CHAPTER ONE

The room was ornately Byzantine in style, with a mosaic marble floor and slim columns round the walls supporting decorative rounded arches. There were some heavy gold and crimson drapes at one end and the furniture, though sparse, was expensive. It consisted of a low chaise couch with a single high-curving end, an equally low table - on which stood a white urn filled with exotic-looking flowers - a comfortable-looking armchair, a footstool and, finally, a tall inlaid cabinet with cupboard above and drawers below. All the furniture coverings and cushions were of the same crimson and gold as the drapes. A heavy, musky scent hung in the air.

The woman who stood in the centre of this room was exceptionally beautiful. Both of features and body. And she was completely naked.

Her features were finely chiselled; the nose in particular being slim and well-moulded with delicate nostrils which flared wide. It was perhaps this, most of all, which gave her a somewhat proud, almost arrogant look. A typical look of a woman of the English upper classes, except that her lips were fuller and the eyes more wide-set than most women of that breed. Her hair, which hung straight and long, below shoulder length, was astonishingly blonde in colour. So blonde that where it caught a highlight from the chandelier above it looked almost silver.

She was quite tall - five foot eight perhaps - with square shoulders and a straight back. Her breasts, though fulsome, were high and firm; the aureoles and pert nipples were a delicate pink. Her waist was slim and her hips had a curvaceous hour-glass swell; her limbs were long and shapely. She stood straight and well, and her stance was enhanced by the pair of crimson leather high-heeled shoes she wore.

The woman stood in total silence ... and her stillness was unusual.

But that was not all that was unusual about this superb specimen of womanhood. We must take a closer look. Let us go first to that face; the eyes in particular. They are blue-green. That, however, is not what strikes one. It is their blankness; as if, almost, they are turned in on themselves. There is a resigned hopelessness there. A look of defeat. It is a strange contrast to the look of inherent pride conveyed by her facial bone structure and the rest of her features.

Now we move down. At once we note an error in saying that the woman was completely naked. It is true only in so far as she wears no shred of garment. For, about the white column of her neck is fastened a silver collar; an inch wide band of heavy silver about a quarter of an inch thick. There is a small silver ring attached to the front of this collar.

Now further down ... and we see about her wrists and ankles silver bands of similar weight and thickness. These are some two inches in width and, attached to each of them, is a silver ring similar to the one on the collar.

What else do we notice that is unusual? Ah yes ... it is something very obvious. It is that this woman has no body hair whatsoever. The swelling hump of her Mound of Venus is velvety smooth and white. It gives the appearance somehow of having been furbished and polished. The slightly pouting sex lips are clearly defined and visible. This display of her most intimate femininity makes her look even more naked than she actually is.

This woman is a slave.

***

A slave?

A slave of Roman times perhaps? Of the days of Byzantium? Or maybe of the pirate days of the 18th century Eastern Mediterranean?

No. Quite the contrary. A slave of the present day!

And where, you may ask, is this ornate room in which this woman stands in solitary silence? And how can such a thing be?

All these questions can and will be answered. The room is, in fact, one of many beneath a palace originally built by a powerful Bey in the 16th century. It is in the hinterland of Turkey and he and his ancestors lived there for many generations in pomp and splendour. In those days their slaves came mainly from Arabia and Africa but there was also a sprinkling of Europeans. The exact site of this palace is of small importance. There are many such still in Turkey, which remains one of the most remote and mysterious countries on the verge of Europe, despite superficial attempts at modernisation during the present century. Suffice to say that the name of the place is Quireme and its present-day owner is a woman.

A most unusual woman, to be sure. One, naturally, of immense wealth ... and in her mid-thirties. Her name is Karina-el-Nessim and three strains of blood run in her veins. One half German, one quarter Jewish and one quarter Arab. Largely because she wishes it so, and partly because of the exalted status of her Arabian ancestor, she styles herself as a Princess. Amongst her entourage and acquaintances she is known as Princess Karina ... and since, as a general rule, her contact with the outside world is minimal, its opinion of the worth of her titular claim is of scant importance. In any event, whenever the Princess travels outside Turkey, she travels incognito, under an altogether different name. That does not really concern us. What does is the mode of life she maintains at the Palace of Quireme.

It is one designed to satisfy her own desires and particular pleasures. Because she has willed it, and organised it, it exists. It is as simple as that. As to the moral rights or wrongs of it, we need scarcely be concerned. That it exists does, however. For the Princess Karina lives in a style that was commonplace some centuries ago among the wealthy and powerful in the Near East and elsewhere. Then it was not commented upon. Neither today is it commented upon ... for the world at large is not aware of it. All the Princess has done, in fact, is devise a sort of 'time-shift'. Not going into the future as in science fiction, but, as it were, moving the part up to modern times. In this way she has achieved the all-powerful mode of existence of past potentates, yet still enjoys the advantages which present-day technology bring.

Many of a similar temperament would envy the Princess Karina her way of life; few would have the drive and ability to achieve it. There are, of course, others who would not find it to their taste. But we are not concerned with them. Each to his own. We are concerned only with Princess Karina who, within the compass of her Palace of Quireme, wields as much absolute power as any emperor or tyrant of the past.

***

The door of the room in which the naked woman stood opened and a woman entered. This woman was as dark as the naked woman was fair, her hair being drawn tightly over her head and fastened in a bun at the back. Her features were strong and hard. Angular jaw, high cheekbones, slanting eyes almost as black as her hair. This woman was a Ukrainian, though there was a strong element of Prussian in her ancestry. She was simple garbed - and all in black, as was her custom. She wore a small, tight-fitting bolero jacket which left her midriff bare. Her skirt was equally tight and so short that three-quarters of her powerful thighs were exposed. These garments were of shiny leather. She was shod with a pair of equally shiny black leather boots of calf length which laced up the front. They had extravagantly high spike heels.

This was Vesta, slave mistress to the Princess Karina.

Behind her came another figure. This was a giant of a man, exceedingly handsome and, one would imagine, in his mid-twenties. His features were surprisingly Western in appearance in view of the fact that he was a Nubian. He was naked but for a brief kind of white loin cloth ... scarcely more than a pouch which contained his genitalia ... and his coal black body rippled with muscle. It glistened, too, with a faint sheen of oil. He must have been all of six feet three! His biceps were like those of a sailor, his shoulders were broad, and his barrel-torso tapered to a slim waist and a flat belly. The tightness of the pouch he wore, held only by thin cords, emphasised the size of its contents.

This was Hassan, one of a number of Vesta's assistants.

At once, upon their entry, the naked woman went down on her knees, the quick movement causing her breasts to give a little quivering bounce. Then, placing her hands before her, she bent right forward and kissed the marble floor beneath her. The fine, light blonde hair spread out momentarily over the mosaic ... then she knelt erect again, at the same time clasping her hands behind her neck. The faintest shuddering tremor passed over her as her blank eyes fixed on Vesta. They flickered for a second to the massive figure of Hassan and another tremor quivered through her. Apart from that, she showed virtually no emotion. Her features remained impassive ... only perhaps in her eyes was there a change. A fractional intensification of that look of hopeless despair.

"This is Belle," said Vesta. "That, of course, is her slave name." The slave mistress's voice was as hard as her appearance. It was a voice of confident authority, so used to giving orders that were obeyed that it came as naturally as breathing. "I am putting her in your charge, Hassan."

The Nubian merely nodded. He seemed unconcerned by this statement ... and that this beautiful naked creature should be given to him. His eyes roamed over the woman's body. If they liked what they saw ... the fulsome, high breasts, the swelling hindquarters, the long thighs ... they made no sign. A little surprising, perhaps, but Hassan had long ago trained himself to display the minimum of emotion. Also, it must be said, Hassan already had five other beauties of similar calibre in his charge. All the same, though he did not show it, Hassan was inwardly pleasantly appreciative of what he had just acquired. He was already aware that this woman was English and that added to his pleasure.

Vesta stood directly before the kneeling woman. "You heard that?" she asked.

"Yes, Madame ..." The voice which answered was low but clear. And cultured in accent.

"That means," continued Vesta, "that from now on, Hassan is your guardian. Your keeper, if you prefer it. And, from now on, you will obey him instantly and absolutely in the manner in which you have been trained. Is that understood, girl?"

"Y-Yes, Madame ..." Eyelids flickered briefly; for an instant the lower lip trembled.

"Hassan has authority to punish you, if he thinks fit," said Vesta gratingly. "Or, if he considers the matter warrants it, he will report to me ... and I shall punish. Possibly, even, send you for re-training. And I don't think you'd like that, would you?"

The kneeling figure made no answer. But there was no need. The stronger convulsive shudder which shook her body and the sudden flare of pitiful dread which leapt into her blank, despairing eyes, was sufficient in itself.

"You will remain here, in these quarters, in Hassan's charge, until such time as you are required to serve and to please the Princess Karina," concluded Vesta. She smiled briefly, if smile it could be called. For she smiled only with her lips and her eyes were flint-hard. "And, for your sake, I hope we'll have no more of those rebellious, girlish tantrums of former days!"

The kneeling woman's eyes dilated and her lower lip quivered violently. Obviously those words had conjured up a whole host of hideous memories which she would have far preferred to be able to forget.

"N-No ... no ... Madame ..." she managed to say. Her voice was hoarse and fervent.

Vesta turned on her heel, nodding briefly to Hassan. "She's all yours," she said.

"Thank you, Miss Vesta," said the Nubian gravely. Still he appeared to be quite unmoved.

***

If you had recounted the above, some three months before, to a certain Lady Isabel Dysart, she would probably have given you one of those scornful looks of hers ... and told you not to be so absurd. Nor so disgusting. She might even have slapped your face for regaling her with matters not fit for such a ladylike ears as hers.

If, however, you had proceeded and told her that the naked slave in that room beneath the Palace of Quireme was herself ... she would either have burst into wild, mocking laughter at such an absurdity or put you in charge and attempt to have you certified as being of unsound mind.

Nevertheless, it is a fact that the slave girl now known as Belle and the woman once known as Lady Isabel Dysart are one and the same person!

As to how this came about we shall in due time discover.

***

Hassan studied Belle in silence; she gazed directly ahead and avoided looking at him. Though he had five other exceedingly attractive slave-girls in his charge, he was at once aware that there was something special about this young woman. That she was beautiful of face and figure was to be expected ... the Princess would accept nothing else. There was, however, an indefinable 'quality' about her. He could only suppose that this stemmed from her breeding and background. Hassan knew of this, of course, and he found it unusually satisfying to have such a woman in his charge. He had heard tell, too, of her pride and stubbornness under training. How foolish of this young woman to imagine she could withstand Miss Vesta. No matter how strong-willed, the slave mistress always broke them in the end. Completely broke them. Like this Belle. In a way, he reflected, it was a pity there was not some of that rebellious spirit left, for he would like to have overcome it himself. Still, you never know, he might conjure some of it up some time!

Hassan strolled over and seated himself on the low Ottoman couch. "Come here, slave," he said.

Belle came to him ... on hands and knees. Then she knelt erect and placed her hands behind her neck again. Up came the luscious breasts, thrusting even more proudly. A little shudder went through her. It was as if, looking at him direct now and more closely, she realised just how massive he was. Also, the full truth sank in that this black giant was now her 'keeper'. That also, by definition, made her his plaything. Broken though she may have been ... broken, indeed, several times, it seemed ... the utter degradation of her situation was an agony in her mind. Dismiss it as she might try, she could not. Nor could she check the quivering of her lips.

To come to this! This! The agony in Belle's mind intensified. She had an aversion for blacks. Yet, now, she was in this one's power!

"Your name is Belle?" he queried.

Belle's throat worked. "Y-Yes ... sss ..." she managed to say in a low voice.

"You have just made your first error, my pretty slave." Hassan's white teeth flashed at her briefly. "You always address me as 'Master'. Of that you must be aware ..."

"M-Master ..." broke in Belle quickly.

Hassan ignored her, however. "I shall impress that on you with this," he said. He raised a large right hand, showing the palm; then he patted his tights. "Get yourself across these, Belle," he ordered. "I am going to give you an old-fashioned spanking. It will be as good a way as any to start our new relationship." Once again those strong teeth flashed in a happy smile.

Belle did not delay in obeying the order. She had learnt - the hard way - that she must always obey instantly. She rose and then stretched her white nakedness across Hassan's powerful thighs. Her breasts crushed to one of them as his left hand clasped her waist in a vice-like grip. She felt that he could handle and control her, such was his strength, with the same ease that an ordinary adult handles a two-year-old child. In that, she was right!

As she came upon him, Hassan enjoyed that first contact of the lush flesh. He liked, too, the sight of the plumply curvaceous buttocks right before him. Her Ladyship's bottom, he thought with a grin as he ran his hand lightly over the flesh, feeling Belle shiver as he did so. What must be in the mind of such a woman at that moment, he wondered? It was a fascinating field of speculation. But he had more immediate matters to attend to.

"You call me 'Master' ... and don't forget it!" he said.

Then he slapped Belle's bottom hard with the flat of his palm and fingers.

For him, as ever, it was a delicious sensation. He enjoyed spanking a new girl almost as much as anything. For Belle it was a spreading-burning pain ... and her bottom jerked under the impact. But she made virtually no sound. Simply a rather heavier expellant of air came from her between her slightly parted lips. To one experienced to an infinite variety of degrees of torment, to be slapped was a relatively easy pain to withstand. Not that it didn't hurt. It hurt plenty ... for Hassan's palm was not only large, it was almost wooden in its hard solidity.

The Nubian's hand fell again. A little lower. Then again. A little lower still.

A half a dozen or so fell across the centre of Belle's juddering nates, until the tops of her thighs were reached. They were measured, unhurried slaps, forcefully delivered. Still Belle remained silent but for those heavy expellants of breath. But her shapely bottom squirmed convulsively at each stinging impact, setting the soft flesh all a-quiver. Hassan's eyes were fastened on the sight and it brought him keen delight.

Then he began to slap each buttock in turn. Right ... then left. Right ... then left. Right ... then left. Little, breathless "Ahh's" and "Ohh's" began to be forced from Belle and her squirmings gradually intensified.

Ssllaapp ... Ssllaappp!

The pink-red blotches spread gradually all over the juddering buttock-flesh. Yet still Belle did not actually cry out; though the "Ahh's" and "Ohh's" became more fervent. And for Belle there was not only the repeated stinging pain.