Chapter 19: Now It's My Turn

It was sometime later when Bridget heard a key being turned in the lock and the man she only knew as David came in with four huge men carrying wicked looking scimitars.

"Now, Miss Bridget Browne-with-an-e, as was. Henceforward you are known as Akilah, which means clever. You are far too clever for your own good. A couple of days ago you saw fit to humiliate me in public. Now it is my turn, though these men are the only public available. Remove your clothes," he ordered.

"I'll do no such thing," she said, "Release me at once!"

The Emir nodded and one of the men held her effortlessly while a second slit her clothes from neck to hem with the tip of his sword. It went through everything like a hot knife through butter, but such was the skill of the swordsman that her skin was not broken anywhere. Her clothes fell away to the side, baring her legs, belly and most of both breasts.

"Apart from needing a shave, you don't have a bad body," remarked the Emir, "If he lets you loose will you remove what's left of your clothes, or shall I have these men do it for you?"

"I'll see you in jail for this," she snarled.

"I seriously doubt that," said the Emir, "You are in my country, under my law, and are an indentured slave. Strip her."

Three strokes of the sword tip were all that were necessary to free the remains of the clothing from the rest of her body. As she was held there almost apoplectic with anger, the Emir slowly walked round her and then looked her up and down.

"Yes, not a bad body at all, Akilah. I like the creamy skin colouring that a soupçon of Abo blood introduces; it takes whip marks so very well, I find."

"You wouldn't dare," she spluttered.

"I will tell you once more, and only once more. You are Akilah, a slave in my country, and are my property, and should address me as Master."

"I am not Akilah, I am nobody's property, and I am a citizen of Australia, and you can't..."

Her protestations were cut off as she was pushed face down on to what she thought looked like a school gymnasium vaulting horse. Her wrists and ankles were securely fastened by padded cuffs to the sides of the horse leaving her back level and her buttocks hanging just over the end of the padding at the top. She was acutely aware that in this undignified position her most private parts were spread and displayed for the men to see. Moments later all thoughts of dignity fled as a hand was trailed through her vaginal cleft and up over her anus.

"When we have had all this shaved, I might even try these pleasure entrances myself," said the Emir, "Of course, no civilised man would enter you at the moment for you have all the appeal of a hairy dog. However, there are lessons you must learn. I told you of your status and of the manners expected of you. You denied the truth of what I said, and you failed to show the respect due to your Master. For those offences I think three strokes will suffice at this time. I will show that leniency because you are newly indentured; later offences will not be treated so lightly. After each stroke you will count it, lest I apply too many or too few. Any you do not count, will not count. Is that clear?"

Bridget could not, or would not, reply. The Emir sighed.

"I asked you if the matter of counting the strokes was clear? You will now have six strokes; the extra three for not replying. Now, is that clear?"

"Yes," she mumbled.

"Yes what?"

"Yes I understand," she snapped.

"Very well, nine strokes it is then. Three more for lack of respect in your answer, which should have been 'Yes, Master'."

"But..."

"But nothing. A slave does not say 'but' to her master. Do you want to continue incur more strokes? I think not. Now, may we continue without further argument?"

Very grudgingly, but fearful for her bottom and well aware that he could add as many strokes as he wished, she mumbled, "Yes, Master."

"Much better," said the Emir and moved away behind her somewhere.

His hands again stroked the curves of her buttocks and slipped into the cleft. Bridget had been spanked, and spanked hard, as a child; she expected this would be much the same but more humiliating on a twenty year old behind than it had been on a ten year old. Then the memory flooded back of the last spanking her father had given her, of how his hand had smoothed the skin as the Emir's now did, and of overhearing her mother saying to her father that he had better not spank her any more as she was getting too old.

Whish ... THWACK!

The first stroke of the whip drove all coherent thought from her mind; her father, counting the strokes, even her own naked plight were all forgotten in the hell of pain that she was enduring. The Emir had not struck particularly hard, but she had never experienced anything remotely like this before. Dimly she could hear someone a long way away screaming like a stuck pig. It was only gradually that she realised the screams were her own.

When she had recovered a little, the Emir reminded her, "Do you intend to count the strokes?"

She stared sat him uncomprehendingly.

He leant down close to her and murmured, "There are still eight more like that if you do count, and nine if you don't. Would you like to reopen negotiations as to your future?"

Gathering all her strength she tried to spit saliva at him.

"Abo grit showing through the Irish blood is it?" he asked, deliberately being offensive.

Whish ... THWACK!

This time she passed out and it took some time to rouse her with buckets of cold water and sal volatile under her nose. The Emir waited patiently until she was fully aware of her surroundings before he struck again.

Whish ... THWACK!

Again she passed out, and the Emir threw the whip down in disgust.

"All spirit and no stamina," he snorted, "Put her in a cell again until I return. Food and water but no clothes."

Later that day, he heard an interesting report from the eunuchs, so he returned to her cell. A tray of food had been spilled on the floor and a glass, presumably her water, lay on its side. Bridget herself was hanging in wall shackles

"You still have nine strokes to come. You didn't count any of the ones you had," he commented.

"You bastard. You didn't bring me here to fucking Arabia just to beat me up. What do you really want?" she spat at him.

"I wanted to have you in my harem. I was trying, nicely, to persuade you to like me when we were in Australia, but your silly prejudices against your grandmother's skin colour got in the way. You insulted and embarrassed me in front of an old friend. It may interest you to know that Davina was one of my grandfather's concubines and I set her up in retirement in Australia. Her private income is a pension from me."

"Lying bastard," she said, "She gets a fucking pension from the Government. She told me."

"Yes, from the Government of Kobekistan, which is me. This is an absolute monarchy and I am the Government."

The Emir looked at her for some moments while she glared back at him.

Finally she broke the silence with, "No. I will not willingly go to bed with an Arab. Not ever. You can beat me to death if you want, but I'll never let myself be defiled by you. Of course you can rape me, or drug me, and then fuck me, but I will never agree."

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked rhetorically.

"Let me go back to Australia and pay me big dollars to keep quiet," she answered.

The Emir stalked out of the cell and left her hanging there. In the throne room he beckoned over Ramzy El-Najjar, the Master of Quarry, whose job it was to train slaves to be hunted like foxes used to be in England.

"I have a slave for you to train," he said, "May I make it clear, Master of Quarry, that this particular woman will not be allowed to win, though she must believe that she can, and she must be fit enough to give us a good hunt."