car and set you kneeling here on the rug before 
me like a sweet little slave? You are a slave, y'know. You'd best face the 
facts." 

"I'm not a slave! Not yours anyway." Pamela had glared up at her new owner. 
"Look, I'm due in Saunda--" 

"Your nigger potentate, darling? I bet he's got a huge cock, eh?" 

The jibe was not worth answering. Fretfully, Pamela tugged at the steel 
circlets around her wrists. "Jacob Makinda and Sir Humphrey will tear this 
place apart looking for me. Let me go." 

"Do those handcuffs bother you, dear?" 

"Of course they do! They make me helpless, and that bitch of a woman put 
them on too tight." 

"That's just lovely, dear. Exactly as I want you." Lady Alicia knelt and 
kissed rebellious lips. "But you are going to have to learn how to be polite 
and obedient. Would you like your first whipping now?" 

"What on earth would you whip me for? I haven't done anything." 

Lady Alicia smiled. "But you're not exactly a cooperative captive, are you?" 

"There's no reason why I should be. You're holding me prisoner against my 
will. You're committing a crime." Pamela twisted against her shining steel 
bonds. "Take these handcuffs off me. They do no good. I'm sure I can't get 
out of this house." 

"I like you as you are." Alicia patted a flushed cheek and resumed her 
chair. "You know why I want you, don't you?" 

"Yes, you're a rotten lesbian." 

"But you will make love to me." 

"No, I won't." 

"That's where the whip comes in, darling," Lady Alicia sighed happily. "A 
whip changes a girl's mind delightfully." The kneeling girl had no delusions 
about her condition. She was helpless and lost and faced a new imprisonment 
from which she would not easily escape. Sulkily, she conceded, "Very well, 
you've got me. I'll do what you want. There's no sense getting myself 
whipped." 

"But, darling, you absolutely must be whipped." Alicia's voice was like the 
cooing of doves. "Having you whipped establishes a proper relationship. 
We'll get along much better after you're well striped." 

The slave took a deep breath. She was fighting for her skin. "I know all 
that. I've been whipped so much and so often, and it's nearly always with 
the same idea. Whipping me again won't do a bit of good." 

"But you've never been whipped by a woman for a woman, have you? No woman's 
ever whipped you into eating her pussy." 

"I told you I'll do it. Don't whip me." 

Lady Alicia pressed a bell. When it was answered her voice was honey. "Dear 
Miss Blettishjohn, please carry our little girl to her whipping. She's so 
delightfully helpless." 

It was hateful to be like a child in the arms of this woman she hated. But 
it was useless to struggle. Pamela did not try. The handcuffs bit at her 
with a personal venom. She recognized the room when they came to it. She 
supposed it like a thousand others around the world, a compartment dedicated 
to the pain of girls. Soon it would hear her scream. 

"I suggest you do not fight me, Miss Prentiss. You would only get hurt." 

The naked handcuffed girl was set on her feet below the hanging ropes. A key 
turned four times and she was free. But Pamela spared only a short wistful 
glance at the door. It was useless to try anything. Miss Blettishjohn could 
break her in two with ease. The woman also possessed a surprisingly agility. 
In hopeless resignation the captive girl allowed herself to be handled like 
a doll. Sulkily, she watched the leather wristlets strapped tight and the 
snaps from above ensnare their rings. Lady Alicia pressed a button. 

"How high would you like her, Miss Blettishjohn?" 

"Her heels barely off the floor, madam. Her behavior will be far more 
interesting if we leave her a small freedom." Pamela's hands rose and then 
her arms. They were wickedly spread apart, and when her heels left the floor 
and the motor stopped she knew her nakedness most cruelly exposed. Fear 
excised her mind. There would be nothing now but pain and fear. The time of 
pleading was past. To beg would be useless. Lady Alicia was smiling 
brightly. 

"The pose again, dear girl. Slightly more stringent but you are equally 
exquisite." Lady Alicia turned to the wardress. "The little beauty is 
slightly stretched, Miss Blettishjohn. I don't want her skin cut." 

"I will make allowances, madam." 

"We won't give her a number to count. You can whip her slowly until I tell 
you to stop." 

"Quite so, madam. Shall I commence?" 

"Are you ready to be whipped, darling?" 

Pamela hated the question. Whatever she said would be wrong. Pouting, she 
replied, "Of course I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. I don't want to be 
whipped at all." The tied girl took a quick frightened glance back across a 
raised arm. What she saw caused her to stare hurriedly away and complain. "I 
wish you wouldn't do this." 

"Isn't she sweet, Miss Blettishjohn? You may begin." Pamela cast heroism to 
the winds. She was being whipped only to break her spirit, and her spirit 
was already broken by this new and unexpected captivity. The pain she would 
suffer was useless pain. When the first stroke cut across her back she 
screamed. 

Miss Blettishjohn could kill her. It would be easy for such a woman to whip 
a girl to death. But the perfect control of the lashes now marking her skin 
was more frightening to the naked girl than savage blows. She was in the 
firm hands of a Mistress. Miss Blettishjohn was a capable and experienced 
punisher of girls. She would deliver each stroke with precision. Miss 
Blettishjohn's hatred for beautiful girls emanated from her like a tangible 
force. It was implicit in every blow on naked skin. 

Pamela wished she could keep still and remain mute. But she could do 
neither. Ruefully, she recognized Miss Blettishjohn's precept. She would 
indeed be more interesting to an audience because of a slight freedom. She 
found herself lunging and twisting, tugging at tied hands and screaming as 
each lash impacted an unexpected place upon her nudity. The wardress whipped 
Miss Pamela Prentiss methodically from knees to neck, her eyes drinking in 
avidly each contortion her thong evoked. The whipped girl lost count of the 
strokes. There seemed a great many before Lady Alicia trilled. 

"One moment, Miss Blettishjohn. I really must have a go at the darling 
myself. She's so beautiful." 

Pamela was panting and knew herself bedewed with the sweat of pain. Tuggins 
against raised arms, she watched the transfer of the whip, glad of a respite 
but fearful of what was still to come. The very moderation of the strokes 
meant they could whip her a long time before she lost consciousness. Without 
volition she heard her own voice. 

"Please don't whip me any more--please!" 

"Don't be tiresome, dear," Alicia admonished brightly. "You can't expect to 
be as gorgeous as you are and not get whipped. You're simply perfect. Now, 
please stretch your legs apart." 

"Oh, please, not in there!" Pamela was about to tell her of her sojourn on 
the horse the day before. Her pussy deserved no more punishment. But she 
desisted. It might be best not to inform of other punishments which might 
excite her new owner's curiosity. Lamely, she added instead, "I don't want 
my pussy whipped. It's awful. Please don't." 

"Well apart, darling. I'm not going to flog your cunt, you little silly. I'm 
just going to let the sweet thing know what discipline feels like." 

"I know what it feels like. I've been whipped there before." 

"So now you'll be whipped again. Open up." 

Pamela opened her legs and was rewarded by a stinging upward cut which 
caused her to squeal and dance in a wild gyration of anguish. 

"Beautiful, beautiful! Darling, you're a treasure. Now, just one more 
cunt-cut. Isn't that a delightful term?" 

It was wickedly cruel. Pamela did it justice by her most frantic contortion 
yet, legs flailing uselessly, and her wildest scream. The two women watched, 
enthralled, until the girl allowed herself to hang, gasping, from bound 
wrists. 

"I doubt the little bitch had a good thrashing her whole time at Tillson 
Castle," Miss Blettishjohn said bitterly. "A pretty little snippet like her 
could twist Sir Humphrey around her little finger. I'd judge her to need a 
good many strokes yet, madam." 

"I'm sure you're right, but I wonder if you'd leave me alone with Miss 
Prentiss for the rest of her punishment. Would you mind?" 

"As you please, madam." It was obvious to the punished girl that the 
wardress minded a lot and was departing with reluctance. "But I most 
strongly recommend the sternest measures. The girl did not bear a mark on 
her arrival. She probably has not been whipped for a month." 

"Thank you, Miss Blettishjohn. I'm sure cook can provide you with a cup of 
tea." 

The naked girl still tied for punishment knew a welling thankfulness as she 
watched the termagant depart. Alicia's whipping of innocent skin might be no 
less cruel, but she would use her whip as a form of adoration for a 
beautiful girl. Perhaps it would be easier to bear. She would soon find out, 
but first Pamela's sweating nudity was enveloped by warm arms and thrusting 
breasts. 

"I don't think I like her much myself," Alicia whispered between kisses. 
"Maybe I can get rid of her. I want you all my own." There were more kisses 
and a hot hand clutching a damp whipped cunt. "You do understand, don't you, 
darling? I mean, the reason I simply have to whip you and whip you? Do you 
understand?" 

"Yes, I think so. I'm sorry I was such a brat." 

"There, you see!" Lady Alicia was triumphant. "It's so terribly important to 
whip a girl right at the start. Now you won't mind me whipping you some 
more--quite a lot more?" 

"I'll mind, but I'll try and not resent it." 

"That was an intelligent answer. I'm so lucky I got you. Will you eat me now 
without acting silly?" 

"Yes, I promise." 

"But you still get whipped some more." 

"Yes, I understand. I'm sorry I can't keep still and be quiet --but it hurts 
so much! " 

"Don't apologize. I adore every sound and motion. Suppose I was real mean 
and told you to open up your legs again?" 

"I'd do it. I'd have to--wouldn't I?" 

"Try it, darling." 

Pamela opened up the inverted V of her thigh and leg. She had no thought of 
disobeying. She had never felt more helpless or more exposed. For a moment 
only she turned to watch Alicia swing the whip. 

The cut across the roundities of her bottom was as much a shock as if the 
heavy leather thong had bisected her crotch. Alicia cooed delighted 
laughter. "Surprise! Surprise!" 

Pamela was still writhing from the burn across her bottom when she was once 
again clasped and hugged. "Was that better, darling, or would you have 
preferred another across your pussy?" 

"It was better but--oh gee, it hurt terribly!" 

"Good! Now we have the preliminaries over and understand each other I'll 
give you a proper, sensible whipping. I expect I can find some bare spots 
the dragon missed." 

As she plunged and screamed, Pamela supposed the whipping Alicia was giving 
her might indeed be described as proper and sensible. It would not kill, but 
it was far from merciful. She delivered herself entirely to pain until a 
breathless Lady Alicia tossed aside her whip and said regretfully, "There, I 
think that's enough. I could whip you forever, you delectable creature." 

From a dark depth of hurt, Pamela's gasping gratitude was infinitely 
sincere. "Thank you--oh, thank you!" 

"Don't mention it. I loved every stroke. Now, darling, are you ready to love 
me?" 

"Oh, yes--yes! I would have done it for you without being whipped." 

"But not without sulking." 

"Well, no, I suppose that's right. I won't sulk now." Suddenly, Pamela's 
hands were again her own. The motor lowered her captive arms. She stood 
thankfully to watch the wristlets unbuckled and return toward the ceiling. 
When Lady Alicia picked up handcuffs, Pamela said, as politely as she could, 
"You really don't need those. I know I can't run away. I won't even try." 

"But I want them on you, darling. They make you twice as sweet. Turn around 
and put your arms in back." 

It did not matter. The naked girl shrugged and obeyed. Alicia took more care 
with the cuffs than the wardress had done, but they were still tight upon 
her wrists. "You like me helpless, don't you?" she asked curiously. 

"Surely you know it doubles your appeal, darling. You're almost unbearably 
beautiful with your marked skin and these handcuffs. I'm going to sit down. 
See if you know what to do next." 

It came so naturally. Pamela would forever wonder at the certainty in which 
she fell to her knees before the woman who had whipped her. "I know," she 
whispered. "I expect I'll always know." 

"Aren't you the girl who was demanding release?" 

"That was a foolish girl," Pamela said wistfully. "I won't be that girl any 
more." 

"Did the whipping change you?" 

"Yes." 

"Up you get! We're going to my bedroom. I've found it hard to wait this 
long. You're far too scrumptious." 

The handcuffed girl hated the thought of being changed by the whip, but the 
bites of the thong upon her flesh had told her clearly of a new and 
relentless slavery. She was still a prisoner, Lady Alicia's prisoner. Escape 
and freedom had vanished into limbo. She tugged at the steel on her wrists 
and knew she could never own her hands again. 

Alicia was beautiful. Beneath Pamela's enforced attention she tossed aside 
her clothes until she stood defiantly naked. She raised her arms and posed. 
"Mirror, mirror on the wall," she chanted. "Who's the loveliest of us, 
darling?" 

"I honestly don't know." Pamela felt her pulse throbbing at sight of the 
revealed breasts, the waist, the pubic hair. Striving for honesty, she said 
slowly, "I could easily say it's you, but I know I'm beautiful too. I really 
don't know. I don't think there's much to choose between us." 

"Poor Miss Blettishjohn. She'd love to look like us, but she never did and 
she never-will. That's what makes her such a bitch." Lady Alicia mused 
thoughtfully. "I bet if I offered to let her whip me she'd jump at the 
chance." 

"Of course she would. I think she still intends to give me another of what 
she calls a thrashing, one that's especially her own. Please don't let her. 
She'd half kill me." 

"Don't talk about her, darling. We have other things--" 

"Do you want to keep me handcuffed? I could do it better if I was free." 

"I like you as you are, darling. Now, first I'll stand and you'll be on your 
knees. I can look down and watch you hard at work. Look, dear, how far apart 
I've spread my legs for you." 

Pamela found her task surprisingly easy. Sinking to her knees and facing 
Alicia's pubic patch, she knew a thrill of pleasure at the neat slit her 
tongue must probe. A delicate scent came to her nostrils. She was suddenly 
aflame. 

Lady Alicia possessed a magic. She gave as well as took, laughing at 
Pamela's dazed bewilderment, lovingly tracing the weals upon her new slave's 
skin with a delicate fingertip. She found delight in the writhings and 
twistings her new slave must employ to compensate for the loss of hands so 
firmly ironed behind her back. In carnal excitation Pamela forgot her 
wounds, her punished loins and dainty cleft, so cruelly tender from her day 
upon the horse, slid away into a roseate haze of perfumed flesh and silvery 
laughter. It was long after bedtime when Alicia announced, "I'm tired out, 
darling. Let's sleep." Weariness enveloped Pamela like a cloak, but she was 
acutely conscious of the night and its possibilities of escape. Besotted as 
she might be with the perfumed beauty of her captor, freedom remained 
imperative. And in the background was Miss Blettishjohn and her whip and 
whatever else she could devise to hurt a girl. The woman was evil. But 
Pamela's hands were still fastened together behind her back. Tentatively, 
she asked, "Do you want me to sleep handcuffed?" 

"I have a little something for you, darling." 

Lady Alicia leaned over the side of the bed. There was a rattle of chain. 
Then she held up a gleaming silver band. "Isn't it lovely?" She smiled 
lovingly. "I do so want you to like it." Pamela looked at the collar with 
mixed emotions. It was truly a thing of beauty, but it was metal and had a 
lock and a chain ran from it to some unseen anchorage behind the bed. With 
the exquisite but implacable band locked around her neck she could forget 
escape. But she must not offend. "It's gorgeous," she enthused, then leaned 
forward to have it clasp upon her throat. "Mmm-mmmm!" The Mistress clicked 
the wide band shut and arranged it with its loop of chain to please herself. 
After moments of enraptured contemplation, she commanded, "Turn around, 
darling." 

Loss of the handcuffs was a compensation. The freeing of her hands was a 
surprise. She could have slept with them cuffed behind her back. Pamela's 
gratitude was real. "Thank you. Oh, honest, I'm so grateful." Her fingers 
flew to explore her latest bond. "It's so perfectly snug." 

"And wide enough so the tug of the chain won't hurt your neck." Alicia 
grinned. "I'm pleased with it. I almost envy you wearing it." She held up 
two keys and the handcuffs. "I'm putting these on the dress over there, 
darling--well beyond your reach. Don't bother to try." 

"I'm too tired to try." 

But when Alicia returned they made love again with a natural simplicity that 
was almost automatic. It was then that the older woman fell asleep. But 
sleep contrarily eluded the chained girl. The collar was a stern authority 
she had to get used to. Far away was Saunda and Jacob Makinda. There would 
be frantic phone calls and stern demands. But she had vanished. Pamela knew 
she had vanished. Lady Alicia had her and was not likely to let her go. It 
was then the tears began. 

"Handcuffs and leg irons at the breakfast table, darling," Lady Alicia 
decided cheerfully. "And don't tell me you don't need them and won't run 
away. I know perfectly well you'd run like a hare if you got the chance. You 
would, wouldn't you? Be honest." 

"Yes, I suppose." 

"You see! It's much the best I keep you well confined. You don't want to be 
punished every day for escape attempts, do you?" 

Pamela saw the logic she was compelled to accept, but she did not like it. 
If she was kept forever chained, escape was just a fantasy. But, with good 
grace, she clinked and rattled her way to breakfast. Braced by coffee, she 
enquired, "How long are you going to keep me prisoner?" 

"For always, darling." Alicia seemed surprised. "What else!" 

"Will you let those who care about me know I'm safe? I mean, that I'm not 
dead or something." 

"I'll think about it, dear. I'll figure out something. " 

"And that woman? Are you going to let her whip me the way she wants to?" 

"I've been thinking about poor Miss Blettishjohn," Alicia admitted with a 
rueful grin. "I really do owe her something, y'know." 

"You don't need her to keep me prisoner or to punish me. You do it a lot 
better." 

"You're prodding, sweetheart. Watch it!" 

Pamela ate in thoughtful silence for awhile before blurting out: "You are 
going to let her whip me! I just know you are. I can tell." 

Alicia's smile was loving but her words crisp. "You little ninny, you've 
earned yourself a punishment for all these questions. Slavegirls are 
supposed to keep a discreet silence unless spoken to." 

"All right, you punish me." 

"You're being silly. Miss Blettishjohn won't kill you." 

"I'm not so sure about that. I bet she'll hurt me horribly." 

"No, she won't. I'll be there. I want to see you dance again." 

"You mean--" 

"Yes. You'll be whipped between your legs. A special whip for your pretty 
little cunt." 

"Alicia!" 

"Don't take on so, dear. I won't allow your little treasure to be injured. I 
do have an interest in it--remember?" 

"Yes, but--" 

"You're still a little uppity, darling. Another whipping can carry on where 
the other left off. I'll make you a model slave. 

You'll be surprised how much whipping a girl can take, and it's much the 
best way to train you." 

Pamela did not want to be trained, but she did not say so. It seemed a 
pathetically little time before she was again standing beneath the ropes and 
Miss Blettishjohn was grimly tightening the buckles around her wrists. When 
her hands were stretched high to either side and she was helpless and 
vulnerable and exposed, she pleaded wanly, "Please don't hurt me too much." 

"You'll get your just desserts, young lady," the wardress said with relish. 
"You have nothing to say about--" 

"The special whip, Miss Blettishjohn." Alicia's admonition was firm. "And on 
her special place--remember?" 

"Very well, madam." Miss Blettishjohn's life seemed to be one disappointment 
after another. I'll make the little bitch dance." 

"And Miss Prentiss is not a little bitch; she's as much a lady as I am." 

"If you say so, ma'am." 

"Ladies feel pain far more acutely than little bitches, Miss Blettishjohn. 
Please keep that in mind." 

The tied girl risked a backward glance. It was easy to see the woman about 
to whip her was far from pleased. Pamela hastily turned to Lady Alicia, 
watching from the side. She tried to shrug bare shoulders but the ropes 
would not permit. Instead she smiled wanly at her only ally, then clenched 
her teeth in readiness for pain. 

"Legs apart, girl." 

Pamela had forgotten. She corrected her omission instantly. Then she 
squealed and leaped as the new slender lashes scored already tender skin. 
But after she had danced her pathetic jig of anguish she obediently 
separated her legs for the next stroke. 

"Such a darling!" Lady Alicia was enthralled. "Did you see that, 
Blettishjohn? She's absolutely perfect." 

"She's well tied," said Miss Blettishjohn grimly, and struck again. 

It was a dismal misery delivered in Pamela's most secret place which seemed 
to be secret no more. The bite of thin thongs on sexual flesh, the anguished 
dance, and then the bare girl's legs opened wide again to implore the next 
slash. Pamela screamed intermittently and moaned steadily. The eyes of the 
watching women glowed. It went on and on. 

The interruption was unexpected--a servant whispering in Lady Alicia's ear. 
Alicia frowned. She beckoned the wardress. All three hurried from the room, 
the servant sparing a shocked glance at the naked girl's scarlet loins. 

It was good to be alone. Even a brief respite was welcome. Pamela twisted 
and explored her wounds as best she could. The whole area of her hips and 
crotch scalded bitterly. She could not see her pussy and was glad. She tried 
not to think, longing only for surcease, guiltily desiring Alicia's bare 
arms around her hot damp flesh. The punished prisoner sighed, arranging her 
nakedness for such little comfort as her bonds allowed. She waited. 

Time dragged on. Pain diminished but weariness did not. Pamela looked up at 
her strapped wrists but their impotence mocked. She could never free 
herself. She must stand as she was and wait to be whipped once more. She was 
certain it must have been at least an hour before she heard the steps. 

The man who accompanied Lady Alicia on her return was smallish and wizened, 
a black man attired in that strange compromise between ancient and modern so 
often affected by visiting African dignitaries. He surveyed the punished and 
naked girl with acute interest. His eyes were bright and knowing. Lady 
Alicia appeared to be struggling between embarrassment and a desire to 
laugh. Her introduction was absurdly formal. 

"Sir, may I introduce Miss Pamela Prentiss. Pamela dear, this is Mr. Nahib 
Genoa." 

"Charmed," said Mr. Genoa in impeccable English. "You are very beautiful." 

"I'm sorry you had to find me like this." The plaint was all Pamela could 
think of. She felt blushingly shamed, but her mind was busy with the title 
Alicia had bestowed on the little man and the vague, stirring memory. 

"Mr. Genoa is the Prime Minister of Matsuland, darling. I'm sure you're 
familiar with him." 

Recollection flooded. This little man was Jacob Makinda's enemy, the man she 
had sacrificed herself to defeat. Now he was gazing upon her whipped 
nakedness with evident relish. "You have been a bad girl?" he enquired 
affably. 

"Just a mild discipline," Lady Alicia interposed hurriedly. "The dear girl 
is in no way impaired." 

"Ah, quite so." Mr. Genoa focused on Pamela's breasts, then assessed her 
scarlet and purple sex and wealed hips. His tone turned thoughtful. "Yes, I 
can understand her value. I would cherish such as she myself. I have never 
seen a lovelier nudity." 

Understanding came slowly but it came. Instinctively, the strapped girl 
tugged at the tethering ropes, twisting helplessly. Pamela's anguished gaze 
focused upon the woman with whom she had spent the night. Her voice rose in 
a cry of agony. "You're--you're selling me!" 

Alicia flung her arms around the distraught girl, an embrace Pamela could 
not return. She kissed the captive eyes, the captive lips. She patted 
blushing cheeks and a far more blushing bottom before stepping away. "I 
didn't say a thing," she admitted. "I wasn't sure. Oh, darling, I know 
you'll never forgive me, but the estate has the most desperate need of 
money. I'm not a bit rich the way I seem. And Mr. Genoa has been so 
generous." 

"A mere nothing," Mr. Genoa said, waving a careless hand. His disposition of 
foreign aid was well known. 

"But to sell me--like a slave!" 

"You are a slave, darling. Or have you forgotten?" 

It was true. She was a slave. Surveying her condition, Pamela could think of 
no other term to fit her quite so well. She and liberty were a millennium 
apart. Gazing sulkily at Mr. Genoa's smiling face, she bluntly demanded, 
"What do you want me for?" 

Another wave of a dark hand. "I have had pressure brought to bear upon me, 
Miss Prentiss. I now return it." 

"You'll hold me hostage?" 

"It is as good a word as any." 

"Don't be hostile, darling. Remember, there won't be any Miss Blettishjohn 
in Matsuland." 

Pamela's whipped loins told her to be grateful, but behind this smiling 
Mahatma Ghandi of a man was a fierce purpose. Nahib Genoa would not always 
smile. He would use her ruthlessly to serve his need. Desperately, the tied 
girl twisted against her bonds and pleaded with Alicia. "Please don't sell 
me! Please, oh please!" 

"I'm afraid you're already sold, darling. Don't take on so. If Mr. Genoa's 
plans work out you can be safe in Saunda in a couple of weeks." 

"But Jacob won't yield to threats or force, not even for me. His country is 
his first loyalty. Please, please keep me here. I don't care if I'm your 
prisoner for life. I don't want to be a hostage." 

"Perhaps we should lower Miss Prentiss's arms," Mr. Genoa suggested suavely. 
"She appears distressed." 

"No, leave her as she is. She has to be restrained or she'll do something 
silly. She can be tied for transit when you're ready." 

Pamela watched them go, presumably for the writing of the check in payment 
for herself. No doubt there would be a drink and the shaking of hands in 
mutual goodwill. She had been a bargain for both. She felt a bitter 
resentment against Lady Alicia. After what they had been to each other this 
callous disposal of her body was a betrayal. Or was it? She was a slave, and 
slaves are bought and sold. Quite likely Alicia needed the money. The tied 
girl looked up at the straps around her wrists. They were as tight as ever. 
Never had she more longed for freedom or felt more helpless. Soon she would 
be "tied for transit." She hated her Mistress's choice of words. It was easy 
to guess they would mean hours and hours of pain, discomfort, and 
immobility. And at the end--She shuddered. 

"I should have whipped you properly," Miss Blettishjohn complained sourly as 
she knelt and joined Pamela's slender ankles with the click of cuffs of 
steel. She rose and examined her captive's scarlet loins. "Hmmm, nice 
effect, though. 

You've got something to remember me by for a day or two," she said, 
sneering. "Pity you're not being fucked. You'd be interesting for a man, the 
way I've marked you." 

"Is it you who's going to tie me for--for--" 

"For your trip? Yes, it's me all right. I expect you wish it was her 
ladyship, eh? Well, you're getting off easy again. I'm told I mustn't use 
good honest rope on your pretty flesh." The wardress sighed. "I could have 
made a pretty job of you with rope. I'd have tied you so you couldn't even 
twitch. But they've given me some tape. I suppose it will do." 

Pamela kept a prudent silence while her arms were lowered. Immediately after 
the straps were taken from her wrists they were replaced by handcuffs. In 
blushing shame at the indignity she was carried to a bathroom. "Your last 
chance for a pee," Miss Blettishjohn chuckled coarsely. "Better make the 
most of it." 

No chance of escape! She would never be given a chance. The handcuffs made 
Pamela into a puppet. She was still blushing when her wrists were freed. The 
wardress was holding tape with an air of purpose. "Hands behind your back, 
you little bitch. Put 'em palm to palm." 

The girl about to be bound stood abjectly, unable to move her feet, while 
her wrists were circled with the bands Miss Blettishjohn affected to 
despise. On the score of circulation Pamela could be grateful for the use of 
tape. But the fingers winding it were without mercy. Each band was placed 
with care and tugged tight beyond need. When the job was done the captive 
wrists were clamped tight together more helplessly than with handcuffs. When 
the tape moved up to her elbows Pamela made no demur. She was becoming 
accustomed to what was deemed needful to keep a slavegirl in her place. 
Owners were jittery about journeys, so a girl might as well resign herself 
to pain. When the taping of her hands and arms was finished she could only 
flutter her shoulders. Her bare shoulders were themselves wracked back, 
jutting the bound girl's breasts forward. "Proud of 'em, eh?" Miss 
Blettishjohn pinched an innocent nipple to make its owner squeal. Then she 
bodily picked up the captive girl and carried her from the house to the 
waiting car where she was deposited in the back seat beside Mr. Nahib Genoa. 
Lady Alicia was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully, she was too ashamed. The 
wardress did not bother with farewells. 

"I have my own private plane, Miss Prentiss," Genoa informed genially. "I 
will ask you not to embarrass my retainers with pleading. None will 
respond." 

It was so easy for him to abduct a girl. His entourage swept past 
officialdom without pause. Pamela wanted to scream and beat her fists in 
unbearable frustration. It was more than slavery. She was being whisked from 
country to country like baggage. Diplomatic immunity kept her as much a 
prisoner as did the tapes. In the Matsuland plane she was placed gently in a 
seat all to herself. Mr. Genoa sat opposite and cheerfully ogled her private 
parts. She could have wriggled herself into a less interesting position but 
did not bother. Let him look! After all, he had just paid a lot of money for 
her. No doubt he was entitled. 

"You will not be tortured," said Mr. Genoa. "At least I certainly hope not." 

"I suppose you'll use me in bed?" 

"Alas no. I prefer maidens of my own color." 

It was a slap in the face. Pamela knew she should be grateful but was not. 
Pouting, she said, "There's no need to keep me tied like this. The tapes are 
far too tight." 

"Man is out of his element in the air," Mr. Genoa pontificated. 
"Contingencies make it desirable for you to be kept helpless." 

"Handcuff me then. At least they don't hurt." 

"No, I think not. A small amount of pain is desirable in your present 
circumstances and frame of mind. I take it you are not happy?" 

"No, I'm not." 

"I would have supposed you'd be pleased." Mr. Genoa smiled warmly. "I have 
rescued you from absurd lesbian lunacy in which you would have been kept 
chained for life. If your paramour is at all sensible you can now be free in 
a very short time. I have no personal desire for you." He leaned forward and 
patted her cheek. "But I am sure most of my men would enjoy you very much." 

Pamela gazed askance. "What men? What do you mean?" Genoa waved airily. "My 
guards. We have a fine army." He laughed at her evident dismay. "But rest 
assured, you will be passed around or thrown to the wolves only as a last 
resort." He beamed smugly. "We are very civilized." 

Again the terrifying awareness of impotence. Trussed so she could scarcely 
move, and anything she said would be ignored. She would be a pawn in an 
African chess game. The smiling man owned her. She was a doll, a puppet for 
him to move from square to square. Sulkily, she returned to her theme: "If 
you untied me, you could handcuff one of my wrists to this seat. I'd be 
quite safe. Please!" 

Surprisingly, Mr. Genoa clapped his hands. To the servant who answered he 
spoke rapidly in dialect. Three minutes later Pamela had her wish. She sat 
naked, her ankles still cuffed, but able to rub chafed skin with one free 
hand. She looked at her companion with a more friendly eye. "Thank you. I 
really am grateful. You won't have to worry, I'm still helpless." 

The African used his grand gesture. "You are most welcome, Miss Prentiss. I 
fear the tribulations you have suffered are a hazard of being beautiful." 

It was good to be able to shrug. Pamela did so. "I'm glad you don't want me 
for anything sexual," she conceded. "AH I've been getting out of being 
desired is a lot of pain." 

"Ah, yes, your lower portion." Mr. Genoa looked directly at her pubic hair. 
"I take it I interrupted a whipping?" 

"Yes, you did, thank you." 

"You had failed to please?" 

"No, I was being conditioned." 

"Ah, and I am the beneficiary. I find your deportment admirable." 

"I'd be silly to scream and make a fuss. You've got me, and that's the end 
of it. I don't expect to be given a chance to escape." 

"But if you saw one, you'd take it?" 

"Of course." 

They understood each other. It was an ancient bond between enemies in which 
the captive girl found comfort. Somehow Makinda would get her back from this 
small, wizened man. She dared not ask the terms of her release; she would be 
happier if she did not know. Her exploring fingers searched for weals on her 
bottom, but found only those of the whipping the day before. Conscious of 
male regard, she made a wry apology. "I'm afraid you're getting a well 
marked girl, Mr. Genoa. Whipmarks take awhile to fade." 

He nodded. "It does not matter. The effect is unusual. You will be an erotic 
delight to my staff. Whipped female flesh is arousing." Genoa paused 
thoughtfully. "Affairs of state keep me busy, so I will have no time for 
you. I am placing you in the care of a man I trust. You will obey him 
implicitly and abstain from demands for an interview with me. My time is 
rationed. Maguib will see to your safety and well-being. If he wishes to use 
you carnally, he may do so. I owe him much." 

Just like that! Pamela Prentiss had been neatly disposed of. She looked at 
the steel band upon her wrist. It typified the simplicity with which she 
could be separated from freedom and her virtue preferred as a gift. In a 
bitter frustration, she asked, "What will you do with me--put me in a cell? 
In prison?" 

"Maguib will decide." 

It was Maguib who carried her from the plane. The thirty-eight-year old 
soldier looked virile--a man of action. Pamela had been left handcuffed to 
her seat long after Nahib Genoa had hurriedly departed with his staff. It 
was one more lesson to her of being a pawn in a very big game. She spent the 
time idly playing with her handcuffed wrist and kicking irritably at 
handcuffed ankles. There wasn't the faintest hope of escape. Maguib examined 
her with interest and said dryly, "Welcome to Matsuland." 

When he unlocked her from the seat, then cuffed her hands together in front, 
Pamela said hopefully, "Please take those things off my ankles. I'd like to 
walk to wherever we're going." 

Maguib paid no heed but picked her up and carried her to the jeep. "You are 
valuable property," he said. "Don't you forget it." 

"Where are you taking me?" 

"Prison." 

The ugly word was like a blow. "That doesn't sound very cheerful," she 
ventured timidly. "I don't really deserve iron bars and chains. I haven't 
done anything. I'm a hostage." 

"I know. I'm simply putting you in a safe place. It is not a dungeon." 

The prison, well outside the dusty town, was solid and forbidding, a relic 
of the Imperial Army's penal system. But the new prisoner was carried into 
the staff living quarters. Maguib's orders to the trim feminine attendant 
were curt: "See to her. She will need food. She should be bathed. Then 
prepare her." 

Pamela felt far from feminine. She stood awkwardly on feet she could not 
separate and wondered what to do with joined hands. The two women examined 
each other. Unhappily, Pamela blurted out, "This isn't my idea. I'm sorry if 
I'm a nuisance." 

"No nuisance. You can call me Jane. Everyone calls me Jane. I call you Miss 
Prentiss. You obey me?" The tone was not unfriendly. 

"Yes, I'll obey you," Pamela said, and then bitterly added, "I'm used to 
obeying people." 

"You not pleased you here?" 

"Gosh, no! Should I be?" 

"I show you worse place." 

"Never mind. Could you unlock my feet? I look so silly." Without a word Jane 
took one cuff from one wrist, gathered captive arms behind a captive back, 
and snapped both captive hands together. Not until then did she kneel to 
take the handcuffs from captive ankles. The captive's response was morose: 
"You don't take any chances with me, do you? I'm not dangerous, y'know." 

"You very precious lady. Must not escape." 

Assurance of her worth was a small comfort as she was bathed and perfumed. 
Pamela was then fed. As usual in such proceedings she felt like a toy. Even 
when she could have fended for herself with linked hands she was not allowed 
to. Jane attended her in thought preoccupation. No doubt she had done the 
same for other captive girls. Only once was her curiosity piqued. 

"You been whipped real good." 

"Yes." 

"You like be whipped?" 

"Of course I don't like it. It hurts." 

Jane shrugged. "Make some girls hot, 'specially between the legs." 

"It doesn't do that for me," Pamela retorted, not quite sure she was telling 
the truth. "Will I be whipped in this place?" 

"Girl never know. Maybe--maybe not." There was a diffident pause. "I fix you 
now. Is evening. Is time." 

The bedroom was not a surprise. The bed was. It was solidly constructed, its 
covers luxurious. But at each corner there glinted wickedly heavy silver 
links and a wide silver band. Pamela felt like groaning, but this was part 
of the scenario. She had been warned. Jane's command was unemotional, 
faintly amused. 

"You lay on back, please, Miss Prentiss." 

The impulse to refuse was strong. The whole thing was so obvious. But what 
would it serve to quibble? Resignedly, she did as she was told. "I sorry 
'bout this." 

Pamela felt certain Jane expressed the same regret to all the girls who lay 
as she did, some perhaps to lose their virginity. Yet there was sincerity in 
the words. Pamela shrewdly guessed that Jane had lain upon these covers 
herself. She made her legs available and said nothing when each of her 
ankles were shackled. This fastening of her feet ran true to form. The 
handcuffs could now be taken from her wrists. She watched them go, knowing 
her hands would soon be more implacably held. 

"You spread your arms out and up, Miss Prentiss." 

It was automatic. When the shackles clicked tight upon her wrists, Pamela 
said bitterly, "Perfect. I'm now ready to be raped." 

Jane ignored the comment but pointed out an advantage. "You ain't real 
stretched out, Miss Prentiss. You got lots of slack chain so you can move 
and be comfortable." 

"Gee thanks! I'm puzzled. Why?" 

"Maguib likes it this way, that's why. Ain't no good when a girl can't move 
at all." 

"At least your mind will be at rest. I can't escape." 

"No, you can't escape, Miss Prentiss." Jane held up a small key. "I lets you 
loose when time comes." 

"After I've been well and truly impaled?" 

"Best you don't ask so many questions, Miss Prentiss. I don't know all the 
answers." 

"Jane, tell me one thing: Am I going to be tortured to get Nahib Genoa what 
he wants?" 

"Likely not." 

"But it's a possibility?" 

The servant shrugged. "I suppose. You happier you don't know." 

It was probably true. The naked girl spread out invitingly on the bed 
realized she was talking simply to keep Jane from leaving her alone. To be 
alone like this, waiting for her male conqueror, was something she did not 
relish. But Jane could read her thoughts. 

"I knows you don't want to be alone, Miss Prentiss, but I got things to do." 
She paused, searching for solace. "Don't worry none, I guess you gets well 
fucked but that's 'bout all. I likely see you come morning." 

Pamela lay for a minute, savoring the shame of her outspread pose. Then she 
raised a hand and looked along the column of her bare arm to the shackle on 
her wrist. She tugged, but it held her relentlessly. She did the same with 
her other hand and with her wide spread ankles but was similarly mocked. She 
raised herself as much as she could upon her elbows. It was not much, but a 
lot better than being tightly stretched in an X. The prisoner looked around 
at what was most definitely a men's room. It was an austere room, and off to 
the side was another bed. No doubt, that one was for sleeping. Pamela lapsed 
upon her back, erasing from her mind the impending arrival of a new Master. 
Her thoughts were on wider possibilities. 

Paramount was the question as to what Genoa would do with her when he 
discovered Jacob Makinda would not betray his country for a girl. Pamela 
thrilled to the thought of being precious enough for Nahib Genoa's 
assessment of Makinda's weakness for her to be true. A man's adoration for 
Helen or Troy had once launched a thousand ships, but she could not imagine 
her own beauty of such potency. If Genoa discovered her worthless for his 
purpose, he would probably cosign her to a brothel. She would have been 
better off as a love slave to Lady Alicia. 

The captive heart bled for Jacob Makinda. He was between a rock and a hard 
place. His only option was a war, a war Saunda would almost certainly lose, 
and with it would go all she had given herself to gain. Her thirty days with 
Sir Humphrey had been no bed of roses. She was now held only a relatively 
few miles from the man she loved. It was too, too cruel. Even one courageous 
man, seeking her alone, would be defeated by the chains upon her limbs. If 
such a man found her as she was now he could do nothing. She was a fixture. 
Matsuland held her in a grip of steel. 

Maguib was suddenly there, his motions light, silent, purposeful. He 
stripped and stood looking down at his perquisite of office. He said, as 
others before him had, "You are very beautiful." 

"I do not feel beautiful like this." 

"No girl believes her cunt has loveliness. It takes a man to appreciate it. 
Even after it has been whipped, as yours has, it remains beautiful." 

"Thank you. I am glad you like me." 

"You are not afraid?" Maguib pointed down to his rampant maleness. "You are 
not afraid of this?" 

"No, I am not afraid. I am the spoils of war, am I not? What else should I 
expect? I could make you much happier if you would free me from the chains." 

"But they add a piquancy, don't you understand?" 

"I suppose I do," Pamela admitted wearily. "But for weeks now I have been 
chained and bound in symbolism to excite a man, and then a woman. Forgive me 
if I'm less than thrilled." Maguib was intrigued. "You're blase?" 

"Yes, I suppose I am." Pamela grinned weakly up at her ravisher. "I'm sorry 
if it impairs your pleasure." She mused silently for a moment. "I expect 
most of the girls you have chained to this bed are more of a challenge. 
Honest, I really am sorry." 

Maguib laughed. He was not a savage, nor was he displeased. He savored the 
captive girls who came his way, and was grateful for Naib Genoa's lack of 
interest in white skin. This one was a new experience. "I'll enjoy you," he 
assured her without concern. "I also expect to enjoy the work we are going 
to do together in the days to come." 

The captive girl was instantly up on her elbows, straining. "What work? 
Everyone refuses to tell me. I suppose it has to do with Saunda?" She fell 
back, unable to maintain the stress, adding bitterly, "I'm scared you're 
working on the wrong premise. Jacob Makinda won't sell his country for a 
girl--for me." 

Maguib sat beside her on the bed, playing with her nipples as he talked. "We 
suspect you are right. A girl is not enough, but a tortured girl is 
something else again, especially if she is loved." 

It was what she feared the most: physical anguish for herself, mental 
anguish for her love. All for nothing. Maguib read her thoughts. His voice 
was gentle, his play with her breasts soothing. Pamela suspected she was in 
the power of a master of seduction. 

"You must not underrate us, Pamela Prentiss. We approach this matter of 
bartering you with some subtlety. Each day we send your lover a picture of 
you undergoing torture. For the first day we can use the marks already on 
your skin. He will not know we did not put them there. The second day will 
be almost equally deceptive." 

"You mean, you'll advance me gradually?" 

"Not at all. Each day you will find yourself in fresh agony, but only long 
enough for us to take the pictures. Perhaps one minute, that is all. But 
Makinda will not know this." 

It was clever. In its way it was also assuring. Pamela remembered her day 
upon Sir Humphrey's horse. A single minute would have seemed pure paradise. 
She looked up at the smiling man who possessed her and glumly admitted, "I 
suppose I have to be grateful for the way you're doing this. Believe me, I 
am. But if your plan fails, what will you do with me then?" 

"Is that not a bridge we can cross when we come to it?" 

"It's a bridge I'll be crossing constantly in my mind. It is my life, you 
know." 

Maguib laughed down at the chained girl, secure in victory. "Perhaps I will 
buy you as my personal slave," he chuckled. "Now, prove to me you deserve 
the honor." 

 CHAPTER SEVEN - TORTURE FILMS 

The men worked busily with lights and cameras. Evidently the pictures Jacob 
Makinda was to receive of his lost slavegirl were to be of superlative 
quality. During these preliminaries she herself was handcuffed by one wrist 
to a ring in the wall. Once again Pamela saw herself as a toy, easily 
disposed of when not in use. These disposals left her much alone with her 
thoughts. 

Maguib had proved a most competent lover. The girl chained beneath his 
thrusts into her belly could easily believe few girls so ravished would need 
the chains a second time. Like many big men, Maguib was gentle with a woman; 
his rapes had in them a small element of what the girl could suppose was 
love. Since Pamela Prentiss considered rape inevitable she counted herself 
fortunate. Waking in the night, she found her ravisher gone. Instinctively, 
she tugged at her bonds but they were secure. Raising herself, she could 
discern the bulk upon the other bed. She had lost count of thrusts and 
orgasms. She was weary from a long hard day. Miss Pamela Prentiss fell back 
and relapsed into slumber. It would have been nice to be able to turn over, 
but she supposed a girl could not expect that much. 

Jane had released her casually in the morning, much in the manner of making 
the bed. Maguib had departed before his prisoner had wakened. The cautious 
approach remained, wrists handcuffed behind her back before her ankles were 
unchained. Pamela made no comment. It was a fact of enslavement. Jane was 
very matter-of-fact. 

"You get real good fuckings, I bet?" 

"I sure did." Pamela was amazed by her frank admission. Slavegirls appeared 
to adjust to anything. "Our Master is immensely virile." 

"He do as good again tonight." 

"I'm sure he will. Can I have the use of my hands to go to the bathroom?" 

"No." 

"I promise I'll let you handcuff me again after." 

"No." 

"Oh, all right, but I think you're mean." 

"Is not me, is rules. You not behave, I be real mean." 

"I'm sorry, Jane," the captive girl said wearily. "I'm just so damn tired of 
being tied and chained and kept helpless. I just as well not have any hands. 
" Jane snickered. "They real useful to hang you up by, Miss Prentiss. 
Besides, you have no hands, how I keep you under control?" 

. 

Routine and repartee had brought Pamela to her present state. Bathed and fed 
and chained to the wall, she awaited the camera crew's attention. Evidently, 
they were blase about naked girls. Miss Pamela Prentiss was piqued by their 
failure to comment on her charms. She rattled the handcuffs upon her wrists 
for the umpteenth time and tugged without result. When the steel band was 
finally unlocked it was done in a hurried preoccupation with other matters. 
Maguib was now present. "Cross her wrists and tie them. Make it tight." 

It was done. How different this was from last night. But this was a working 
day. Resigned to the task, Pamela crossed her wrists and watched them 
tightly bound. It was a photogenic job. 

"Hoist her." 

The hook appeared from nowhere. It raised Pamela's tied hands, up and up and 
up. 

"Get your feet well on the floor. I want the camera to show her full 
suspension." 

Miss Pamela Prentiss took a deep breath as her heels left Mother Earth--and 
then her toes. Her suspension continued until her nakedness was better than 
two feet above the floor. Her wrists hurt, but she had traveled this path 
before. She forbore complaint as she was twisted like a puppet on a string. 
The men stepped back. Turning and kicking at the end of the rope, Pamela 
went around and around. The camera clicked busily. It was probably no more 
than a minute before her feet were back on the floor, but it seemed longer. 
Her wrists hurt. 

Maguib's comment came instantly: "Not too bad, eh?" 

"No, I guess it wasn't. Thanks." 

"Got those weals just in time. They soon fade, you know." 

"I'd like to believe they'll do what you hope." 

"Let's be positive, Miss Prentiss. Feel like doing tomorrow's installment 
while everything's set up?" 

"Why not?" 

Pamela's hands were not instantly untied. Instead, great care was taken in 
noosing her thumbs with chamois loops, each with its own ring. Not until 
then was she untied, but she had already guessed her fate. The rings were 
hooked and ropes dragged her arms upward. 

"I expect you've had this one before too, Miss Prentiss. We'll be more 
original as time passes." 

Pamela did not reply. She was entirely engrossed by the rise of her hands 
and the increasing tension on her thumbs. When she stood on her toes in 
panting anticipation of pain to come, the bland voice continued: "I suppose 
it is at this point we should start asking questions--if we had any to ask. 
But, alas, this is not an interrogation." 

It was hateful, horrible, beastly. The pain was an outrage as the captive 
girl hung far off the floor, thumbs screaming in agony. But the camera 
clicked away the seconds, recording every nuance of her pain. Released, it 
seemed more like an hour than a minute, but the relief of having her feet 
once more on the floor was so great that she could not choke back an 
involuntary "thank you." Then, catching Maguib's eye, she exclaimed, "Gosh, 
I wouldn't want an hour of that!" 

"Or a day?" Maguib was enjoying Pamela's breathless return to normal. While 
her hands were still held high by noosed thumbs he knelt and tied her ankles 
tightly together with rope. "You have to stand awhile," he told her. "Then 
I'll send a girl to release you. The ankle tie is to stop you from giving 
her trouble." 

"You could save yourself a lot of trouble by trusting me." Maguib chuckled 
wisely. "I could trust you nine times, but on the tenth you'd run. You only 
have to escape once, but I have to keep you safe for a long time. You 
understand?" Pamela understood. To allow her to escape would cost this man 
his career. Considering what was at stake he was being reasonably kind. She 
did not ask why she had to stand half on tip-toe. But she did not complain. 
She suspected the other alternative might be a dismal cell. Quite suddenly 
everyone departed and she was alone. 

She tried to free herself. A strip of chamois around each thumb should 
surely not immobilize anyone, but she could not 'stand high enough to create 
slack. The tug on her digits was steady, and they were roped far apart. Her 
hands could not reach each other. As usual, she was foxed. Ruefully, she 
wished that just once in her various captivities she might wriggle loose 
from something, but it had never happened and probably never would. She 
sighed and ceased to bother. 

Bare feet made no sound. The girl was standing surveying the captive before 
Pamela raised her head to see a seductive bit of cotton print partly 
concealing a girl's sex and an open vest flirting over bare breasts. But it 
was the ring pendant from the girl's nose which drew the exclamation. 

"Sally Driscoll!" 

"Pamela, you poor darling!" 

The kisses and embraces lasted a long time. Pamela's thumbs were forgotten. 
Sally's explanation was disjointed but simple; "They simply kidnapped me, 
darling. I was well along to the coast and worrying about the ring in my 
nose when suddenly they were all around me. I don't know whose territory I 
was in, but they scooped me and my little car up and brought me here. Now 
I'm a slave, same as you were in Saunda." 

"But why?" 

"They pick up loose girls, especially American girls, on the off chance they 
can be used in bargaining--like what they're doing with you. If there's no 
immediate demand for them, they are used by officers of the army. I belonged 
to Maguib until you showed up. Now he's passed me on to one of his 
lieutenants." 

"That's horrible!" 

Sally Driscoll shrugged. "I suppose it is, but I've stopped minding. Our 
cunts aren't worth nearly as much in Africa as they are back home. Mr. Genoa 
wouldn't even bother with mine. Darling, I must let you down." 

With arms once more her own, it was now Pamela's turn to hug. It was not 
until the two girls had exhausted the pressure of breasts to breasts that 
they peeled off the chamois loops from indented thumbs. 

Then Pamela asked anxiously, "I'm almost free--just my feet--aren't you 
supposed to tie me or something?" 

"Oh, sure," Sally giggled. "I'm sort of a trustee now. I've been whipped so 
much that I do whatever they say." She giggled again. "I know why your 
ankles are tied--it's a real hoot how careful they are with any girl they 
have a special use for. You're top priority. I'm supposed to tie your hands 
behind your back before I free your feet. Do you mind?" 

"Of course not." 

"I have to tie 'em real tight. Someone will inspect them for sure. Then I'm 
allowed to give you a little tour of the prison--the female part, that is. 
They lock us away in a cell when they have no other jobs for us, so we get 
to know the place. " 

"But if you're free this way--can't you escape?" 

"Darling, you should know better than to ask that. No girl ever escapes. 
They have so many ways!" 

In docile, uncaring acceptance, Pamela shuffled around and crossed her 
wrists behind her back. Sally tied them with care and without mercy. 

As she tied, Sally Driscoll talked: "They're absolutely paranoid about us 
girls from the U.S. They're sure someone will let us loose for a reward or 
something. The result is that the local female delinquents simply get locked 
in a cell, but we also get chained to the wall. You know the deal: neck, 
wrist, ankle. And someone in authority holds the key. I'm not trusted with 
keys. You and I deal only in rope. How's that feel?" 

"Tight." 

"Like I said, you mustn't get loose." Sally knelt and freed the bound 
ankles. "There, everything Matsuland style. Ready for a walk?" 

Pamela was not through with questions. "There's something I have to know," 
she said. "The ring--the ring in your nose--" 

"Oh that!" Sally laughed. "Shows you how deep I am into this place. I've 
forgotten all about that damn ring. I've got used to it. I've never been 
able to interest anyone in cutting it off for me. They all love it. The 
haughty white girl brought low--that sort of thing." 

"But surely it bothers you. It would drive me crazy." 

"A lot of that's in my mind, Pat. I was so damned ashamed! Now it's a bit 
irritating when I eat or kiss. I'd forgotten about it when I was kissing you 
just now." Sally Driscoll became serious, shadows lining her face. 
Unhappily, she said, "Pat dear, I babble. I try and treat this whole thing 
as a joke. But don't think for a minute I don't know what a hell of a spot 
we're in--both of us. I don't think either of us have much to look forward 
to except to be unpaid whores. Oh, shit! Come along." 

The prison was better than expected. The woman's section was clean and 
smelled of disinfectant. The cells were bright, well lit from high barred 
windows. Most were occupied by local delinquents who, if they spoke English, 
came to the bars and exchanged clatter. If they did not, they continued to 
sit on their bench and view their passing with an apathetic gaze. 

"But, Sally, they're all so young!" 

"Can't you guess?" Sally said bitterly. "They're easily arrested or 
kidnapped. This evening they'll all be in bed with a soldier--just like you 
and me." 

There were several white girls. All were chained as well as being locked 
behind bars. When they came to talk they trailed behind them a chain from 
the shackles on their ankle to a ring in the wall. If the cell door was 
opened for them there would still be no escape. 

"How about a turn in the sunshine?" Sally suggested. "I'm allowed out, but 
there is a small formality." 

The girls managed to laugh at the "small formality." As they left the 
building a guard inspected Pamela's tied hands, then shackled Sally's feet. 
The chain between her ankles was long but she could not run. "It's not that 
easy to walk," she complained cheerfully. "Took me the longest time. I make 
out pretty good now except for the noise." 

A growing sadness possessed them as they walked, two helpless girls far from 
home, bound in different ways but still bound. At the end of an hour Sally 
said, "I'm afraid that's it, Pam. Time's up." 

"You have to lock me in a cell, don't you?" 

"How'd you guess? It's the best one we have--on the corner. I saved it for 
you." 

Pamela looked around the cell at bars and stone and the ugly thing hanging 
from the wall. But the bench did at least have a thin mattress. She sat on 
it while Sally fitted the collar around her neck and snapped the lock shut. 
"There's quite a lot of chain, dear. I'm terribly sorry." 

"Don't be. I'm used to it. It's better than I expected." 

"You're not likely to be here at night." 

"No, I'm sure I won't," Pamela said bitterly. "We both know where I'll 
be--where we'll both be!" 

A silence grew and became awkward. Sally broke it, her tone uncertain. "Pam 
dear, I don't know--I mean, we may not see each other again." 

"But why?" 

"Well--reasons! Your boyfriend may make terms and get possession. I'm not 
even sure why they allowed this time together now. I think it's a test--see 
what I'll do. But we've both been good girls. They may allow a repeat. Maybe 
it will be me who leads you to the bridal couch this evening. But if I don't 
go now, I'll cry." There was a hurried kiss and the pat of a shoulder. The 
cell door clanged shut, and there was one more kiss blown through the bars. 
It was not until after Sally had long gone that Pamela remembered her tied 
hands. They were still crossed behind her back. Perhaps on purpose, perhaps 
forgotten, but what did it matter? What did anything matter? Pamela shook 
her head angrily against its collar and chain. A tear stole down her 
cheek--and then another. 

It was Jane who fed her and untied her hands. It was Jane, too, who later 
took her to bed. Despite a wish to please, Pamela could not forbear 
complaint. "Oh, Jane, not again!" 

"The bed. But of course!" 

"It's so silly. I have to lay on my back all night. I can't even turn over." 

"You lucky you don't be made to turn over." 

Pamela flushed. No doubt Jane knew what she was talking about. She sprawled 
her nudity upon the covers and reached up for the shackles. 

Jane shackled the innocent wrists, then unlocked hobbled feet and spread 
them wide to the waiting anklets. When they too snapped shut Miss Pamela 
Prentiss was ready for the act of love, and later on for sleep. 

"Thank you, Jane." 

"Why? I ain't done nothin'." 

"You are gentle with me. It helps." 

Jane bent and kissed the captive forehead, then hurried away. The captive 
herself wondered how many females within these walls were forever close to 
tears. Her own were very close. But Maguib stemmed the flow. 

"The pictures turned out well. Makinda will have them this evening." He bent 
over the widely spread girl. "Must a be a thrill, eh? A nation's future 
hanging on your cunt!" 

"That's horrible." 

Maguib laughed shortly. "There's a thrill in this for me too, Miss Prentiss. 
Can't you see? Makinda may win the prize, but I have it now. I've got you." 

"It's an easy conquest--chained." 

Impatiently, Maguib used a key. He took the girl four times. In a daze, his 
conquest sat up but did not leave the bed. 

"So?" Maguib's tone was mocking. "What now?" 

"I'm sorry. I was foolish. Please chain me up again. It's much the best." 

"Salves your conscious, doesn't it--being chained? That way being fucked 
isn't your fault. You can enjoy it all you want and still feel loyal to that 
man in Rabaul." 

"Please don't say that." 

"But it's true, right?" 

"Yes--I'm a woman." 

"And a damn good one! Very well, lay back." 

Pamela kept silent while the metal bands possessed her wrists and ankles 
once again. She felt foolish and would have liked to sulk. 

Maguib asked, "Aren't you curious about tomorrow?" 

"I'd rather not know. Or the day after, or the day after that." 

"You're that certain Makinda won't respond, eh?" 

"You would be certain too, if you knew him." 

"Perhaps." Maguib studied the chained and naked girl intently before making 
a frank admission. "But if I was in his shoes, I'm not sure! You're 
beautiful, and you relate to slavery with unusual intelligence." 

"I don't. I relate like an idiot. Just now, with these chains--" Pamela 
sniffed disdainfully. "I don't know what I am any more." 

"You made me happy last night. You will again now." Maguib sat beside her 
and played idly with a pubic frond. "But tomorrow night I'll be away." 

"I'm sure you can loan me out." 

"No, I have a better idea. I'm going to give you an uncomfortable day and an 
uncomfortable night. Pictures every hour and on the following morning to 
capture your fatigue. You can sleep through the day." 

"Twenty-four hours of torture!" Pamela jerked against the tug of chains upon 
her arms. "Oh, no! You said--" Gently, Maguib pushed her back down, 
chuckling at her dismay. "I said discomfort, not torture." 

"What is it?" 

"You said you didn't want to know." He tweaked a nipple. "So I won't tell 
you. Give you something to dream about." 

"Nightmares, you mean." 

Gently, her Master positioned himself between her widespread legs. Their 
eyes met and held. Maguib's arms flexed lower. Within a minute Pamela had 
forgotten tomorrow and every other day. 

The next day found Miss Pamela Prentiss undergoing an unheard-of 
"discomfort." 

"I'm not Joan of Arc," Pamela declared bitterly. "Or are you forgetting?" 

"I believe she wore some sort of shift for her burning--much nicer touch 
having you naked," Maguib said equably. "Now, I want you to look soulful and 
skyward as you anticipate the flames reaching your cunt and burning off that 
lovely public patch." 

"Don't say things like that. I'm frightened enough as it is." Pamela tensed 
against the chains binding her to the post, her middle tightly cinched, her 
hands shackled above her head. Another chain had been crisscrossed between 
her breasts for the benefit of the camera. She looked down at the bundles of 
twigs piled high above her feet encompassing her legs. Then one single 
match! 

"This is too real. I'm scared." 

"You'll be loose in a minute. We're sending Makinda this as a hint of what 
can happen to you. We can call it a sales promotion shot." He busied himself 
with his camera. "You're the most photogenic maiden extant. You're putting 
Joan to shame." 

"Well, just don't drop a match." 

Their easy levity was comforting. It countered Pamela's fear that any one of 
the ordeals before the camera might become real. It would be easy for them 
to have her screaming, or have her skin lacerated and showing blood to 
prompt Makinda's laggard response. She listened to the clicking shutter and 
knew a great relief when the twigs were thrown aside and male hands were 
busy at her chains. Freed, she stepped forward to Maguib and lightly asked, 
"What now?" 

"Nothing original. Let them clear away the bundles, then stand back against 
the post the way you were." 

"Why on earth!" 

"Do it." 

The twigs were loaded on a cart, the sand swept bare. The stake, planted 
solidly in the center of the courtyard, stood starkly inviting. Maguib 
laughed, reading her thoughts. "All it needs is a girl." 

Pamela shrugged. She guessed what was coming. She knew it could be worse. 
Her back hard against the timber, her hands behind, she stood in docile 
acceptance while she was bound. It was rope, but thin rope that would cut. 
The naked girl and Maguib gazed at each other steadily as the strictures bit 
her flesh and welded her against the wood. When the last knot was tied, Miss 
Pamela Prentiss could move only her fingers, her toes, and her head. Her 
retort was directed at the smiling man: "I'm going to hate this." 

"That's good. The camera will pick it up." 

They left her alone. Pamela tried not to think of the hours stretching 
endlessly. She hurt now. By nightfall--! She blanked out the thought and 
busied herself with a fruitless effort to get free. But there was no freedom 
for her. At the end of her struggles she still could not move. They had 
roped her everywhere, even contriving a crisscross to frame her breasts and 
cut her bare shoulders tightly back. Undoubtedly it would be best to keep 
still. 

It was an old scenario. Pamela had played the scene before. She would bear 
the day, but the night was something else. By tomorrow morning her face 
would be haggard enough for any camera. She would wish a hundred times for 
the short, sharp agony of real torture while the camera clicked, and then 
release. She tried to think of other ways by which Maguib could have etched 
the lines upon her face, but could think of none. Her enemy was 
time--tedious time--and the cut of the cord. She tried to shrink within the 
grip of her bonds, but the strictures followed relentlessly. At least the 
ropes would hold her tight through the darkness. Perhaps she could get some 
sleep. 

The courtyard was an adjunct to the residential section of the prison, as 
were the gardens. The recreation yards for men and women were on the other 
side of the building. She was quiet here and very much alone. She was glad 
there were no curious eyes staring at her through wire mesh. She suspected 
the servants had been told to stay away. 

At noon and again in the evening Jane brought her water. She summed it up 
with brevity: "Could be a lot worse, Miss Prentiss." 

"I suppose so. Right now I don't believe it." 

"Ropes hurt bad?" 

"Yes. Oh, Jane, isn't there any way out of this for me?" 

"Not til morning." 

That was that. Jane's retreating back lowered desolation like a pall. Pamela 
was hungry, but going without food would show on her face too, so she would 
fast. With the darkness came tears, tears she could not dry. Pamela let them 
flow. When they ceased she felt a little better. She slept fitfully in a 
sort of daze, uncertain of what was real and what was the fragments of 
dreams. 

The girl bound to the stake judged it to be well past midnight when she saw 
the shadow. It was hard to identify as it left the prison wall. It was 
something struggling with itself, a shapeless writhing, something to send 
shivers up a helpless spine. It took a couple of minutes for the darkness to 
divulge the nature of the slow approach. It was Sally Driscoll, and the 
reason for her contorted progress was a ball and chain locked to her ankle. 
She pulled, pushed, and rolled the metal sphere in a slow, arduous 
progression. Pamela could now hear the clink of chain. 

"Gosh, the damn thing weighs a ton." Panting and sweating, the fettered girl 
planted a swift kiss on startled lips and drew a knife from her vest. 
Moments later Miss Pamela Prentiss stood completely free. Her first thought 
was of disaster. 

"Oh, Sally, they'll kill us both, or whip us half to death." 

"No, they won't. Do as I say." Sally's instructions were urgent. "Here's a 
key. It fits the small door over in the corner. Run around the wall to the 
right, then follow the Big Dipper in the sky. You can get across the border 
by morning." 

"This is crazy!" Pamela looked down at the sundered ropes, knowing they 
spelt a line of no return. "I'm not leaving without you." 

"Yes, you are. You must. I'd come like a shot if this thing wasn't on my 
ankle. I told you they always keep me chained some way. I can't go. But you 
sure can. It's a chance of a lifetime." 

"But can't we get that ball thing off?" 

"No way, darling. Look at the shackle. Only a key--" 

"But they'll punish you horribly!" 

"Not if you run like crazy and I manage to pull my ball back the same way I 
came. They forgot to put a chain on you. Don't you see what a chance this 
is? If you were chained, I couldn't help you--or if I was fastened to a wall 
the way I usually am at night." 

Sally was right. Gladness and excitement sent the freed girl's heart to 
racing. The ropes were an open confession. There was nothing else to do but 
run. Pamela clasped her rescuer in her arms. A moment later she was speeding 
to the door. A brief look back showed Sally reversing her arduous progress. 

The desert night and freedom was exhilarating. Pamela's feet flashed and 
leaped as they had not done for a long time. She might well be running for 
her life. Certainly she was running from torture and captivity. She felt 
guilt about the risk Sally Driscoll was running to give her this freedom. 
But with Sally safe back inside the building the escape would be a mystery. 
The huge ball and chain would be Sally's alibi. Pamela ran until she could 
run no more, then slowed to a striding walk. By the time the sun was well up 
she judged herself well into Saunda territory. She sought the first patch of 
scrubby brush and crept within its shade to rest. Briefly she slept. When 
she dragged herself back into flight she gave the backward horizon a quick 
scan and knew herself no longer alone. 

Even at a distance the speeding figure became most evidently a girl. It-was 
running at a pace and with a steady determination Pamela envied. It was 
alone. She stepped away from the shielding growth, and the runner veered 
towards her instantly. It was Maguib's servant, Jane. 

After the embrace, the explanations were panting and urgent. Jane was 
distraught, her voice a wail of bafflement. "Don't you see, Miss Prentiss, 
there's no one else but me could let you loose! When I took you water after 
midnight I found the cut ropes and open door. I did not know who cut the 
ropes but I knew I'd get the blame. They had to blame me. There wasn't 
anyone--" 

"Oh, Jane, I'm so sorry," Pamela said, recognizing the servant girl's logic. 
She clasped the sweating nudity and whispered, "Oh, Jane, I'm so sorry." 

"I'm sorry too." 

"I've messed up your life." 

"Not half as much as a torturer would mess up my body if I'm caught." 

"Would they really do that?" 

"Because of you they would. You've never realized how priceless you are to 
Nahib Genoa." 

They wasted no time in chatter, but resumed their flight. It soon became 
evident the native girl had a stamina Pamela did not; the white girl was 
easily outpaced. "Don't hold back for me," Pamela implored. "You run ahead. 
I'll do the best I can." 

"No, we stay together." Jane reached and grasped a white hand. "Come on, you 
do all right." 

They sped forward, glorying in youthful nakedness, but often they looked 
back over bare shoulders. To be caught now would be the end of everything. 

But the jeep, when it came, was not in pursuit. It was heading back to 
Matsuland. It was too late to hide, so they strode forward boldly, 
forgetting nakedness. As the gap narrowed they could see two men, both in 
uniform. When the vehicle came to a stop beside them it was Maguib who 
stepped out onto the sand. 

The shock was shattering. Jane instantly fell to her knees and bowed her 
head, waiting in silence for the wrath to come. But the eyes of the black 
man and the white girl locked and held. 

Ineffectually, Pamela blurted out, "I'm afraid we're escaping." 

"So I noticed." 

"Please don't blame Jane. She had nothing to do with it." 

"Just keeping you company, I suppose?" Maguib's humor was dry. 

No one would ever understand, and what did it matter anyway? Her gaze still 
steadfast, the hostage pleaded, "Please let us go. Please don't take us 
back. You're not implicated. No one will ever know what we do here now." 

"I have my own loyalties, girl. You ask the impossible." Maguib's voice 
softened. "I wish it was otherwise." 

"But you are coming from Saunda--this is Saunda soil." Maguib shrugged. 
"Nahib Genoa and Jacob Makinda cannot talk. They hate each other. But 
Makinda and I can talk. Makinda is an honest man. I have been on a peace 
mission." 

"It was not successful, was it? I can tell." 

"His love for you is great. He has given Matsuland a two day ultimatum. If 
you are not returned to him by then it means war." 

"And he will be defeated--lose his country?" 

Maguib gestured helplessly. "Most probably. His only chance would have been 
a surprise attack. He has denied himself this by the two day ultimatum." 

"But the United Nations--Sir Humphrey Tillson--" 

"They will see it only as a trifle squabble over a slavegirl." Pamela 
Prentiss wilted. There was no way to turn. Despairingly, she demanded. 
"Jacob will do this for me--for me?" 

"Yes, he will do it for you." Maguib's gaze still held hers. "You have never 
understood your quality. If I was in Makinda's shoes, I would do the same." 

"For me?" 

"For you. You are the ultimate woman all men dream of. A nation is as 
nothing compared to your nakedness and your mind." 

"That's nonsense."-' "It is truth. I have just borne witness to it." 

"Let us go. It solves everything." 

"Not my conscience or Genoa's anger." 

"But the pictures?" 

"Makinda guessed them for what they are. " 

"That means I'll be tortured for real if you take me back." 

"Only punished. You are far too valuable to injure or kill." Pamela assessed 
herself: two breasts, a patch of pubic hair, some symmetrical curves. And 
now a war because of them! In the interim she would be terribly punished and 
so would Jane. Pamela's mind examined possibilities but returned to one 
central focus. Diffidently, she asked, "What you said about me--what you'd 
do in Makinda's place--was that real?" 

"Alas, yes. It is the greatest admission of weakness I have ever made." 

Pamela remembered the French philosopher who had said, "A woman, even though 
she does not love, is grateful for being loved." It was true. She felt a 
tremendous affection for this handsome man to whom loyalty was everything. 
In this welter of emotions she could only copy Maguib's own words. "I, too, 
wish things were otherwise." 

Maguib signaled to his driver, but before he could speak Pamela burst out, 
"Please don't bind us! Really, there's no need." 

Maguib's answer was curt--it was to the driver, not to her: "Bind them." 

Defeated, the two girls stood in docile acceptance of their fate. Jane was 
trembling, but Pamela was dry-eyed as she stood erect to be tied. She knew 
the drill all too well: wrists and elbows tightly trussed behind her back, a 
rope around her neck, and a tether. Thrown into the back of the jeep, the 
ankles of the two naked captives were crossed, each with the other, and thus 
tied. Escape was now an abstract dream. Their thoughts during their return 
to captivity would be mostly concerned with the pain of the strictures in 
their flesh. The jeep's wheels kicked sand and the two prisoners' return to 
a waiting punishment had begun. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT - FLOGGED 

Nahib Genoa gave them short shrift. Forced to their knees by their guards, 
the two girls knelt to hear their sentence. It occurred to no one, not even 
themselves, to question their guilt. 

"You are ridiculous. You have caused me a lot of trouble, young woman." His 
hostile gaze roved over Jane's wilting slenderness. "And as for you--" He 
made a gesture of disgust. 

Pamela refused to lower her eyes. "I am a prisoner of war, Mr. Genoa. I have 
a right to escape." 

"You are a slave, a disobedient slave. The same applies to you both." Nahib 
Genoa chuckled. "But your lover in Saunda --and no thanks to you--plays into 
my hands. I cannot declare war on him without censure and sanctions. But he 
now declares war on me. We can defeat him. Matsuland will prosper mightily." 

Pamela shifted desperately within the cut of ropes. She and Jane were still 
bound as Maguib had delivered them. Pain was a steadily gnawing enemy from 
which she dared not ask release. But her voice was firm. "It is not right 
many men should die because of me." 

"I agree, but they will nonetheless." 

"Send me to Makinda; then there will be no war." 

"My dear child, I want a war. Your idiot lover has played into my hands." 
Genoa chuckled smugly. "Makinda will lose his country and I will make sure 
he loses you. If you did not know yourself a slave before, then know it 
now." 

The declaration was like the clutch of chain, an invisible mantle of 
ignominy. The appellation of slave was no longer abstract. It was terribly 
real. Genoa's continuing instructions came to Pamela through a haze of 
misery. 

"Imprison them for the day. Tomorrow flog them in the women's recreation 
yard. Line the women to watch. It will be a lesson to all. See to it." 

"But, sir--" Maguib's voice was urgent. "--they are only girls--so young. 
And a flogging--" 

"May turn them into women." 

Genoa swept from the room. Maguib shrugged and followed. The guards raised 
the sentenced maidens to their feet. Pamela and Jane exchanged glances. They 
would have shrugged but were too tightly bound. They were led away. 

In an ugly stone room the delinquents were set against opposite walls, 
facing each other, their arms raised to shackles which held their hands high 
and far apart. They gazed at each other in forlorn despair. 

"We are not to be executed." Jane's voice was tremulous but vibrant with 
relief. "I was certain we would be executed." Pamela found herself unable 
share her companion's optimism. "What's this tomorrow?" she asked morosely. 
"He sentenced us to a flogging. How bad is a flogging?" 

"It is very bad. There will be blood on our backs. Some of the marks will 
never go away." 

"How do you know?" 

"I have seen it. Flogging is not uncommon in Matsuland. On girls a special 
whip is used. But it is still horrible." 

"What's the idea of chaining us like this?" 

"It is part of our punishment. So is this room. It is a hateful place." 

Pamela flexed her arms and shifted from foot to foot. There was very little 
freedom. Sleep would be impossible. "If they leave us like this," she said, 
"we'll be exhausted by the time they want to whip or flog us or whatever." 

"They will let us sleep tonight. They want us strong to be flogged." 

Twisting against tight wristlets, Pamela considered their plight. It was a 
sad prospect. She closed her mind to thoughts of the whip across her back. 
The flogging, however terrible it might be, would pass, but life would go on 
and on, and she was now a slave. She had labeled herself a slave for a long 
time now, mostly with wry humor, but Nahib Genoa's pronouncement had made it 
cruelly real. Her best hope would be a life similar to Sally Driscoll's--to 
share a man's bed at night or be chained to a wall, her feet shackled when 
she left he courtyard --to belong to Matsuland for the rest of her life. 
Abruptly, she asked, "If we tell them the truth about Sally releasing me, 
you would not be flogged, would you?" 

"Yes, I would. They could not possibly believe. Even if Sally confessed, 
they would laugh in scorn. How could so slender a girl move so great a 
weight so far? It is best we say nothing, or she may scream with us 
tomorrow." 

They were trapped. Sally would suppose Jane was being punished for 
attempting escape. She would say nothing. Pamela set thoughts of Sally 
Driscoll aside. In vocal revolt she burst out, "I can't stand this! To be 
chained all day so we have to hold our arms up--I'm hating it already. We'll 
get so tired." 

"We will stand it. We will hate it, but it is better than death." 

Jane's retort was wearily resigned. "When they take us from this punishment 
we will not be done with chains. They will put their heaviest shackles upon 
us through the night, and we will sleep naked on the stone floor, but we 
will sleep." 

It was not as Jane foresaw. In early evening guards unlocked the metal bands 
from their wrists, and one of the soldiers led Jane away. Pamela's custodian 
chuckled and volunteered, "She will get well fucked; she will sleep with 
lieutenant. Come, I fix you." 

The male bedroom, the bed, the waiting wristlets and anklets; none were' 
Surprises. Maguib would possess her one more night. Perhaps he would possess 
her always. Her guard was enjoying the piquancy of a new situation. His 
humor was coarse. 

"You go piss. I wait." 

Flushing, Pamela obeyed. She also bathed. Her guard, suspicious and tired of 
waiting, came in and sat beside the bath, his features one big knowing grin. 

"You get well fucked too. You lucky girl." 

His presence did not matter to Pamela. Nakedness had become natural. She 
would have felt awkward in clothes. She knew she would not be molested. 
Maguib's prize might be derided but she would be inviolate. Her guard 
essayed light conversation. 

"You get good flog tomorrow." 

"So I understand." 

"Huh, you not frightened?" 

"Of course I'm frightened, but there's nothing I can do about it. I can't 
escape." 

"No, no escape. I bet you want to, huh?" 

"Please don't talk about it. I'll do what you tell me. Isn't that enough?" 

He leered. "Maybe you give me nice fuck? Maguib not know." 

"I could tell him you asked that." 

Her guard lapsed into sulky silence. Pamela wanted to laugh. She could feel 
pity for him. Alone with a naked girl, a girl greatly to be desired--his 
task was not easy. Absurdly, she handed him a towel. "Here, dry my back." 

He dried both her back and front with vigor. It was a consolation prize. 
When they returned to the big bedroom the naked girl spread herself to be 
chained. As the wristlets and then the anklets snapped shut upon her, she 
could not entirely banish fear. She knew herself an inviting morsel, and 
Pamela had no illusions about the compulsions of male lust. When her guard 
took one last lingering look and departed, she accorded him full marks for 
self-control, perhaps even for valor under stress. He deserved a medal. Once 
more she wanted to cry, but, instead, went instantly to sleep. 

It was hours later when she awoke. Maguib was seated beside her on the bed, 
looking down at her with deep regard. Seeing her awareness, he reached 
toward her closest wrist with a key. 

"No, don't!" Pamela's reaction was instinctive but urgent. "Don't free me. 
Let's do it the way we always have. I've got to like it." 

Maguib paid no heed. One by one the shackles fell away. He gathered his 
naked slavegirl in his arms. Against his muscular bulk her white slenderness 
was appealingly feminine. In his giant dark hands she became a pliant 
plaything, a plaything to be adored. Pamela nestled close within the 
sanctuary of his clasp. 

After a long time she whispered, "There's an anklet and chain on your bed. 
Lock it on me. I don't want to be free and then be tempted if you fall 
asleep." 

Maguib chuckled at her female practicality. "Why should you run, child? You 
know the penalty for running." 

"Because I'm frightened." Her whisper was vehement. "I'm frightened of being 
flogged. If I was simply to be whipped, I could face it. But this 
flogging--it scares me stiff!" 

Her Master carried her to his bed and laid her down gently. Amused, he 
fitted the shackle upon her ankle and snapped it shut. "There. Satisfied?" 

"Thank you. I know I'm silly." 

Maguib took her once more in his arms. He lifted and carried her until her 
new tether drew taut and dragged at her prisoned foot. He tugged her nudity 
and her chain to demonstrate how she was held. Then he threw her back upon 
the bed and arranged her nakedness to suit his fancy. Until they slept, they 
were totally absorbed. 

The prison's female inmates were marshalled to form a square at a distance 
from the two posts well imbedded in the center of the recreation yard. Their 
view of the proceedings was excellent. It was a gala occasion. They could 
catch the pain of others without knowing it was their turn next. If any felt 
either pity or outrage, they would keep it to themselves. 

Pamela and Jane were each fastened to their own post, the two punishment 
stakes ten feet apart. The breasts and belly of each delinquent was hardly 
thrust again the wood. Their arms had been raised and their wrists strapped 
cruelly tight toward the back of the round timber against which they were to 
be flogged. Their helplessness was compounded by several bands of rope well 
cinched around their waists. Not only did it bind them to the post, but a 
single shrewd loop had been passed between female flesh and the intractable 
wood to capture the strictures from either side and draw them inward so that 
each narrow waist was almost circled and belted by strands now deep within 
their skin. They could move neither back nor bottom, nor could they do more 
than flex their arms and fingers. Their feet had been left free, presumably 
to kick uselessly against unbearable pain. The two girls were ready to be 
flogged. 

From time to time they exchanged commiserating looks over bare arms but that 
was all. They could make no motion of expression. They were waiting to be 
flogged, their suspense deliberate and cruel. The whole assembly waited. A 
single guard slowly paced back and forth across the sunlit yard. 

When it happened, it happened quickly. A pompous sergeant and a small squad 
of smartly uniformed members of Matsuland's army appeared. A drummer 
provided a gentle rat-a-tat-tat to match marching feet. Places were taken 
and all eyes were upon two female guards from the prison, bare to the waist, 
muscular, tight lipped. Each carried a whip, presumably of a type considered 
suitable for the flogging of female backs. Pamela took one look at it and 
closed her eyes. 

The next arrivals were a pair of servants. Each deposited two buckets of 
water and departed. The water was to revive any girl inconsiderate enough to 
faint while being flogged. Everything seemed to have been thought of, but 
there was a total absence of the high brass. Nahib Genoa could not be 
bothered, and Maguib would find only distaste in the flaying of flesh he had 
adored. Those who needed to be there were now present. As a presage of 
punishment the drum began a light staccato roll. 

Pamela screamed instantly, Jane at the fourth stroke. The pain was of a 
viciousness beyond anything Pamela had ever known or imagined. If there was 
mercy in having females wield the whip, it was something neither of the 
naked girls would know. Pamela could not believe she would fine a male arm 
more cruel. These whip mistresses were masters of their art. It was not long 
before Pamela could hear a different sound in the impact of thongs upon her 
flesh, a splat she understood all too well. Her screams took on a new 
vibrancy. Her feet took on an agonized dance all their own of which she was 
scarcely conscious. All she knew was a mounting horror from the top of her 
thighs to her shoulders. She spared brief thankfulness for breasts bound 
tight against the post. Her underarm was cut by the thong's snapping tip, 
but her precious curves were safe. But what did it matter? She was going to 
die. She was being whipped to death! 

One of the pails of water was used to bring her back to consciousness. When 
the mistress was satisfied of a returned awareness the whipping resumed. The 
wet splat of each stroke was now far more pronounced. But the screams were 
fading. Both girls were weakening. The shock of cold water had to be used on 
both of them again to return them to the agony Nahib Genoa had decreed. It 
was when she was returning from the darkness for the third time that Pamela 
saw the stern features of Maguib. 

The flogging stopped. 

Maguib must have been an hallucination. Pamela was disoriented by agony, her 
mind a hazy blur between consciousness and the darkness. Uncaring, she was 
unaware of the departure of the soldiers and the return of the female 
prisoners to their cells. When full consciousness finally returned, the 
recreation yard was empty. 

"You all right, Pamela?" Jane's query was anxious. 

"I--I don't know. I think so." 

"Can you get loose?" 

"Of course I can't." 

"I thought they might have loosed something. They untied my middle before 
they went. Pamela, something's happened. They were all frightened." 

"I thought I saw Maguib." 

"You did see him. He stopped us being flogged any more. They weren't 
anywhere near through with us." 

"They'd have flogged us to death?" 

"That's what it felt like. I actually fainted. Oh, Pamela, I wish I could 
free my hands, but they left them strapped tight. It's hopeless." 

"Why have the left us here like this?" Pamela asked, then answered her own 
question. "They're going to come back and flog us some more, aren't they?" 

"I don't know!" Jane cried out in anguish. "Oh, damn I wish I could break 
free!" She tugged frantically at strapped wrists to no avail. "Something's 
gone wrong. Maguib was concerned. If you'd been conscious, you'd have felt 
it too. Oh, Pamela, I hurt terribly." 

Pamela took agony for granted. She had been flogged. What else could she 
expect? She supposed she should feel grateful for still being alive. Under 
such a flogging a girl could easily die. But pain was a fact they would live 
through. What concerned her most was Jane's fears. Something had happened! 
But what? Never had bondage seemed more cruel. They would stand, naked and 
helpless, while events passed them by. Pamela found it hard to think of any 
event that would not affect her now. A war was about to be fought! 

It was in the death of afternoon that the wardress came. It was the one who 
had flogged Pamela's back. In her hand she held a small portable radio. Her 
voice was impersonal. "I been told you got to listen. Way you's fixed you 
ain't got no choice." She held up the small box and turned the knob. After a 
confused gibberish the voice came clear. 

"A late news bulletin tells of the assassination of Jacob Makinda, head man 
of the state of Saunda. He fell victim to a bullet fired by a fanatical 
member of his staff who opposed Makinda's decision to declare war of 
neighboring Matsuland over possession of a favorite slavegirl reputed to be 
held prisoner by Mr. Nahib Genoa. The girl is stated to be white and a 
source of friction in the area for some time. Our next broadcast should 
contain further clarifications." 

The wardress grinned broadly, turned the knob to silence, and then freed 
Jane, handcuffed her, and led her away. They departed in silence, leaving a 
dazed Pamela Prentiss immovably bound, her pain forgotten in the agony of 
the news. She only dimly comprehended Jane's ravaged back as it went from 
sight. 

The shock was too great for tears. Pamela pressed her cheek against the post 
to which she was bound and contemplated the crumbling of her world in which 
everything was changed. She felt widowed and terribly alone. The pain in her 
heart countered the pain of her flogged back and buttocks, to leave her in 
numb misery into which intruded inexorable fact. There would be no war. She 
had lost her value to Nahib Genoa. No one in Saunda would shed a drop of 
blood on her behalf, nor give a copper coin. She was officially enslaved in 
Matsuland and would spend the rest of her life in chains. She could not 
imagine anyone sending her back to the U.S.A. For her the United States was 
gone. If Nahib Genoa had no further use for her he could easily sell her to 
a brothel. 

In the midst of her reflections was a man. Jacob Makinda had been a 
magnificent specimen of masculinity. He had conquered her in all ways, the 
most final of which had been love. Pondering their short life together, 
Pamela was aware of an intrusion. Squarely in the midst of ruin stood the 
figure of another male. She had been aware for some time of the striking 
resemblance between Maguib and Saunda's ruler. Their use of her had been 
much the same. Would Maguib act now to save her from degradation? He had 
been absent during her flogging. He was absent now. Pamela knew she had 
cherished a hope it would be his hands that loosed her bonds, but he had not 
come. He was probably absorbed with Genoa on reassessments arising from 
Makinda's death, and she was only a slavegirl who had misbehaved. 

Sir Humphrey had been for nothing. Lady Alicia had been for nothing. All the 
pains and loneliness were lost. The wounds on her back now were for a lost 
cause. Pamela twisted her hands uselessly against the straps. It hurt too 
much to fight the ropes around-her middle. She wondered if she had been 
forgotten and would stay bound to the stake until morning. 

It was late when the wardress freed her and cuffed her wrists. But Pamela 
found herself too weak to leave the stake. Panting, she sought its 
stability, clutching at it with prisoned hands. 

"Here, I help." The woman grasped an arm and most of her captive's weight. 
"You lean on me all you like." They took tentative steps towards the prison. 
"Guess you ain't as lucky as Jane. You don't get fucked tonight. I figured 
you'd be fucked for sure. I takes you to the nurse. She fix your back." The 
hot bath was a return to sanity. The nurse was impersonal but with gentle 
hands. The wounded back was comforted and anointed while the wardress 
watched with amused, enigmatic eyes. Somewhere in this process Pamela picked 
up vibrations. Not from anything said but from the way she was treated, from 
a glance. But it was intangible and she asked no questions. She did not much 
care. But she cared more than she would have done an hour ago. Life was 
returning to the wounded girl. 

"Guess you lays on your front, eh?" 

Gratefully, Pamela sprawled face down on the white sheets. She made no 
protest when a cuff was taken from one wrist and clicked home on the rail of 
the bed to keep one of her hands prisoner. It was kinder treatment than 
expected. 

"Tha's all I gotta do. Nurse, she see to you now." The wardress patted a cut 
bottom and laughed at Pamela's wince. "You be all right. You don't get no 
more whip. Maybe I gets to lock you up." She went cheerfully away. The nurse 
spread a sheet gently over tender flesh, then went her way. Exhausted from 
shock and pain, and numb with loss, Pamela fell instantly asleep. 

The next day Pamela awoke to an unexpected scene: A busy, brown skinned 
little man was being seated in a chair respectfully provided by the nurse. 
His card read: "Stanley Livingstone Masara. Barrister and Solicitor." 

"I came as quickly as I could," he said nervously. "Really, the things that 
are taking place!" His gesture hinted at unmentionable horrors. "May I offer 
my most heartfelt condolences. You--in fact, all of us--have suffered a most 
shocking loss." 

He beamed through thick spectacles. 

Pamela sat on the side of the bed, her hand still chained to the rail. She 
clutched a sheet around her nakedness and ignored the pain her weight 
inflicted on her flogged seat. She felt certain Mr. Masara must be making a 
mistake. "Are you sure you have the right girl?" she asked timidly, and then 
added, as though to confirm her status, "I'm only a slave, you know." 

Mr. Masara vented a small deprecating cough. "I have to advise you, Miss 
Prentiss, of Jacob Makinda's will. You are his sole beneficiary. There is a 
very large sum of money in a Swiss bank and sundry properties. You are a 
very rich woman." 

The silence was electric. Pamela's mind whirled. Mr. Masara beamed 
appreciatively at a breast escaping from the sheet. He patted Pamela's 
chained hand encouragingly, and continued. 

"Mr. Makinda, before he died, and I consider speed of the essence. Your new 
status must be established. Mr. Genoa's utterances of yesterday and today 
leave me apprehensive. If you truly have been legalized as a slave in this 
unfortunate country, he may choose to claim this inheritance on the basis 
that a slave can own no property. He owns you and thus owns the bequest." 
Mr. Masara now patted a bare knee. "May I have the privilege of representing 
you in these most difficult ramifications?" 

Hazily, in disbelief but with a growing excitement, Pamela uttered a 
mechanical, "Yes, of course. Thank you." 

"I have heard of this flogging affair--a deplorable act." Mr. Masara again 
patted the manacled hand. "My first concern must be to obtain your freedom." 

The lawyer was interrupted by the advent of two guards. One led him 
protesting from the room, the other unlocked the captive's cuff and locked 
it again on her own wrist to link her hands. He threw aside the sheet and 
said, "You come. You not act silly." He led her, naked, from the room. 

"I am the most fortunate of men." Mr. Genoa was suavely polite. "I own a 
slave who has become rich, and her wealth will pour into my lap. Its source 
makes it doubly welcome. Turn around. I wish to examine your back." 

The guard's hand on her bare arm enforced obedience. Mr. Genoa looked his 
fill. "Far less than you deserve, my dear. But I am sure you will give me 
excuses to have you flogged again." His smile was beneficent. "I have no 
time for you at this moment. You may be glad to know that Matsuland invades 
Saunda tomorrow. Without Makinda there will be few shots fired." 

Pamela stared aghast. Her protest was bewildered. "But you have to free 
me--you must! What use am I to you now!" 

"Oh, come, my dear, you are worth millions." 

"But the money is where you cannot touch it!" 

"If I have you flogged enough, you will sign the necessary documents." 

They stared at each other, conqueror and slave. Pamela wilted. He had her, 
and torture could make her do anything. She would sign something at this 
moment rather than return to the stake. Each of them understood the other. 
Genoa nodded affably and turned away. The guard's hand was heavy on her arm. 

It was a cell with three walls of stone, and one wall and a door of bars. 
Pamela was attached to one of the walls with an abundance of chain verging 
on the absurd. Each chain was separate, trailing its long length to its own 
heavy ring deeply embedded in the stone. First, there was a shackle for each 
wrist and for each ankle, and then there was a collar for her neck and with 
it a tether of links. As though adding insult to injury the naked girl was 
fitted with a tight metal band around her waist and it too trailed heavy 
links to the wall. Pamela stood passively while it was done to her by the 
guard and the familiar wardress. The soldier nodded and left the females 
alone. 

"You not escape, girl." 

"You've made sure of that," Pamela retorted bitterly. "Can't you find some 
other part of me to chain?" 

"Each chain have different key. Make sure no rescue." 

She was valuable indeed to warrant such security. But Pamela was far from 
grateful. The chains mattered little. She could never escape this place. 
Urgently, she asked, "That little lawyer man--may I see him again?" 

"You see sometime. He have papers for you." The wardress grinned. "Chains no 
stop you sign." 

Gingerly, the captive reclined on the bench, disposing her chains, favoring 
her wounds. Pamela had never felt more fragile or more helpless. Genoa had 
her indeed. She could think of no law with the power to set her free. Maguib 
must have deemed her condition hopeless and abandoned her. For a long time 
Miss Pamela Prentiss sobbed bitterly into chained hands. 

Mr. Masara was an afternoon visitor, peering between the bars at his 
client's shackled nudity. He was slightly embarrassed. "Really, this is 
shocking treatment." He sounded genuinely concerned. "Mr. Genoa has chosen 
to be difficult. I will attend the American Consul." He paused and sprung a 
question: "Do you know Mr. Maguib?" 

"Yes, I served him as a slave." 

"Is he honest?" 

"Yes, why?" 

"He has contacted me. It is all very mysterious and very worrying. He wants 
a short delay in whatever we decide to do. He says he will come to you at 
the first opportunity." 

"Why not now?" 

Mr. Masara shrugged. "He appears much involved. He tells me war is pending 
but he had no time to elaborate. He was importuned from all directions." 

"I can only tell you he is a good man. But you must do as you see fit." 
Pamela raised chained hands. "Look! I am in no position to advise." 

"Barbarous! But I can find no agency in Matsuland to set you free. Genoa is 
a total dictator, and he has declared your slave status to all. I am not 
sure I myself am safe. I will head for the coastal city immediately. Now, if 
you will excuse me." He scurried away. 

The chained girl pondered the irony of her life. To be a millionairess yet 
still a slave in chains! And such chains! Every time she moved she clinked. 
Metal tugged at her everywhere. The band around her waist was far too tight. 
But she would probably not be fed much, so it would not matter. 

Pamela turned onto her stomach and cradled her chin in her hands. It was 
hard to move without hurting, but she was getting used to this new pain. She 
toyed idly with thoughts of Makinda's bequest but found no conviction. 
Chained and locked in a cell as she was, the Swiss bank account was too 
remote to be real. Poor little Mr. Masara would never get her out of her 
slavery. She knew herself an embarrassment to the U.S. Consulate. Even 
though he might not gain her freedom, he could easily make her enslavement 
more tolerable once the present hysteria over Saunda had been forgotten. 

She was given water but no food. She glimpsed Genoa's hand in .the 
deprivation. He would want her weak. The flogging had already weakened her 
more than she realized. In fettered solitude it was easy to sleep, and 
finally she slipped into unconsciousness, her breasts hard against the 
bench, her head cradled in chained arms. In early evening she was wakened by 
the opening of the door. 

It was Maguib. 

He stood there, the dusk turning him into a giant of a man, gazing down at 
the chained girl. He stepped within the cell and stood back from the bench 
where they could observe each other. His voice was wooden. 

"It is over." 

Intuition told Pamela the meaning of his cryptic utterance. She raised 
herself to rest on one hip, waiting in wide-eyed silence. 

"Caesar is dead." Paraphrasing Shakespeare, he added bitterly, "He was my 
friend." 

"Genoa?" 

Maguib nodded soberly. "He became insane. The army would tolerate him no 
longer. They rejected his absurd war. It was they who--" 

"Killed him?" 

"Yes. I am glad it was not by my hand." 

"But, Master, what now?" 

Maguib waved a weary arm. "They have elected me in his place." 

"You are the ruler!" Pamela was flooded with joy. "Oh, Master!" Divining his 
mood, she added, "But you are not happy." 

Maguib gestured wearily again. "I will be happy tomorrow. Today I mourn." He 
shook his head in bitterness. "If only I had let you and that girl escape." 

"You could not. You were being loyal." 

"Two men would not have died, and you would not have been flogged." He 
picked her up and turned her about to view her wounded back. "This cruelty 
to you was the last straw. The thing I could not forgive." 

Standing erect, chain flowed from her in cascades of links. Pamela opened 
her arms wide and her entered them in a sudden rush of passion. Both forgot 
her bloodied back, Pamela oblivious to the pain in this new wonder. She 
nestled against the huge chest, feeling an immense tenderness for this 
sorely tried man. For the first time in a long while she felt safe. They 
kissed. When the captive felt the rising tide she drew him down upon the 
bench, laughing at his expostulation. 

"But your back--this bench--" 

"I want my back hurt--by you." 

"But you are so chained." 

"They stop me doing nothing, save escape." 

They made love for a long time, finding fresh ecstasies in the piquancy of 
her plight. But finally Maguib produced keys. "I don't know why I didn't 
think of this before--leaving you chained. Forgive me." 

"But I am your slave. Remember?" 

Maguib's old chuckle was back; "I suppose so," he mused thoughtfully. "I 
inherited you with the title." 

"Perhaps you should chain me again?" 

"Huh! I understand you are to become a millionairess. Can't keep a girl in 
chains when she's got all that money." 

"Genoa was going to have me tortured until I signed it over to him." 

"I heard that too. I am not Genoa. We can get things straightened out 
for-you with this little lawyer fellow and then get you on a plane back to 
your home in the U.S.A." 

They stood and stared, aware of a vacuum. Then Pamela asked bluntly, "Do you 
want that?" 

"No." 

"What's the matter? Male virtue? Being noble?" 

"All right then, will you marry me?" 

"Yes." 

Maguib picked Pamela up bodily and carried her the long trek to his bedroom. 
Arriving there, he paused and looked around, then sealed her lips with a 
kiss. "I know what you're going to ask. The answer is no." 

"Oh, please!" 

"You can't lay on a flogged back all night." 

"I probably will anyway." 

"You underrate my versatility." The new ruler of Matsuland dumped his slave 
on his bed. He searched for and found the shackle. As he clamped it on her 
ankle, he asked, "Does this satisfy your masochism?" 

"I'm not a masochist. I simply like to know I'm loved." 

"A chain does that?" 

"Well, it stops me from going home to mother." 

"I'll make sure you wear it every night." 

Pamela Prentiss opened her arms once more. 


THE END
