Beloved bonds

8 Torture of Tulabe

Caroline had begun her beatings with misgiving. Khalief had suggested that, since she must commence them sometime, it might as well be in this period when the absence of Trudy was a poignant loss, a loss she had protested.

“Khalief, why can’t I join the Guard too?”

“You belong to me. Even a President is entitled to some recreation.”

“Is that all I am, recreation?”

“Of course! Look at yourself!”

Caroline had seen herself in the mirror when she had stripped and placed upon her nakedness those bands and baubles which gave him pleasure. They were in the huge expanse of the mezzanine from which the terrace stretched into the sun. She was languidly serving drinks from the bar, her hands deftly denying the coercion of the handcuffs on her wrists. “I’ve seen myself—everybody else has had a look at me too. Khalief, how much longer are you going to keep me in that cage?”

“Are you in a cage now?” he asked drily. “I’d say you were a highly privileged prisoner. And the little girl . . . ? Is she not good company?” He chuckled. “I had her specially kidnapped from a Cook’s Tour for you.”

“She’s sweet but not like Trudy. She’s so scared! I wish you’d convince her she isn’t destined for something awful. She believes the very best she can hope for is the slave market.”

“Could I comfort her with rape?”

“Oh, Khalief! Just because you comfort me with rape it doesn’t mean that every girl—”

“Is a wanton?” He laughed at her grimace at his use of the word. “Before you diverted me we were on the subject of your beatings, I think they should commence.”

“I suppose they should.” Caroline sighed, picked up his glass, and proffered it on her knees. “Your drink, lord.”

“Stay on your knees, girl. You are becoming altogether too contentious.”

“Is that why you want me beaten?”

“Not really. I am remembering your mission—or have you forgotten?”

“How can I forget, lord, when you keep me in a cage!”

He surveyed her with affection. “If you mention the cage again I’ll use the cane on you.”

Caroline’s eyes widened in mock innocence. “My lovely cage, lord! Why would you do that?”

Khalief was about to speak but was forestalled.

Caroline, her eyes sparkling, fetched the cane and presented it to him on bended knee. Without a word, she positioned herself to present the inviting curves of her derriere.

Smiling, and unseen, Khalief took from a drawer a brown leather strap. Without comment he slashed it across the saucy rounds. It impacted with a truly horrific crack. Quickly, he reversed and struck again. Caroline yelped in dismay, stood erect clutching her seat, and eyed her master reproachfully.

“That wasn’t fair! You didn’t warn—what on earth is it?”

He handed her the strip of leather. “Your first beating, beloved. All sound and little fury.”

“Are you sure of that!” Caroline rubbed her bottom gingerly. “I’m absolutely on fire!” She examined the instrument of her discomfort. “What a bloody awful splat! I nearly jumped out of my skin.”

“The usual effect, I trust?”

“You have to make me blush, don’t you! Oh sure, I’m burning with lust—and just two strokes! Do you wish to help me out?”

“Rape or two more strokes? I can make them harder.”

“Don’t tease. Khalief, how does this thing mark me? I can’t see.”

“Go and find a mirror.”

When Caroline returned she knelt again and proffered the leather strap. “Darling, it’s a positive imprint on me. In the cage: d’you want me to wear ’em instead of the stars and stripes? I’m sure it would be an erection getter.”

“Not yet, unless you wish me to give you another dozen.”

She laughed it off. “Khalief, those beatings? I don’t want you to give them to me—I mean, I do want that but it wouldn’t be the right atmosphere. I’ve got to get used to being punished by a servant. You know the sort of thing: ‘My Lord and Master’s too busy to be bothered with whipping a slave girl’?”

The President laughed. “That reminds me. I actually have things to do. Back to the cage with you.”

She pouted. “Why don’t you just give me the key instead of an escort? I could lock myself up.”

“And lose that magnificent ritual! Never! It’s as good as the changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.”

“You telling me!” Caroline grinned wryly. “Your people love it. I get mentally raped and the flag torn from my puss and trampled in the dust. You’re a sly fox. Damn good thing they can’t see me now.”

They had fallen into an easy affection. A thing volcanic when they coupled. But apart from the flesh they were still testing each other’s tolerance for what they were and what they sought. Caroline had laughed with him at the life from which he had wrested her. “Damn good thing you did,” she admitted, chuckling. “No chains, no cage, no whip! Nothing to live for at all . . . ! Poor Robert! I’d like to see his face.”

In the first days she had burned with shame when she was taken to the cage by the two soldiers, given her flag, chained, and locked within the bars. She was the cynosure of every eye. Briefly, the market forgot trade and gathered to observe her breasts, the clamping of the metal on her wrists and ankles, and the brief vista of her pubic hair as she adjusted the stars and stripes upon her hips. But the leers and gloating no longer mattered. Purpose had replaced chagrin. Khalief had given her something of which she had never dreamed.

Musingly, she stood now while the handcuffs were unlocked and replaced with the heavy shackles, her feet similarly joined. Brightly she said. “Thank you very much” to the grinning soldiers as they snapped the lock and left her to the lechery of eyes.

“I don’t see what you have to be so happy about,” her new companion complained. She clinked her chains. “You act as though you love these beastly things.”

“I do, Betty—oh, never mind. You can’t understand. But please, pet, do try and cheer up. We’re really quite well off.”

“Well, I don’t think so, I can’t ever get used to my breasts being bare and all these men looking at them. I can’t hold them in my hands all the time.”

Betty provoked mischief. She was sweet and pretty but overly concerned with what was ‘nice,’ a term Caroline loathed. “Why not take your flag off so they can see your do-funny for a change? It’ll give your breasts a rest.”

“Caroline! That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Easy, darling, look!” The older girl whisked away her national emblem and stood, stark-naked for all to see.

“Caroline!” Betty was truly shocked.

There was ribald approval from beyond the bars. Unable to resist, Caroline did a slow turn, waving the flag from two fingers as a scarf.

Betty gasped. Her cry was of outraged discovery. “Caroline, your bottom! It—it’s—oh—!”

Caroline had forgotten. “What’s the matter with my bottom?” she demanded irritably.

“It’s been—something’s been done to it!”

The owner of the bottom twisted to look at what she could of it. “Oh that!” Casually, she reknotted the flag upon her hips. “I got myself two stripes with a strap for being naughty.”

“See, I told you! They’ll beat us and—and—”

“It’s lovely. It gets a girl hot between her legs. If you want to try, I can arrange it.”

“I don’t believe—oh, it’s too awful—!”

They were still exchanging tease and exclamation when a quiet American voice said. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dowling.”

“Robert!”

Caroline gazed at her husband askance. She had to force her hands away from covering her breasts. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“No!”

They stood awkwardly, staring. Enough of the local gentry dressed in pants, tie and jacket to render Robert Dowling inconspicuous, and anyone was free to accost the captives in the cage. “I suppose you know you’ve created a national scandal?”

“I thought that had died down. I’ve told the Consul not to bother.” She looked at him with pity. “I’m sorry, Robert, honest! I’d no idea it would turn out this way when I put myself up for auction.”

“I’m going to get you out of this.”

“Robert, no! Leave me alone. Divorce me, I’m happy here.”

“Don’t be absurd!” He waved the suggestion aside as irrelevant. “Chained like an animal, nearly naked, locked in a cage . . . !”

“They beat her bottom too!” Betty was animated with hope, and righteously informative. “She says she likes it!”

“Dammit, Caroline, can’t you be a bit considerate!”

His wife lifted chained hands. “What can a poor slave girl do?”

Dowling was exasperated. “I’ll put a stop to this nonsense, I’m getting you out, of here tonight after dark.”

“I won’t go.”

“I’ll go,” Betty offered hopefully. “Please take me?”

“Yes, of course!” Robert Dowling spared a brief smile for the importunate girl, then turned to his ungrateful wife. “Whatever it is you’re doing, it isn’t clever or funny or anything admirable.” he said crossly. “I won’t expect your cooperation, but I’ve made the arrangements for you to be taken away from here, and that’s what’s going to happen. Force will be justified if you insist on being contrary.” He nodded curtly and walked away.

“Isn’t he lovely!” breathed Betty.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” said Caroline bitterly. The mind of the truant wife was busy. Bars and chains! She could not go to Khalief. He would not come to her. They had been left the fruit for their evening meal. It was unlikely that anyone from the Residence would come near them until morning. It was useless to importune the passers-by. She had exhausted that long since. They scorned her pleas. She was white trash undeserving attention in anything but the purely carnal. They would ogle her nakedness and her chains but were deaf to her voice. She was impotent! Caged! Sighing in frustration, she reclined on the ground and selected a pomegranate. “We’re in trouble,” she declared morosely. “Oh, damn, damn, damn!”

“I think you’re an ungrateful girl,” said Betty with conviction.

The four shadows in the dark were swift and well equipped. Robert Dowling was not one of them. They cut the lock from the cage but did not touch the chains by which the girls were captive. They picked up their naked prizes and tossed them in the back of a truck, on the floor of which someone had thoughtfully spread a blanket. They had obviously been appraised of intransigence. Taking no chances they placed a volubly protesting Caroline face down, brought her chained hands back over her head and tied them down to her chained ankles. It was not exactly a hogtie, it was even worse. When she opened her mouth to express indignation they pushed a rag inside and tied it tight. They rendered Betty helpless in the same manner but did not gag her. The girls spent their bumpy ride in struggles to get loose. Both failed.

Their abductors were practical. Having reduced their prey to impotent packages incapable of dispute they treated them in that manner at journey’s end. Two men carried a frightened Betty in one direction, the others heaved an indignant Caroline through doors and passages to finally deposit her upon a rug in a comfortable room smelling of cigars. They left her as she was and went away. She looked up speechlessly into the full stare of her husband’s disapproval.

Dowling reached down and removed the gag, casting the crude thing aside in distaste. “At least we can talk here,” he said heavily.

“Did they have to be so damn rough!”

“Would you have come any other way?”

“I hope you realise I’m hurting.”

“I would suppose you are,” he said sarcastically. “Described as erotic love play, I believe?”

“All right, have your fun! But I’m still hurting bad!”

He cut the rope which dragged her feet and hands together at her back. “There, that gets you back to normal.”

“Thank you.” Her tone was ungracious, even in relief from pain. From some strange instinct for tidiness she plucked away at the knots on the severed rope, still tied to her chains. “How’s Dowling Inc. ?”

“Thriving, thanks to you. Khalief Abhad holds the majority of the stock.” He made a sound of disgust. “He also holds my wife.”

“Well, you’ve got me at this moment, Robert. But probably not for long. I suppose you know you’re risking both our lives?”

“Mine perhaps,” he sneered. “Yours should be safe enough.”

“You idiot! How’s Khalief to know I was kidnapped? He’ll think I was glad to escape.”

Dowling shrugged. “Does it matter! I’m taking you back to the States—just as you are. I’m going to expose the whole fool business. If, afterwards, you want to return to him, you can. I’ll have done what I have to do.”

“The red-blooded American syndrome!” Caroline sighed in exasperation. Puckishly, she lifted her chained hands. “In these?”

“Yes, in those! They’re authentic. They tell your story far better than I can.”

“I love wearing them, y’know!”

“I know it. No one else will.”

Caroline giggled. “I told them at the Consulate and those guys from the press with their cameras.”

“You were under coercion. Nobody believes you are—what you are.”

“Gosh, am I that bad!”

“Yes.” He sighed drearily. “Hot pants over a nigger.”

“Why bother with me then! And, by the way, Khalief’s a President. Don’t sell him short.”

“There’s another of the same ilk hot on his tail. They never last long.” Robert Dowling rose wearily. “If the risk is what you say, we’d best lose no time. Come to the car. Want me to carry you?”

“No, I can manage. The leg shackles are generous and I’ve had a lot of practice. They’re real enough, and I can’t possibly run, but they’re largely symbolic.”

“I’d like to stuff his symbolism you know where! Come, it’s this way.”

Caroline clattered disconsolately to her doom. Halfway to the airport the President’s soldiers picked them up.

“I’ve had Robert Dowling deported.”

The President of Zindawba looked down at the woman on the rug at his feet. The most beautiful woman in the world to him or to any man. He sighed irritably. “Get me a drink”

“Yes, lord.”

“And one for yourself. I imagine you need it.” The heavy irons riveted on her wrists made bartending more risky than with handcuffs. Caroline sighed too. Everything was spoiled. “Why did you have me brought here from the dungeon?” she asked.

“Because I’m in love with you—damn you!”

“I’m not guilty, y’know.”

She knelt and handed him his drink. Looking at her own, woefully, she drained the glass. “May I have another, lord?”

“Was my dungeon that bad?”

“Much worse! Khalief, don’t put me back in there!”

“You will go back in there. And you may have one more drink.”

Caroline clinked her way to the bar and back, These chains were heavy on her limbs. Back at Khalief’s feet she sipped. “They locked a collar on my neck, it fastened me to the wall with a long chain. It wasn’t a bit necessary.”

“Nor are the fetters you wear now, but you merit them.”

“I’m being punished, aren’t I? For something I haven’t done.”

“Because I desire you more than anything on earth I will have you brought to me here daily.”

“And when I am taken back there and chained by my neck the dungeon will seem doubly awful.”

“Then would you prefer not to come here to this place?”

“Oh, Khalief!” She looked up at him reproachfully. “Even if it was only for two minutes, I’d want to come. I’m more than your prisoner, y’know. I love you. Khalief, take me to bed?”

“The oldest bribe in the world!”

“All right, don’t then! If you stay convinced I tried to escape what will you do with me?”

“I’ve thought of that. I’ll follow our original plan, I can make you make it work.”

“Dungeons and things . . . ! Oh, Khalief!”

“Show me some proof then. I catch you on the way to the airport with your husband—?”

“But in chains, Khalief! In chains—”

“With you that could mean anything . . . Get me another drink before I ring the bell.”

Caroline hated the dungeon with all her being. It was the negation of all she was. Not much light. Silence. Loneliness. The drag of chains upon her limbs, heavy ugly links and bands. The imposition round her neck! She hated the collar most of all, and the nagging tug of its chain. Now her jailer had locked limbs to join the others between her wrists and ankles so that, unless she sat and crouched, she could not raise her hands above the level of her hips. She cried a lot.

It was on the third day Khalief came to her. He seemed so splendid in that dismal place, and she so naked and forlorn. His presence made it more of a prison than ever.

“Oh, Khalief, not to see me like this? Not to mock—?”

“They have found the girl, the one in whom you found no pleasure.”

“Betty! Oh, Khalief, where?”

“Those your husband hired took advantage of his deportation and diverted her to their own amusement. She was servicing a dozen of them.”

“The poor child! For her that would be—!”

“She seemed grateful to be taken to the Consulate. She even appeared grateful to me. She will be sent home.” The silence he allowed to lengthen was unbearable. “Darling, don’t torment me.” Caroline shook her chains in frustration.

“She told me of every word and act. She is innocent and ingenuous. I believe her. Your guilt has vanished. It is I who am penitent.”

Even the chained girl was astonished by the radiation of joy in which she glowed. The President went to the passage and clapped his hands . . .

An hour later, bathed, scented, handcuffed and bedecked with jewels, Caroline served her lord as was their custom. When night came she was not sent away.

The cage stood empty in the market place. The President’s white mistress lived discreetly out of sight in the Residence. Phase two of the Plan was slowly brought into fruition.

“I’m sure I can stand it, darling. As a little reward for my suffering, can we make love after? You were right about it being better.”

“And you still wish it done to you by a servant?”

“It has to be to be authentic. If you do it I’ll enjoy it too much—before and after, anyway.” She glinted at him roguishly. “But there’s nothing to stop you doing it as well: in addition, I mean.”

“You’re a masochist.”

“No, I’m not. It’s my glands and you! Probably we generate a chemical. Even when the servant does it to me I’ll be thinking of you.”

“I will instruct Assad. He has a sense of humour but will be without mercy. He is also ingenious. If I give him carte blanche there is no telling what eroticism he may devise for your subjugation.”

“He sounds as though he’ll do nicely. But, oh Khalief, that word! Am I to be ‘subjugated’?”

“Probably impossible, but Assad will try.” When the time came Caroline was shivering in anticipation of she knew not what. Her quiverings were intensified by Assad’s choice of black tights to the waist and nothing above. “I am greatly honoured, madam.” There was a glint in his eye. The slight inclination of his head in the most condescending of bows held humour.

“Assad, I’m scared to death.”

“As is most natural, Mrs. Dowling. Since our mutual endeavours are to be a continuing progression I have prepared a room.”

“Not a dungeon, I hope’!”

“On the contrary. It is a rather pleasant compartment.”

Assad was right. A well-lit room, high above the ground. Its walls neutral, the floor smooth stone. At first glance it, seemed completely bare save for a low wooden bench. Then, following Assad’s gaze, Caroline beheld what might have been a truss rod spanning wall to wall. It was held solidly by ‘V’ braces from above. Threaded through it at about the centre point was a pair of short leather straps.

“Beautifully functional, Mr. Assad, I’m not going to look at those objects hanging on the wall over there. If I did I’d probably turn and run.”

“You are not the running kind, madam.” Assad’s regard paid sparkling tribute. “May I say how much I admire our President’s choice of attire for you.”

“Oh, my ball gown!” Caroline giggled. “It’s symbolic, y’know. The President felt it added a little flair.”

“It adds more than that. I find it highly erotic. Do you wish now to commence our proceedings?”

“If I don’t I’ll tremble myself to bits. I expect those straps up there are intended for my wrists?”

“You are most perceptive. I am grateful for your approach to this adventure. If you will position yourself I will use this bench . . .”

The height must have been measured. She could just reach. But then—there were her high heels . . . ? As the soft leather possessed her wrists she exclaimed: “Assad, my gloves!”

“On this occasion we will leave them on, madam. They achieve a certain effect . . . !”

Another giggle. “Are you sure you’re not a dirty old man?”

“All men adore beauty, Mrs. Dowling. You are beautiful.”

It was of the utmost simplicity. A strap round each slender wrist, tightly buckled, the end neatly looped. Mrs. Caroline Dowling would have to stand there forever, with arms high and wide, unless someone chose to free her.

“Oh gollies, I’ve sort of had it, haven’t I!”

“You have indeed! You are most exquisitely available. I am powerfully affected.”

“So I notice,” Caroline said drily. “Are you going to use that in me too?”

“You belong to our President.” Assad’s tone held reproof.

“The faithful steward! I suspect you’re a good man, Mr. Assad. Now! What about clothes? I’m curious.”

“You lose them.”

“Oh oh, the maximum shame!” The strapped girl chuckled. “Well, anyway I sort of guessed. I’ve put on all I can for you—it’s not much.” Caroline wished she was maiden and innocent, her flesh virgin to the sight of men. This moment, then, would be excruciatingly shivery, her blush a crimson cowl of cringing mortification. Inured as she was to nudity, some impact was lost. But not all! The choice of gowned elegance, her strapped wrists, the glowing regard of the dark eyes, now so close, and the deft dexterity of dark hands upon feminine fastenings was potent. Her pulse raced. She wished Khalief was present to witness his masterpiece. And yet! Alone with Assad—alone—!

The gown fell away, revealing the erotically teasing trifles she had deliberately donned. Mr. Assad stepped back in homage. He was in no hurry.

“You don’t think them a bit trite? I mean, they’ve been used so much in magazines.”

“They make you more than heart’s desire.”

“Thank you.”

“You do not mind if I—admire?”

“I’m afraid I like it. I’m thoroughly naughty. And isn’t this one of the reasons I’m strapped up nice and tight? I mean, I just have to stand here, don’t I!”

“I’m afraid so.” Assad had the absent air of an artist gauging perspectives with his model. “I will leave upon you the garter belt and nylons . . .” He gestured resignedly. “Trite perhaps, but on you a beauty to clutch the heart.”

Caroline was afire with sensation. She twisted ecstatically against the bands about her wrists. “See, I cringe before your lustful eyes,” she said demurely. “Isn’t it delightful! Oh, and the shoulder straps of my bra unhook . . . But tear them away brutally if you’d enjoy.”

Assad tore them from her in a sudden sweep of powerful fingers. The tiny panties followed. To sunder them took a wrench hard enough to hurt her crotch. She gasped, breasts heaving, hips swaying. More femalely nude than nakedness. “Mmmmmm! Oh—oh, you did that wonderfully . . .” She was breathless.

“And now I must thrash you, madam.”

“Yes! Oh yes!”

“You like it?”

“I don’t know. I—I—oh, I’m so silly! I have liked—. What are you going to use on me?”

“The President’s orders, ma’am. A strap.”

“Yes, of course. It won’t cut—?”

“Among those who deal in such matters it is considered mild.”

“Look, Assad, if I make a noise—”

“You are not to be gagged, madam.”

“Oh shit! I hate yelping. I’ll never manage to keep quiet.”

“You may surprise yourself.” Assad was fondling two feet of supple leather that looked somehow lethal. He smiled with a flash of white teeth. “You are in the enviable position of being completely uninhibited within the limits of your restraints.”

“Uninhibited, my Aunt Fanny! All I can do is kick and howl.” She wrinkled her nose at him provocatively. “Why don’t you tie my feet?”

“The rope would ruin your nylons and spoil the aestheticism of the femininity you wear.”

“Dammit, Assad, you’ve done this before—?”

It was a shock to discover that to use the strap on her there was no need to go back out of sight. The sweep of his arm was an instant flash. The impact of the leather on her skin began past one hip and cracked noisily across the near cheek of her rump. She squealed in shock.

“Ow, ouch! I wasn’t expecting—!”

He was behind her now. The air snickered. The strap splatted resoundingly across both curves. Fire exploded beneath the blow, but the willing victim had clenched her teeth and emitted only a muted moan.

“Oh wow! I say, Assad, give me a minute—”

“The executioner changes side after each infliction, madam. He will do this slowly, but these are the only pauses.”

“Oh jeepers! But this is just the first—!” Number three made the loudest sound of all. Beneath its scald Caroline raised her nudity from the stone by her strapped wrists, kicking wildly. “Dammit, man!” she gasped. “Can’t you start me a bit easier?”

“There is an element of shock in these first blows, Mrs. Dowling. One of the purposes of this exercise is to accustom you to this natural response so you can settle down to the main portion of your punishment with equanimity.”

“That fool word—! I’ll never manage—oh, wow! Ahhhhh—!”

Caroline managed. In fact, she managed very well. As she wryly told herself, she damn well had to! When it was done, her bottom burned but she was elated. When her wrists were released she kissed a startled Assad on his forehead and fled in search of a mirror in which to assess her bottom’s response to the leather.

It took only three days for her resilient flesh to ready itself for the next.

“The strap is dramatically noisy, its sting shocks, but the marks it leaves upon your skin are superficial, madam.”

“My bottom agrees with you, Assad,” Caroline admitted wryly as she inserted her hands within the waiting loops and felt them draw tight. “But I’m trembling almost as much as last time.”

“No one expects an instant adjustment, Mrs. Dowling. What you are undertaking is really an heroic progression to something most women would see as fearful beyond words.”

“Don’t think I don’t sometimes see it like that. What awful step am I promoted to today?”

“Complete nudity, Mrs. Dowling, and a greater number of strokes with the same instrument.”

“All hard, I suppose? And for Pete’s sake don’t call it an instrument! It sounds awful.”

“All hard, madam—harder—!”

The marks upon her scarlet bottom sped the days. The whipped girl knew them happy. Her hours with Khalief drove Assad and his straps into the mists. Caroline learned the lessons of her flesh in a steady advance to the day she dreaded.

“The strap is dead, madam. Long live the whip.”

“Oh, Assad, don’t joke! I suspect we’ve just been playing. Now I’m going to scream.”

“There are many whips,” he said soberly. “The worst are still distant.”

“If someone has to whip me, I’m glad it’s you. Oh, Assad, will I be all right? Will I be able—?”

“Yes you will.”

His calm assurance held tenderness. She received the same conviction from her lord. She would become Mistress of the thongs that striped her skin.

The strap had paved the way. But when the sinuous snake snapped across her shoulders it was a new and different pain. Without affectation she screamed.

“My back! It’s another Me. Different . . . ! Oh, Assad, it’s a different kind of pain . . . There’s no heat . . . only agony.”

“The effect on the subject is admittedly less erotic—”

“Oh damn! It’s no love play. Assad, feel me, I’m dry!”

“No, madam, you are not.”

“Oh, damn!”

There had been a procession of whips. From each, the flogged girl learned agony but also control. With female strength she perfected the exotic motions of her nudity by which she acknowledged her punishment but was not defeated by it. By special dispensation, Assad was permitted to find within her sheath relief for his loins, inflamed beyond endurance by his subject’s sexuality. They moaned together before the lash resumed.

Then, at the end of it, the ten days. Ten dreamlike days within the comfort of Khalief’s arms. When they were past, Caroline’s flesh was virgin . . . ! No audience would see or suspect.

And then Tulabe.

Caroline could not hide from herself or her lover that she was glowingly excited. She was well rehearsed. She was also at peace with her conscience. She had been conquered by a man, and would render unto him whatever tribute he chose to exact. Her nature was such that mischief was never distant from her scene. Mostly she approached her ordeal with laughter. It was she who insisted on the brass band. She also demanded Assad as her executioner. While being gowned and groomed for her appearance on the platform of Tulabe’s Square she sipped a stiff drink. Before she mounted the fatal steps she downed another. It was not until the time came for her to proffer her hands to be bound that she sensed something wrong. Watching the gauntleted hands knot her wrists in bondage, she knew disquiet. Behind the hood the eyes glinting at her were strange . . .

Her executioner was NOT Assad!

Fearfully, she looked around. Yet all was normal. Her sacrificial ceremony was a howling success. She could scarcely engage her whipper in conversation under such exposure. In a whirl of puzzlement she allowed herself to be bound, hoisted, stripped. She would spoil nothing for Khalief by female fears. She braced herself for agony.

It did not come.

The whip curled and slashed upon her nudity but the pain was minimal. It was a clever simulation of the real thing, light, supple, without the power to cut her flesh. Looking down at where it had curled beneath her naked breasts she saw the scarlet lines . . . But they too were a clever fraud, some sort of dye . . . !

Her lord had run the risk of discovery because he loved her! Joy welled. Almost she felt cheated in her role as the donor of her greatest gift. But she must not betray—let none know the deception! She writhed sensuously and smiled serenely as she had schooled herself to do. Her bound wrists were her greatest pain, but she did not notice them. Then came the shots, the trucks, the howling pandemonium. A knife cut the rope by which she was suspended. The hooded man picked her up easily and fled. His words were terse and urgent.

“Keep still. Don’t fight. We’re doing fine.” It was the voice of James Dexter.