Arabian Plaything Chapter 6
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Hassan the Overseer, the muscles of his gleaming black body rippling, pulled Belle to her feet by the hair.
"Big banquet tonight, my beauty," he said. "You'll be there." He grinned. "Not at table - as you once were, but to display your wares."
Belle listened to the words with resigned despair. There was no more rebellion in her. She submitted as a slave should.
"Yes, Master," she said softly.
"Guests like to see tits like these," said Hassan, fondling the lush white orbs with his black hand. "And ripeness like this ..." He fingered the lips of her depilated sex. "You understand?"
"Yes, Master," she answered again. She understood only too well.
"And what do you think of it?" enquired Hassan, baring white teeth in a grin. Belle was still his favourite, but he still delighted in tormenting her, mentally as well as physically.
"I think it is an honour to be permitted to serve the Princess in any possible way," answered Belle. One of the many required replies - now almost automatic to her.
Hassan gave her bottom a none too gentle slap. "Off you go and make yourself real petty."
Belle went on her knees and kissed one of the black feet. She was aware that Hassan like these repeated signs of her submission. "If you behave yourself," came his voice from above, "stand still, I mean, and don't do anything silly like fainting, I'll fuck you when you're brought back here."
"Thank you, Master," responded Belle, kissing the other foot.
"If you don't," added Hassan, "I'll take some skin off your backside. Now... off with you."
Belle rose and, with shapely breasts and bottom bouncing, hurried off to the rear of the slave quarters to prepare herself.
Two hour later, Belle had been placed in an alcove in the Banqueting Hall. She stood poised like a classical statue, holding a silver urn on one shoulder. Already she was realising it was going to be quite a feat of endurance... and constantly strengthened her resolve by thinking of what Hassan would do to her if she failed.
Her heart beat faster as guests began to arrive. Several stopped to admire her and remarks floated up to her.
"I fancy that one," said a man's voice.
"Mmmm... lovely tits..." replied another.
"Lovely everything. Yes... I could really enjoy that."
"No doubt you'll get a chance, Jules," guffawed the other man. "Personally, I'd like to have her on the Pony Track."
They passed on. Others took their places, pausing with similar comments.
Finally came two women. "Isn't that the Lady something or other we saw being whipped?" asked one.
"Mmmm... I do believe it is. Lady Isabel something. Quite a come-down from the old days in the baronial hall, what?"
They tittered together and moved on. Belle felt the slow burn of humiliating anguish go through her belly. She almost shuddered. By a desperate effort of will she had made herself erode as much of the past as possible from her mind. She tried never to think of it. But, of course, she could not help being reminded of it from time to time. By remarks like that, for example. For a moment the old awful sickness rose up in her and she felt tears begin to prick her eyes. Then, by a supreme effort, she got control of herself. She thought of Vesta. She thought of the bull-whip. And she won the battle.
The richly decorated tables were set in a large square, with the guests seated on the outside of the tables. From her position Belle was looking down towards the left-hand end of one of the tables, all of which were filling with guests, most of whom seemed to favour Eastern style dress, though some were dressed in imitation of the Roman era. A few of the women, however, favoured leather outfits, either red, black or white.
Belle sensed that the table to her right, which she could only partially see out of the corner of her eye, was the top table where the Princess Karina would sit. She felt a tension rising in her at the thought. This was the woman who ultimately owned her, yet she had never actually seen her. She had been whipped by he ... yes... but never set eyes on her.
Suddenly there came the sound of trumpets and the babble of voices died somewhat. The Princess was coming. Belle wished her heart would not thump so and tried to stop herself trembling. Then, down before her, came a small procession. It was headed by the cruel-featured Vesta, garbed in her customary black leather, which now included thigh-length boots. Next came four magnificently built Nubian guards, each tall and handsome and very similar in appearance to Hassan. Each was naked but for the briefest white pouch about his genitalia. Next came the naked figure of a remarkably beautiful slave girl; six feet tall... and even taller in her thigh-length boots of golden leather with their six-inch spike heels. Her features and the whole of her body were coated in shimmering gold lacquer; upon her head was a golden wig. She moved with the grace and bearing of a Princess herself.
Next came the litter upon which Princess Karina was borne... carried by four more slave girls, also gold-lacquered and gold-booted. The reclining Princess wore a Grecian-style gown of purple and white and upon her raven-black hair was set a tiara which glittered with diamonds and rubies. The cortege was completed by four more giant Nubians. It was, indeed, a scene of barbaric Oriental splendour out of the past and Belle was aware of it. Aware, too, of her base lowliness as a slave. Those golden beauties who passed before her must be of a far higher grade. Hand-picked and specially trained to attend personally upon her Highness. Will I, she wondered, ever achieve that status?
However, high in grade though she might be, the leading golden beauty was a slave for all that. The glories of her beautiful body were there blatantly exposed to the public gaze. And when the Princess had alighted from her litter, the girl's task was menial enough. She stood a little behind her Mistress, holding a long-handled fan. It was her duty to keep her Mistress cool by wafting the air to and fro. The other four golden slave-girls took up similar positions behind the guests on the top table to perform the same duties. Behind them, silent, impassive, arms folded, stood the eight Nubians. Servants... not slaves. The agents of the supreme power. And Vesta, the chief agent and executive of that power, took her place on the Princess Karina's right hand.
In that diamond-hard voice which Belle had heard once before (and with what terror!) Princess Karina welcomed her guests, hoping they would enjoy themselves... and she reminded them that there was no limit to her hospitality. In every sense of the word. This was greeted with laughter and applause. A large gong was struck as a signal for the drinking and the feasting to begin.
Belle, arms and back already aching, strove to calm her mind and nerves, and to summon up the required will and strength, for the endurance test that lay ahead.
Since she was not permitted to close her eyes, Belle had no option but to survey the scene before her. Occasionally she saw the eyes of one of the guests who faced her on the far table wander over her - with the same kind of objective indifference they would have shown if she really had been an inanimate painting. Most, however, were otherwise engaged in drinking and eating, and she was to them, for the time being anyway, a relatively unimportant part of the general surroundings. In a certain way, to be thus disregarded made Belle's duty all the harder to bear. There she was, provocatively displayed to all, yet those who could look that seemed a matter of minimal interest. No matter how much her limbs, shoulders and back ached, she dare not lose her pose, yet that seemed to concern no one at all. Belle had endured humiliations beyond imagining at Quireme, but this was a humiliation of a unique kind.
Were the eyes of Princess Karina herself upon her, she wondered? Or those of Vesta? It was not possible to see from the corner of her eye. The temptation to turn her head a little so that she could fully see the top table was almost irresistible. Yet Belle knew she must resist it. And she did.
The slave-girls who served at the tables hurried to and fro under the supervision of two female overseers, each of whom was armed with a meaty-looking leathern strap of the type used by Azif during his Squad Drill training sessions. The girls themselves were titillatingly and appropriately adorned for their task. Each wore a pair of high-heeled shoes of gleaming black patent leather, black diamond net stockings, held taut and straight-seamed by a flimsy black suspender belt, a frilly little white apron held by a lace halter which left the breasts exposed, the hem of the apron finishing just at the top of the smooth, hairless mound. On each head was perched a small maid's cap. Belle noted that the buttocks of some of the girls soon wore the pink-red imprints of the strap ... no doubt on account of some slackness or indiscretion in one of the ante-chambers from where they emerged with their loaded silver salvers. She noted too that it was no uncommon thing for guests to fondle a girl's bottom, to slip a hand between her thighs, whilst she was actually serving. They accepted these intimacies, which included pinches from the women, with a remarkable display of stoicism, she thought. But then, if ever she were called upon to perform such duties, no doubt she would find the will and strength to behave similarly. It was a measure of the effectiveness of the slave-training and the iron regime maintained at Quireme!
After perhaps half an hour came a break in the feasting ... and a dancing display was given on the large, two-foot high dais which stood in the middle of the square hollow formed by the four tables. Four lissom young girls performed an erotic breast and belly-shaking routine which began slowly and gracefully, but ended in a wild frenzy of naked female flesh. As the jangling music died and the girls departed through the gangways left at the corners of the tables, it occurred to Belle that it must have been upon that very dais that, during her Initiation, she had been so cruelly flogged by Princess Karina ... just one of the spectacles in an evening's entertainment.
The second such interlude, after another half an hour or so, aroused the audience to greater enthusiasm. Prior to it, posts were erected at the four corners of the dais and silken ropes hung between. Then two girls of equal height and build were led in. One wore thigh-length boots of black; the other one had red. Each wore a wire-mesh face mask. There was one other form of protection... a kind of leather glove of thick black leather which ran from the fingertips of the left hand right up to the armpit.
"Oh good," Belle heard one woman cry, "a whipping match!"
There were similar shouts elsewhere... and, in no time at all, bets were being struck around the room. Some for black, some for red. Vesta rose from her seat, raised a hand, and the hubbub died.
"This will be a three round match," she declared, "five minutes each round. The first with thongs, the second with rods, the third with whips..."
There was applause. Vesta held up her hand again. "Princess Karina had graciously agreed to act personally as judge in this contest." There were even louder applause. "You will note that the contestants are well-matched. Both have previous experience. Make your final bets please, ladies and gentlemen, we start in three minutes."
Belle was torn between wishing she could close her eyes and being fascinatingly drawn to the scene. The bizarreness, the sheer callous cruelty of it were only acceptable in Quireme's terms. These she had learnt in good measure and was beginning to understand even better. Meanwhile a Nubian had fastened a leathern thong to each girl's right wrist. Each thong was no more than two-foot long and two inches wide... so they would have to come to close quarters. This they did as soon as the bell for the first round rang.
Black came out of her corner with surprising speed and, catching Red unguarded, her thong cracked across the girl's swinging breasts. A yelp of pain rang round the hall but was quickly followed by another as Red, recovering her equilibrium, countered with a vicious cut across Black's belly and flank. After that the contest settled down a little... with skill being shown by both as they checked strokes on the leathern guard on the left arm. They circles each other, weaving and swaying, twisting and turning, in their efforts to implant the cracking leather or avoid it. Each well-aimed, well-timed thwack of leather on flesh was greeted by cheer from the audience.
Many strokes were skilfully avoided or blocked, but equally, many found their target on thighs, flanks, belly, back or breasts. Sometimes the thongs cracked simultaneously; sometimes there was a sudden flurry of attack from one or the other to which the opponent had no immediate counter. From the ring came the sounds of heavy panting and breathless gasping, interspersed with yelps of pain. Gradually the flesh of both girls became marked with pink-red swathes. Perhaps the high point of the round was reached just before its end when Red slipped and fell after a particularly well-aimed crack across her flank. Instantly Black was upon her, standing over her with thong flailing across buttocks and thighs as Red threshed and twisted on the floor, unable to counter-attack. The supporters of Black voiced their approval vociferously... and the tall, muscular girl was still chasing her squealing opponent around the ring when the bell went. Watching, Belle felt a return of the sickness of despair within her. This display of cruelty purely for the amusement of others was indeed like some Roman circus.
All the same, that first round was but a warm-up for the two to follow. For the rods that were supplied to the two girls were four-foot long and most whippily flexible. They whistled shrilly through the air, producing vivid weals wherever they bit. Now defence became even more important... but for all the cleverness of both, breasts, thighs and buttocks were soon well striped. Both were weakening, too, breath rasping through sagging mouths. Yet neither dare weaken for she knew she would be shown no mercy. This time it seemed to be Red who had the edge, for she was quicker on her feet and was particularly adept with a sudden, wristy back-hand stroke which frequently caught Black unawares across her right flank and buttock cheek. Once, too, Black dropped her rod and, whilst she scrambled frantically on hands and knees to retrieve it, she received five or six full-blooded strokes across her curvaceous rump.
Honours then, it seemed, were even when the final round began. For this each girl received a slim, six-foot whip of plaited rhino-hide. The pace was slower and countering and avoidance became of even greater importance since each bite of the whip was strength-robbing to the recipient. It produced an agonised scream, too. Once both stood facing each other four feet apart with whips cracking stroke for stroke. They were both in a kind of frenzy in which pain no longer seemed to be of importance ... and it brought the audience roaring to its feet. It was, however, the beginning of the end for Red, whose stamina at last appeared to be the less. She made a final furious effort that was of no avail. Her movements became slower, her blows weaker whilst, revitalised by her mounting supremacy, it was the opposite for Black. Ultimately, Red collapsed in a threshing heap upon the dais with a victorious Black lashing her at will with the snaking whip until the final bell rang.
"Black the winner," announced Princess Karina perfunctorily, when the tumult of applause had died.
The loser was carried unceremoniously from the ring by a Nubian. The victor, a mass of weals but triumphant, left on her own feet... led on the end of a chain by a second Nubian.
Numb with horror, Belle gazed on the empty ring. That there were far worse duties than acting as a 'living picture' had been made very evident to her!
Princess Karina left the banqueting hall first, carried out on her litter with the same cortege. The golden slave-girl walked as tall, proud and gracefully as ever... and one could not have imagined that, not long before, that beautiful body was being ravaged by three giant blacks, before scores of eager, lusting eyes.
Did the Princess cast a brief glance in Belle's direction? And was there not a faint, mocking smile on her lips when she did so? Belle could not be sure, but she felt a strange combination of emotions. A dread at being in the presence of so all-mighty a being... and what can only be described as a kind of gladness, pride even, at being noticed by her. In some strange way it seemed to compensate a little for all the back-aching hours. At the same time, in her heart, Belle was aware that to have such emotions was a measure of how truly low she had sunk.
The guests dispersed slowly, most of them flown with wine and brandy. The two who had regarded Belle with approval earlier, regarded her with even more approval in their drunken state on the way out. The paunchy middle-aged lecher who had to be supported by his colleague waved a finger at Belle.
"Wass... yer n-name, girl?" he slurred. "Eh... wass you're n-name... I say?"
"She's not allowed to speak, you know that," said his friend, rather more sober.
"No? Is that so then? Well let me... me tell you something, my beauty... one... one day soon I'm gonna take that haughty look off your face. Yeh... me... I'm gonna give you the fucking you deserve. Remember that..."
"Boasting again," laughed the second man.
"Just you wait and see..."
They lurched off together leaving Belle with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The knowledge that she might have to service such a bestial creature to the limit of her ability was scarcely conductive to her peace of mind. On the other hand, she reflected, there had been a time when the thought of even being touched by a black man was abhorrent to her... yet now she served Hassan generously and gained a strange kind of perverted enjoyment from it. Perhaps anything was possible.
Only one other guest gave her more than a cursory glance and that was a hard-faced woman of about thirty-five who studied Belle meticulously through a pair of lorgnettes for several minutes... just as if she were a genuine portrait. She made several notes in a small book she carried, before moving off. As she did so she spoke for the first and only time.
"You, Lady Isabel Dysart, are going to give me a very great deal of pleasure," she said.
A tremor ran through Belle. The mention of her name, as always, was a bitterness. Also, while she was being examined like an object, she had had the feeling that the woman's face was not entirely unfamiliar. A ghost from the past then? She racked her brains. Obviously they had met in former days. But Belle could not place her. In any event the tone in which the woman had spoken sent shivers up and down Belle's spine. What did this woman want of her? What particular pleasure was she seeking? Belle could find no comfort in the future.
It was a further half an hour, when the tables had been cleared by the serving girls and the room was empty, that an overseer arrived and ordered Belle to descent. The familiar silver chain was attached to her slave collar and she was led away. What a relief it was to be able to move. She almost sobbed with the joy of it. Around her other slave-girls were similarly being led away. One was weeping.
Back in the quarters she was handed over to Hassan. As was obligatory she fell to her knees, clasping and kissing his powerful black thighs and the bulging white jockstrap... to demonstrate yet again her submissiveness.
"Been a good girl?" he enquired, fondling her breasts abstractedly.
"Yes, Master," she answered.
"Good... good..." he grinned, "because you know I don't really like to have to tan your bottom."
"I understand, Master," said Belle meekly. What of course, in truth, she did understand was that Hassan liked doing that very much!
"Tired?"
"A... a little, Master."
"Not too tired, I hope," said Hassan. Belle saw his brief covering slip away. There was the thickly-rounded black organ, seven or so inches even in repose. She pressed her lips to it... impulsively, instinctively. It was her duty. In a way, too, it now gave her that secret thrill of a****l pleasure.
"No... no, Master," she murmured, "your slave is always ready to please you."
"And honoured?"
"Very honoured, Master ..."
Hassan stretched himself out on an Ottoman couch. "You may suck me, girl," he said. "And I'm in no hurry."
Belle took the big prick, already swelling, into her mouth. She was its utter slave... and she knew it.
The Nubian was right in saying he was in no hurry. It was a full quarter of an hour before he lost all self-control.
"Big banquet tonight, my beauty," he said. "You'll be there." He grinned. "Not at table - as you once were, but to display your wares."
Belle listened to the words with resigned despair. There was no more rebellion in her. She submitted as a slave should.
"Yes, Master," she said softly.
"Guests like to see tits like these," said Hassan, fondling the lush white orbs with his black hand. "And ripeness like this ..." He fingered the lips of her depilated sex. "You understand?"
"Yes, Master," she answered again. She understood only too well.
"And what do you think of it?" enquired Hassan, baring white teeth in a grin. Belle was still his favourite, but he still delighted in tormenting her, mentally as well as physically.
"I think it is an honour to be permitted to serve the Princess in any possible way," answered Belle. One of the many required replies - now almost automatic to her.
Hassan gave her bottom a none too gentle slap. "Off you go and make yourself real petty."
Belle went on her knees and kissed one of the black feet. She was aware that Hassan like these repeated signs of her submission. "If you behave yourself," came his voice from above, "stand still, I mean, and don't do anything silly like fainting, I'll fuck you when you're brought back here."
"Thank you, Master," responded Belle, kissing the other foot.
"If you don't," added Hassan, "I'll take some skin off your backside. Now... off with you."
Belle rose and, with shapely breasts and bottom bouncing, hurried off to the rear of the slave quarters to prepare herself.
Two hour later, Belle had been placed in an alcove in the Banqueting Hall. She stood poised like a classical statue, holding a silver urn on one shoulder. Already she was realising it was going to be quite a feat of endurance... and constantly strengthened her resolve by thinking of what Hassan would do to her if she failed.
Her heart beat faster as guests began to arrive. Several stopped to admire her and remarks floated up to her.
"I fancy that one," said a man's voice.
"Mmmm... lovely tits..." replied another.
"Lovely everything. Yes... I could really enjoy that."
"No doubt you'll get a chance, Jules," guffawed the other man. "Personally, I'd like to have her on the Pony Track."
They passed on. Others took their places, pausing with similar comments.
Finally came two women. "Isn't that the Lady something or other we saw being whipped?" asked one.
"Mmmm... I do believe it is. Lady Isabel something. Quite a come-down from the old days in the baronial hall, what?"
They tittered together and moved on. Belle felt the slow burn of humiliating anguish go through her belly. She almost shuddered. By a desperate effort of will she had made herself erode as much of the past as possible from her mind. She tried never to think of it. But, of course, she could not help being reminded of it from time to time. By remarks like that, for example. For a moment the old awful sickness rose up in her and she felt tears begin to prick her eyes. Then, by a supreme effort, she got control of herself. She thought of Vesta. She thought of the bull-whip. And she won the battle.
The richly decorated tables were set in a large square, with the guests seated on the outside of the tables. From her position Belle was looking down towards the left-hand end of one of the tables, all of which were filling with guests, most of whom seemed to favour Eastern style dress, though some were dressed in imitation of the Roman era. A few of the women, however, favoured leather outfits, either red, black or white.
Belle sensed that the table to her right, which she could only partially see out of the corner of her eye, was the top table where the Princess Karina would sit. She felt a tension rising in her at the thought. This was the woman who ultimately owned her, yet she had never actually seen her. She had been whipped by he ... yes... but never set eyes on her.
Suddenly there came the sound of trumpets and the babble of voices died somewhat. The Princess was coming. Belle wished her heart would not thump so and tried to stop herself trembling. Then, down before her, came a small procession. It was headed by the cruel-featured Vesta, garbed in her customary black leather, which now included thigh-length boots. Next came four magnificently built Nubian guards, each tall and handsome and very similar in appearance to Hassan. Each was naked but for the briefest white pouch about his genitalia. Next came the naked figure of a remarkably beautiful slave girl; six feet tall... and even taller in her thigh-length boots of golden leather with their six-inch spike heels. Her features and the whole of her body were coated in shimmering gold lacquer; upon her head was a golden wig. She moved with the grace and bearing of a Princess herself.
Next came the litter upon which Princess Karina was borne... carried by four more slave girls, also gold-lacquered and gold-booted. The reclining Princess wore a Grecian-style gown of purple and white and upon her raven-black hair was set a tiara which glittered with diamonds and rubies. The cortege was completed by four more giant Nubians. It was, indeed, a scene of barbaric Oriental splendour out of the past and Belle was aware of it. Aware, too, of her base lowliness as a slave. Those golden beauties who passed before her must be of a far higher grade. Hand-picked and specially trained to attend personally upon her Highness. Will I, she wondered, ever achieve that status?
However, high in grade though she might be, the leading golden beauty was a slave for all that. The glories of her beautiful body were there blatantly exposed to the public gaze. And when the Princess had alighted from her litter, the girl's task was menial enough. She stood a little behind her Mistress, holding a long-handled fan. It was her duty to keep her Mistress cool by wafting the air to and fro. The other four golden slave-girls took up similar positions behind the guests on the top table to perform the same duties. Behind them, silent, impassive, arms folded, stood the eight Nubians. Servants... not slaves. The agents of the supreme power. And Vesta, the chief agent and executive of that power, took her place on the Princess Karina's right hand.
In that diamond-hard voice which Belle had heard once before (and with what terror!) Princess Karina welcomed her guests, hoping they would enjoy themselves... and she reminded them that there was no limit to her hospitality. In every sense of the word. This was greeted with laughter and applause. A large gong was struck as a signal for the drinking and the feasting to begin.
Belle, arms and back already aching, strove to calm her mind and nerves, and to summon up the required will and strength, for the endurance test that lay ahead.
Since she was not permitted to close her eyes, Belle had no option but to survey the scene before her. Occasionally she saw the eyes of one of the guests who faced her on the far table wander over her - with the same kind of objective indifference they would have shown if she really had been an inanimate painting. Most, however, were otherwise engaged in drinking and eating, and she was to them, for the time being anyway, a relatively unimportant part of the general surroundings. In a certain way, to be thus disregarded made Belle's duty all the harder to bear. There she was, provocatively displayed to all, yet those who could look that seemed a matter of minimal interest. No matter how much her limbs, shoulders and back ached, she dare not lose her pose, yet that seemed to concern no one at all. Belle had endured humiliations beyond imagining at Quireme, but this was a humiliation of a unique kind.
Were the eyes of Princess Karina herself upon her, she wondered? Or those of Vesta? It was not possible to see from the corner of her eye. The temptation to turn her head a little so that she could fully see the top table was almost irresistible. Yet Belle knew she must resist it. And she did.
The slave-girls who served at the tables hurried to and fro under the supervision of two female overseers, each of whom was armed with a meaty-looking leathern strap of the type used by Azif during his Squad Drill training sessions. The girls themselves were titillatingly and appropriately adorned for their task. Each wore a pair of high-heeled shoes of gleaming black patent leather, black diamond net stockings, held taut and straight-seamed by a flimsy black suspender belt, a frilly little white apron held by a lace halter which left the breasts exposed, the hem of the apron finishing just at the top of the smooth, hairless mound. On each head was perched a small maid's cap. Belle noted that the buttocks of some of the girls soon wore the pink-red imprints of the strap ... no doubt on account of some slackness or indiscretion in one of the ante-chambers from where they emerged with their loaded silver salvers. She noted too that it was no uncommon thing for guests to fondle a girl's bottom, to slip a hand between her thighs, whilst she was actually serving. They accepted these intimacies, which included pinches from the women, with a remarkable display of stoicism, she thought. But then, if ever she were called upon to perform such duties, no doubt she would find the will and strength to behave similarly. It was a measure of the effectiveness of the slave-training and the iron regime maintained at Quireme!
After perhaps half an hour came a break in the feasting ... and a dancing display was given on the large, two-foot high dais which stood in the middle of the square hollow formed by the four tables. Four lissom young girls performed an erotic breast and belly-shaking routine which began slowly and gracefully, but ended in a wild frenzy of naked female flesh. As the jangling music died and the girls departed through the gangways left at the corners of the tables, it occurred to Belle that it must have been upon that very dais that, during her Initiation, she had been so cruelly flogged by Princess Karina ... just one of the spectacles in an evening's entertainment.
The second such interlude, after another half an hour or so, aroused the audience to greater enthusiasm. Prior to it, posts were erected at the four corners of the dais and silken ropes hung between. Then two girls of equal height and build were led in. One wore thigh-length boots of black; the other one had red. Each wore a wire-mesh face mask. There was one other form of protection... a kind of leather glove of thick black leather which ran from the fingertips of the left hand right up to the armpit.
"Oh good," Belle heard one woman cry, "a whipping match!"
There were similar shouts elsewhere... and, in no time at all, bets were being struck around the room. Some for black, some for red. Vesta rose from her seat, raised a hand, and the hubbub died.
"This will be a three round match," she declared, "five minutes each round. The first with thongs, the second with rods, the third with whips..."
There was applause. Vesta held up her hand again. "Princess Karina had graciously agreed to act personally as judge in this contest." There were even louder applause. "You will note that the contestants are well-matched. Both have previous experience. Make your final bets please, ladies and gentlemen, we start in three minutes."
Belle was torn between wishing she could close her eyes and being fascinatingly drawn to the scene. The bizarreness, the sheer callous cruelty of it were only acceptable in Quireme's terms. These she had learnt in good measure and was beginning to understand even better. Meanwhile a Nubian had fastened a leathern thong to each girl's right wrist. Each thong was no more than two-foot long and two inches wide... so they would have to come to close quarters. This they did as soon as the bell for the first round rang.
Black came out of her corner with surprising speed and, catching Red unguarded, her thong cracked across the girl's swinging breasts. A yelp of pain rang round the hall but was quickly followed by another as Red, recovering her equilibrium, countered with a vicious cut across Black's belly and flank. After that the contest settled down a little... with skill being shown by both as they checked strokes on the leathern guard on the left arm. They circles each other, weaving and swaying, twisting and turning, in their efforts to implant the cracking leather or avoid it. Each well-aimed, well-timed thwack of leather on flesh was greeted by cheer from the audience.
Many strokes were skilfully avoided or blocked, but equally, many found their target on thighs, flanks, belly, back or breasts. Sometimes the thongs cracked simultaneously; sometimes there was a sudden flurry of attack from one or the other to which the opponent had no immediate counter. From the ring came the sounds of heavy panting and breathless gasping, interspersed with yelps of pain. Gradually the flesh of both girls became marked with pink-red swathes. Perhaps the high point of the round was reached just before its end when Red slipped and fell after a particularly well-aimed crack across her flank. Instantly Black was upon her, standing over her with thong flailing across buttocks and thighs as Red threshed and twisted on the floor, unable to counter-attack. The supporters of Black voiced their approval vociferously... and the tall, muscular girl was still chasing her squealing opponent around the ring when the bell went. Watching, Belle felt a return of the sickness of despair within her. This display of cruelty purely for the amusement of others was indeed like some Roman circus.
All the same, that first round was but a warm-up for the two to follow. For the rods that were supplied to the two girls were four-foot long and most whippily flexible. They whistled shrilly through the air, producing vivid weals wherever they bit. Now defence became even more important... but for all the cleverness of both, breasts, thighs and buttocks were soon well striped. Both were weakening, too, breath rasping through sagging mouths. Yet neither dare weaken for she knew she would be shown no mercy. This time it seemed to be Red who had the edge, for she was quicker on her feet and was particularly adept with a sudden, wristy back-hand stroke which frequently caught Black unawares across her right flank and buttock cheek. Once, too, Black dropped her rod and, whilst she scrambled frantically on hands and knees to retrieve it, she received five or six full-blooded strokes across her curvaceous rump.
Honours then, it seemed, were even when the final round began. For this each girl received a slim, six-foot whip of plaited rhino-hide. The pace was slower and countering and avoidance became of even greater importance since each bite of the whip was strength-robbing to the recipient. It produced an agonised scream, too. Once both stood facing each other four feet apart with whips cracking stroke for stroke. They were both in a kind of frenzy in which pain no longer seemed to be of importance ... and it brought the audience roaring to its feet. It was, however, the beginning of the end for Red, whose stamina at last appeared to be the less. She made a final furious effort that was of no avail. Her movements became slower, her blows weaker whilst, revitalised by her mounting supremacy, it was the opposite for Black. Ultimately, Red collapsed in a threshing heap upon the dais with a victorious Black lashing her at will with the snaking whip until the final bell rang.
"Black the winner," announced Princess Karina perfunctorily, when the tumult of applause had died.
The loser was carried unceremoniously from the ring by a Nubian. The victor, a mass of weals but triumphant, left on her own feet... led on the end of a chain by a second Nubian.
Numb with horror, Belle gazed on the empty ring. That there were far worse duties than acting as a 'living picture' had been made very evident to her!
Princess Karina left the banqueting hall first, carried out on her litter with the same cortege. The golden slave-girl walked as tall, proud and gracefully as ever... and one could not have imagined that, not long before, that beautiful body was being ravaged by three giant blacks, before scores of eager, lusting eyes.
Did the Princess cast a brief glance in Belle's direction? And was there not a faint, mocking smile on her lips when she did so? Belle could not be sure, but she felt a strange combination of emotions. A dread at being in the presence of so all-mighty a being... and what can only be described as a kind of gladness, pride even, at being noticed by her. In some strange way it seemed to compensate a little for all the back-aching hours. At the same time, in her heart, Belle was aware that to have such emotions was a measure of how truly low she had sunk.
The guests dispersed slowly, most of them flown with wine and brandy. The two who had regarded Belle with approval earlier, regarded her with even more approval in their drunken state on the way out. The paunchy middle-aged lecher who had to be supported by his colleague waved a finger at Belle.
"Wass... yer n-name, girl?" he slurred. "Eh... wass you're n-name... I say?"
"She's not allowed to speak, you know that," said his friend, rather more sober.
"No? Is that so then? Well let me... me tell you something, my beauty... one... one day soon I'm gonna take that haughty look off your face. Yeh... me... I'm gonna give you the fucking you deserve. Remember that..."
"Boasting again," laughed the second man.
"Just you wait and see..."
They lurched off together leaving Belle with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. The knowledge that she might have to service such a bestial creature to the limit of her ability was scarcely conductive to her peace of mind. On the other hand, she reflected, there had been a time when the thought of even being touched by a black man was abhorrent to her... yet now she served Hassan generously and gained a strange kind of perverted enjoyment from it. Perhaps anything was possible.
Only one other guest gave her more than a cursory glance and that was a hard-faced woman of about thirty-five who studied Belle meticulously through a pair of lorgnettes for several minutes... just as if she were a genuine portrait. She made several notes in a small book she carried, before moving off. As she did so she spoke for the first and only time.
"You, Lady Isabel Dysart, are going to give me a very great deal of pleasure," she said.
A tremor ran through Belle. The mention of her name, as always, was a bitterness. Also, while she was being examined like an object, she had had the feeling that the woman's face was not entirely unfamiliar. A ghost from the past then? She racked her brains. Obviously they had met in former days. But Belle could not place her. In any event the tone in which the woman had spoken sent shivers up and down Belle's spine. What did this woman want of her? What particular pleasure was she seeking? Belle could find no comfort in the future.
It was a further half an hour, when the tables had been cleared by the serving girls and the room was empty, that an overseer arrived and ordered Belle to descent. The familiar silver chain was attached to her slave collar and she was led away. What a relief it was to be able to move. She almost sobbed with the joy of it. Around her other slave-girls were similarly being led away. One was weeping.
Back in the quarters she was handed over to Hassan. As was obligatory she fell to her knees, clasping and kissing his powerful black thighs and the bulging white jockstrap... to demonstrate yet again her submissiveness.
"Been a good girl?" he enquired, fondling her breasts abstractedly.
"Yes, Master," she answered.
"Good... good..." he grinned, "because you know I don't really like to have to tan your bottom."
"I understand, Master," said Belle meekly. What of course, in truth, she did understand was that Hassan liked doing that very much!
"Tired?"
"A... a little, Master."
"Not too tired, I hope," said Hassan. Belle saw his brief covering slip away. There was the thickly-rounded black organ, seven or so inches even in repose. She pressed her lips to it... impulsively, instinctively. It was her duty. In a way, too, it now gave her that secret thrill of a****l pleasure.
"No... no, Master," she murmured, "your slave is always ready to please you."
"And honoured?"
"Very honoured, Master ..."
Hassan stretched himself out on an Ottoman couch. "You may suck me, girl," he said. "And I'm in no hurry."
Belle took the big prick, already swelling, into her mouth. She was its utter slave... and she knew it.
The Nubian was right in saying he was in no hurry. It was a full quarter of an hour before he lost all self-control.
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