"This is the Sheik Inman Azzam. I belong to him," I told her simply.
"Blimey!" said Daisy with deep feeling. "I wouldn't take service in this house." And then, accusingly: "Why don't you wear some clothes!"
"I am a slave girl." She decided to be offended, and turned her attention to the omniscient male. "She's barmy. How about a couple o' hundred? I gone to a lot o' trouble on account of her."
"Payment in kind perhaps?" His voice was silk. She was instantly on guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You whipped this child of my delight; now we whip you." She turned instantly to me. "Is this old duffer crackers?" For her benefit I turned on the Middle East. "My Master is rich and wise and has great authority." Switching back to the British Isles I added: "If I were you I'd express regret and leave."
"That time is past," Azzam intoned sternly. Maybe it was the 'old duffer' bit, or maybe the purple marks she had put across my puss. Perhaps a bit of opportunism tossed in; but whether she liked it or not, Daisy was now a guest. She was a strong girl and gave Lotta and one of the men a good fight. I could tell she had offended deeply by their care in tying her. It was the hanging 'X': Suspended, arms and legs spread wide. Taut in the center of the punishment room she made a lovely picture she could not appreciate. As her clothes were taken from her she dealt vehemently in threats: The police, the government, the United Nations… her mother and father got in there too. One gathered they were formidable. She had an audience of three. The Sheik had guided me along, and there was Lotta. The soldier had, regretfully, departed. She acknowledged the honour of our Master's presence by a typical Daisy: "That old bastard's looking at my cunt!" I did feel sorry for her. I mean, right from the start she had been out of her depth. Compounding her tactlessness she looked Lotta in the eye. "You keep your hands off me, you wog bitch!" she menaced. Daisy had a positive talent for losing friends. Giving my Master the full benefit of a basilisk glare she suggested: "As for you, Grandpa, why don't you go and have your afternoon nap!" Sheik Inman Azzam courteously handed me the whip. "What are you going to do with that?" Daisy demanded with prescient apprehension.
"I would suggest the pubes," the Sheik said suavely. I was suddenly a slave girl holding a whip. I was not happy. I felt like the ingenue surrounded by name stars. From the look in Azzam's eye I knew I dared not decline the honour. But our guest helped. She came out with another lovely Daisy: "You hit me with that, you little bitch, and you'll be sorry!" I slashed her across the same spot she had chosen on me. She let out a surprised "Wow!" And then, as though I didn't know: "That was my cunt, damn you!" I won't say I didn't enjoy it. There was a sort of challenge about the way Daisy was tied, everything was so beautifully available. She was stretched taut and sort of 'thrrrrruuuummmmed' after each blow. She couldn't move much. In the matter of screaming she was uninhibited. I remembered that day with my hands behind the post and how she'd made me stick out my puss for her to hit. After I'd given her six or seven good ones, Azzam placed his hand on my arm and asked Daisy gently: "Perhaps you now wish to express thanks for my child's attention?"
"She ain't no child, and you're a dirty old man!" It was hard not to titter. Daisy was so predictable. After five more my Master softly inquired: "And now, Miss Cowslip, would you consider service in my humble house?" Cowslip! Daisy Cowslip! I suppose she must have told her name. It was almost too good to be true. It fitted perfectly. She lived up to it with her next response.
"Fuck you!"
"And now her bottom," my owner instructed sensibly.
"We must not injure a facility."
"You're not getting in there you old prick!" My Master sighed happily. I applied myself to those ripe curves so naturally designed. In her anguish poor Daisy became quite beautiful. I had exchanged the whip for a lovely snappy cane. It was my first chance to watch the ridges rise on someone else's behind. I knew I might never perform this task again, so I didn't feel too guilty.
"Look, couldn't we talk this over?" It was a Daisy cliche. But it was also a change of tune. I looked at my Master for guidance.
"You have a suggestion, Miss Cowslip?"
"I suppose you want a piece o' tail, eh?"
"Your social status precludes, Miss Cowslip."
"Sure it ain't a limp dink?" I continued my task, The ridges began to criss-cross. The rustic vocals were terrific. "Well, what the hell do you want'?" Daisy burst out between screams.
"Complete obedience, complete respect."
"You mean like her!" Daisy was outraged. "Get down on my knees an all. I ain't no ruddy slave."
"Are you quite sure?" An emphasis in the query gave her pause. "You mean you're going to keep me here, not let me go?"
"Precisely."
"I ain't going to stay. Forget it."
"Have you noticed the handcuffs Miss Carstairs wears so prettily'?"
"Shove 'em up yer' arse! I ain't wearing any." My Master took the cane from my hand, then handed the whip to an amused Lotta. I joined the audience. "That ain't fair!" Daisy protested "That big cow's too bloody strong to be whipping a girl." Lotta performed exquisitely, My own efforts paled before her competence. The white back became a scarlet grid. At the end of ten or twelve the Cowslip capitulation was vulgar but explicit. "Alright, you bastards, fuck me or whatever you want. I won't say boo, But stop whipping me… please!" The please did it. From Daisy, it was total surrender. My Master was pleased. He patted my head and motioned to the sweat soaked nakedness panting in the aftermath of agony. "Try and help her, child. She has far to go." They did not lock the door when they left. I found a box and sat ten feet in front of the whipped nudity that had become slave. I waited to be noticed.
"We alone, kid?"
"Yes."
"Then let me loose. We can scram together."
"I don't want to scram, and you can't. Even if I set you free you couldn't escape."
"You mean you won't untie me?"
"Did you untie me?"
"That was all in fun. This ain't!" I tried to sound serious and consoling. I even ran my fingertips across her breasts in the way Yola does for me when I am helpless. "Daisy, it's just no good! Stop fighting. Stop talking about intercourse and bodily orifices. Being Azzam's slave is different from what you think…"
"It don't make no sense, love. It ain't possible."
"It's already happened. It's done."
"You mean ter tell me?" I told her. I told her everything. Getting angry with her intractability I told her that if she could accept Colin Hennery she could accept Lotta and me and our Master. Her sulky vulgarities interspersed my harangue, but she listened, I suppose the poor girl had to. I was still talking when my Master and Lotta returned. With them was Yolanda. The only bond upon her nakedness was Lotta's firm grip on her arm. Azzam placed a hand gently on my shoulder. "My child, I wish to see you whipped." My fire leaped. I was irradiated with gladness. My Master desired me. Glowing, I offered Lotta my hands. She relieved me of the handcuffs, then bound my wrists with soft nylon rope in a manner I knew well. When I was suspended with my toes just off the stone, I caught Azzam's eye and said: "Thank you, Master." I knew why I was being whipped. There were two reasons. The first was to give my Master pleasure and because a whipping was due. The second was to show the girls who watched an example of what was expected of them. I felt only pride. Daisy was released. She and my darling were thrust against a wall and told to stand. Their view was perfect. I gave them reassuring grins, but got only a wan smile from Yola in response. Daisy was busy fingering her bottom and puss. I was tied the way I was for a purpose. Between Lotta and I there was complete understanding. I was a puppet on a string, but very much alive. The lash would animate me. Lotta whipped me beautifully. No one watching could tell the weight of her blows upon my helpless nakedness. Under the impacts I swung like a pendulum, twisting this way and that without control. She stuck me as she pleased in the varying postures this tethered mobility offered. I made no sound other than the sharpness of indrawn breath through flaring nostrils as my skin was scalded by the thong. I knew that which would please my Master most and at the same time offer a message to Yola and Daisy. I writhed, I twisted, I squirmed. I flung my head and my hair forth and back. I raised myself by my bound wrists as though striving to climb above the searching lash. I kicked; oh how I kicked! Partly from a natural reaction to what was being done to me, but also to give Lotta the chances she desired to bring the whip upward to weal my inside thighs. I used every inch of me to maintain a fluid and rhythmic motion to accompany the whining song and the impacts on my flesh, Even when the whipping stopped I continued on. I was totally absorbed in an artistry of pain. I was terribly, terribly happy. I was released. My Master's glowing eyes were an accolade. Daisy looked at me as though I was a being from another world. Lotta locked the handcuffs back on my wrists. I dared not meet my loved one's eyes when she stepped forward to take my place. I knew an infinite longing to share with her some of the heat within my sex. I was close to orgasm. Intuitively, I knew the task Yolanda Harding would impose upon her flesh. I felt every cut of the lash upon the lovely skin. I shared with the girl who had owned me the wish that she acquit herself as befits a Mistress fallen from her pedestal. I longed not to watch her punishment, but knew I must. Yolanda Harding did not move, She allowed, or forced, herself to hang limply from the hurt wrists inside their cords. Her nostrils flared as had my own as each blow fell, but she refused to kick or to writhe or to do other than sway passively under the impacts that told her she was slave. It seemed endless. But it was no more than had been done to me. It was the routine whipping of a slave girl lest she forget her state. When it was over and Yola again stood free, she thrust herself erect and looked her Master in the eye. When she said "thank you" in a voice without warmth I could not tell whether her words were mocking or meek. But, watching, I felt certain her slavery had begun. It was on the following day that James Pollard came back into my life.
Lotta attended me to the Audience Chamber. Safely delivered, she unlocked my handcuffs, ostentatiously placed them with their key upon a chair, and went her way. James rose and kissed my hand. The grave courtesy set the tone for what transpired. If my Master was troubled, he hid it well. I knelt before him but he raised me to my feet and led me to a chair. "There are those who desire your services," he told me gently. "It is expedient that I lend you to them. The honour of my house will be in your hands."
"It's more of those wheels within wheels I told you about, love," James explained as I sat beside him in the familiar car. "A bit of political wrangling has entered into this one. Fact is, Bolling is curious about you. Any man has to be curious about a girl who's pursued and kidnapped the way you have been. He wants to use you once for his own amusement and once as leverage with some Johnny who can do him a favor. Then back you go to his Nibs." It was all too much! I'm only human. He gave me a sideways look, uncertain. "That's if you want to go back?"
"And if I don't'?"
"There's always me, love." He got the message from my eyes. He turned the car into a lay-by, stopped the motor and took me in his arms. He felt very good and smelt the way I remembered. I discovered I was crying great floods of tears on to his jacket. He was the same wistful boy I had loved upon the moor. He patted me gently on a bare shoulder and buried his face in my hair and let me cry myself out.
"I haven't any clothes on," I said absurdly when the tears were past.
"You haven't, have you!" he agreed amusedly.
"I forgot. I just walked out with you."
"A shameless hussy."
"Well, it's all been a bit much. After all-"
"Terribly thoughtless of me, love, you should wear something," Gently but very firmly he handcuffed my wrists behind my back. "Picked 'em up off the chair, y'know, where that woman left 'em."
"I'd be lost without them, darling."
"I knew you'd be pleased." His old grin was back again.
"Fact is, I brought a pair of my own along, just in case."
"My ankles are slender, they'll probably fit," I said demurely. We both laughed. I got soundly kissed. We were back where we had been before. At least we were on the surface, or perhaps in a sense of wishful thinking. But the weight of emotion thrust upon me in the past days was heavy in my mind. Yolanda and Azzam were tugging at me from different directions, and now James! In different ways I loved them all. But to each I was a captive specifically their own. Right now, I was securely handcuffed by this glorious boy who professed to love me with his own male brand of adoration, The handcuffs might be no more than a joke or tease. Probably he would remove them instantly if I asked… probably! I knew I ought to ask so as to find out. But for the life of me I could not bring myself to do so. I told myself it would show a lack of trust. But I was scared to find out. Those handcuffs, on or off, had become symbolic. Wryly, I admitted to myself that wearing them gave me a constant erotic thrill. Quite hopeless, aren't I!
"You don't mind about Bolling, darling?" Actually I did mind. I was tired of being tortured by people I did not love. I had faced the fact that had it not been for the fire that burns constantly between my legs, my misadventures since meeting James that night at Yola's reception could have been shockingly traumatic. Some of them had scared me half to death anyway.