Arabian Plaything Chapter 6
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FLASHBACK
Waiting to be punished was the worst of all.
They knew it. That’s why there were often long drawn-out hours between the pronouncement of a punishment and its administration. Hassan’s words were of the previous night were still in Belle’s ears when she awoke the following morning.
“For your carelessness, slave, you are to be birched,” he had said. “It will take place tomorrow afternoon. And it will take place before the ladies and gentlemen you offended.”
Offended?
Could it be said she had offended?
Belle felt bitter ... the cruel ... injustice of it as she listened to the Nubian’s words, kneeling humbly before him.
What were the facts?
Along with a number of other slave-girls, Belle was on duty in one of the numerous ante-chambers set apart for the relaxation of guests. Her duties were humble enough. Uncomfortable enough too. As she knelt on all fours, her nude body formed the support for the top of a trolley laden with drinks and glasses. The base of the trolley on which she knelt was mobile. It was moved by pulling on a silver handle. To this handle were attached three silver chains. One ran to a ring in Belle’s nose, the other two attached to rings in her nipples.
Fortunately for Belle, the trolley ran easily on its small rubber wheels. Even so, if a guest were a little careless, the trolley might bump against a chair or table.
And ... oh God ... if it did ...
Arbitrarily, Belle was manoeuvred about the room, the guests helping themselves from off the thick, plate-glass slab which rested on Belle’s back. Some guests were reading, some chatting, some playing bridge.
“Dummy to get the drinks,” said a voice.
Belle was pulled by someone to the corner of a green baize table.
“Your lead, partner.”
“Sorry, I was dreaming ...” In fact, the card player ... male ... had been gazing appreciatively at Belle’s curvaceous bottom which had just been presented to his view.
Belle listened to the flick and click of the cards. Her wretchedness knew no bounds. She ... they ... had once played Bridge. In that panelled room next to the Dining Hall. Pleasant evenings . . .
Oh God ... don’t think about it!
Don’t! DON’T! FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T!
Belle was clenching her teeth fiercely. Driving the memories down and away. A single tear from the corner of her eye ran down her cheek. Above her the bottles and glasses clinked as Dummy poured the drinks.
“No trumps, partner?”
“No trumps left.”
“Hhhmmm ... that’s different ...”
Unbeknown to Belle, of course, a hand of one of the card players was stretching out. In that hand was a glowing cigar ... and that hand was searching for an astray on top of the trolley, its owner being absorbed in his cards.
The glowing tip sank, not into the ashtray, but into Belle’s soft tender buttock cheek.
A sudden shriek echoed round the room and Belle jerked violently sideways. Glasses and bottles came crashing to the floor as the trolley tipped.
There were several long moments of complete silence.
Then Belle could be heard sobbing quietly.
“What bloody carelessness!”
“What the devil did the girl think she’s up to?”
“Never seen anything like it ...”
“Scared the wits out of me, yelling like that.”
There was a sudden babble of voices all around the room.
“Deserves a damn good thrashing.”
“A whipping more like it.”
“Oh she’ll pay for it all right!”
“Quite right too.”
The owner of the cigar, which was now back in his mouth, glanced briefly at the red circle of burning pain on Belle’s buttock cheek. Then he winked at his partner.
“The rest are mine, I think,” he said, tossing down the last three cards to the table.
“Well played!”
“Yes . . . well played indeed,” added one of his opponents, grinning hugely.
A woman Overseer had arrived. A slave-girl was summoned to clear up the mess of glass and bottles with all speed and Belle was about to be led away when one of the players beckoned the Overseer.
“I think this careless girl should be soundly birched,” she said.
“As you wish, Madam ...”
“ I do wish it. And since we were equally upset by it, I think we should watch it being done.” She looked around the card-table.
“Agreed?”
“Agreed?” said the other three together. Once more Belle’s superb bottom was studied appreciatively. Yes . . . that would be fun...
“I will arrange it, Madam. Tomorrow afternoon all right?”
“Fine ...”
“Here?”
“It seems appropriate, doesn’t it?”
Thus it was arranged . . . and thus Belle waited in bitter misery. As the morning wore on, the sheer utter unfairness of it loomed larger and larger in her mind.
Her action had been quite natural. Instinctive. No one could have avoided doing otherwise. Such pain. So sudden. So unexpected. Yet ... no allowance had been made.
But, as Belle knew, there was no escaping the consequences of her action. In her heart, she realised, she was going to made to suffer further purely and simply for their amusement!
At sometime around mid-afternoon, Hassan . . . tall, handsome, gleaming black, came to fetch her from her quarters. He put on the customary collar and chain, attaching Belle’s wrists to the collar, and led her
back to the ante-chamber where she had been the previous night. Now there were fewer guests in it, most of them dozing in armchairs. But the same four card-players were at the same table having yet another of their interminable Rubbers of Bridge.
“Ahh ...” said the beak-nosed woman who had suggested the birching in the first place. “So you’ve brought the careless slut.”
“Yes, Madam ...” The Nubian bowed slightly.
“Let’s finish this hand ...”
“Of course!”
“I don’t often call a little slam.”
“More’s the pity... ‘cos I don’t think you’re going to make this one, Henry.”
Tense and trembling faintly, Belle stood as white as death. Her hate for these callous beings was the purest agony. Like a hot knife thrust through her midriff.
Did they have any idea of the monstrous thing they were doing?
Ad, even if they did, would they care?
No ... of course they wouldn’t! These sadistic devils would simply revel in their own callous cruelty. What they wanted was to see a young and beautiful woman made to writhe and scream. To hear her beg for mercy. That’s what they wanted. As a little light relief, in between Rubbers!
They could have no conception of how their victim truly felt. But then again, if they had, it would have made not the slightest difference.
“I told you so.”
“One down. Not bad under the circumstances. We only had eight Trumps between us, partner.”
“Shouldn’t have bid it then, should you?”
“Worth the risk, in my view.”
“Now then, let’s get this little bit of business over.” It was the beak-nosed woman who spoke.
The quartet, all middle-aged, rich and ugly, turned their attention to Belle and Hassan. In one hand, the Nubian held the chain attached to the collar about Belle’s neck; in the other he had a fearsome-looking birch ... a mass of supple green twigs which had only just been taken from the brine water in which they were kept. Water still glistened on them; a few drops dripped to the rich carpet beneath.
“Would it be satisfactory if I secured the slave over the back of an armchair?” asked Hassan. “I’m afraid, in a room like this, one has to improvise.”
“Perfectly all right,” said one of the make card-players. His eyes were lasciviously on Belle’s shapely body. He could not recall having ever seen her before. Not in this natural role, anyway. Often, when a woman was being used as an ‘object’ or ‘decor’, it was difficult to distinguish one from another.
Hassan moved a heavy, velvet-covered armchair nearer to the table and nodded to Belle. “Over you go, my girl,” he said.
With a dry sob, Belle d****d herself over the back of the chair. It was sufficiently high for her to keep her long legs straight, with her hands resting on the arms. Both men gazed with lustful delight as everything displayed to them. They licked their pale lips; their eyes grew hot and lively. Whereas the features of the women remained impassive ... set in sadistic grimness.
The cords Hassan had brought with him now went about Belle’s wrists and ankles, being fastened to the front and back castors of the chair. She was well stretched, curved taut, the tapering white thighs pulled a little apart. By now, one or two of the other guests in the room had roused themselves and were looking on with interest.
“What’s this all about?” asked one of them.
“She’s being punished for a piece of carelessness last night,” replied someone.
“Mmmm ... nice bottom,” said someone else.
At that moment, as Hassan picked up the birch, the nates of that bottom clenched convulsively with dread. there were some murmur from the onlookers; one of the women sniggered. From Belle came a whimpering moan.
“How many are you giving her?” asked the beak-faced woman.
“Twenty, Madam ... if you consider that sufficient,” replied Hassan.
“We’ll see. Start flogging her ...”
“Yes, Madam.”
Hassan, tall and strong, took up his position and measured Belle’s quivering buttock flesh. Then the birch rose high . . . and the first slashing stroke came down.
A piteous howling cry was torn from Belle’s throat and her head jerked violently up. Her hate had turned into a resolve not to give these bestial sadists the kind of pleasure they wanted. Not too soon, anyway. But that very first stroke was worse than her imagination had let her believe it would be.
The cry woke one of the dozers in a far corner of the room ... and the card-players gazed with satisfaction on the tracery of pink-red weals that had sprung up over the curving bottom before them.
Just a beginning ...
So many more to come ...
It was good to see a young woman getting the punishment she deserved!
The birching continued unhurriedly, with Belle’s piteous cries growing louder and more agonised at ever stroke. The weals multiplied and grew a deeper red; some were a mauve colour. And, within the limits that her bonds allowed, Belle writhed uncontrollably, this way and that, at every slashing stroke.
After no more than half a dozen strokes, all Belle’s resolve had quite gone. She was screaming uninhibitedly, tugging at her bonds ... just what the sadists wanted to hear and see. By the tenth stroke, in between shrieks, she was beseeching for mercy.
Remorselessly, the slashing twigs continued to fall.
The eyes of the watchers glowed with cruel lust. Lips were parted. Breath was faster. This was meat and drink to sadists!
What a superb bottom!
Oh how it quaked and quivered and twisted!
How those twigs bit into the soft woman-flesh!
How she shrieked in torment!
Oh lovely ... lovely ... lovely ...
Give it to her, you big black bastard ...
Go on . . . harder . . . harder . . . harder . . .
Oh God ... what a joy it was, to see, to hear!
Then, it was suddenly over ... and the bottom, which had been so smooth and creamy-white not long before was horrible mass of thin, blood-seeping weals. A few red trickles had begun to come down the white thighs. Belle was groaning horribly, her breath rasping.
“Sufficient, Madam?” asked Hassan.
The beak-nosed woman looked round the card-table. The other tree remained silent, but the man who had plunged his cigar butt into Belle’s buttock cheek, winked.
“Give her five more,” said the beak-nosed woman.
An even more terrible groan from Belle.
“Certainly, Madam.”
“These are the ones which REALLY hurt,” said the beak-nosed woman as, once more the birch came slashing down.
And, from the sounds that Belle made during those final five strokes, she spoke truly. They split the skin everywhere and the red rivulets multiplied.
“Excellent,” said the beak-nosed woman when the last cruel stroke had fallen.
“I think she will be more careful in future,” added the man with the cigar butt . . . the original instigator of all Belle’s undeserved agony.
I’d love to fuck her while she’s in that state, thought the other male card-player. Press to the heat of that bottom ... hear her groaning under you ... feel her weak and exhausted. Oh lovely that ... yes .... yes ...
Hassan picked the half-senseless figure up and humped her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Thank you,” said someone.
Hassan made a slight bow. They watched the weal-striped bottom swinging from side to side, bouncing and quivering, as Belle was carried out of their sight.
“Now,” said the beak-nosed woman, “whose deal is it?”
“Yours,” replied her partner.
Once more the cards began to flick and click on the green baize top. They were picked and sorted. Bids were made, contracts won and lost. But in truth, all found it just a little difficult to concentrate. For, in the mind’s eye of each one of the four, remained the image of those slashing, supple twigs biting again and again into Belle’s curvaceous bottom.
BELLE SHOOK OFF another of the hideous memories that welled up in her mind from time to time. The present and future were bad enough, why agonise oneself by going back into the past?
In due time, Miss Reva arrived. The line of gold-lacquered girls was closely inspected. Seemingly, the young Overseer was satisfied. She went to the head of the line, two of the male Overseers fell in on each side. The column moved off. Belle, very nervous, was the last in line.
I am now a personal slave of the Princess Karina, she told herself repeatedly. I must never forget that. Never!
Along a series of corridors they went. Then finally came to a pair of huge doors, decorated in beaten gold. The entrance to her Highness’s own private quarters. The very heart of all power in Quireme! The very fount of all the agonies that flowed through it!
The doors swung open.
The retinue of twenty four golden slave-girls filed through.
The doors swung back.
In the small, square room ... with black-tiled floor and walls ... a golden slave-girl rose, inclined her head and departed silently, doubtless thankful that her eight-hour stint of duty was over.
“This, Belle, is where you will serve her Highness.”
“Yes, Miss . . .” Belle stood quietly, but her heart was thumping. There was no reason why Princess Karina should not come in at any moment.
“Whenever her Highness pays a visit here,” continued Miss Reva, “you will clean her as is necessary. You will clean her with your tongue. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss . . .”
“Thoroughly.”
“Yes, Miss . . .”
“And here . . . you see a powder bowl and puff. Afterwards, you will use those.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“But those are not your only duties, Belle. Immediately her Highness has departed . . . every time, understand me . . . you will clean her lavatory pan and her lavatory seat with your tongue. Again . . . thoroughly. After that, you will lick the floor she has walked on. All of it. Every square inch. Those are my orders. If you disobey them in the slightest, I shall see to it you are whipped without mercy. Do I make myself quite clear?”
“Yes, Miss . . .” Belle inclined her head slightly, as the girl Matilde had done. She wanted to convey respect to this Miss Reva and indicate her willingness to comply with whatever was demanded of her.
“Kneel . . .”
Belle knelt and clasped her hands at the back of her head. Miss Reva left to organise the rest of the retinue in their duties.
The silence was like that of a tomb. Eight long hours stretched ahead. There was nothing to do but wait. To wait for the arrival of Princess ... and then put her tongue to work.
Belle had no means of judging the passing of time.
Indeed, there were moments when she seemed trapped in a kind of ‘timeless vacuum’. Minutes or hours began to have no meaning. Sometimes it felt that she could have been there on her knees for an eternity.
Into this timeless, silent pool came the click of the door opening. Instantly, every nerve in Belle’s body seemed to tingle ... as if a small electric charge had been run through her.
It must be the Princess!
As she had been instructed, Belle bowed her head until it touched the cold tiles of the floor. Her services were about to be put to use. Should she not feel honoured that this Supreme Being in the world of Quireme should deign to make use of her?
Of course she should!
And Belle used every ounce of will to convince herself that she was indeed honoured.
“Undo my robe, slave.” The voice cold and compelling.
Belle’s heart leapt to her throat. She raised her head from the floor and saw before her a full-length gown of black silk, edged with purple. There were silver buttons every six inches, starting from the hem. Carefully, Belle undid them one by one and the gown fell apart. With heart now pounding, Belle realised that the Princess was quite naked underneath. She saw the beautiful alabaster limbs ... the dark, neatly trimmed triangle ... the smooth curve of the belly.
This was the body of the woman who owned her.
Who owned her body and soul.
Who could do whatever she wished with her.
Belle, of course, dare not look up. She just gazed straight ahead. When the button at the waist was undone, the Princess moved abruptly away. Belle replaced her forehead to the floor.
At first there was silence . . . then there was sounds which Belle wished she had closed her ears to. They emphasised, as nothing else, the utterly disgusting nature of her duties., It was for this she had been bathed, scented, beautified, gold-lacquered. This, purely simply, was what she was for.
“Clean me, slave.”
The Princess was back. Once more belle raised her head from the floor. Now the alabaster limbs were a little astride. Belle lent forward and laved her tongue several times along the sex lips. Her first contact with Supreme Mistress! Then she crawled round, the gown dr****g over her head and her tongue went between the warm-soft cleft. With meticulous care, Belle performed the more disagreeable part of her duties.
She must be so, so careful!
Think of the honour of what you are being permitted to do . . .
She must do it to perfection!
Finally, with delicate dabs of the powder puff, Belle completed her task.
“Do my robe, slave.”
The voice hard, seemingly emotionless. Authoritarian.
Belle buttoned the gown to the hem and then replaced her forehead on the tiles. There came the click of the door closing. The Princess was gone. Belle found her heart still pounding and her throat dry. Had she performed her duty satisfactorily? There was no way of knowing. Only if she were summoned to Miss Reva and whipped would she know she had failed in some way. She could only wait.
Meanwhile, she had further duties to perform.
First the flushing.
Then the cleaning of lavatory seat and pan.
Finally, the licking of the whole area of the floor ... where fine traces of talcum powder lay ... and where
her Highness had stepped. Belle licked slowly and carefully. Every square inch. And then she licked it all over again. Just to be sure.
Then she resumed her kneeling posture.
Simply waiting for the end of her duties ... or the return of the Princess.
This is slavery, she said to herself.
True slavery.
After what seemed more like twenty-four hours than eight, the door clicked open again. Once more Belle’s nerves flared; once more her head bowed down.
“Go, Belle,” came Miss Reva’s voice.
With infinite relief, Belle rose to her feet and a new lavatory attendant took her place. Meekly she followed the Overseer out to join the rest of the slave-girls coming off duty. Many had an exhausted look about them. One was weeping silently ... and Belle saw that the girl’s fulsome breasts were covered in cane weals. A punishment, or for the Princess’s amusement, she wondered?
The line of girls filed slowly back into the Harem, golden buttocks swinging and undulating. There they entered another pool which removed the lacquer as easily as it had been put on. A refreshing dip in the Bathing Pool followed.
“How was it? asked Tessa.
All around them naked slave-girls were wallowing in the scented warm water, trying to ease their aches and pains.
“Not too bad . . . it seemed such a long time, though.”
“Yes ... I’m afraid it does.”
“And you?”
“I was decorative, as usual. Pretty uncomfortable. Used as a flower holder. You know the sort of thing. On hands and knees with the end of the container up you.”
“Oh yes ... I know. I’ve done it in the main Harem. b**stly.”
“Still, Delia came off worst. She got a breast caning.”
“Yes . . . I saw the poor girl. Any particular reason for it?”
“Not that I know of. Just for her Highness’s amusement, I think.”
“Shall we get out now?”
“Yes ... I think so ...”
It was at that point when Otto came strolling along the side of the pool. “You ... slave ... out you come!” Belle saw the finger pointing at her. Her nerves flared. What was this? Had she done wrong? Failed to satisfy? Was she to be whipped? Then suddenly she recalled Otto’s words on the massage table ...
Belle hauled herself out of the bathing pool and knelt before him.
“Yes, Master?”
She saw that Otto was taking off his white satin pouch and felt a certain sense of relief. At least, it wasn’t to be punished!
“I’ve got a treat for you,” he said with a leering grin. Belle looked up at the dangling organ and saw that it looked almost as big as Haroun’s.
“Thank you, Master,” she heard herself say automatically.
“Get your arse in the air, slave.” They were the same words Haroun had used earlier, she recalled. Typically humiliating words.
“Here, Master?” she queried, mindful of the slave-girls all around.
“Yes ... here ... why not?”
Belle did not pause to answer. She turned, thrust up her hindquarters and opened her thighs. She found herself looking into the pool. The girls still wallowing there seemed utterly unconcerned by what was going on. Doubtless, it was all too familiar...
Belle felt Otto fondling her with one hand. Over her buttocks, between her thighs. She got the idea he was manipulating himself to erection. Then her flanks were seized and the hard knob positioned itself. She felt herself tensing and tried to relax.
With a piggish grunt, Otto came into her in a single swift thrust. Quite unlike Haroun’s slow entry. Belle uttered a little gasping cry. Yes ... he was big ... even if not quite as big as the Arab. The big fat, hairy belly pressed hard to her bottom for a few moments. Then Otto withdrew.
Back in again ... with deliberate brutishness, she knew. That’s the kind of man he was. A fat, lusting, German pig!
Thump!
Thump!
Thump!
Otto grunting with each powerful thrust; Belle striving to maintain her position on the slippery tiles.
Thump!
“Uugghh....”
Thump!
“Aagghhh....”
Thump!
“Uugghhh....”
Thump!
“Aagghh....”
Belle saw a few of the faces in the pool towards her now. Indifferent still. A slave-girl being publicly fucked was obviously quite unremarkable!
Gradually, Otto’s thrusts were getting faster and faster.
Thumpity ... thumpity ... thump ... they went.
The fat belly pounding, pounding, pounding.
Belle sensed that he was not going to last very long. And was thankful. It was not pleasant to be ravaged by such a b**st in such a way.
Thumpity ... thumpity ... thumpity ... thumpity ... Faster ... faster ...
Otto was beginning to snort. Like the pig he is, thought Belle. She was glad she was quite aroused. Just enduring it.
Faster ... yet faster ... yet faster ...
The suddenly Otto was overboard. Jerking frenziedly. Grunting ... gasping ... groaning. Sagging down. Still jerking. Now moaning. Still jerking ... but more feebly.
A final moan ... and he slumped right down over Belle, crushing her flat to the tiles. There she had to lie for a full minute or more as Otto recovered ... whilst the wallowing and cavorting continued in the pool undisturbed.
Suddenly, and without a word. Otto withdrew ... got up and strolled away. For all the concern he showed, he might as well have just been making use of a urinal!
Slowly, Belle slithered back into the pool. It might make me feel a little cleaner, she thought. Tessa came over and patted her arm.
“He’s a real b**st that one,” she said.
“Yes, nodded Belle, “utterly repulsive.”
The two girls looked at each other in silent understanding. And without hope.
Waiting to be punished was the worst of all.
They knew it. That’s why there were often long drawn-out hours between the pronouncement of a punishment and its administration. Hassan’s words were of the previous night were still in Belle’s ears when she awoke the following morning.
“For your carelessness, slave, you are to be birched,” he had said. “It will take place tomorrow afternoon. And it will take place before the ladies and gentlemen you offended.”
Offended?
Could it be said she had offended?
Belle felt bitter ... the cruel ... injustice of it as she listened to the Nubian’s words, kneeling humbly before him.
What were the facts?
Along with a number of other slave-girls, Belle was on duty in one of the numerous ante-chambers set apart for the relaxation of guests. Her duties were humble enough. Uncomfortable enough too. As she knelt on all fours, her nude body formed the support for the top of a trolley laden with drinks and glasses. The base of the trolley on which she knelt was mobile. It was moved by pulling on a silver handle. To this handle were attached three silver chains. One ran to a ring in Belle’s nose, the other two attached to rings in her nipples.
Fortunately for Belle, the trolley ran easily on its small rubber wheels. Even so, if a guest were a little careless, the trolley might bump against a chair or table.
And ... oh God ... if it did ...
Arbitrarily, Belle was manoeuvred about the room, the guests helping themselves from off the thick, plate-glass slab which rested on Belle’s back. Some guests were reading, some chatting, some playing bridge.
“Dummy to get the drinks,” said a voice.
Belle was pulled by someone to the corner of a green baize table.
“Your lead, partner.”
“Sorry, I was dreaming ...” In fact, the card player ... male ... had been gazing appreciatively at Belle’s curvaceous bottom which had just been presented to his view.
Belle listened to the flick and click of the cards. Her wretchedness knew no bounds. She ... they ... had once played Bridge. In that panelled room next to the Dining Hall. Pleasant evenings . . .
Oh God ... don’t think about it!
Don’t! DON’T! FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T!
Belle was clenching her teeth fiercely. Driving the memories down and away. A single tear from the corner of her eye ran down her cheek. Above her the bottles and glasses clinked as Dummy poured the drinks.
“No trumps, partner?”
“No trumps left.”
“Hhhmmm ... that’s different ...”
Unbeknown to Belle, of course, a hand of one of the card players was stretching out. In that hand was a glowing cigar ... and that hand was searching for an astray on top of the trolley, its owner being absorbed in his cards.
The glowing tip sank, not into the ashtray, but into Belle’s soft tender buttock cheek.
A sudden shriek echoed round the room and Belle jerked violently sideways. Glasses and bottles came crashing to the floor as the trolley tipped.
There were several long moments of complete silence.
Then Belle could be heard sobbing quietly.
“What bloody carelessness!”
“What the devil did the girl think she’s up to?”
“Never seen anything like it ...”
“Scared the wits out of me, yelling like that.”
There was a sudden babble of voices all around the room.
“Deserves a damn good thrashing.”
“A whipping more like it.”
“Oh she’ll pay for it all right!”
“Quite right too.”
The owner of the cigar, which was now back in his mouth, glanced briefly at the red circle of burning pain on Belle’s buttock cheek. Then he winked at his partner.
“The rest are mine, I think,” he said, tossing down the last three cards to the table.
“Well played!”
“Yes . . . well played indeed,” added one of his opponents, grinning hugely.
A woman Overseer had arrived. A slave-girl was summoned to clear up the mess of glass and bottles with all speed and Belle was about to be led away when one of the players beckoned the Overseer.
“I think this careless girl should be soundly birched,” she said.
“As you wish, Madam ...”
“ I do wish it. And since we were equally upset by it, I think we should watch it being done.” She looked around the card-table.
“Agreed?”
“Agreed?” said the other three together. Once more Belle’s superb bottom was studied appreciatively. Yes . . . that would be fun...
“I will arrange it, Madam. Tomorrow afternoon all right?”
“Fine ...”
“Here?”
“It seems appropriate, doesn’t it?”
Thus it was arranged . . . and thus Belle waited in bitter misery. As the morning wore on, the sheer utter unfairness of it loomed larger and larger in her mind.
Her action had been quite natural. Instinctive. No one could have avoided doing otherwise. Such pain. So sudden. So unexpected. Yet ... no allowance had been made.
But, as Belle knew, there was no escaping the consequences of her action. In her heart, she realised, she was going to made to suffer further purely and simply for their amusement!
At sometime around mid-afternoon, Hassan . . . tall, handsome, gleaming black, came to fetch her from her quarters. He put on the customary collar and chain, attaching Belle’s wrists to the collar, and led her
back to the ante-chamber where she had been the previous night. Now there were fewer guests in it, most of them dozing in armchairs. But the same four card-players were at the same table having yet another of their interminable Rubbers of Bridge.
“Ahh ...” said the beak-nosed woman who had suggested the birching in the first place. “So you’ve brought the careless slut.”
“Yes, Madam ...” The Nubian bowed slightly.
“Let’s finish this hand ...”
“Of course!”
“I don’t often call a little slam.”
“More’s the pity... ‘cos I don’t think you’re going to make this one, Henry.”
Tense and trembling faintly, Belle stood as white as death. Her hate for these callous beings was the purest agony. Like a hot knife thrust through her midriff.
Did they have any idea of the monstrous thing they were doing?
Ad, even if they did, would they care?
No ... of course they wouldn’t! These sadistic devils would simply revel in their own callous cruelty. What they wanted was to see a young and beautiful woman made to writhe and scream. To hear her beg for mercy. That’s what they wanted. As a little light relief, in between Rubbers!
They could have no conception of how their victim truly felt. But then again, if they had, it would have made not the slightest difference.
“I told you so.”
“One down. Not bad under the circumstances. We only had eight Trumps between us, partner.”
“Shouldn’t have bid it then, should you?”
“Worth the risk, in my view.”
“Now then, let’s get this little bit of business over.” It was the beak-nosed woman who spoke.
The quartet, all middle-aged, rich and ugly, turned their attention to Belle and Hassan. In one hand, the Nubian held the chain attached to the collar about Belle’s neck; in the other he had a fearsome-looking birch ... a mass of supple green twigs which had only just been taken from the brine water in which they were kept. Water still glistened on them; a few drops dripped to the rich carpet beneath.
“Would it be satisfactory if I secured the slave over the back of an armchair?” asked Hassan. “I’m afraid, in a room like this, one has to improvise.”
“Perfectly all right,” said one of the make card-players. His eyes were lasciviously on Belle’s shapely body. He could not recall having ever seen her before. Not in this natural role, anyway. Often, when a woman was being used as an ‘object’ or ‘decor’, it was difficult to distinguish one from another.
Hassan moved a heavy, velvet-covered armchair nearer to the table and nodded to Belle. “Over you go, my girl,” he said.
With a dry sob, Belle d****d herself over the back of the chair. It was sufficiently high for her to keep her long legs straight, with her hands resting on the arms. Both men gazed with lustful delight as everything displayed to them. They licked their pale lips; their eyes grew hot and lively. Whereas the features of the women remained impassive ... set in sadistic grimness.
The cords Hassan had brought with him now went about Belle’s wrists and ankles, being fastened to the front and back castors of the chair. She was well stretched, curved taut, the tapering white thighs pulled a little apart. By now, one or two of the other guests in the room had roused themselves and were looking on with interest.
“What’s this all about?” asked one of them.
“She’s being punished for a piece of carelessness last night,” replied someone.
“Mmmm ... nice bottom,” said someone else.
At that moment, as Hassan picked up the birch, the nates of that bottom clenched convulsively with dread. there were some murmur from the onlookers; one of the women sniggered. From Belle came a whimpering moan.
“How many are you giving her?” asked the beak-faced woman.
“Twenty, Madam ... if you consider that sufficient,” replied Hassan.
“We’ll see. Start flogging her ...”
“Yes, Madam.”
Hassan, tall and strong, took up his position and measured Belle’s quivering buttock flesh. Then the birch rose high . . . and the first slashing stroke came down.
A piteous howling cry was torn from Belle’s throat and her head jerked violently up. Her hate had turned into a resolve not to give these bestial sadists the kind of pleasure they wanted. Not too soon, anyway. But that very first stroke was worse than her imagination had let her believe it would be.
The cry woke one of the dozers in a far corner of the room ... and the card-players gazed with satisfaction on the tracery of pink-red weals that had sprung up over the curving bottom before them.
Just a beginning ...
So many more to come ...
It was good to see a young woman getting the punishment she deserved!
The birching continued unhurriedly, with Belle’s piteous cries growing louder and more agonised at ever stroke. The weals multiplied and grew a deeper red; some were a mauve colour. And, within the limits that her bonds allowed, Belle writhed uncontrollably, this way and that, at every slashing stroke.
After no more than half a dozen strokes, all Belle’s resolve had quite gone. She was screaming uninhibitedly, tugging at her bonds ... just what the sadists wanted to hear and see. By the tenth stroke, in between shrieks, she was beseeching for mercy.
Remorselessly, the slashing twigs continued to fall.
The eyes of the watchers glowed with cruel lust. Lips were parted. Breath was faster. This was meat and drink to sadists!
What a superb bottom!
Oh how it quaked and quivered and twisted!
How those twigs bit into the soft woman-flesh!
How she shrieked in torment!
Oh lovely ... lovely ... lovely ...
Give it to her, you big black bastard ...
Go on . . . harder . . . harder . . . harder . . .
Oh God ... what a joy it was, to see, to hear!
Then, it was suddenly over ... and the bottom, which had been so smooth and creamy-white not long before was horrible mass of thin, blood-seeping weals. A few red trickles had begun to come down the white thighs. Belle was groaning horribly, her breath rasping.
“Sufficient, Madam?” asked Hassan.
The beak-nosed woman looked round the card-table. The other tree remained silent, but the man who had plunged his cigar butt into Belle’s buttock cheek, winked.
“Give her five more,” said the beak-nosed woman.
An even more terrible groan from Belle.
“Certainly, Madam.”
“These are the ones which REALLY hurt,” said the beak-nosed woman as, once more the birch came slashing down.
And, from the sounds that Belle made during those final five strokes, she spoke truly. They split the skin everywhere and the red rivulets multiplied.
“Excellent,” said the beak-nosed woman when the last cruel stroke had fallen.
“I think she will be more careful in future,” added the man with the cigar butt . . . the original instigator of all Belle’s undeserved agony.
I’d love to fuck her while she’s in that state, thought the other male card-player. Press to the heat of that bottom ... hear her groaning under you ... feel her weak and exhausted. Oh lovely that ... yes .... yes ...
Hassan picked the half-senseless figure up and humped her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Thank you,” said someone.
Hassan made a slight bow. They watched the weal-striped bottom swinging from side to side, bouncing and quivering, as Belle was carried out of their sight.
“Now,” said the beak-nosed woman, “whose deal is it?”
“Yours,” replied her partner.
Once more the cards began to flick and click on the green baize top. They were picked and sorted. Bids were made, contracts won and lost. But in truth, all found it just a little difficult to concentrate. For, in the mind’s eye of each one of the four, remained the image of those slashing, supple twigs biting again and again into Belle’s curvaceous bottom.
BELLE SHOOK OFF another of the hideous memories that welled up in her mind from time to time. The present and future were bad enough, why agonise oneself by going back into the past?
In due time, Miss Reva arrived. The line of gold-lacquered girls was closely inspected. Seemingly, the young Overseer was satisfied. She went to the head of the line, two of the male Overseers fell in on each side. The column moved off. Belle, very nervous, was the last in line.
I am now a personal slave of the Princess Karina, she told herself repeatedly. I must never forget that. Never!
Along a series of corridors they went. Then finally came to a pair of huge doors, decorated in beaten gold. The entrance to her Highness’s own private quarters. The very heart of all power in Quireme! The very fount of all the agonies that flowed through it!
The doors swung open.
The retinue of twenty four golden slave-girls filed through.
The doors swung back.
In the small, square room ... with black-tiled floor and walls ... a golden slave-girl rose, inclined her head and departed silently, doubtless thankful that her eight-hour stint of duty was over.
“This, Belle, is where you will serve her Highness.”
“Yes, Miss . . .” Belle stood quietly, but her heart was thumping. There was no reason why Princess Karina should not come in at any moment.
“Whenever her Highness pays a visit here,” continued Miss Reva, “you will clean her as is necessary. You will clean her with your tongue. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss . . .”
“Thoroughly.”
“Yes, Miss . . .”
“And here . . . you see a powder bowl and puff. Afterwards, you will use those.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“But those are not your only duties, Belle. Immediately her Highness has departed . . . every time, understand me . . . you will clean her lavatory pan and her lavatory seat with your tongue. Again . . . thoroughly. After that, you will lick the floor she has walked on. All of it. Every square inch. Those are my orders. If you disobey them in the slightest, I shall see to it you are whipped without mercy. Do I make myself quite clear?”
“Yes, Miss . . .” Belle inclined her head slightly, as the girl Matilde had done. She wanted to convey respect to this Miss Reva and indicate her willingness to comply with whatever was demanded of her.
“Kneel . . .”
Belle knelt and clasped her hands at the back of her head. Miss Reva left to organise the rest of the retinue in their duties.
The silence was like that of a tomb. Eight long hours stretched ahead. There was nothing to do but wait. To wait for the arrival of Princess ... and then put her tongue to work.
Belle had no means of judging the passing of time.
Indeed, there were moments when she seemed trapped in a kind of ‘timeless vacuum’. Minutes or hours began to have no meaning. Sometimes it felt that she could have been there on her knees for an eternity.
Into this timeless, silent pool came the click of the door opening. Instantly, every nerve in Belle’s body seemed to tingle ... as if a small electric charge had been run through her.
It must be the Princess!
As she had been instructed, Belle bowed her head until it touched the cold tiles of the floor. Her services were about to be put to use. Should she not feel honoured that this Supreme Being in the world of Quireme should deign to make use of her?
Of course she should!
And Belle used every ounce of will to convince herself that she was indeed honoured.
“Undo my robe, slave.” The voice cold and compelling.
Belle’s heart leapt to her throat. She raised her head from the floor and saw before her a full-length gown of black silk, edged with purple. There were silver buttons every six inches, starting from the hem. Carefully, Belle undid them one by one and the gown fell apart. With heart now pounding, Belle realised that the Princess was quite naked underneath. She saw the beautiful alabaster limbs ... the dark, neatly trimmed triangle ... the smooth curve of the belly.
This was the body of the woman who owned her.
Who owned her body and soul.
Who could do whatever she wished with her.
Belle, of course, dare not look up. She just gazed straight ahead. When the button at the waist was undone, the Princess moved abruptly away. Belle replaced her forehead to the floor.
At first there was silence . . . then there was sounds which Belle wished she had closed her ears to. They emphasised, as nothing else, the utterly disgusting nature of her duties., It was for this she had been bathed, scented, beautified, gold-lacquered. This, purely simply, was what she was for.
“Clean me, slave.”
The Princess was back. Once more belle raised her head from the floor. Now the alabaster limbs were a little astride. Belle lent forward and laved her tongue several times along the sex lips. Her first contact with Supreme Mistress! Then she crawled round, the gown dr****g over her head and her tongue went between the warm-soft cleft. With meticulous care, Belle performed the more disagreeable part of her duties.
She must be so, so careful!
Think of the honour of what you are being permitted to do . . .
She must do it to perfection!
Finally, with delicate dabs of the powder puff, Belle completed her task.
“Do my robe, slave.”
The voice hard, seemingly emotionless. Authoritarian.
Belle buttoned the gown to the hem and then replaced her forehead on the tiles. There came the click of the door closing. The Princess was gone. Belle found her heart still pounding and her throat dry. Had she performed her duty satisfactorily? There was no way of knowing. Only if she were summoned to Miss Reva and whipped would she know she had failed in some way. She could only wait.
Meanwhile, she had further duties to perform.
First the flushing.
Then the cleaning of lavatory seat and pan.
Finally, the licking of the whole area of the floor ... where fine traces of talcum powder lay ... and where
her Highness had stepped. Belle licked slowly and carefully. Every square inch. And then she licked it all over again. Just to be sure.
Then she resumed her kneeling posture.
Simply waiting for the end of her duties ... or the return of the Princess.
This is slavery, she said to herself.
True slavery.
After what seemed more like twenty-four hours than eight, the door clicked open again. Once more Belle’s nerves flared; once more her head bowed down.
“Go, Belle,” came Miss Reva’s voice.
With infinite relief, Belle rose to her feet and a new lavatory attendant took her place. Meekly she followed the Overseer out to join the rest of the slave-girls coming off duty. Many had an exhausted look about them. One was weeping silently ... and Belle saw that the girl’s fulsome breasts were covered in cane weals. A punishment, or for the Princess’s amusement, she wondered?
The line of girls filed slowly back into the Harem, golden buttocks swinging and undulating. There they entered another pool which removed the lacquer as easily as it had been put on. A refreshing dip in the Bathing Pool followed.
“How was it? asked Tessa.
All around them naked slave-girls were wallowing in the scented warm water, trying to ease their aches and pains.
“Not too bad . . . it seemed such a long time, though.”
“Yes ... I’m afraid it does.”
“And you?”
“I was decorative, as usual. Pretty uncomfortable. Used as a flower holder. You know the sort of thing. On hands and knees with the end of the container up you.”
“Oh yes ... I know. I’ve done it in the main Harem. b**stly.”
“Still, Delia came off worst. She got a breast caning.”
“Yes . . . I saw the poor girl. Any particular reason for it?”
“Not that I know of. Just for her Highness’s amusement, I think.”
“Shall we get out now?”
“Yes ... I think so ...”
It was at that point when Otto came strolling along the side of the pool. “You ... slave ... out you come!” Belle saw the finger pointing at her. Her nerves flared. What was this? Had she done wrong? Failed to satisfy? Was she to be whipped? Then suddenly she recalled Otto’s words on the massage table ...
Belle hauled herself out of the bathing pool and knelt before him.
“Yes, Master?”
She saw that Otto was taking off his white satin pouch and felt a certain sense of relief. At least, it wasn’t to be punished!
“I’ve got a treat for you,” he said with a leering grin. Belle looked up at the dangling organ and saw that it looked almost as big as Haroun’s.
“Thank you, Master,” she heard herself say automatically.
“Get your arse in the air, slave.” They were the same words Haroun had used earlier, she recalled. Typically humiliating words.
“Here, Master?” she queried, mindful of the slave-girls all around.
“Yes ... here ... why not?”
Belle did not pause to answer. She turned, thrust up her hindquarters and opened her thighs. She found herself looking into the pool. The girls still wallowing there seemed utterly unconcerned by what was going on. Doubtless, it was all too familiar...
Belle felt Otto fondling her with one hand. Over her buttocks, between her thighs. She got the idea he was manipulating himself to erection. Then her flanks were seized and the hard knob positioned itself. She felt herself tensing and tried to relax.
With a piggish grunt, Otto came into her in a single swift thrust. Quite unlike Haroun’s slow entry. Belle uttered a little gasping cry. Yes ... he was big ... even if not quite as big as the Arab. The big fat, hairy belly pressed hard to her bottom for a few moments. Then Otto withdrew.
Back in again ... with deliberate brutishness, she knew. That’s the kind of man he was. A fat, lusting, German pig!
Thump!
Thump!
Thump!
Otto grunting with each powerful thrust; Belle striving to maintain her position on the slippery tiles.
Thump!
“Uugghh....”
Thump!
“Aagghhh....”
Thump!
“Uugghhh....”
Thump!
“Aagghh....”
Belle saw a few of the faces in the pool towards her now. Indifferent still. A slave-girl being publicly fucked was obviously quite unremarkable!
Gradually, Otto’s thrusts were getting faster and faster.
Thumpity ... thumpity ... thump ... they went.
The fat belly pounding, pounding, pounding.
Belle sensed that he was not going to last very long. And was thankful. It was not pleasant to be ravaged by such a b**st in such a way.
Thumpity ... thumpity ... thumpity ... thumpity ... Faster ... faster ...
Otto was beginning to snort. Like the pig he is, thought Belle. She was glad she was quite aroused. Just enduring it.
Faster ... yet faster ... yet faster ...
The suddenly Otto was overboard. Jerking frenziedly. Grunting ... gasping ... groaning. Sagging down. Still jerking. Now moaning. Still jerking ... but more feebly.
A final moan ... and he slumped right down over Belle, crushing her flat to the tiles. There she had to lie for a full minute or more as Otto recovered ... whilst the wallowing and cavorting continued in the pool undisturbed.
Suddenly, and without a word. Otto withdrew ... got up and strolled away. For all the concern he showed, he might as well have just been making use of a urinal!
Slowly, Belle slithered back into the pool. It might make me feel a little cleaner, she thought. Tessa came over and patted her arm.
“He’s a real b**st that one,” she said.
“Yes, nodded Belle, “utterly repulsive.”
The two girls looked at each other in silent understanding. And without hope.
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