Beloved bonds

3 Forever Chained

“To the most beautiful of women,” said Khalief Abhad gravely as he lifted the cool glass Trudy Ramsay had returned.

“I’ll drink to that,” Caroline laughed. “You’re a lucky devil, Khalief, to get Trudy and me. Please let the poor darling get herself a pick-me-up. She’s scared to death of you, she’s trembling.”

“Of course.” The president of Zindawba made a lordly gesture towards the bar. “But as for luck. there was none. I purchased you with planned forethought, and kidnapped Miss Ramsay by a competently executed maneuver. I desired female samples of decadent Colonialism on one hand and of decadent Capitalism on the other. I have them.”

Trudy flitted to the bar. She had been taught the evils of alcohol, but at that moment would have drunk anything to quieten her pounding heart and the turmoil of her mind. She splashed amber liquid into a glass, frighteningly conscious of the perils of bartending with handcuffed wrists—girls got whipped for spilling drinks in Zindawba! Then, hoping she was doing everything right, she returned to kneel submissively before her Master and to gulp optimistically.

“Isn’t she sweet, Khalief! Why don’t you let her go home? You’ve got me.”

Abhad bestowed a frowning regard upon the woman who had been Mrs. Caroline Dowling. His words were heavy. “Did I hear you right?”

“Oops!” Caroline’s hand went to her mouth.

“I’ve done it again.” Her tone honeyed: “Can I say I’m sorry?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Must I fetch it?”

“Yes.”

The kneeling girl was a speechless spectator as Caroline went to an alcove and returned with a cane, yellow and supple and wicked. She knelt, kissed it, then handed it to the seated man. Her motions were fluid and controlled as she stepped away, gathered her dress beneath an arm, and bent forward to expose her pink bottom on which there were already marks.

“Please, Khalief, not too hard!”

“Quiet, woman! Curve that spine.”

It was both obscene and beautiful. Caroline parted her nylon-clad legs and protruded the innocent curves to be beaten. Plump lips and fronds of black hair peeked shyly back. Khalief Abhad struck the female flesh one whirring cut, then resumed his chair. The punished girl stood erect, allowing her dress to fall back into position. In a warm and casual voice she said: “Thank you, Khalief, that was sweet of you.” She turned to Trudy. “And let what you’ve just seen be a lesson to you, saucy pants. Our Master takes no nonsense.” As though returning a book to a shelf she replaced the cane where she had found it. “Darling.” Her gaze upon the president was one of pure adoration. “That’s made me horny. You knew it would.”

Trudy was shocked yet entranced. She sensed between these two a current she did not share. She viewed them with awe. To share a cage with Caroline had become a privilege, an approach to royalty. Stupidly, she looked at her empty glass, she must have gulped it, unknowing.

“You may refill all three, my dear.” Thankfully, she rose, but was instantly halted.

“Stand close, little English girl, and lift your apron.”

“He wants to see your cunt, dear,” said Caroline helpfully.

The cage had withered inhibitions. Yet the act demanded now was surprisingly shaming. The tiny apron seemed a shield for all her modesty. With an empty glass in each hand she looked around distractedly.

“I told you, Khalief, the poor child’s shy. Trudy, stop being pathetic. Here, give me those glasses!”

Caroline swept the empties to the bar. Returning to Trudy’s side, she chided: “Look, darling, it’s no big deal. Every girl has one. Watch me.” Once more she raised her dress, this time to protrude her pudendum in all its tufted glory’.

Trudy lifted her apron.

The president of Zindawba was delighted. “You can cover yours up, girl. I’ve seen it before.” He dismissed Caroline’s pubic offering with a wave of the hand. He focused his full attention upon his impromptu maid’s dark triangle. Chuckling with some thought of his own, he demanded: “What d’you call it, girl?” Trudy wished she’d had the second drink. “My pubic hair, Sir?” she ventured timidly.

“Hell no! The slit. You call it something?” Trudy was lost. “It’s never been christened, Sir—”

The lord of Zindawba exploded into a huge guffaw. “Dammit, Caroline, give the girl a hand.”

“Trudy, grow up. You know perfectly well it’s a quim, a fanny, a twat, a manhole cover, a cunt, a—”

“But I’ve always called mine a pussy.” Trudy hoped she would not be whipped too hard. Another burst of merriment.

“Why not a cat?”

“I could call it a cat, sir, if you wish. May I drop my apron?”

“You can take it off completely,” said the nation’s president grandly. “Then serve those drinks.”

“Can I undress too, please?” Caroline asked. “I think it would make it easier for her. It’s a bit of a shock for a girl to make herself naked in front of a president.”

“No you can’t! I want one with and one without. And are you asking for another mark on your rump?”

Trudy was glad to occupy her hands, even if they were chained together. She pulled the bow round front and tugged, the tiny apron fell away. Her fevered anxiety saw her pubic bush twice as luxuriant as she remembered it last. Placing the discarded trifle on a chair, she felt as though half the world was scrutinizing her loins.

“Don’t kneel again. Stand up facing me, legs well apart. Sip your drink and keep your hands away from your cat.”

It was worse than the cage, more personal. Trudy caught a fleeting glance of reassurance from the older girl and hoped for the best. She could not conceive the afternoon passing without punishment. She hoped alcohol was all they said it was.

The head of State sipped enjoyably and gave his full attention to Trudy’s pubes. She judged him a connoisseur of cunts. Tiring of her black fronds and pouting lips he turned to the lounging Caroline.

“You still horny?”

“Yes. I’m sitting on the stripe you gave me.”

“Go on up to the bedroom.”

The older girl was undismayed. Trudy suspected she was happy to be honoured. The naked maid felt abandoned.

“Stand just the way you are, eh! Don’t move. No drinks.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

It sounded trite, but he seemed satisfied. Having sentenced the servant to an indefinite period of tiring ennui, Khalief Abhad followed his concubine from the room. Trudy sighed. She longed to sit, but knew she lacked the courage to do aught but stand and exhibit her pubic bush to a nonexistent audience. It was an unkind punishment: presumably to keep her out of mischief. Dolefully, she looked down at the empty glass still in her cuffed hands, and wondered if she was allowed to place it on the rug. Probably not! Sighing again, she held onto it and gazed at the wall. It seemed a frighteningly long time before Rulua appeared. She held handcuffs and two flags.

“Standing to attention, eh! You do it well.”

“Oh, Rulua, it’s been so long! Where are they?”

“They’ll be right down.” Rulua chuckled. “You know damn well what they’ve been doing. Stand just as you are, dear, and I’ll put your Union Jack on for you.”

It seemed impossible that Caroline should look the same after what she had been doing, but she was radiant. She was also naked. “May I put my flag on before you handcuff me?” she asked sweetly.

Trudy watched the stars and stripes shield from view a feminine facility she was prepared to swear was swollen and engorged. Caroline held out her hands prettily to watch the handcuffs locked upon her wrists. She never seemed to care whether she was chained or not. To the watching girl she was more of a mystery than ever. Abhad watched Rulua take charge of his slaves, nodded absently, and departed.

Rulua led her nude and handcuffed charges back to their cage. The Market accepted them with its usual lewd curiosity. The heavy chains were locked on their ankles, then their wrists. The Mistress pocketed the discarded handcuffs.

“Why can’t we just wear handcuffs instead of all this iron?” Caroline asked jauntily.

“You know perfectly well, dear,” Rulua told her drily. “These lovely chains on you symbolise the subjugation of your race. You’ve no idea how pleased the citizenry is with the two of you in this cage.”

“But our race isn’t subjugated—just us!”

“You sure of that! Anyway we’re working on it. In the meantime you’re profitable propaganda. Nothing personal.”

“These chains are awfully personal.”

“Want to complain to the president, dear?”

“You know I wouldn’t dare. I got a stripe today without even trying.”

“Got something else too, didn’t you!”

“Do I detect envy?”

“So O.K. I’m envious! You’re a damn lucky girl. There’s lots here who’d trade with you, cage and all.”

“And my forthcoming Grand Tour—all those Town Squares I have to entertain in?”

Rulua paused, beholding a vision in her mind. She shook her head. “Nuhnuh! I don’t suppose they’d want to go that far. Anyway, they couldn’t. It’s you who’s qualified. For that job you’re probably the best there is.”

“What the devil was she talking about?” Trudy demanded after the Mistress had locked the cage and disappeared.

“Oh, just something . . .” Caroline too was seeing visions. She turned, impulsively, to the younger girl who shared her nudity and her cage, and placed her shackled hands lovingly on bare shoulders. Her voice was tender. “Darling, I want so much for you to know how glad and thankful I am for your being here. You help me stay Me. It would have been awful alone.”

“That’s all I’m here for, isn’t it, a little pussycat to keep you company?”

“Don’t be sulky about it, sweets. You were Khalief’s idea before I ever happened. He wanted an English girl for—” She made a vague gesture that sent her chain swirling and tugging at her wrist. “For—oh, for some idea of his own. It’s probably a crazy idea. But it isn’t crazy to him.”

Trudy stood on her dignity. “Am I allowed to know?”

“Well, not really. He doesn’t want it talked about. Besides, there’s not much you have to do except wear that Union Jack and keep me from falling into a depression.”

“And be chained in a cage in a wog Market Place for gooks to gawk at,” Trudy tittered. “Gosh, if my family could see . . . !”

“Khalief’s got his own State aircraft. It was parked at Gatwick anyway, so picking you up and bringing you here was no big trick. He brought me in it too.”

“Tied up and naked.”

“How’d you guess! He said it was good for my soul.”

“And the chloroform?”

Caroline shrugged in a gesture of helplessness.

“No, I didn’t get that. I’d made a choice. It’s turned out a bummer, but how was I to know! Look, darling, don’t push about it. If I seem happier than I should be or manage a laugh here and there it’s because I did once exercise a free choice. I’m trying to look at all this as simply a remarkable experience.”

“Being ravished by a giant black?”

“Don’t be melodramatic. Khalief’s an amazingly tender lover.”

Trudy sniffed. “Is it true about—about his—his—?”

“Yes, it’s true,” Caroline giggled. “I didn’t know we girls are—well, the way we are. But it all goes inside somewhere, and it’s—it’s simply—oh, never mind!”

“You were going to say he’s simply gorgeous.”

“Oh all right, I was, and he is! Darling, if you feel a bit left out, would you like me to persuade him to—?”

“Caroline!” Trudy was shocked. “Absolutely no!”

“O.K., O.K., I just thought—well, anyway, I suppose my life’s been a bit different. I never was a strictly good girl.”

Trudy pondered. “There’s something between you: I know there is! Something’s going on, and you’re a part of it. Something’s going to happen to us?”

“Well, I suppose so.” Caroline surveyed her younger companion sympathetically. “But don’t let’s get bothered. C’mon, sit down. Don’t let our audience think we’re having an argument. You’re bored and feel slighted, so how about . . . ? Oh damn! I’ve been meaning to ask you but you’re so British. Ever tried the lesbian thing?”

“I’m not all that naive,” Trudy pouted. “I’d love to, you’re a darling. But in a cage, and chained! And surrounded by dirty old men in nightshirts . . . ?”

“Sometimes when I wake at night there’s not a soul in sight.”

“W-E-L-L-oh, darling . . .” She shook her head in sorrow. “Don’t you know . . . ? About Mohammedans? Your Khalief’s a Mohammedan. They do the most awful things to a lesbian. If they catch two girls—doing it, they . . . they mutilate them terribly and mete out the most shocking punishments.”

“No, really! Oh damn! Darling, I’d take a chance, but I don’t want you—oh shit!”

That night, consumed by a desperate feminine longing, they made their love. Their chains were a nuisance but stopped nothing. They did not perceive the watcher in the shadows who beheld their act. They heard nothing of the witness until another time.

“Damn smart, don’t you think?” Rulua visibly preened. “We got new outfits for the whole troop: just arrived yesterday.”

Two bored captives clutched the bars of their cage and examined their Mistress with a new and amused interest. Rulua had become resplendently military. The uniform and the woman who wore it was an eye catcher by any standard anywhere. She carried a swagger stick, imparting to the ensemble an impeccably British tone.

“It’s the President’s female Guard. Twenty of Zindawba’s finest. Care to join?”

“But, Rulua, when did this happen?”

“Only last week. I’ve been promoted to Captain. It was the President’s idea. He thinks it’s another bit of good publicity for Zindawba: Woman’s Lib . . . emancipation. He’s had a British sergeant drilling the girls for the last few days. They’ve become an absolute precision Squad.”

“Oh, Rulua, what fun! You look absolutely stunning.”

“Thank you. The girls are even better—more sexy. Abhad designed their uniforms himself. They’re about half skin. But the Captain has to have dignity, so bare knees and a braless bust is as close to comfort as I’m likely to get. Unless I’m doling out discipline. Then I can strip to the waist.”

“Discipline?” The two captives put a wealth of feeling into the exclamation.

“Of course, discipline! You’ve heard the old military expression: ‘Whipping ’em into shape’, it’s literally true. Saves a lot of talk and drawing charts on blackboards.”

The chained girls exchanged an amused glance: They would not be recruits!

“I’ve got nineteen girls.” She pointed the swagger stick at Trudy. “You’re number twenty.”

It was like a blow, a premonition proven. Trudy gazed askance through the bars and blurted out the most obvious impediment. “But—but, I wouldn’t be any good! I’m—I’m—!”

“White!” The newly created Captain chuckled. “Don’t give it a thought. You won’t be alone, there’s two others.”

“But how did they come to join?”

“Simple! They didn’t want their bottoms striped.”

“You mean that if I—?”

“Exactly, dear! If you insist on argument I’ll whip your bottom, and a few other spots, until you decide you’d like to be a recruit.”

“That’s plain coercion!”

“We call it the new patriotism, dear.”

Trudy examined her dilemma. At least, with Rulua, there was no hypocrisy, and she had a sense of humour. But she was dedicated steel. The bemused captive clutched at straws. “But with us two the troop will be twenty-one?”

“Mrs. Dowling is not invited to join. She has other ways in which to prove her loyalty.”

Trudy bit back the catty response of: ‘Yes, in bed!’, but allowed prudence to govern her tongue. Instead, she enunciated firmly: “If Caroline doesn’t go, then I won’t go either. I’m not going to leave her chained alone in this rotten cage!”

“Hush, darling!” A chained hand was placed on an impassioned arm. “We don’t have choices: neither of us. Look at the way we are, naked and chained and caged!” The older girl strove for a touch of humour. “There’s no use putting on that lovely new uniform on top of a collection of whip weals.”

“A wise counsel,” said Captain Rulua approvingly.

“I don’t want to be a Storm Trooper,” said the chosen recruit disconsolately.

The Captain decisively unlocked the door of the cage.

“I’ll admit it’s nice to be free of those chains,” Trudy concurred as she kept pace with her guide and mentor. “Thank you for only handcuffing me, and thank you for this cloak. I wouldn’t want to take this walk naked. Is it far?”

“The President has been generous. We have the former Cricket Club premises. The Club House has been replaced by a modern facility. The cricket field itself is our drill and training ground. It is well contained by a high electric fence.”

“To keep the public out, or us in?”

“Don’t be facetious, dear. Military life must be taken seriously. A girl like you could go far.”

The guard at the gate was an eye opener. A coffee-coloured Juno attired in a nice compromise between Buck Rogers and Star Trek. Hollywood would have put her on the payroll instantly. She saluted briskly as she raised the barrier.

“Ten days ago she was selling nylons in a department store,” the Captain informed complacently. “Just look at her now!”

Halfway across the former playing field they came to the Post. It was a stark timber well planted in the soil. Here and there around the field there were others. This one was in use. To it was tightly bound another coffee-tinted maiden. This one minus uniform. The symmetrical curves void of any covering whatsoever, no doubt to enable the binding ropes to cut deeper into the lovely skin. At ankles, knees, waist and above the conical breasts, the strands bit and cinched the prisoned girl into total immobility—except her hands and arms which were free. No knots were visible: no doubt contrived at the rear where questing fingers could not reach. “I want you to watch this, dear,” said Captain Rulua pridefully.

It was worth watching. It welled sympathy into every fiber of Trudy’s being, and a flicker of fear. This girl today, perhaps herself tomorrow! When they came within ten paces the bound nudity swelled against the ropes and a hand and arm rose smartly to a precisely executed salute. A salute which the Captain acknowledged with panache.

“At ease!”

The command ended the salute but had no effect on the rest of the girlish figure which could not move. The free arms hung at each side, palms flat against prisoned hips.

“This is Nikola, dear. You’ll get to know her when she returns to duty after her punishment.”

“But, poor dear, how long—?”

“She was tied as you see her at 0.8 hours this morning. She will remain tied until tomorrow evening. She has a lesson to learn.”

“But—but, that’s—!”

“She will be hosed down at appropriate intervals.”

So simple! Everything sanitary. Two days and a night of immobility and pain, the free arms and hands nothing but a frustrating mockery.

“Having the use of her hands enables her to slap the mosquitoes.” The Captain made it sound a major concession.

“But what’s the poor girl done?”

“Nikola dear, I think it would be nice if you told Miss Ramsay how you misbehaved. Feel free to speak frankly. Miss Ramsay is our new recruit.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you.” It was as though the need to speak had been a pent-up urgency. The words which followed were devoid of resentment. Trudy caught a glimpse of something unexpected.

“Come, Nikola, Miss Ramsay is sincerely interested.”

“Yes, ma’am, I was a foolish girl. I deserve very much this punishment. I was rude and impertinent, and I struggled and fought.”

“Yes, Nikola?”

The young voice quavered. “I tried to break out of Barracks at night so as to go and see a boy I knew before I became a guard. It was wrong. The President’s Guard does not have such foolishness as boyfriends. A guard girl has nothing to do with men at all. I am very sorry for what I did.”

“And you are learning a lesson?”

“Oh yes, ma’am! Being tied like this is very good for Nikola. I am thinking very much of how I must behave.”

Trudy was prepared to be cynical. Any girl, hurt enough, might be disposed to say anything. But, emanating from Nikola, was an air of tremendous sincerity. For the tied girl there was a logical sequence. She had erred, thus she must suffer punishment. Both factors were, to her, extraneous incidents in no way affecting her first loyalties. She was a selected member of the President’s Guard, one of the Chosen. Her heart was there. If her flesh proved weak she would approve its scourging.

“I hope you will take a hint, dear,” Rulua said gently.

“You mean it could be me tied to that post?”

“Only if you are foolish. There are other things too.”

“I’m sure there are!” Trudy tugged at her handcuffs to assure herself it was all really happening. They had resumed their walk to the barracks. “Are you going to keep me handcuffed always?”

“Don’t be bitter, dear. Most of the time you will enjoy a dangerous amount of freedom. You will be tempted.” A sympathetic hand was placed on a captive arm. “Always think twice. I want very much for you to become proud to be a guard. Try and embrace the esprit de corps that made the old British Army what it was.” She sighed. “We declare otherwise, but actually we miss them sorely.”

“Love my fellow troopers! All of us chained!”

“Stop that! You will find it easy to love some of them if you let yourself. None of you will be chained unless you invite restraint. If you insist on cynicism you can be flogged as often as you choose.”

Trudy bit back the words she might have uttered.

Within her terms of reference, Rulua had been kind. It was hard to evaluate the bite of handcuffs as a leniency but they were a concession: she could have still been wearing the heavy shackles. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “It’s all so new and difficult . . . and nobody’s really told me what it’s all about. I will try to be what you want me—I will! Honest!”

“Thank you, dear, that pleases me. I won’t be with you all the time, you will see far more of Sergeant Galla—ah, here she comes now!”

With the departure of Captain Rulua, Trudy’s indoctrination into the President’s Guard took on much of the colouration of opéra bouffe. Sundry dusky maidens, a glowing blonde, and a raven-tressed Caucasian eyed her with hungry curiosity as they went about their tasks. But, for the moment, she was Galla’s. Eyeing the sergeant and her brood, Trudy realised the entire troop would have qualified for any chorus line anywhere. Pulchritude had obviously been the only test in selection. “You’ll do nicely,” said Sergeant Galla as she took away the cloak, and then the Union Jack. “Has the President fucked you yet?”

The new recruit found it difficult to relate military discipline to a sergeant who giggled. Sergeant Galla found most things amusing and bestowed upon them a feminine titter which was inclined to bubble over. She employed it now. “I got to spray that bushy little cunt and take yo’ fingerprints, love. Yo’ want to object I get some help?”

“I don’t mind, but wouldn’t you like to take these off?” She held up her locked wrists.

“Not right now, love.” A pleased titter. “I sort of like to see ’em on a white girl. Makes me feel good.”

“I’m so glad I make you happy.”

“And I can whip yo’ little arse for insolence, love.”

“Thank you, I’ll remember.”

“Yo’ sure yo’ weren’t insolent right then?”

“Quite sure. Er, do you want me to spread my legs or something for that disinfectant?”

“Spose yo’ might as well. Waste o’ time doin’ yo’ but it’s in the book.”

Trudy allowed her loins to be purified with Lysol, and passively suffered her fingers to be inked. “Now yo’ gets washed down and scrubbed, love.” The sergeant’s giggle reduced the whole endeavour to its proper absurdity. “Seein’ yo’s handcuffed I’ll give yo’ a hand.”

The guard uniform came off with surprising ease. Beneath it Galla wore nothing. She proved erotically lovely as the rest. “I won a beauty contest in the village,” she explained modestly. “That’s how come I got picked for a guard.”

“And you got immediately promoted?”

“Not exactly. The President fucked me four times before he decided.” The giggle intruded again. “Girls from my tribe all got real special cunts. Men like us a lot.”

For Zindawba it was probably as good a gauge as any. Trudy wondered how long it would be before she too was impaled upon the Head of State. She stood, well braced, and not knowing what to do with her joined hands, while her superior officer hosed and scrubbed her defenseless skin with great vigor, washing her own mahogany polish at the same time. They shared the feminine rite of washing and drying their hair. It formed a bond. “There’s not always that much to do here,” Galla admitted. “I can make the girls work at something, but I ain’t supposed to do nothin’, ’cept keep ’em spry.”

They were spry indeed. Sergeant Galla lined them up in the dormitory for a formal introduction to their new comrade. There was a good deal of tittering. They were a smart bevy of beauty, making Trudy feel awkward and foreign in her nakedness, and whatever she did with her handcuffed hands they seemed restive. “I’ve told her about how to behave, and what happens when she’s insolent,” Galla said severely.

“Yes, Sergeant.” Butter would not have melted in their mouths. The response was dulcet. One of the white girls winked.

“They’re insolent half the time,” Galla addressed Trudy as though imparting a State secret. “The only one they pay attention to is the W.O. That’s Warrant Officer Ringbolt. He drills ’em. He’s not here at the moment.”

“I think they look lovely,” said Trudy, feeling like a small child on her first day at school.

“Oh, they look all right, but it’s what they’re thinking that matters. They’re a foxy lot.”

“I think they’re sweet. Could I have my uniform?”

“No you can’t! And it’s time you learned a lesson.”

The sudden thud of Trudy’s pulse was needless.

It was at the first girl in line the sergeant’s finger pointed. “You there, go and fetch a cane.” The digit swung one notch. “And you, Gertrude, prepare for discipline.”

Smiles vanished, lips pouted. But the troop was not mutinous. They accepted what they must. Gertrude stepped forward, saluted briskly, did a sharp about turn and bent down to touch her toes. In the process she contrived some small dexterity with the guard uniform by which her rounded derriere became poignantly exposed.

Trudy giggled.

It was lèse-majesté. All eyes focused on the new recruit. Sergeant Galla demanded: “What’s so damn funny?”

The giggle refused control. Choking and flushed, Trudy Ramsay tried to convey her vision of the ridiculous. “I’m so sorry . . . !” She looked around desperately, but Gertrude’s bare bottom added fuel to the fire of her hilarity. “It’s—it’s—well, it’s all so—quaint.”

“Gertrude! Resume ranks.” Galla frowned at her humour-stricken neophyte. “Take her place. Knees stiff, back bent well down.”

She’d asked for it! Trudy made the wry admission to herself as she obeyed. The whole thing was comic. But not to the sergeant who was herself striving to meet new and strange demands. Bending to her posture of shame, Trudy was witness to the arrival of the cane. She cringed at what she saw. She was going to hurt, hurt bad!

“I’m sorry to have to do this,” said Sergeant Galla.

Trudy was sorry too! She arched her back to protrude her impudent behind, hoping her pendant breasts would not betray her trembling. The handcuffs shone brightly on her wrists where her fingers touched her toes. When her world exploded into pain she gave a startled yelp and fell forward on her knees.

“Still think we’re something to laugh at?”

“Oh no, Sergeant.”

“Stand up straight, then bend over again. I’d better start you out right.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Trudy stood, her cuffed hands ineffectually seeking her scorched flesh. Once more she bent over for punishment. It would be worse this time—the knowing . . .

But she managed to hold, position as the cane thunked into her innocence, the pain of it choking her throat and tying her stomach into knots. If this was life in the President’s Guard she did not want it.

“Stand up and apologise.”

“I really am sorry, Sergeant! And thank you for caning me.”

Galla smiled, In anger, obviously simulated, she barked at her troop. “You can stop grinning. Stand at attention for discipline. You needn’t think you’re getting off just because she got a couple first.”

With burning bottom, Trudy stood aside to witness feminine agony inflicted and endured for her edification. She was sure the girls would all hate her. She longed to massage her wealed skin, but the handcuffs and Galla’s eye inhibited. Her bottom blazed.

Sergeant Galla enjoyed her work. The girls were docile and resigned—and seemingly without resentment. Each bottom, as it was revealed, bore evidence of previous inflictions. Their salute was unfailingly smart, their thanks sincere. The cane whirred, thunked and splatted, weal after weal sprang into scarlet. Some pouting pudendums pushed themselves into rearward prominence and were painfully rewarded for their temerity.

After it was all over, Trudy had to fight back more giggles. The sergeant, from some sense of what was proper to the occasion, insisted on a shaking of hands all round. Miss Trudy Ramsay must be properly introduced. The handcuffs jingled incongruously with each handclasp.

The uniform was fun. “Suppose I’d better take these off.” Galla unlocked the handcuffs with obvious reluctance. “What’s your dress size?”

The guard uniform was sparse. It was designed to emphasise every female feature. But after total nakedness or the Union Jack, Trudy actually felt covered. In her hometown she would have been arrested for indecent exposure.

“You’ll be a credit to us,” Galla approved. “And now I suppose you’d better have the interview with the W.O.”

“What do I have to see Mr. Ringbolt for?”

“It’s more a case of him wanting to see you, love. Butter him up a bit, he’s touchy: still mourning the good old days.”

Warrant Officer Ringbolt was indeed a relic of times past. Enduring his fierce inspection across his office desk, Trudy longed for Galla. But she was on her own. The probing male eyes reduced the guard uniform to total indecency. Momentarily they switched to the sheet of paper in his hand. “English, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So’m I. But don’t expect favours.”

“Oh no, sir!”

“Off with that uniform.”

The demand was a shock. Trudy gazed fearfully upon the bristling handlebar mustache and bleary eyes. Her voice quavered. “But, sir, why?”

“So I can have a look at you, of course.”

“But, sir, is that allowed? I’m a girl . . . ?”

“So I notice! Off with that uniform!”

It was Zindawba. After the cage, did anything matter! The curves of the girlishness had been ogled by a thousand men. But the W.O. was different, more personal—and he shouldn’t be using his authority to have a look at a girl’s breasts and pubic hair. But still . . . ! Trudy shrugged and unfastened her newly acquired splendor.

“Trim!” The W.O.’s exclamation was approving.

“I do like a girl to be trim! No sags! Turn round slowly—put your hands behind your neck!”

The exposure was blatant. Trudy knew herself reddening. She postured slowly for Ringbolt’s enjoyment.

“Couple of stripes, I see—on your arse! Fresh?”

“Yes, sir. I was not properly respectful.”

“But you will be now, eh?”

“Oh yes, sir!”

“Spread your legs—out wide! I want to see your quiff.”

“My what, sir . . . ?”

“What you pee through! That’s right. Lean back, but forward with your hips.”

It was cruelly demeaning, reducing a girl to a pouting vulva.

“Nice! Very nice! All right, at ease, girl.” Trudy stood before him, limply naked, longing for Caroline.

“His Nibs fuck you yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Not anybody?”

“No, sir. I’ve been chained in a cage.”

“Oh yes, of course!” he pondered morosely. “Well then, I suppose I’d better do you.” He made it sound a dreary chore.

Trudy had no wish to be ‘done.’ Feeling a giggle imminent, she hastily interposed. “Please don’t feel you have to, sir, I won’t be offended if you don’t ‘do’ me, I don’t want to be a bother.”

“No bother, really.” The military voice was sad.

“But there’s twenty-one of you—I do the sergeant too! And I’m not as young as I was . . . ! His Nibs doesn’t help much either—”

The giggle was boiling over, Trudy quenched it with words. “I think you’re to be admired, sir. It’s not every man who could ‘do’ a whole troop.”

The W.O. visibly preened. “Think so! Well, nice of you to understand. Damn girls . . .” He fixed her with a more benign regard. “It’s the chutney, y’know. If a chap puts a bit o’ chutney on everything he eats he can do wonders—probably the mangoes . . .”

“I’ll try and remember that, sir.”

“Hell, you don’t need chutney!” he pondered.

“Suppose I’d better do something with you though . . .” He searched an invisible repertoire and sighed. “May as well whip your arse. It’s a good old standby.”

“But, sir, I haven’t done anything!”

“Who said you had! Touch your toes.”

“I don’t want to be caned again, sir. It hurts terribly.”

“That’s the whole idea. Look, girl, go over to the rack and pick your own tool.”

She had noticed the rack The things it held were shivery. None seemed less lethal than another. She picked one at random and tendered it humbly. Adjusting her nudity into the punishment posture she longed to cry.

“Spread your legs a bit more.”

She had scarcely obeyed when the cane bit. She moaned pitifully but held still.

“Good girl! Hold it for another.”

The snickering whirr was frightening, the pain exquisite.

Trudy Ramsay screamed.