Black Beauty Chapter One

 

( I am very pleased to present Chapter One of Black Beauty by Peony D. Beckside. - Tracker)

Black Beauty[1]
Peony D. Beckside

With appreciation and thanks to John Norman for creating the wonderful world or Gor, in which this story is set.  Also to ‘Emma of Gor’, the fanfic blogger, for the use of some of her characters and concepts.

 

Chapter One: Recruitment

 

I’m beginning to worry a little.  There’s these creepy men I keep seeing.  They don’t come onto the student campus of the college where I study, but I often see them as I go to college or home to my dingy little apartment, even when I visit nearby shops.  It doesn’t seem to matter which routes that I use.  It’s as if  they seem to just know where I am at any time.  They also seem to hang around on the street outside my apartment.

I’ve never suffered paranoia, or at least no more than any other woman, but I am beginning to wonder about these men.  Women are often ogled surreptitiously, and we are usually aware of such.  I get my share of such attention; no, perhaps more.   Certainly it seems quite a lot of such looks, but I ignore them.  Every woman has her vanity.  She wants to be thought desirable, but not too much.  I think that I must be beautiful to some degree, but I don’t have it in me to manipulatively use that to my advantage,  At least not to any serious degree.  When boyfriends have offered me drinks, I’ve accepted those, but not so many as to not be in control of the situation.

No, the childhood conditioning that we get seems designed to make us feel ashamed of our bodies; our hair is the wrong colour, our hips too wide, our breasts too big or small.  As for sexuality, any form seems to be considered as ‘dirty’.  It’s sufficiently subtle that we are not really aware of how ‘brainwashed’ we are, or why this should be considered necessary.

These thoughts though are in retrospect.  I am commanded to write this story, and find it easier to write it in the first person and the ‘now’, as it happening, when in fact it happened some time ago and in a very different place to my present location.  I shall continue writing as if it is currently happening.

So, these creepy men…  I’ve counted five different ones so far.  It’s difficult to describe them.  They seem to be big men, bulky men, but not fat.  Well muscled, I’d say.  It’s more than that though.  They seem somehow to be ill-at-ease in their clothes, as if what they are wearing doesn’t fit, or is not what they are used to wearing.  That doesn’t mean that they are lacking in confidence, the very opposite in fact.  It’s almost as if they don’t care that I know they are looking at me; ogling me, almost appraising me.  They do not look away in embarrassment as most men do when I turn and catch them ‘eyeing me up’.  It’s quite disconcerting.  This ability to shame men who ogle one, is one of our most potent weapons.  These men are impervious to it.  It’s almost frightening that they are.  It makes me feel quite vulnerable, as if my ‘emotional armour’ were made of tissue-paper.

I’m not really watching where I’m going, watching one of these ‘brutes’ out of the corner of my eye.  I bump into something, something soft(ish), a person.  I bring my attention back to what I’m doing and where I’m going.  I stammer;

“I... I’m sorry…”

Oh no!  It’s another of the ‘creepy men’!  Figuratively, I’m ‘on the back foot’, in an emotionally vulnerable situation.

The man does not acknowledge my apology, as is culturally expected.

“Alvita Vassell?”

Yes, that’s me.  A common enough name combination for an Afro-Caribbean woman.  Yes, the surname ‘Vassell’ is slightly embarrassing; being a corruption of the word ‘vassal’, implying slavery.  Given that my ancestors were brought to North America as slaves, it is both appropriate, yet totally inappropriate in another way.

I am shocked to be so confronted, by this man who dominates my ‘personal space’.  Frightening, in a way.  I gather my wits about me.

“Yes, that’s me…  What’s it to you?  Why are you following me?”

He does not answer my questions, at least not directly.  His response is cryptic.

“Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira…”

Why does that reply tickle something in my consciousness.  I don’t know what a ‘kajira’ is, but I sense that I have heard the word, and even the phrase before.  To the point where I subliminally feel that the comment is incomplete, that there’s more to it.

The man, he’s a white man, that alone begins to raise my hackles a little.  No, not pure white, as in Anglo-Saxon white; not one of the arch oppressors of coloured folk.  Caucasian perhaps, or Eastern European.  If Caucasian, then in the true sense of the word, Azerbaijani, Georgian, Armenian, perhaps.  A horrible fear grips me.  Russian Mafia?  What have I done?  What do they want with me?  Where can I run to?  Can I outrun this man?  What about the other one on the opposite side of the road?

These questions flit through my head in an instant,  They are not consciously, reasoningly, thought.

“You have just completed your college degree?  Got good grades, I understand?  ‘Structural Engineering?”

The last item is said with a strange twist, as if he feels it is inappropriate for me to be studying such a subject.  A black woman is doubly prejudiced against.  Is it my ‘race’ or ‘sex’ that he finds is unfitting for me to be studying this subject?  Which?  Or both?

“You will be looking for a job, soon?”

It’s a rhetorical question, he does not give me time to answer it.  He proffers a card, a business card; almost forcing it into my hand.  I take it.

“These people have a position for you.”

The man turns and strides away. I am left stood on the sidewalk[2] in shock.  Is this approach, and even the apparent surveillance by the ‘creepy men’ just a rather brutal form of corporate ‘head-hunting’.  Most such entices a person, not threatens them.  I’m not sure that I want to work for a company that is associated with such creepy brutes as it seems have been watching me.

I examine the card in my hand.  ‘Steel World Inc.’  There’s an address somewhere in the ‘financial district’, and a telephone number.  I consider throwing the card away, but instead drop it into one of the compartments of my purse[3].

 

I spend the next month writing many letters, enclosing résumé’s[4], to many builders, developers, engineering companies, indeed anyone that I think might be willing to employ me.  I do not limit myself to my present locality or even state.  I write to companies all over the country.

I await the arrival of the mail-carrier every morning, with hopeful trepidation.  When applying for jobs one expects that a large portion of one’s letters will go unanswered or even unacknowledged.  Such is the case for me.  Perhaps ten percent of those written to responded.  Most respondents reject politely, but one or two phrase their rejection slightly oddly.  It’s nothing that I ‘can put my finger on’, but I wonder if somehow they’ve been ‘warned off’ me.  That’s ridiculous of course!  Perhaps I am getting paranoid.

When my parents and my brother died in an automobile accident some four years ago, I was utterly devastated.  To find myself absolutely alone in the world was terrifying.  However I picked myself up and learned how to ‘shift for myself’.  Fortunately they left me enough money for my college tuition and a little bit over.  I had to take part-time jobs to support myself while studying, but did manage to hold on to sufficient funds to live on for a short while until I find a job.  Socially, I made some friends while at college, but none that I’d call lifelong friends.  Acquaintances, more than friends, perhaps.  I dated a few times.  I am not a virgin any more, but neither am I slut.  My funds though are dwindling fast.  Very soon I’m going to be going into debt.  I’m quietly beginning to panic.  I badly need a job.

The letter arrives the following morning.  I stare at it as if I’ve seen a ghost.  The letterhead reads Steel World Inc.  I am transported back in my mind, to the days when the ‘creepy men’ seemed to be watching me, and more-so to the face to face meeting on the sidewalk with one of them.  I reach into my purse.  Yes, the card is still there, and yes, it’s definitely the same company.

The letter invites me to attend an ‘Interview’ in three days time.  It doesn’t specify the title, function, or job-description of the position that’s available.  The letter phrases the request more as an instruction than a suggestion. ‘You are to’, rather than ‘It would be appreciated if you would’.  I’m in two minds as to whether I should ignore the ‘order’.  I consider my circumstances and decide that I can’t really afford not to attend the interview.

Later that day a delivery driver rings my doorbell.  He has a package, it’s a garment bag.  I sign his sheet, and take the unsolicited gift through to my bedroom.

Unzipping the bag, I pull out, what appears from the cut, to be a ladies business suit;jacket and skirt.  The strange thing is that the suit is yellow.  Not an ochre or beige, but a full-on lemon yellow.  Another oddness, is that while the skirt is a common knee length, It has much more of a flare than is usual.  The fabric is of a fine but opaque silk.  I’ll definitely stand out, like a shipping beacon, in this!

There is a note pinned to the lapel. ‘For your interview’.  I squelch a moment of rebellion.  I can’t really afford to hack-off this company by a refusal of their gift.

I consider, my own wardrobe, and decide that I’ve a suitable white blouse that’ll work with the suit.

Opening up the jacket, inside, I find another garment.  It’s a rather short chemise in the most diaphanous of yellow silks.  It’ll barely cover the ‘essentials’.  It too has a note pinned to it. ‘This is the only underwear you will need’.  The word ‘only’ being specifically highlighted.

This is getting far too personal!  They can ‘get-stuffed’.  If I go at all, I’m wearing a bra and panties as well!

Again, there’s something about this gift.  The colouring, and particularly the cut and material of the chemise, that I feel is somehow familiar.  Bells may not be ringing, but the clapper is swaying gently.

 

The morning of the Interview, the mail brings a bank statement.  I’m totally ‘maxxed-out’, down to rock-bottom.  I really do need this job that Steel World Inc. seem to think I’m suitable for.  If they offer it, I’ll really have to ask for a salary advance.

I’m sufficiently desperate that I choose to only wear the chemise under my blouse and skirt; no bra or panties.  It’s summer, so I don’t need pantihose[5].

The door of Steel World House slides open as I approach.  Beyond it is a reception desk.  The woman behind it is young and stunningly beautiful.  What she is wearing is not a lot different to the chemise that I’m wearing underneath.  Hers however, is in blue and is just about opaque.  She also sports a narrow bright steel band around her throat.  As jewellery it seems rather overstated.  Again I get a feeling of familiarity at the appearance of this woman.  The first tinkle of a bell sounds in my mind, but yet again, I can’t bring forward the reason for my unease.  I should know what this portends, but it eludes me.

The woman lowers her head submissively, as if afraid to look me in the eyes.

“How may I be of service, Domina?”

Odd phraseology.  ‘How may I help you, Madam’ is what I would have expected.  And the word or title ‘Domina’.  I’m sufficiently worldly wise to know that the word ‘Domina’ is a shortened form of the word Dominatrix, and in the sexual world of BDSM[6] relationships could equate to ‘Mistress’, ‘Madam’, ‘Goddess’, or any one of several highfalutin titles of respect to a Dominant woman.

“I have an appointment with a Miss Udumi Ayeola.  My name is Alvita Vassell.”

“Indeed, Domina.  You are expected.  Let me show you to the elevator[7].  You need floor 18.  You will be met at that floor.”

I’d not thought to before, but as the elevator ascends, I think on this interlocutor , Udumi Ayeola.  That’s a very African name.  Will she be of African descent, as I am?  Is that why she has been chosen to Interview me?

The elevator doors open.  I step out.  Kneeling next to the doors is another woman, one who, but for hair colour and facial feature, could be the twin of the one in the lobby.  She kneels, back on her heels, back straight, head bowed, knees tightly together.  She too wears what appears to be a short shift-dress that’s barely long enough to hide her panties.  I assume she’s wearing such, but can’t take it for granted, given the instructions given me, regarding my own undergarment.  Like the woman in the lobby, this one too has thin steel band round her throat.  There are some strange designs incised into the metal.

“Welcome Domina.  May I rise and conduct you to Domina Ayeola?”

Why she is kneeling, and why she would ask my permission, I don’t understand.  Surely it would be her job to show me to where the Interview is to take place.

“Do, please, Miss”

The woman rises gracefully.  As she does, she informs:

“If it please, Domina,  the word ‘please’ is not necessary to one such as I.  Similarly, I am not entitled to an honorific, such as ‘Miss’,  Please follow me”.

I am led to an office with a frosted glass door.  The woman, presumably some kind of secretary, proceeding me knocks.

“Enter!”

The secretary opens the door, enters and kneels again, as she had been at the lift.

“Lo Domina Vassell, Domina,”

I don’t know what language is being spoken, but the meaning is clear, ‘Lo’, clearly being ‘The’.

“Welcome Alvita, Come in, please sit.”

Miss Ayeola indicates a chair.

“Kimi, leave us.”

The secretary almost flows to her feet and departs, shutting the door.

Udumi Ayeola is indeed black-skinned.  As dark hued as I, perhaps more.  She exudes a magnetism, a steely quality that I’ve rarely come across in either man or woman.  She has that dangerousness that one would find in a tigress about to pounce.  She makes me feel vastly inferior to her.  I sense that I need to be on my guard as to what I say and how I say it.

“Alvita, have you ever heard of the Caste of Builders?”

“No.  Is it something like the ‘Freemasons’?”

“Not really, though they do guard their trade secrets, as do all the castes.  I suppose that the nearest analogy would be the Medieval Guilds of Europe.  You wear their colour.  Yellow is the colour of the Builders, as red is of the warriors, green of the physicians, etc.  The style that you wear though is suitable for here and now, is appropriate for this culture.  You are after all, a free-woman, at least for the present.”

She pauses.  I am puzzled by her reference to me being a free-woman.  What other kind is there?  All women are free, in this country at least, and nominally in virtually every other one.  Why also does ‘for the present’ cause me a pang of disquiet?

“You are to be sent to a different land, where you are to be infiltrated into the household of a prominent member of the Caste of Builders: One ‘Castartius of Argentum’.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“What?  Like a spy!?”

“Precisely.”

I’m not a spy!  I’m an Engineer!  I’ve no training as a spy!

“It’s hoped that your engineering background as well as your beauty, will attract the man that…

I cut her off.

“No!  I’m out of here, now!”

“You can’t leave, you will complete the assignment.”

The steel in her, pours out of her eyes.  I too feel the fire of rebellion run through me.

“Watch me!”

She’s fast!  Faster than I can believe.  There’s a sharp pain in the side of my neck.  I fall to the floor like a sack of spuds.  I am aware of everything going on, but my muscles won’t respond to the commands of my brain.

“Too late, Alvita.”

She presses a button on the desk telephone.

“Kimi, bring scissors and a sirik.”

Sirik?  Yet another word that seems familiar.  I still can’t recall the context that links the many familiarities I have experienced since being confronted by the brute of a man, on the street.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Udumi nods her head in my direction.  Kimi clearly understands.  I feel the scissors sheer the jacket of my business suit, down the length of the back, then down the sleeves.  She pulls away the strips of cloth  before doing the same to my blouse and skirt.  This underling is about to attack my chemise.

“Enough for now, Kimi.  Is she wearing any underwear beneath her tunic?”

Tunic?

I still can’t move, though I begin to feel life seeping back into my muscles.  I feel embarrassed when Kimi looks down my cleavage and raises the hem of the chemise.

“No, Domina.”

Udumi smiles

“I wondered if you’d be slut enough, Alvita to wear your slave tunic alone under your clothes as instructed, or whether you had it in you to rebel and disobey.  Luckily for you, I won’t need to whip you for disobedience.  Not that I need an excuse.  Yes, you clearly are just another slut.”

‘Slave’(?) tunic? Slut!? Whip!!!?  I try to talk, to protest.

“Quick now, Kimi.  She’ll be recovering movement of her limbs soon.”

A loose metal ring is passed round my neck.  There’s a click, as of a lock.  The ring has a chain depending from it.  I feel this drop down my back.  This ‘secretary’ pulls my arms behind my back and fastens my wrists in something akin to handcuffs.  My legs are brought back behind me, and I feel my ankles circled in metal.  Kimi tries to lift me to a kneeling position.  Udumi leans forward and assists.  I’m still a bit floppy, but I am beginning to regain some control of my body.  Kimi makes an alteration to the chain from wrists to ankles, shortening it, I think.  I struggle to rise from my knees, but am unable to do so.

My mouth is beginning to function again, though what comes out is distorted.

“Hey!  What’s the game!”

“No game, kajira.”

There’s that word again…

“Have you ever heard of Gor?  The planet Gor?”

A pit opens in my stomach.  All the oddnesses, the familiarities gel into a horrific understanding.  But this is insane!  Gor is only fiction!  When clearing out my brother’s room after his death, I’d found four books supposedly set on such a world.  Out of curiosity, I’d read them.  They were clearly trashy ‘sword & sandal’ adventures set on a different planet.  Despite in my opinion having little or no literary merit, and being horrified at their misogyny, I found them difficult to put down.  Perhaps the most unbelievable aspect of them was the assertion that the women, the enslaved ones, came to love their collars, their slave status.

“You’re insane!”

Udumi laughs.

“Am I?”

“Gor doesn’t exist!  It’s the creation, a figment of the imagination of a writer of pulp fiction books!”

“No, it is your cynical incredulity that assumes reality is only fiction.  It was a stroke of genius on somebody’s part to hide the existence of Gor, in plain sight; to tell it like it really is, but in such a way that no-one will believe it’s real.  Gor decidedly does exist, kajira.”

I struggle in my chains.  I have to get away from this lunatic asylum.  I cannot free myself or rise to my feet.

“You clearly know something of the place; presumably you’ve read some of this ’pulp fiction’ you dismiss so readily.  If so, you know what the word ‘kajira’ signifies.”

I cut her off.  Being of Afro-Caribbean descent.  The concept of slavery is anathema!  ‘Never again!’ is the watch-word.  We will never be slaves again!  I personally will not submit to such, under any circumstances!

She cuts my reverie short, as if reading my mind.

“I understand the historical prejudices that you have against such,  Whether however, you wish to accept it or not, you have now been captured.  In Barbarian lands, that’s the only formality I need.  You are now a sla…”

I’m not understanding her reference to Barbarian lands.  We are not in Barbarian lands, this is a civilised country.  I have however more immediate considerations, and must immediately refute her assertion.  To fail to do so is tantamount to an acceptance of it, and the effect of it.

“I’m not anyone’s slave, Lady!  I refuse, understand!  No Way!  Ever!”

“Are you done?  If you interrupt me again, I will have you whipped.”

Surely she can’t really mean that!

“For your information, though you should know it already.  As a slave, when in the presence of a free-woman… That would be me, if you are in any doubt, you refer to her, and acknowledge with the word ‘Mistress’, or in the language of Gor as ‘Domina’”.

“Never!, you deranged bitch!”

I hear Kimi hiss in horror, perhaps, at my temerity.  Udumi laughs again.

“I’ll let you get away with that one.  Shock and disbelief can cause new kajira’s to say stupid things.”

Kimi sighs in relief at the reduction in the tension in the room.

“Kimi, You will note every gaffe, every forgetfulness to acknowledge correctly.  From now on, kajira Alvita; yes, that name will suffice for now; such are punishable.  Do you understand?”

I remain silent.  To respond to the description ‘Kajira Alvita’, would be an acknowledgement of accepting that status.

“As will dumb-insolence, kajira.”

Let her whip me.  How terrible can it be?  I shall grit my teeth.  I’ll not give her the satisfaction of hearing me cry out!

“Now, to your mission…”

I kneel there wondering what she has in mind for me.  I cannot do otherwise, chained as I am.

“You will be taken to Gor.  You will be trained as a pleasure slave.  Things have moved on, since the Gor books were firstpublished.  During the journey, you will be subliminally taught the basics of the Gorean language.  You additionally will be indoctrinated with the image of a man, a Builder.  When you see this man in real life, you will feel an overwhelming desire to be owned by this man.  You will do and say whatever is necessary for him to buy you.  You will, at some point during your ownership, betray this man.  At a certain point, an opportunity will be presented to you.  Into your mind will come the method by which you are to make that betrayal, and the compulsion to do so.  Of course any parts of this conversation that pertain to this mission will be erased from your brain.  You will not remember that this is an operation.  To you the desire to be owned by this man and the betrayal will be automatic and natural.  Also, once you have committed the betrayal, you will forget all about it.  Only the effects of the betrayal will exist.  You will be able to deny any involvement, because to you there never was a betrayal.  No matter how much they torture you, the knowledge won’t be there for them to find.”

I look at her in horror.

“Torture!?”

“If necessary.  The testimony of slaves is always under torture.  It’s automatically assumed that they will lie.”

I don’t want to do this!  I’m not naturally a nasty person, one who would deceive.  It’s simply not in my nature.

“And if I were to refuse to undertake this mission?”

“Don’t refuse…”

I try to take in the full ramifications of what’s being demanded of me, as well as other options.  Are there any other options?

Udumi appears to change tack.  She suddenly barks.

“Kimi!  Would you like to be taken to the punishment room?”

Faster than I can conceive, Kimi dives from her position behind me, to the feet of Udumi and begins kissing and licking the shoes of this dangerous lunatic, Udumi.

“Please no, Mistress!  What have I done to displease you?  How can I correct my error?  How can I make amends?”

This is so sudden and heartfelt that it seems impossible for it to be an act.  Kimi seems genuinely terrified of this threat being carried out.  Her begging is piteous.

“Get up, Kimi.  Return to your position.”

Gratefully, and with profuse thanks for Udumi’s mercy, Kimi resumes kneeling at my side.  As she does so, I see that her visage is ‘white as a sheet’.

“Tell kajira Alvita about the punishment room. Kimi.”

Kimi’s voice tremors with fear and trepidation.

“Kajira Alvita, the punishment room is nothing less than a torture chamber.”

Udumi cuts her off.

“Well equipped?”

“Yes, Domina!, for any and all punishments…”

“How long do you think that it would be before Alvita here, begs abjectly to be allowed to undertake this mission?”

It is a playlet, at least as far as Udumi is concerned.  Not Kimi, though.  For Kimi this discussion is real enough.

“Five minutes, Domina, less perhaps.  No more than ten!”

Such response is, I sense truly sincere.  I’m utterly petrified now.  This Udumi, truly is mad!  Sadistically insane!

“Would you care to bet on that, Kimi?”

Kimi moans.

I’m not so petrified as to fail to understand Kimi’s dilemma.  If she loses, she loses.  If she wins, it’ll infuriate this lunatic, so she loses again.  Kimi assays a question.

“Mistress is teasing me…?”

The smile on Udumi’s face would do justice to a shark.

“Yes, Kimi.  I’m teasing you, at least about the bet.”

In my present predicament, the only way that I can see that I will survive, is to go along and propitiate this nutcase.

“It seems that I don’t have any choice, Mistress.”

The word Mistress chokes in my throat, but there’s nothing else for it.  I posit a question, though I’ve a horrible feeling that I know the answer.

“And after the mission is over, I’ll be returned here, Mistress?”

She laughs.

“Now you are being naive, kajira!  When the mission is over, you will be no more or less than any other slave on Gor.  Your comfort and well-being will be very much dependent upon your own commitment and efforts.”

Right!  Take the gig, and when on Gor, simply get myself bought by someone else, and ignore the mission.

She must be reading my mind.

“If you think that you can avoid completing the mission, think again.  Firstly, you will not be able to shake off the conditioning that you receive.  You may be owned by someone else, on Gor, but we will engineer matters so that you can complete your mission.  You are owned, over and above, any Gorean ownership, by us.  Secondly, fail to complete the mission, while on Gor, and I will see to it that you are fed slowly, piece-by-piece, to a sleen[8], alive and conscious.”

I know what a sleen is, from the books I read.  I go cold with fear.  This witch is quite capable of carrying out her threat, and enjoy watching it happen!

“Yes, Mistress, I understand!”

Udumi leans back and presses a button on her telephone.

“Kronstedt and Ivanus, come to my office, please.”

This gorgon picks up some papers and glances at them for a minute or two.

There’s the sound of a swish.  What appears to be an ordinary wall opens to reveal a hidden elevator system.  Two beefy men step from the car, into the office.  I recognise them.  They were part of the team that was clearly watching me.

“Kimi, denude kajira Alvita of the slave tunic she’s wearing, and give the key of her sirik to Kronstedt.”

I hear and feel the snip-snip of the scissors again.  The garment gave little enough warmth to my body.  Now I’m naked, I feel colder.  Perhaps such is psychological.  I feel embarrassed that the two men can see me naked, but can do nothing about it.  Kimi shuffles around past me.  She kneels before one of the men and, head bowed between her forearms, she offers forward in her fingers a small key.  Kronstedt takes it without comment or thanks.  I must suppose that as a slave, a courtesy such as thanks to her, are not warranted.  I begin to understand just how low, on the social scale, a slave is.

“Kimi, how many indications of disrespect has kajira Alvita committed since being apprised of the necessity to do so?”

“Five, Mistress!”

“Men, please kennel this new slave, Alvita.  Ivanus, please give her five strokes of the lash, before kennelling her.  She can go out with the next batch of sluts.”

I am horrified. Kennelling?  A kennel is for dogs, not for people!.  I’m to be whipped, too!  I understand now, Kimi’s begging before Udumi.  I want to beg so, too, but held as I am I can’t.  I verbally remonstrate.

“Mistress, please…!”

“Shut it, Alvita.  You were informed of what was necessary.  Men, take her.”

The two men come forward.  The sirik is removed.  I am forcibly frog-marched to the elevator.  The men are so strong.  I cannot break free from them.

The elevator descends to what I take to be a basement level.  I am conducted to a space between two pillars.  My right arm is lifted, and a shackle & chain attached to the pillar is fastened to my wrist.  My other wrist is similarly secured to the other pillar.

I howl as the first lash gouges fire across my back.  So much for not giving Udumi the satisfaction!  This is unbearable!  I must however bear it.  I cannot stop it.  After the second lash, my cry is a full scream, and after the third, I’m begging, entreating the men to stop, that I’ve learned my lesson.  On the fourth lash, embarrassingly, I lose control of my bowels.  A stream of wee squirts onto the floor.  After the fifth blow, I’m barely conscious.  I struggle to see properly through the tears flooding from my eyes.  My wrists are released and I am dragged backwards.  I am thrust backwards into a low cement box.  A barred door is shut in my face.  I sob loudly for some five minutes before I hear an acerbic comment from across the corridor that houses these kennels.

“For crying out loud, girl.  Will you shut it, so we can all get some sleep?!”

I rub the tears from my eyes and see that most of the other kennels in the room are occupied.  I hear another voice.

“Give her a break, Julia.  She’s just been whipped.  If you don’t know what that’s like, it’s no joke, I can tell you!”

The chatter stops as Ivanus calls:

“Silence, sluts!”

---

[1]     Not the same story as Anna Sewel’s horse story of the same name, or of any films based upon that.

[2]     UK English:Pavement.

[3]     UK English: Handbag.

[4]     UK English: CV or Curriculum Vitae

[5]     UK English: Tights

[6]     Bondage, Domination, Sadism, Masochism

[7]     UK English: Lift

[8]     Large fearsome six legged rodent, famed for its tracking ability.