Beloved bonds

4 Zindawba Jail

The two men sat, ill at ease, in a room provided by Zindawba’s Foreign Ministry. Its appointments indicated Zindawba’s approval of foreign visitors, provided they arrived bearing gifts. Americans were always viewed with hopeful expectation.

“The damn woman’s a pain in the ass,” Irwin of the State Department scowled at the Consul. “Look, Blakeney, how far do we have to push?”

“I’ve already pushed. There’s a resistance we haven’t assessed. I’ve fallen back on just being curious.”

“But we can’t just abandon the fool girl!”

“Why not! You’ll ask yourself the same—”

The sentence died with the opening of the door. The two men stood and gaped askance at the woman who entered. It was Irwin’s first glimpse of Mrs. Caroline Dowling. He absorbed a brief flashing impression of great beauty artfully and tastefully attired, an impression dashed into oblivion by the chain.

“Do sit down, gentlemen. I’m flattered.” Deliberately, she raised her hands to give a full view of the metal bands locked upon her wrists and the considerable length of shining links by which they were joined. “May I ring for tea or coffee?”

“Nothing, Madam, thank you. We are—” Caroline laughed direct at Irwin’s startled face.

“You’re shocked, aren’t you! Poor dear men! I’ll make it double whiskies.” She beamed glowingly. “You won’t mind if I have a martini?”

They did not mind. They sat and sipped, generating disapproval.

“Mrs. Dowling, that chain . . . ?” The Consul was sweating.

Once again Caroline lifted her shackle into prominence, making a play with the clinking tether by which her hands were confined. She examined it mischievously as though seeing it for the first time. “Oh this!” she beamed brightly. “Beautifully effective, don’t you think!”

“Mrs. Dowling, you are being whimsical. Who holds the key to that—thing?”

“It isn’t me. So I can’t oblige you by taking them off. Just pretend you don’t notice. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

“But why are they on you?”

“They keep me from being naughty.”

“That’s absurd!”

“You must tell the President. He had them specially made for me. He’s a very sweet man.”

“The media is convinced you are the President’s Mistress?”

“I don’t mind.”

“That appalling cage, and the semi-nudity . . . ?”

“Well, I did have company, and we got along very well together. She’s a most charming girl. And, of course, these market places in Zindawba are so colourful and full of interest—”

“Mrs. Dowling, please!”

“Well, you did ask!”

“We very much wish to take you back to America.”

“O.K. When do I start packing?”

The visitors exchanged embarrassment. Irwin cleared his throat as though about to make a speech. “Our government is on the most cordial terms with President Abhad. We would not wish to imperil—”

“There! You see! You can’t! If I was going to be roasted alive tomorrow you wouldn’t do a thing. I’ve forgotten what it is Zindawba’s got: oil . . . or some sort of metal . . .”

“Mrs. Dowling, you do nothing to help.”

“Help what? I’m happy.”

“A woman in chains can scarcely be happy. We realise this room is probably bugged and that you are under coercion—”

“No I’m not! It’s sweet of you to want to do something. But there isn’t anything. Just forget about me. Robert didn’t send you, did he?”

“Mr. Dowling refuses to make a statement.”

“There you are, you see. Everyone’s happy.”

“We cannot possibly be happy, seeing you in chains.”

“Oh, bother the chains! Just look on them as being symbolic. I think they do something for a girl. Your wife wears a ring . . .”

Blakeney sighed. “We will convey your sentiments . . . It was only at Mr. Irwin’s insistence I came here today. I have told him of my previous attempts—”

“Poor dear! Looking at me in the cage you were so embarrassed by my breasts, weren’t you—!”

“Mrs. Dowling . . . please! You are being deliberately coy—”

“I know I’m difficult. Please forgive—”

Irwin was nettled. “If you have nothing serious to say to us—perhaps to someone else? He prefers to interview you alone. I will bid you good day.”

“I don’t want to see anyone. Take whoever it is away with you.”

“We have no authority over him. He appears privileged. Again, we bid you adieu.”

They departed in obvious dudgeon. Guiltily, Caroline watched their stiff and disapproving backs pass through the door. She had a disquieting premonition. It immediately took shape and form. James Dexter walked briskly in, lifted one of her chained hands gently to his lips. “I bet you’re real mad at me?” he queried without anxiety.

“If you don’t go away immediately, I’ll scream.”

“No you won’t.” He was as assured as ever, and as handsome.” Against his laugh she could not hide a smile of welcome. “I just dropped by to tell you my regret about our unfinished business. Remember?”

The memory made Caroline blush. “Yes, I remember. You went away and left me wanting.”

James Dexter lifted the links between her hands.

“I bet you had someone lock these on you just to give the boys a bad time.”

“How did you guess!” They shared the laughter that came to them so easily. “They’ll get irritated and forget me soon, won’t they?”

“How the hell can they, Caroline! You’re the hottest, sexiest news on the wires. That damn cage he had you in—and the stars and stripes . . .” His mood became somber. “Look, is it rough? I mean, more than you can take?”

“I’m taking it, aren’t I! I don’t understand myself. You woke a sleeping tiger that day you handcuffed me.”

“But with your handcuffs! You bought ’em.”

“I’ve wondered about that. The tiger must have nudged me in his sleep. James, am I too outrageous?”

“You’re made to order for Khalief. You know it. So does he.”

“And you sold me to him.”

“You sold yourself.” Suddenly serious, he asked:

“Has he had you whipped yet?”

“Don’t talk about it. I don’t want to hear.”

“But has he?”

“Just some small punishments—it was Rulua, not Khalief. They hurt more than I’d have believed.”

“How did they make you feel?”

“Guilty.”

He laughed at her sheepishness. “Guilty of your misdemeanour?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. Guilty of my reactions.”

“So you got the hots! The President help out?”

“James, if you want to talk about Khalief and me, go away. I won’t discuss him.”

“How about discussing you and me?”

“We can’t. I’m sold. You blew it.”

“Not me. My lack of a great many millions of dollars blew it. Are you sorry?”

“Yes.”

“Was that ‘yes’ difficult?”

“You know it was. Isn’t there some sort of honour tied up in this for both of us?”

He rose, but her hand on his arm gave him pause.

“Don’t go.”

“I have to go. I’m in love with you. If I hang around I’ll forget about the honour thing—” He kissed her savagely. “If you ever need me I’ll try and be there.” A moment later he was gone.

On the day Caroline put herself up for auction she had no doubts about self-knowledge or the hazards of her desperate act. She believed herself sophisticated, blasé with men and affairs. Dexter and Abhad had catapulted her into a situation beyond her wildest imaginings. Instead of hysterics she had found herself hungrily curious as to her unsuspected reactions in an adventure wherein most women would have screamed for help. Wryly, she faced a half-guilty admission that she was erotically excited beyond any stimulation the other bidders in the Dowling Corporation Board Room would provoke. To go forward from where she stood now might be frightening, but she would not go back. Khalief Abhad might let her go if she demanded vehemently enough, but of this she was by no means sure. He was still very much the enigma he had always been. She smiled back at him now as he faced her in the Presidential limousine as it purred its way from the Ministry.

“Want me to unlock your hands?” he enquired blandly.

“No. Leave me chained. You know I’ve come to like it.”

He chuckled at her honesty. “I should have rope used on you. It hurts and is more confining. The chains are too feminine.”

“These!” Caroline held up the heavy links. “They weigh a ton.”

“You turn them into costume jewellery. You’re magic.” He gazed upon his possession pridefully. “What did you tell the boys?”

“To leave us alone.”

“Us?” He put a wealth of duality into the single word.

“Aren’t I your Mistress, your slave, or some sort of stock in trade?”

“I was lucky to get you. What about James?”

“He was nobly loyal to you.”

Abhad nodded soberly. “Did you wish he wasn’t?”

“Khalief, don’t make me answer that. Keep me chained.”

“That is an answer. You’re in love with him.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. You’ve had a powerful effect on me.” She grinned. “You’re fond of James Dexter yourself. I can tell.”

“He’s a rare bird. I’m lucky in him too. But I’ll keep you apart.”

“If I ran away with him, would you kill us both?”

“I would not kill you. I might make you very uncomfortable.” He affected his best Oxford drawl. “After all, y’know, I’m just a savage.”

Caroline shivered deliciously. It was involuntary, without guile. “You’ve infected me.” Her eyes became tender. “That first time I saw you—I wouldn’t have believed . . . !”

“Sure it’s not my unusual endowment?”

“Oh, that’s a part of it all right! Dammit, Khalief, with that cannon pointed her way, no girl’s going to take you lightly. I was wanton before you got me. I’m doubly so now.”

“You can wait ’til we get back to the Residency. I’m damned if I’m going to take off these pin stripes in the car.”

They laughed in their easy intimacy. Then, Caroline suddenly asked. “That uncomfortable thing you spoke of if I was unfaithful . . . ? What would you do to me?”

Khalief Abhad’s smile was wise. “You’re wetting your pants over the thought, aren’t you! I’ll swear, if I don’t horrify you too badly you’ll be tempted to try.”

“Would you have me tortured—mutilated—?”

“I shouldn’t indulge you,” he said affectionately. “But I will.” He picked up the intercom to the driver and gave an order.

Like most public buildings in Zindawba the “Correctional Institute for Females” was impeccably British. Each stone block was a fist shaken admonishingly at human frailty. It was disinfectantly clean, but the interior was most definitely Zindawba. The Matron was everything a Matron should be. She too was of Zindawba.

“A brief look around, Matron. You need not bother. I know the way.”

“Of course, sir. But you’ll need keys.” She handed over a ring. Her manner became diffident. “The young lady, sir? Will she be staying,?”

Caroline blushed. The President boomed appreciation. “Not unless she misbehaves herself on the tour.”

“The shackles, sir. They led to suppose—” They had both forgotten. Once more there was laughter. Caroline felt sorry for the woman’s embarrassment.

“I’m afraid I’m incorrigible,” she admitted demurely. “I’m thinking of having them welded on.”

“If she decides to stay in one of your cells, I’ll let you know on the way out,” the President assured expansively. “Mrs. Dowling would make you a most entertaining prisoner.”

“I am sure she would, sir—”

“Let the Matron guide us, please, Khalief?”

Caroline pleaded impulsively. “I’m sure she’d like to.”

“Thank you, Madam.” The woman was nervous.

“But this is a very personal matter for our President. I would not wish to intrude.”

“What did she mean?” Caroline asked when they were well down the first corridor. “Personal?”

Amidst the stone and the bars Khalief’s chuckle was grim. “There’s several old acquaintances,” he confessed. “I haven’t always been as lucky as I have with you.”

A prison is a prison. It confines those of whom society disapproves. Caroline peered through interminable bars into sad small cells, each with its own sad occupant. They were all female and of all ages. They wore a trim small smock, crisply clean. It was easy for a woman to know it as their only covering. On the younger ones it came with a belt, accentuating feminine waists and busts. They peered back at their visitors without recognition. Caroline decided she preferred the cage in the market place.

“All very drab and ordinary,” Khalief admitted.

“What you are expecting to see is in this next wing.” He used keys. The girl was naked. She was beautiful, possibly a quadroon. She stood in the centre of her cell, her hands crossed and bound behind her back. From the ceiling a rope ended in a noose about her neck as though she was about to be hung. But the rope was slack. It’s function to prevent the girl from sitting or reaching a wall against which to lean. She must perforce stand. Weariness and frustration were in every line and curve of her nudity.

Recognition was instant. Flesh and sinew became vibrant. “Khalief!” The girl took a step towards the bars until the rope upon her neck snubbed her short. She stood, gazing at them, her eyes wide in appeal.

“Her name is Penelope Cranshaw,” said the President blandly. “She was a prominent member of the resistance group who opposed my regime. On one occasion she fired a shot in my direction.”

“Khalief, you know I wouldn’t have . . . ! Oh, Khalief, it’s been so long . . . in here . . .”

“We had known each other as friends. I was disappointed.”

“Khalief, forgive me—please! Set me free?”

A firm male hand propelled Caroline forward.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to endure importunities,” he apologised. “Don’t feel too heartbroken about anyone of them. Miss Cranshaw has only two more months to serve.”

“Standing with that rope . . . ?”

“The discomforts are varied daily. It is more humane.”

“That must be awful for her! Just standing . . . !”

“Don’t become a social worker, my dear. Maintain perspective.”

“But she seems so sweet.”

“So would you in similar circumstances. But that young lady shot and wounded several of my men.”

Caroline choked back remonstrance. She was not Elizabeth Fry, and this was not the U.S.A. It was Zindawba. A stranger seeing her chained in the cage might have supposed her scarred for life, but she had endured the exposure with some zest and a secret thrill.

“This one used a knife, but the wound was not deep,” Abhad was saying affably. “Mrs. Dowling, may I present Miss Nancy Mogewba.”

This girl too was naked. It appeared that all the President’s former enemies were beautiful—and female! Miss Mogewba was collared against the cell wall, standing. Her right ankle was chained to the stone well above the floor, compelling her to a stork-like dependence on one foot. She too looked tired. “Yo’ come to make mock o’ Nancy,” she accused without any trace of hope. “I should have killed yo’ sure.”

“Miss Mogewba and I share a small pleasantry,” Abhad said drily. “She is to remain here until she can forget homicide. She has been our guest for seven months, a most dedicated girl.”

“He fix yo’ like this someday, woman,” Nancy prophesied darkly. “Yo’ already got chains. He no good for girls.”

“A simple confession and an oath of loyalty, my dear? Then freedom.” The President was magnanimity personified.

“Fuck yo’!”

“She is not a lady,” said Khalief regretfully. “A good upbringing would have made a great difference. I am afraid she will stand on one leg a long time.”

“You’ll really keep her like that until she breaks?”

“It will not be more than a few months longer. Her discomforts are scheduled to become less tolerable. When she thinks no one watches she weeps. The Matron is very competent.”

“Khalief, you make me shiver. Good gosh—!”

“Want the daylight? We can—”

“No! We’re here. I may as well—” Caroline detected his knowing smile. “So all right! I get wet pants out of this too. I picture myself in one of these cells. Am I depraved?”

“Just a female being honest, and delightfully herself.”

“If I thought it wouldn’t annoy you I’d ask you to let them all loose. They’re so young, and so lovely . . .”

“This female distributes pamphlets and makes speeches—”

“She’s white!”

“A misguided member of the Woman’s Liberation Movement from the United States. She decided to embroil herself in Zindawba’s affairs. Before she was, er, sequestered she had managed to infect many impressionable young. Her name is Harriet Stapleton. The name ‘Harriet’ has always struck me as—”

“She’s shaved! I mean, she’s—” Caroline broke off in confusion.

“Equal rights with the Male. She is shaved daily. She has to be tied down so that her cunt may be made to simulate a male cheek.”

Harriet Stapleton was as naked as the rest. She stood upon the narrow diameter of a two-foot-high pedestal, her ankles locked in metal clamps, a part of the ensemble. Her hands and elbows were tied behind her back. She glowered resentfully at the President, but gazed with faint hope at Caroline. She blushed and kept a sulky silence.

“Miss Stapleton placed herself upon a pedestal,” Khalief intoned enjoyably. “Both metaphorically and to gain elevation for the utterance of sedition. It is only proper therefore that we enable her to remain on one. The pedestal you see was specially fabricated for her benefit.”

“I’ll get you for this, you black bastard,” said the living statue conversationally. “If someone else doesn’t get you first.” She cocked an eye at Caroline. “Kick him in the testicles and run,” she advised bitterly. “Their genitals are the only place—”

“Only recently incarcerated,” the President confided. “Her animosity still burns strong. I intend, one of these days, to honour her with my phallus. My intrusion within her should prove interesting.”

“You don’t imagine she’ll spread her legs—?”

“She will be appropriately bound. I will have two small boys suck her nipples steadily for an hour before I appear.”

“Khalief, you really are something!” Caroline was glad to be out of sight of the undaunted damsel. “I wanted to giggle over that shave job—it would have been too unkind.”

A shining ebony hung tautly from roped wrists, the searching toes forever six inches from the floor. “I sorry, I sorry, I sorry!” The declarations surged from the full lips as she recognized her visitor. “Nettie do anything yo’ want now. Nettie learn lesson. Nettie glad yo’ got big cock. She take it. Nettie don’ care if it kills—”

“A case of lèse-majesté,” Khalief said thoughtfully. “And she was armed with a butcher’s cleaver. I suspect Miss Stapleton had a hand in the matter. Considering her naivete I am inclined to order her release.”

“Does the poor child hang like that all day every day?”

“I really don’t know. You can ask Matron on the way out.”

“Look, darling, I’m not as blasé as I thought. Are there many more? The way they look at me I just know they’re seeing me naked in one of these cells. It—it’s shivery.”

Khalief Abhad laughed, his arm gathering her close. “You’re about as far separated from them as any two females could be. I really don’t know what you’d have to do to make me put you in here.”

“You put me naked in a cage. That first hour I thought I’d die.”

“But it didn’t hurt, did it?”

“Just my pride.” She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I doubt if it will ever grow back.” She blinked up at him. “You’ve made me shockingly humble. I’m often ashamed of myself. I suspect I’d do anything you wanted me to. If you’re within a hundred feet I’m horny, and nothing else matters.”

“None of the girls you’ve seen could have said that.”

“So I’m safe!” Her sense of mischief was returning. It provoked imprudence. “But, darling, I’m curious. If you put me in a cell, what sort of awful posture would you leave me in for the day?”

“I hadn’t thought of it. Now I will.”

“Not really! I was just—”

“No you were not! I know you! You were pandering to your pants. I’ll give you what you want before we leave. But first, there’s a different sort of situation you should have a look at.”

Caroline was afire. Promise—threat! It did not matter. Once again she was involved, possessed by primitive lusts, entranced by the naked eroticism of the girls behind the bars. Cruelty . . . ! She supposed it was. But none of them was intelligently seeking freedom or accepting it when conditionally offered. Would she be like that! Suppose . . . !

At first glance the cell contained nothing startling. The girl, who was not quite white, stood facing the wall to one side. Her hands were tightly bound, her wrists hurting. They were raised and tied to a ring in the stone just above the captive’s head where her teeth could never reach. It was very simple, designed like the rest to inflict the ultimate in frustration through a long day.

But this girl had been whipped!

The weals were fresh. Their presence explained her pose. She would have to stand there while the whip searched her nudity. If she twisted round, at the expense of her wrists, she would expose her breasts! So she would face the wall and take what she must. She spared them a sideways glance of recognition.

“Mrs. Dowling, this is Rosalind Nahwali.” The introduction sounded absurdly pompous.

“Have you brought her to be whipped, Khalief?”

“No, my dear. And don’t sound so pathetic. You are where you are by your own choice.”

Dark eyes fixed on Caroline’s scrutiny. “Ask him to whip you, Mrs. Dowling. He’ll do it anyway.”

The President used his keys. Close in the cell it was easy to see the marks of previous whippings on the naked loveliness fastened to the wall. Every part of the girl’s body bore evidence of the lash.

“Matron gave me ten this morning. Are you going to whip me more, Khalief?” Rosalind contrived to make the query sound commonplace.

“What I want of you now, Rosalind, is to have you tell Mrs. Dowling why you are here and what happens to you in this cell. If you wish to be sulky I can whip you between your legs until you communicate.” Caroline did not bother to analyse her breathlessness. She knew her breasts betrayed her emotion, but she did not care. She beheld the whip, a black and snakelike cruelty hanging on the wall, and wondered at the pain it could plant upon a girl’s skin. Suppose it was she who was tied like this waiting! The carefully controlled feminine voice shattered the thought.

“I am here. Oh damn, I can’t talk to the wall!”

Rosalind Nahwali struggled round to face them, punishing her wrists. Caroline saw traces of blood upon the thin rope, the wrists were swollen, the strictures deep in the tied flesh. The girl must have fought her bond long before they came. She stood now, her back against the wall, her crossed wrists above her head, her elbows out to either side of her face. Her voice became savage. She looked at Caroline. “I’m here like this because I wouldn’t let him fuck me.”

“Come, come, girl!”

“Oh all right! I took Russian money for some papers from the office.”

“Is that all?”

“You know it isn’t! I tried to defect. The Russians wanted me for propaganda.” She looked at them sulkily. “I got caught, so here I am.” She focused on Abhad searchingly. “Do you still want to fuck me? I’d say ‘yes’ to it now. I’m no heroine.”

“The privilege is no longer yours to offer. I can take it.”

“Yes, I suppose you can.” She looked wearily at Caroline. “What have you done to earn those chains?”

“I don’t know.” Caroline felt foolish. “What have I done, Khalief? Can you tell her?”

“Damned if I know myself.”

There was laughter in which Miss Nahwali did not share. “You will not laugh after the whip finds you,” she said sincerely.

“Khalief, couldn’t she be untied while we talk? She’s in pain, I know she is.”

“Don’t be silly. All that trouble—and to tie her again after.”

“I’ll do it. I’m sure I can.”

“Caroline, be sensible. If those ropes on her wrists bother you, then you can give her a few strokes with the whip and we’ll be on our way.”

“Khalief, no!” Caroline was shocked. Not by his demand but by the sudden fire flooding her loins.

“Whip me. If he wants you to you must. It will be worse for us both if you argue.” Rosalind’s voice had returned to the matter-of-fact. Resignedly she twisted herself back to face the wall. Her back and bottom were an invitation.

“And anyway I can’t. My hands are chained.” Khalief produced a key. In moments the shining gyves lay on the floor and the whip had been placed in her hand. “Do it! Whip her.”

“But I’ve never done such a thing!”

“It does not require a university diploma, my dear.”

“But, Khalief, the poor dear’s been whipped so much already!” Caroline was fighting down the burn between her thighs, If she orgasmed in front of the two of them he would laugh at her forever.

“I don’t mind. Really I don’t.” The captive was concerned. “I get whipped a lot, I’m used to it. Go ahead and whip me. Khalief, how many strokes do you want her to give me?”

“You mean it doesn’t hurt!”

“Of course it hurts! But I suppose a girl gets used to anything.”

“I’d suggest just five, well laid on.” The President was enjoying himself. “We mustn’t impose on Miss Nahwali’s goodwill.”

The beaming President of a new Republic, a naked girl tied to a wall, resigned to a punishment she did not deserve. And herself! Herself holding a whip and surveying naked female flesh, and in her own loins a conflagration fierce enough to consume . . . ! Caroline looked around bemused. In a sudden wild abandonment of everything she had ever known she swung the lash . . .

“A lovely scarlet.” Khalief approved.

“It’s all right. Don’t feel bad. It’s only five.”

Rosalind seemed more anxious for the girl with the whip than for herself. She was gasping with pain but had not screamed.

Caroline struck the lovely skin again. With the eye of a connoisseur she beheld the weal which was her own creation spring up in carmine outrage of the girlish skin, heard Rosalind’s gasping moan. Then, herself, gushed into the fiercest involuntary orgasm she had ever known.

It was demeaning, humiliating, shameful! Caroline longed to disappear into oblivion. Instead, she clutched her sex and groaned her way back, slowly into the prosaic world of the cell.

“That happens often with girls,” Miss Nahwali consoled.

“I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t,” Khalief scoffed.

“You mustn’t stop whipping me,” Rosalind reminded dutifully. “That was only two.”

Caroline scanned her companions, more shy than she could ever remember. “I’m so ashamed . . . !” Within her another small fire was gathering momentum. She knew not which way to turn or what to do. In savage frustration she lashed once more at Rosalind’s waiting back. Then again . . . and . . again . . .

Miss Rosalind Nahwali screamed.

“A most successful effort,” said the President of Zindawba.

Everything would be anti-climax now—or would it! Carrying her discarded chains, Caroline followed her mentor down the passage. Her breathing would not subside. She was still in a state of excitation. From Khalief there emanated vibrations enough to keep her quivering.

The opening of the door to the empty cell said everything. Obeying his eyes, Caroline dropped the shackles in a corner and laid her clothes on top. Naked, she faced his reflective smile. “I’m ready.”

Khalief crossed her wrists behind her back and bound them tight with a rope from a hook in the wall. Another hung from the ceiling. He looped it under her wrists and pulled. Her hands and arms rose, she bent forward gasping with pain. Up, and up again! He tested carefully with the tension until her heels left the floor. She was not exactly on her toes but was unkindly wracked. He made his knot.

“Think you can stand it?”

“I have to, don’t I, Khalief?”

“No. If you ask me to release you I will.”

“No, I won’t ask. I wish to be as you want me.”

“This is worse than some of the others?”

Caroline was panting. “It’s not worse than some. I have to get used to such punishments, don’t I?”

“Academically, yes.”

“There’s nothing academic about this, It’s a brute!” The fire in her shoulders and wrists was quenching some of the heat in her belly but not all. “How long do I have to stay?”

His voice was studiedly casual. “I’d thought all day.”

She was trembling, aghast. “You mean ’til night?”

“That’s right.”

“I couldn’t possibly stand it. Oh, Khalief . . . No!”

“That’s what they all say.” The door clanged shut.

Caroline was alone in her cell.