Chapter One

 

Lying there in the pitch blackness, Gillian Fraser clenched her teeth and made an unsuccessful attempt to check the sob that rose in her throat. She came close to tears again ... and then again reminded herself of the futility of crying. Had she not shed enough tears in the past months? It was a wonder, indeed, that she had the means to produce more!

Slowly and very carefully, Gillian moved her hands down. It was, perhaps, just a little surprising that she could do so for, more often than not, they would have been shackled. Maybe that had been an oversight. Gently she placed her cool palms on her smarting, burning buttocks. On her bare buttocks. For Gillian was stark naked.

Gentle as she was, Gillian Fraser still winced and gave a little gasp. Under her palms she could feel the ten freshly-raised ridges of searing torment. Tears of mingled pain and self-pity came to her eyes, despite her efforts to check them. It was all so hideously unfair. Unjust. Why had Fate picked her out for such an appalling nemesis? It was by no means the first time that Gillian had asked herself such questions. And, needless to say, she had never yet received any satisfactory answer.

She kept her palms pressed to her flesh until they no longer felt as relievingly cool as they had done originally. All the time she thought with bitter hatred of Farida. For it was she - Farida, the slave mistress of the harem of Bey Hamil Aroun - who had raised those ridged weals some two hours before. She had raised them with a rod.

Worse. In some three hours' time, Farida would raise ten more, similar weals across Gillian's burning, tender buttock flesh!

For that was the punishment that Farida had decreed. And Farida was all-powerful in matters of discipline in the harem. The inevitability of what must happen bore down on Giilian as she lay there like some stone-weight. What Farida the slave-mistress commanded was carried out. Thus Gillian knew, as surely as night followed day, that she would endure the torment of the rod within the time specified.

The hardness of the polished wooden block on which she lay face down was a discomfort in itself. But she, like others in the Bey's harem, had come, to some extent, to be immune to such things. The iron collar about her neck was an additional discomfort and the chain attached to it, which held her down to the block, clanked slightly as she moved a little. No. There was no escape. Neither literally, nor ever from the perpetual oppressive sense of captivity. This was emphasized over and over again, down to the smallest detail to all members of the Bey's harem. Collars, chains and manacles were part of everyday life.

If someone had said, seven or eight months previously, that such things could be, Gillian Fraser would have laughed them to scorn. This, she would have said, is the twentieth century ... but please don't tell me fairly-tale stories about the Middle East of some centuries ago. Then, she might have been prepared to admit, women could have been held as slaves for the pleasure of some potentate. But times had changed. Such things could no longer happen.

That indeed would have been Gillian Fraser's attitude if ever such an outlandish subject had been raised. However, in little more than six months, she had learned - and learned the hard way - that her attitude and opinion was utterly wrong. For Gillian Fraser - a nubile twenty-five-year-old English girl - was as much the plaything and slave of a potentate as countless other women had been in earlier, less enlightened times.

Except that, in her case, one might well say that matters were worse. For, in bygone days, it was more natural for a woman to accept servitude, whether she be white or coloured. In Gillian's case, however, she had known the emancipation and freedom of the twentieth century, and had had to learn ... and was still learning ... to submit and obey.

As to how Gillian Fraser came to be in this unfortunate situation, we shall soon see. Suffice to say that, as our story opens, we find her chained naked in one of the punishment cells of the harem of the Bey Hamil Aroun.

The pitch blackness was suddenly brightly illuminated and Gilllan blinked in the glare. It was startling, but one could not say it was unexpected for, as Gillian knew, it was part of the regime in the punishment cells, that one was kept in alternate spells of darkness and bright light. This was something that the slave-mistress Farida had instituted within the last two months.

Now, because of the large wall mirrors placed facing each other at the top and bottom ends of the block, Gillian could see herself. See herself in her wretchedness and humiliation. There were her distraught features staring back hopelessly at herself. There were the collar and chain. And there was her helpless naked body, with her hindquarters vividly carrying the stripes Farida had produced. Another deep sob shook Gillian and she closed her eyes to hide the visual horror from herself. As she did so, she knew, nevertheless, it would not be long before she opened them again. For such is human nature that, if man or woman has been kept in pitch darkness for as little as half an hour even, the desire to see again the light is overpowering ... whatever one has to look upon. Farida, an artist in cruelty, knew this. That was why she had instituted this particular regime.

So, inevitably, Gillian opened her eyes and gazed upon herself and her surroundings. The cell was small and plain. There was nothing in it apart from her own body and the block to which she was chained. The walls, except where the mirrors were affixed, were of grey stone. The floor was of plain, polished planks. The door, of heavy, dark timbered oak, was dungeon-like in appearance with its solid lock and iron-ring handle.

It is probably understandable that, sometimes, even after over six months in the harem, it was still difficult for Gillian to truly comprehend and believe it was her own person she was looking at. It still seemed so impossible that it could be true. Yet, of course, it was.

To try and help herself, to try and stop a kind of madness overwhelming her, she would say, I am twenty five, single, English, born in Cheshire. My parents died when I was at school and later I went to Chester University where I studied Art. Later I became a minor, but promising, actress in Repertory Theatre, had a number of quite nice boyfriends and several interesting proposals of marriage - all of which I turned down, for personal reasons.

That is the real me, she would insist. Not this naked, helpless, whipped creature who is at the mercy of forces vile beyond belief. Forces unbelievable under any normal, civilized circumstances. And I must hold on to that image of the real me, before it entirely fades. For sometimes, it almost did disappear and she grew very frightened.

Surely, she told herself, I cannot remain a harem slave forever! Surely, some benign Fate will intervene! It must! Oh God, yes ... she would be rescued. Somehow ... yes, yes ... somehow something would happen that would restore her to the kind of life she had once known and considered as her birthright ...

But, as she gazed at herself in the mirrors, it did indeed seem a forlorn hope. There was only one thing certain at that moment, and that was that she would soon be feeling the rod again. Once more, she pressed her palms gently to the burning weals ... and hated Fate, coupled with the name of Farida, with a deep, black bitterness.

Gillian's nerves flared and her body shook as she heard the key turn in the lock. Surely it could not yet be time? Surely she had not lost several hours by sleeping? For, agonising as waiting for punishment was (as Farida naturally intended) when the actual moment came for it, one wished the period of waiting could be extended just a little longer! Absurd, but true.

Then, with a mixture of anguish and relief, Gillian saw one of the eunuchs enter. It was Kaled, a giant coal-black Nubian. His plump, but muscled body glistened with oil in the harsh light and, as was customary, he wore nothing but a brief, white triangular loincloth. In earlier days, he had quite often been instructed to chastise Gillian. Indeed, when at the very outset she had made a futile attempt to escape, Kaled had been deputed by the then slave mistress to whip her with considerable severity. He had done so and Gillian had never forgotten it. Naturally one was not meant to forget such an experience, so one did not attempt the futility of escape again. However, since Farida's arrival some three months previously, Kaled exercised no more such functions. It seemed that, in Glllian's case, as with some others, she preferred to act for herself!

Thus, one might say, Gillian knew Kaled quite well. And, as with the other slave girls, there was a bizarre kind of bond between them and the eunuchs. They were not classed as slaves. but they were certainly servants of the Bey ... and Farida was not beyond having them whipped if she felt they had not carried out her orders satisfactorily.

Having closed the door, Kaled ambled forward. Momentarily, his white teeth bared as he looked down at her. In his own way, one might almost say he was 'fond' of her. But that did not mean he would not do his duty when called upon. Mainly for his own sake, of course.

"K-Kaled ... what is it?" asked Gillian, finding her voice croaking more than she had expected. "It .... it is not time?"

The Nubian shook his head almost dolefully. "Two and one half more hours, white missie," he said.

Then Gillian saw what he held half hidden behind a tree-trunk thigh. It was a small bucket-like container with some kind of liquid in it. She shuddered and twisted round to Kaled whose hand was already going into the container.

"No ... no, please, Kaled ... no," said Gillian. "Please ... leave it ... just one hour ... I beg you ..." With a eunuch, Gillian knew, there was some faint possibility of mercy or alleviation. Some were softer than others, even at their own peril.

From the container, Kaled took out a square of dripping-wet white gauze which was heavily impregnated with salt.

"Mistress ... she give me the order," said Kaled. "And she mean it. I know. You want me to get a whipping: as well as you?"

Although inwardly Gillian sensed it was hopeless, she made a final plea. "K-Kaled ... just ... just ... a half an hour! How could she know?"

It was a ridiculous thing to say, and both knew it. Farida might make a 'spot' inspection at any time. Not surprisingly, he shook his head again and came forward with the square of wet-salt gauze. And, despite Gillian's frantic twistings, he laid it firmly over her weal striped hindquarters, pressing it down so that it clung tight to the cleft and lush curves of her bottom.

Gillian screamed hoarsely, squirming and kicking as the salt bit into her fresh wounds. Instantly, the intensity of the smarting, burning pain had been doubled if not tripled ... and Gillian knew from experience that it would be a long time before it ebbed to any noticeable degree. In addition, her flesh would be even more agonisingly tender when Farida came to use the rod on her again. For a moment, the black hate in Gillian for Farida almost overwhelmed the pain. The she devil! Oh God ... was any woman ever so inhuman to others!

Kaled surveyed his handiwork in a matter-of-fact sort of way. He was quite used to such sights and sounds. Then he noticed that Gillian's hands were free. That would never do under such circumstances. With a perfunctory efficiency he shackled each one in turn to the iron collar about Gillian's neck, seemingly unperturbed by the heaving sobs that now racked the girl. If Allah decreed a woman must serve and suffer, so be it! He shrugged and began to turn away.

"Missie Gillian be a good, good girl, eh?" he said, with whatever compassion there was in him. "Then she don't get whippings, eh? Easy ... Yes?"