It would have been difficult to imagine a more remarkable contrast if one had seen this same woman little more than three months before. This abjectly obedient and submissive slave girl, known as Belle, had then been the spoilt and pampered, proud arrogant Lady Isabel Dysart.
How this transformation was achieved we must now investigate. But first, a few vignettes to highlight her character and way of life.
SCENE 1: The drawing room at Grange Manor, home of Sir Charles and Lady Isabel Dysart. Isabel, wearing an elegant trouser suit, sprawls in a chair, smoking a cigarette.
"I’m going up to town tomorrow, Charles."
Sir Charles, greying, pink-cheeked, bites his lips. "Again my dear?"
Isabel’s eyes flash. "What do you mean ‘Again’? Are you trying to restrict my movements or something?"
"No, no, Isabel, of course not," say Sir Charles hurriedly. "You are young and must… er… enjoy yourself." He seems almost pathetically eager to please his beautiful wife. He is twenty years older than she and he worships her.
"Yes, I like to enjoy myself and intend to go on doing so. I can’t always be rusticating in the country. Is that clear, Charles?" Isabel rises from the chair and moves, long-striding across the room to tug a silken bell-rope. The trousers are very tight across her shapely posterior and Sir Charles’ eyes follow her longingly. He is lucky to have such a wife… even if she does not exactly treat him as kindly as he would wish. Isabel turns and smiles at him, almost tauntingly. A taste of bitterness come to Sir Charles’ mouth as he recalls the previous night. It was the third time that week he had gone to her room, hoping to enjoy his conjugal rights, only to find the door locked. Nowadays he was being denied more and more often. Only if he gave her some absurdly expensive present or arranged an exotic holiday, was he sometimes favoured. It was all rather unfair. Yet he adored her so. If he ever taxed her on the subject, she merely said something to the effect that he was too over-sexed for his age.
Mason the butler enters. "Tea, Mason," says Isabel curtly.
"Yes, your Ladyship…" Mason bows and withdraws.
Sir Charles swallows awkwardly. "I do wish you wouldn’t be so abrupt with Mason," he says. "He’s been a f****y servant for years."
"Abrupt? Good God…" Isabel almost sneers. "He is a servant, isn’t he? Not an equal!"
Sir Charles makes no reply. He does not want to work Isabel up into one of her tantrums. After all, he has made no real complaint about her going to London yet again. So perhaps this very night … if he is very humble, loving and attentive… perhaps this night she will condescend…
SCENE 2: Lady Isabel’s boudoir that night. She sits before her dressing-table mirror in a bride-like negligee of white lace. Jackson, who has had the duty of brushing her long blonde hair for half an hour, has been dismissed some ten minutes before. Lady Isabel drops a compact on the floor… and one perfectly manicured finger goes out to the bell-push at her side. Two minutes later, Jackson, a young, petite brunette, enters and bobs a curtsey.
"Yes, M’Lady?"
"Pick that up, Jackson," says Lady Isabel, rising from the stool and moving towards her bed.
Jackson bends and picks up the compact. "Yes, M’Lady?" she enquires again.
"That is all, Jackson," replies Lady Isabel, favouring the girl with a sweet smile.
Momentarily, hate and fury flash into Jackson’s eyes. She trembles visibly in the fight to control herself. About to retire, she has been dragged up three flights of stairs just for that. If only she didn’t need the job so badly. Her Mistress is full of such vicious little tricks. What Heaven it would be if their roles could be reversed, even for just one day!
"Thank you, M’Lady," she manages to say, and curtsies her way out of the room. Lady Isabel stretches luxuriously. It is lovely to be able to do things like that with servants. In former days a mistress could do far more. She had heard of maids having pins stuck into them… and a mistress birching the skin off a girl’s bottom for the most minor misdemeanour. That would be even nicer to do!
Lady Isabel locks the door before retiring. Charles is bound to be on the rampage again. Ten minutes later, she does not even bother to reply to his urgent knocks and pleas. That gives Lady Isabel a great deal of pleasure too.
SCENE 3: A London taxi. Lady Isabel is accompanied by a young, male e****t whom she has been deliberately encouraging through dinner and dancing afterwards. Now, his mind already racing to the night ahead, he leans towards her, implanting a kiss on her white neck. One hand moves to the curving sweep of her thigh. Briefly, so briefly, through the thin material, he enjoys the warm feel of the flesh. Then a stinging slap on the face sends him gasping back.
"How dare you, you oaf!"
"I… I’m s-sorry, Isabel… I m-mean… I… I thought…"
"Thought what?" snaps Isabel. "Thought you could play fast and loose with me, just because you’ve taken me out for the evening, I suppose?"
"Well… I mean… you seemed… well… to be enjoying… the evening up to now…"
"I’m fed up with you taxi cowboys. Tell the driver to take me back to my hotel. AT ONCE!"
Miserably the e****t obeys. All his hopes, once so glowing, are suddenly ashes. Isabel smiles into the darkness. Cock-teasing is one of her favourite sports!
Three little glimpses of Lady Isabel Dysart in her former days. Three little glimpses of her self-willed arrogance… which, in her freedom, she could exercise to her heart’s content.
This is the same woman, we have seen, as the slave-girl, Belle. The slave-girl owned by Princess Karina, kept in the Palace of Quireme… the slave-girl Belle whose overseer is Miss Vesta… the slave-girl Belle, now in the charge of Hassan the Nubian.
A fantastic transformation, it must be agreed. Let us see, in part at least, how it was achieved.
Unbeknown to her, of course, Lady Isabel Dysart was being observed. This was something that had been going on for quite some time… for the organisation set up by Princess Karina had agents in high level society in both Europe and America. These agents were constantly on the look-out for the right material to feed into the ever-eager jaws that led to the Slave-Harem of Quireme. Ideally, that material not only had to have youth and beauty, it had to have good birth or good breeding. A certain status in society was much to be preferred. Thus the fall would be all the greater. And so would be Princess Karina’s pleasure in the humbled playthings she owned.
Lady Isabel was ideal material in every sense and the English agent of the organisation reported the fact. He was given permission to proceed, with the promise of a most handsome reward. Material of beauty was rewarded. Material of class was rewarded. Material of both class and beauty was rewarded highest of all. This agent, it may be added, did not report direct to Quireme but to an intermediary agency in the Lebanon. This was for security reasons. Not one of the international agents ever knew the final destination of the prizes they secured. It was of no concern to them; the money was all that mattered.
Accordingly the agent laid his plans carefully. All the same it was fortuitous for him that the Dysarts decided to holiday in a luxury villa in Cyprus that summer. A yachting ‘tragedy’ was thus easy to arrange. The small boat in which Lady Isabel and a little-known male companion had been sailing, was found upturned ten miles out to sea one early dawn. Despite a lengthy search no bodies were discovered. Now surprising since the man was at the bottom of the Mediterranean with a hundredweight of concrete attached to his feet and Lady Isabel, under heavy sedation, was on her way to Beirut in a fast motor launch.
The disaster made headlines for a day or two and was then forgotten. Sir Charles, was, naturally, heartbroken. Not quite so heartbroken were some of Isabel’s friends and acquaintances. Least heartbroken of all were her servants, needless to say.
Thus Lady Isabel Dysart was removed from the face of the earth. In effect she no longer existed. For the time being she was in a kind of limbo, where she would undergo a stage-by-stage transformation, finally to emerge like a butterfly from a chrysalis as the slave-girl, Belle.
Vesta, chief overseer, having been informed by coded cable, journeyed to the Lebanon agents. It was a trip she made about once a month or six weeks to inspect the material that had been collected from world-wide sources. Sometimes there were a dozen or more prizes to be examined but, all the same, she might choose no more than three or four since she was only interested in the ‘cream’. It was understood she always had first pick, the remainder later being auctioned to lesser establishments or individuals. On this occasion there were but six girls available but, since she had been made aware that one of them was a certain Lady Isabel Dysart, this, she considered, would make her journey worthwhile.
Since Vesta was a favoured client, she was not obliged to attend the auction itself. She merely had to make her own ‘private view’ where the girls were put on show prior to being sold. All potential purchasers were also permitted to do this, but later they had to vie with each other in open competition. Vesta made personal deals of a generous nature which more then satisfied the agents. After all, her purse was long enough.
With due deference she was conducted to the Show Room by Sergei, chief of the agency. Down the centre of this ornately decorated, marble-walled chamber ran a long ‘cat-walk’ raised about a foot off the floor. On this stood six naked girls. Stood is, perhaps, not quite the right description. They were, in fact, secured there… each with her arms held aloft by wrist manacles and chains which were attached to a heavy beam which ran the full length of the room above the ‘cat-walk’. Their ankles were secured to the ‘cat-walk’ itself by further manacles and chains. Several of the girls, half slumped, seemed to be held up by the wrist manacles and chains rather than be actually standing. In front of each girl, set in a small bracket, was a white card which carried her name, age and nationality, also her height and figure measurements. One of the cards carried something additional… a kind of passport stamp which carried the single word ‘Virgin’.
Vesta seated herself in one of the numerous armchairs before the dais, crossed a pair of black-booted limbs, and lit a cigarette. Her eyes ran up and down the line. Even without the name on the card she would have had no difficulty in identifying Lady Isabel. Even though the girl’s face was distorted by the ball-gag fastened in her mouth, the aristocratic lines of her features betrayed her; so did the mass of long, fine blonde hair; so, too, did the blue-green eyes which blazed out with such hate and fury. For Vesta had had a preliminary description. The figure displayed was also as excellent as had been promised and she knew at once that her journey had not been wasted.
She next turned her attention to the others. Was there anything else as well? Three of the girls were quite adequate, but not up to the standard she truly required. The virgin did not particularly interest her either. At sixteen her figure was too immature and, in any event, it was only fair to leave her to be bargained over by some of the Arab dealers, when she was sure to fetch a very high price. The other girl, however, did interest her. She was a twenty-two-year-old Romanian, a tall redheaded Jewess with a superb physique. Her height was shown as five foot ten inches, other measurements 40 – 26 – 39, and she had the most superb long legs. Vesta realised she was an almost identical ‘twin’ of another slave-girl already at Quireme, one acquired several months before. The two of them, she realised, would make a superb Exhibition Double Act or on the Pony Track they would make a magnificent team in double harness. Yes, she decided, she would have her. She wrote down two words on a slip of paper… Isabel and Nadine… and handed it to Sergei.
"Have those two crated up, please Sergei," she said.
"Certainly, Madame Vesta," replied Sergei with a deferential bow.
Vesta got to her feet, cast a final brief glance over her two purchases and moved towards the door. "I’ll come to your office late to settle," she said.
"Thank you, Madame…" Again Sergei bowed. Then when his client had gone, he removed the two cards. "You two are lucky," he grinned, "it is an honour to serve the Princess Karina."
Isabel’s eyes still blazed with the same hate and fury. Was there no fear in them? It would have been difficult to say. Since her mind and whole being were still shocked by the unbelievable monstrousness of what was happening to her, the two former emotions still predominated. For one so filled with arrogant pride, that was perhaps understandable.
Sergei motioned to two assistants. "Take these two down," he said, "and pack them in the same crate ready for trans-shipment."
For the two new purchases the journey to the Palace of Quirime was, to say the least, uncomfortable. Naked still, they were trussed like two freshly-plucked chickens, crammed body to body within the narrow confines of a rough wooden crate. Of course, that journey was intended to be uncomfortable; it was the first stage of a breaking-in process. Just the first, but impressive enough for the two novitiates to a world of slavery. To facilitate breathing in the stifling space, each had had her gag removed. Thus, haltingly, half-incoherently, they were able to converse from time to time, since Nardine had a fair command of English. They lay, face to face, breast crushed together, belly to belly, thighs to thighs.
Nadine (moaning): „Oh mother of God, have mercy on me… help me… help me…“
Isabel: „What has happened to us? Has it all happened… I… I thought it was a nightmare… and… and I would wake…“
N: „No… it must be real… I feel you… you… now. But how can it be?“
I: „But how… how? Why?“
N: „We have been… a*****ed.“
I: (Disbelievingly) „a*****ed? That… that’s not possible!“
N: „It has happened before… in my country… I have heard.“
I: „Not now… not in these days. Oh God… no! It can’t be true!“
N: „It must be true. You… you were there… like me. It happened. You saw. Yes… it all happened. It is no bad dream.“
I: „But… but… it I can’t happen! I am an English Lady. A real lady. Lady Isabel Dysart. Somehow the authorities will rescue me… us. They must! This is madness!“
N: „I am not… not a Lady. But I am a woman. And I know a woman like me… and you… has… has a price, eh? Is of value? We have been bought. You saw, you heard… by that woman who came… when we were chained.“
I: (Incredulously) „I… bought? No… never! For what… for what?“
N: „For some man. Men, maybe. For their pleasure. It has happened.“
I: (Beginning to sob) „Oh God no! It must… it must… be a nightmare.“
(A long silence ensues broken only by their mutual sobs)
N: „You feel the cords cutting? You feel me… my breasts… against yours?“
I: „Yes… yes. And I cannot bear it much longer.“
N: „So it cannot be a dream. It is reality.“
I: (Desperately) „It can’t be!“
N: „He… that awful man… said we were to… to serve… a Princess…“
I: (More desperately) „It can’t be true!“
(Another silence broken by gasps and sobs. Both woman are wet with sweat in the stifling heat.)
N: „You have heard of the White Slave Traffic?“
I: (Weakly) „Y-Yes…“
N: „We must be part of that. We have been sold to someone… for some purpose.“
I: „It cannot happen to me… it cannot… Oh God no…“
N: „I am sure it has happened. You… you must face it… have courage…“
(Nadine, though three years younger than Isabel, is in many ways older and wiser. She has also had a tougher upbringing. What is more, she has far less conceit and arrogance in her make-up. She is more ready to accept facts.)
I: „They… they cannot make us do anything… against our will. They would not dare.“
N: (Softly and rather hopelessly) „Do not be too sure. I remember what the Russians made my mother do after the War.“
(Nadine breaks into a torrent of sobbing, in which Isabel shortly joins. Soon, mercifully, senselessness rather than sl**p overcomes both of them. The lorry bearing the crate thunders on through the night, heading into the remote hinterland of Turkey – where lies the Palace of Quireme.)
Understandably, after such a journey, both girls were hors de combat for twenty-four hours or more. In fact they were put under sedation for this period. However, being young, strong and healthy, they were well recovered by the second morning. Still chained together, they were given an injection by one of Vesta’s assistants before being taken to one of the Initiation and Training Rooms set aside for newcomers. This injection was of a unique kind – of Turkish origin – and used on all slave-girls daily, whether under training or not. It had the capability of raising their powers of endurance three-fold or even four-fold. This was an essential requisite in view of the severity of the regime… and much as all of them, at one time or another, would have liked to have been able to escape their fate by fainting and falling into senselessness in a natural way, this was always denied them. They were rendered capable of withstanding mental and physical pain far beyond the normal limits. It was a capability each and every one would have preferred to have been without!
In one of the I.T. Rooms (as they were more commonly referred to) Isabel and Nadine were chained up in very much the same way as they had been in the Show Room in Beirut to await Vesta’s arrival. Both were silent’ both were now very fearful. Long gone were any hopes that this was a nightmare from which they might awake. This was now indeed reality. A reality far and away beyond anything that even the wildest of their imaginings would have let them believe.
In due course, Vesta arrived, clad in a black leather bolero, short black leather skirt and thigh-length boots with six-inch high heels. Her high cheekboned Ukrainian features had an impassive ferocity about them; her black eyes were the epitome of mercilessness. All the same, Isabel at once broke into a torrent of vituperation about her treatment… threatening the most awful reprisals if she were not released at once… demanding to see the nearest British Consul, stating that she was lady Dysart, a person of importance and so on and so forth. Vesta bore it all calmly enough for a while… and then began to slap Isabel’s face, left and right… again and again and again… until she was reduced to hysterical weeping. Nadine, meanwhile, uttered her own protests at this barbaric treatment and demanded her own rights. Vesta ignored her and gripping Isabel by her long blonde hair spoke viciously close to her face.
"If it were not for the fact that your owner – Princess Karina – may wish to initiate you personally, I would right now start taking the skin off your backside!"
Isabel’s eyes dilated in disbelieving terror. Head ringing from the slaps, she still tried to screech her defiance, but only a high-pitched whistling sound came from her throat. How could such things be? How… how… how! This could not… could not… be happening to her! Yet it was… oh dear God… it was!
"And," continued Vesta, "if I have any more of that kind of talk, I’ll have a gag put into your gullet. You’d better learn… and learn fast, my beauty.
Vesta released Isabel’s hair and stepped back. Secretly she liked the girl’s spirit and defiance. She watched the heaving of the high breasts, saw her fighting for breath and trying to clear her head from the ringing slaps which would still be making the room spin a little.
"Y-You… ahh… you… m-monster… you v-vile m-monster," croaked Isabel, "I… I’ll kill y-you… for… th-this…"
Vesta’s features remained impassive. No weakling, this one, she thought. She signed to one of the two assistants who stood in attendance at the rear of the room. Both were tall, massive men with barrel-chests, Mongolian of feature, each with his head completely and closely shaven. Each was naked but for a brief leathern loin cloth and the light-olive skin gleamed with oil. Their appearance alone was sufficient to strike terror and revulsion into the heart of any woman. Deliberately so, of course.
Eyes dilating, crying out in horror, Isabel cringed back as far as she could as one of the brutes approached her – an iron, pear-shaped gag in his hand. But the chains gave her only inches of leeway. The Mongol pinched Isabel’s nipples and, as her mouth opened in a screaming protest, he slipped in the pear-gag. The scream became a series of retching-choking sounds. To retain the gag in position a three-inch wide strap was next buckled round the lower part of Isabel’s face… and her wide-set green-blue eyes bulged with even greater shocked horror.
"I don’t make idle threats," said Vesta, addressing her again. "This you will soon discover. If you ever dare speak to me like that again, you’ll wear a gag like that for eight hours at a stretch… and you’ll get a good thrashing into the bargain."
The disbelief in Isabel’s eyes intensified. Her jaw was stretched excruciatingly. How would it be possible to be kept like that for one hour, let alone eight? It must be a bluff to frighten her into some sort of submission. And… a thrashing? She could not mean that! That was too barbaric to contemplate in this day and age. Yes… yes… it must be a bluff. Oh God… make it so… make it so!
Vesta turned her attention to Nadine who was now silent but weeping softly. "Have you anything more to say, girl?" She demanded.
"N-No… no…" whispered Nadine, head drooping.
Vesta’s palm smacked across the whiteness of her cheek, raising a pink blotch. A backhander jerked Nadine’s head the other way and she cried out in shock.
"No… Mistress!" rasped Vesta. "That is the correct form of address for a slave."
"N-No… no… M-Mistress…" gasped Nardine tearfully. Her soft body flesh was quaking with terror. "Oh h-how can I be… a… s-slave?" she added, almost to herself it seemed.
"You’ll soon discover how," said Vesta with a brief, sneering smile. "In fact, you will begin now. I am going to give you your Initiatory Whipping. Something every slave-girl new to Quireme receives."
Nadine’s mouth sagged open and she shook her head in dismayed disbelief. "W-Whipping?" she said, "w-why me… w-what have I d-done? Oh p-please n-no… please… M-Mistress… please don’t w-whip m-me…" She still had memories of cruel beltings from her father when she had been in her early teens.
"You have done nothing… yet," said Vesta, "apart from speaking insolently earlier. However, in view of your inexperience, I shall overlook that. But you have to learn to be a slave, Nardine. You have to know what is always waiting for you, if you are in the slightest degree disobedient or fail in any way to satisfy those who own you. That is why I am now going to initiate you. Why I am going to whip you."
A fresh flood of tears filled Nardine’s disbelieving eyes. Big, strapping wench that she is, she is not made of the same metal as Isabel, thought Vesta. It would not take long to break her in fully, she was sure.
"P-Please… please… don’t… ohh… ohhh… what have I d-done to d-deserve this?" sobbed Nardine.
"Bring the Block," Vesta ordered her two assistants, and strolled over to a tall wall cabinet to select the instrument she would use for Nadine’s initiation. The two near-nude giants carried a heavy, leather-and-wood hump to the front of the cat-walk and set it down. It curved high in the air, with buckling straps fore and aft at its base. Nadine began to sob more loudly at the sight of it.
She struggled instinctively as the two assistants unchained her and led her out… but it was a futile gesture. They had three times her strength and there were two of them. As if she were no more than a carcass of meat, Nadine was thumped face down over the leathern block and buckling straps went about her wrists, biceps, thighs and ankles. Then a further strap went about her neck, pressing her face into the front of the hump. Of course, far fewer straps would really have been necessary to secure her adequately, but that was not the point. It was one of the cardinal precepts of Vesta’s training methods that a feeling of the utmost helplessness should be induced when correction was to be administered.
Her terror intensified by the cruel bondage straps, her shapely hindquarters thrust high in the air… so helplessly vulnerable… Nardine cried out piteously. Quite unused to such barbaric treatment, she was incapable of understanding the reason behind it. Why… why… why? Isabel could only look on, appalled and still disbelieving. Surely no woman could be so vilely handled! But her disbelief was strained to the limit when she saw Vesta return with the instrument of her choice. It was not, in fact, a whip in the conventional sense but a vicious-looking, four-foot long switch which tapered finely from the handle to tip. Though she did not know it, this switch was composed of a slim core of flexible whalebone around which thin strips of rhino hide had been tightly plaited. Most devilish of all were the last six inches of this cruel instrument. It was studded with diamond-hard zircon stones… twelve of them set at half-inch intervals. Where the four-foot switch whip-lashed most zippily of all these would bite most viciously.
Vesta surveyed the sumptuous naked flesh presented to her… the curacaos bottom, the long, rounded thighs. She liked a girl fulsomely shaped and that Nadine certainly was; she liked, too, the knowledge that she was about to inflict pain of a severity far greater than the girl had ever known before.
"Nadine," she said, cold and relentless, "what may happen to you hereafter, I am sure this is something you will never forget!’
She measured Nadine’s buxom nakedness with the deadly, quavering switch. Then it rose up high… and whiplashed down. It slashed across both buttock cheeks, instantly raising a vivid encircling weal, the tiny zircon stones biting agonizingly into Nadine’s soft flank. A terrible shriek was drawn from her… then another… then another. At the same time her bottom writhed and juddered frantically as it absorbed the pain to the full. Isabel looked on in petrified horror as Vesta calmly measured the helpless flesh prior to delivering the second stroke. It came, as mercilessly as the first, an inch or so lower down Nardine’s buttocks, tearing an even more terrible series of screams from the girl. Pain she had steeled herself for as best she could… but not for anything like this. It was unendurable!
All the same, Nadine had to endure it. What else? Remorselessly Vesta laid on three more strokes, working steadily down the upthrusting rump. Then she strode round to the other side of the Block, and lashed five more full-bl**ded strokes across that madly writhing buttock flesh. Thus, while the buttock cheeks now got the full f***e of the switch still, it was Nadine’s left flank which got the deadly bite of the zircon stones.
Tears of terror and pity were welling in Isabel’s eyes at the awful sights and sounds before her. She tugged and jerked on her manacles, as if attempting to escape – though what purpose that would have had is difficult to see. Perhaps it was her only way of showing that every fibre of her being rebelled against this act of barbarism.
Nadine’s awful gasping screams filled the chamber as stroke followed stroke. After the tenth she might have expected her ordeal to cease. But no. As Vesta had stated, she made every initiatory whipping one to be remembered. Thus, she now moved around the Block once more and began to lay the switch, with equal venom, across the tops of Nadine’s thighs… again working gradually down the unmarked flesh. Five strokes from one side… followed by five strokes from the other. And the cacophony of sound and convulsions of writhing intensified.
After the twentieth stroke had descended on the tender flesh as viciously as the first, Vesta halted. It was over… it was over. It must be. Isabel’s eyes, blazing with horror and indignation, said it must be…
But no! Vesta moved round to the front of the Block, unfastened Nadine’s leathern neckband and yanked up the girl’s head by the hair. The lovely face was virtually now unrecognisable in its reddened, tear-stained mask of torment. The full mouth gaped and slavered as gasping groans came from it.
"It hurts, doesn’t it, Nadine?" demanded Vesta venomously. "Believe me, it’s meant to! Remember it, girl… remember it if you are ever tempted to disobey my orders. Because any time I want I can make your backside squirm – just like I’m doing now. That’s what being a slave means. Obey – or suffer. Remember it, I say!"
The wretched Nadine’s mouth opened and shut like that of a goldfish, but no coherent words came out. Only sounds. Perhaps she was trying to tell her tormentor that she would indeed always, always obey her.
"And do not think I have yet finished with you," continued Vesta. Incredulous horror filled Nadine’s half-glazed eyes at these awful words… as it did Isabel’s.
"You’ve still got another ten to come across that shapely posterior of yours!" She released the black hair and the head slumped down again… with Nadine shrieking for mercy. But she got none…
The stripes so far only marched halfway down that quivering bottom… and there was still a white gap before they began again at the tops of the thighs. With relentless expertise, Vesta now filled that gap, laying on five more cruel strokes first from the left hand side and then five more from the right. By the time she had finished Nadine was laced with long red weals, from the top of her buttocks to halfway down her thighs… and, despite the stimulant injection she was as near senseless with pain as made no difference. By then Isabel’s eyes had closed but big tears were welling out from under the lids. Nobody could have been more aware than she that what had just happened to Nadine was about to happen to her!
Isabel, however, was mistaken. For Vesta received a message from Princess Karina to the effect that she would personally ‘initiate the English Lady’ that evening… as part of the after-diner entertainment of her guests. Vesta, therefore, was to prepare her and present her when summoned.
The Slave Mistress happily informed Isabel of the situation… and then spoke to the two guards in a strange tongue, pointing first to one girl and then the other. Then she left the room. Nadine’s white shoulders heaved under groaning sobs; whimpers jetted down Isabel’s flared nostrils. The former could scarcely believe such pain as hers could exist, the latter what her eyes and ears were telling her. Even more so when Isabel, to her utter horror, saw one of the brute guards now remove his loin cloth. Already half-roused, he came quickly to full erection as he came up behind the helpless Nadine and ran his prick up and down between her widened cleft. Nadine’s groans changed to gasping shrieks as the solid length thrust brutally into her… and Isabel’s whimpers grew louder and more frantic. The second guard, casually watching his companion, also removed his loin cloth. And Isabel, jerking in her chains, wanted to die!
However, she was not to know that Vesta had given orders to the effect that only Nadine was available. Thus she had to endure no more than obscene mauling from the second guard. At one point, with hands on her juddering breasts, he grinned oafishly at her and said something that sounded like ‘Good udders’ meanwhile nodding appreciatively. He had the kind of look on his face which seemed to say that Isabel ought to be pleased by such a compliment!
A series of short, piggish grunts announced that Nadine had rendered the service of her and the second guard, already fully stimulated by his fondlings, at once took his place. Nadine’s cries became choking moans as she was crudely ravaged for a second time. Isabel looked on, sick and shivering with revulsion. Then there were no limits to a woman’s torment and degradation, in that dreadful place in which she found herself, was now all too hideously obvious! Some time later the two guards unchained Isabel and fastened her to an unusual sort of wooden framework by means of a number of heavy straps. It consisted basically of two large smooth rollers… rather like those of an old-fashioned mangle … but set about a foot apart, one above the other. She was f***ed to kneel-with belly resting on the lower roller and with her shoulders f***ed back against the upper roller, her arms spread wide as if on a crucifix.
The rollers were adjusted so that she was pressed tight about the waist; the straps held her wrists, neck, lower thighs and ankles so that, her body curving in an S-shape, she was held in complete immobility. The contrivance had the effect of thrusting out her breasts to the maximum whilst her hindquarters were fully-upthrust, with the thighs being splayed wide. No woman could have been more utterly helpless nor more completely vulnerable to whatever use might wish to be made of her.
Isabel knew it. Still gagged and blinking through a mist of tears, she shuddered at the memory of the brute-mauling hands that had fondled and toyed with her obscenely as the straps were secured one by one. She was filled with black despair as well as dread. The picture of Nadine’s writhing, weal-striped bottom was still vivid in her mind. Soon that would be her fate too. She prayed for oblivion. For death. But neither of these escapes routes was to be made available to her.
Vesta returned and indicated her approval of the bondage. She saw her victim’s eyes wide with silent, desperate pleading. Gone for the moment were the hate and the rage. Fear was paramount.
"It is rare that a new slave is so honoured by the Princess Karina," said Vesta sardonically. "You must consider yourself fortunate that it is her whip that you will feel first…"
Isabel’s mind reeled at the monstrosity of the words and, briefly, the fury flared again in her eyes. How could… oh how could… such things be! Impotently she raged at her sheer helplessness. For one who was once more proud, more powerful, more free, than most her fate seemed all the worse. She was the same woman who once could slap a man’s face simply because he had laid a hand upon her thigh; now brute a****ls could maul her at will!
"Blindfold her," ordered Vesta.
At once a black cloth was fastened over her eyes… and sightlessness was added to Isabel’s enf***ed silence. Then, at a sign, the contrivance to which she was secured was placed upon a kind of litter and the two Mongolian guards carried her up from the catacombs of Quireme to the luxurious apartments above.
A long wait… with every muscle aching, with every nerve screaming at breaking point. Oh death, where is thy sting? Where indeed? It would have been a mercy.
Then voice… commands… footsteps. Isabel feels herself lifted and in motion again. There is a sudden hubbub of voices, of laughter, the clink of glasses, raucous, wine-flown shouts… male and female.
In the blackness Isabel moves through the cacophony of ribald sounds, knowing she is the cynosure of countless eyes. Surely this cannot be! Surely something must stop this unimagined horror! This cannot be life on Earth .. it must be Hell… a form of Hell… as biblically predicted. What had she done to deserve it?
The litter halts… is lowered. There is a ragged burst of applause. Then a relative silence. The glasses still clink.
"Give me the whip," says a voice as hard and as cold as diamonds.
Isabel wishes to shriek in protest but only a choking-whimpering sound comes. She feels the flesh of her naked buttocks begin to quiver and contract with involuntary dread. She hears the titters of amusement.
"First night nerves, eh!" cries a d***ken female voice. A giggling voice, yet one tense with expectancy.
"Remove her gag," says the diamond-hard voice. It is, of course, the voice of Princess Karina herself… who now stands, tall and statuesque, the black, plaited bull-whip snaking across the floor at her feet. She wears a low-cut gown of glistening gold; in her high-swept black hair is a diamond-studded tiara.
"We would wish to hear this noble songstress sing, would we not?"
Amidst shouts of affirmation the gag is removed… and a terrible groaning howl erupts from Isabel. It changes to a piteous shriek as the first stroke of the whip lashes across her helpless, upthrust, naked hindquarters with the cracking sound of a pistol shot.
Blackness, Yet striped with blazing red, it seems, as each deadly stroke descends. A red blazing in the brain simultaneous to the blazing of the flesh. Agony. Indescribable agony. Unendurable. Yet f***ed to be endured.
Lady Isabel Dysart shrieks and bellows like a pig in a slaughter-house as the bull-whip stripes her writhing buttock flesh with one red-mauve weal after another. The weals leap up across those long thighs, too… and the most terrible screams of all come when – with masterly skill – the tip of the whip bites into the widened clefts of her nates, where lies the most tender of all her female flesh.
Once… just once… amidst the terrible shrieks, Isabel finds strength and breath for an agonised plea.
"M-Merceeee… oooohhh… for God’s s-sake… h-have m-merceee… eee!"
It produces a ripple of laughter from those who watch the writhing naked woman flesh with such sadistic relish. It is always good to see a woman whipped. It is better when one knows it is her first whipping. It is best of all when one knows it is an arrogantly proud member of the English aristocracy.
Princess Karina’s whip cracks on and on relentlessly. She intends to whip her victim until flesh and bl**d can literally stand no more … and, at the peak of a final frenzy of intolerable pain, the blessed curtain of senseless oblivion descends.