Love Slave

by Terry Wakelin

  Breathlessly she stood helpless as he slipped the leash over her head, unable to suppress a gasp as he jerked it tight around her throat. With a sense of horror, she looked up into the bronzed face of her captor and tried to come to terms with what was happening. She was naked and tied . . . and totally at his mercy. She looked desperately to where the crumpled figure lay by the bulkhead. “Please! ” she begged. “Meylissah . . . my maid . . . is she dead? ”

  Dropping the leash, Salim strode across the cabin to the prone figure and gently turned her over, pressing his fingers to the maid’s neck to search for a pulse. Meylissah gave a little groan and stirred under his hand.

  “She lives,” he said simply.

  Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears of relief as, still dazed, Meylissah struggled to her feet and submitted first to being stripped, then tied and leashed as she. A sharp tug on her leash brought the English girl back to awful reality.

  “Come! ” ordered her captor.

  She looked up at him desperately. “No . . . please! ” she choked, as the leash tightened on her throat. “Do not take us like this . . . please . . . I beg you! ”

  He was unmoved. “Come! ” he repeated flatly.

  She looked into the steel blue eyes and recognised there a strong resolve. He was not to be swayed. Shivering with cold and fear, both she and Meylissah followed helplessly as he led them out through the shattered doorway and into the corridor beyond.

  On deck, the fighting was over. Naked and bound, a small group of Spanish officers were grouped together in the middle of the deck. Charlotte looked around in horror. Already, jubilant corsairs were throwing dead and wounded alike over the side, while others ran to loot the ship and release the galley slaves. With a sick feeling, she saw the bodies of the young lieutenant, Diego, and Valdez the slaver heaved into the sea. Of Captain Diaz there was no sign and her heart sank even further at the thought that he had probably already been disposed of similarly.

  Charlotte looked up and her heart thumped in her chest. On the canopied after-deck, not a hand’s breadth away from where only yesterday, she had imagined herself insulted by a kiss, stood a terrifying, mailed and helmeted figure. Behind him stood the huge figure of Zamil and, kneeling beside him, naked and tied as she was herself, the sloe-eyed Egyptian dancer, Leila, golden padlock with its little bell still hanging between her widely parted thighs.

  The corsairs were chanting, stamping their feet in time as they shouted a name. Charlotte shivered, her heart cold as ice. The mailed figure was ageing now, the great red beard flecked with grey; but still there was no mistaking his identity. Throughout the Mediterranean his name was anathema to Christians.

  “Dragut! Dragut Bey! Dragut! Dragut Bey! Dragut! ”

  The shouts filled Charlotte’s ears like the bells of doom. Dragut Bey, the legendary corsair Lord; he of the red beard; scourge of western shipping and master of a dozen ships; Redbeard the bloodthirsty, whose Christian prisoners filled the slave-markets of the Barbary Coast; whose black-painted galley he called ‘Jehad’ which, freely translated from the Arabic, means ‘Holy War’!

  Another jerk on the leash urged she and Meylissah forward and the corsairs began to chant a different name. “Khalif! Khalif! ” they chanted.

  Salim lifted an acknowledging hand and the English girl trembled with increased horror. Naked and leashed like an animal, she now began to understand just what had happened to her. No wonder the Moor had not seemed like any merchant she had ever known. She knew him now. Or, rather, knew OF him! Not as the merchant, Salim bin Rahdi; but as Khalif Barbar . . . more commonly known as the ‘Barbarian’ to his Spanish and Neapolitan enemies. No one knew his real name, but it was rumoured that he had once been a galley slave of the Spanish. She trembled anew. Khalif Barbar had almost as grim a reputation as Dragut Bey himself.

  As they approached, Dragut Bey turned to the Moor with a wolfish smile. “So, Khalif, once again we triumph,” he rumbled. His eyes flickered over the two naked girls. “And what have we here? Two more beauties! I see your eye for slave flesh has not let you down. ”He laughed, indicating the kneeling figure at his side. “And, as you can see, Zamil too has made a capture. ”

  Salim/Khalif smiled. “Yes, my Lord, so I see. ”He held out the two leashes. “This one is an English milady,” he said carelessly, indicating Charlotte. “She should bring a fair price on the block. The other was her body slave. ”

  Dragut accepted the leash and examined Charlotte with an expert eye. “A English milady, you say! ” he murmured, running a none-too-gentle hand over her breasts and down over her rump. He passed a hand intimately between her legs, then chuckled and glanced sideways at the younger man. “A juicy slut,” he pronounced.

  Charlotte almost died of shame. It was true. In spite of her terror, she could feel her juices running.

  The old corsair snapped his fingers, still shiny from her secretions. “Kneel! ” he ordered, indicating that both girls should place themselves alongside the other captive.

  Charlotte felt a sudden surge of anger and for a moment almost considered disobeying; then a sharp tug on the leash changed her mind and, with a little sob, she followed Meylissah’s example and dropped to her knees.

  “Dragut! Khalif! Dragut! Khalif! ”The chants went on and on until the old corsair lifted a hand for silence.

  The noise subsided and one half-naked warrior stepped forward to salute with bloodied sword.

  “The prize is ours, my Lords,” he shouted. “What orders? Will you give us the female slaves for our pleasure? ”

  The corsair chief grinned as if contemplating the thought and Charlotte shivered with fear. Although the dialect was different to Meylissah’s, she understood much of what was being said. Was this to be her fate? At the mercy of this crew of cut-throats; raped over and over again until they tired of her? And then what? Killed in any one of a dozen slow and agonising ways for their amusement, the fact that she was English and an aristocrat adding even more spice to their game!

  Dragut smiled wolfishly, displaying blackened, discoloured teeth. He shook his head, almost regretfully. “No . . . I think not, Saiid,” he said. “They are but common sluts and for them to be used by so many lusty brethren would probably be fatal for them. Far better to fetch both alive to the marketplace. ”He grinned slyly. “This is, after all, a profit-making venture,” he glanced down at the captives, “and dead sluts bring no-one a profit. ”

  Charlotte bridled at once. She had understood enough of the exchange to know what Dragut had called her. She raised her head defiantly, her eyes flashing. “I am not a slut! ” she declared. “My name is Lady Charlotte Brandon. My uncle is Sir James Brandon; a great Lord who will pay much for my release. ”

  Dragut regarded the kneeling girl with some interest. “So,” he marvelled, “you speak our language. ”He gave a sardonic bow. “I beg your pardon, my lady. Obviously a mistake has been made. ”

  Hope surged in Charlotte’s breast at the pirate’s words - a hope stifled almost as soon as it was born.

  “Of course, it would not be proper to treat such a lady as yourself as a common slut,” he said. He grinned and turned to the crew. “Run out a plank! ” he shouted. “We have made a mistake. This nasrani, who I took to be slave flesh, is in reality a great lady in her own country. Therefore, as we have sworn to take no prisoners . . . only slaves . . . she must die as a real lady would wish! ”

  Dragut stepped back and instantly, as the corsairs cheered, Charlotte was hauled to her feet by a grinning Zamil who, tugging on her leash until she thought she might choke, dragged her to where a group of villainous-looking corsairs were already lashing a plank of wood to the side of the ship. She looked back in terror at Salim bin Rahdi for help, but could discern no sign of pity or concern in the dark, expressionless face.

  Thrust up onto the swaying plank, Charlotte almost lost control of h
er bowels as, looking down into the blue water, she saw the unmistakable shapes of half a dozen or so great sharks tearing at those bodies which were still floating.

  “Blindfold her! ” ordered a grinning Dragut and she moaned in terror as her vision was abruptly cut off by a dirty rag tied tightly around her eyes.

  A sharp pain in her buttocks as a sword point jabbed at her flesh made her jump and, to a great cheer from the corsairs, she took one unsteady pace along the plank. The plank wavered and bent under her feet and she could sense the water and the terrible predators it contained beneath her. She cried out in terror. Whatever else, she could not face that. “No! No! No! ” she screamed. “Please no! Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! I am not a lady. I am a slut . . . a whore! Please . . . please . . . don’t kill me! ”

  Rough hands hauled her from the plank and removed the blindfold. Roughly, she was forced to her knees again and, blinking her tear-filled eyes, Charlotte looked up numbly at a frowning Dragut.

  “So . . . now you are a slut,” said the old corsair, “and content to be treated so? ”

  Charlotte moaned with shame and hung her head.

  “Answer, girl! ” repeated the pirate. “Are you lady . . . or slut? ”

  There was no help for it. Charlotte was completely defeated. “Just a . . . a . . . slut,” she finally managed to whisper.

  Dragut was satisfied. He turned to Zamil with a grin. “Take them below and secure them well! ” he ordered. He held up a warning hand. “And for the moment, make sure they remain untouched! ”

  The huge black man nodded. “Come! ” he ordered tersely, taking up the three leashes.

  “Oh no! ” gasped Charlotte, as the braided noose once more tightened on her throat and threatened to cut off her wind. In her extremity she looked towards her erstwhile captor for help. “Please . . . ! ” she choked, “. . . please! Tell them! My uncle will gladly pay any ransom you ask. ”

  The Moor’s face remained expressionless and Charlotte caught her breath as Zamil bent over her. The Nubian’s skin was slick with sweat and his muscles rippled as he picked her up in his arms. Effortlessly he lifted her and stepped forward to the deck rail. Charlotte looked down in terror. The main deck was at least eight or ten feet below.

  “Ho! ” shouted Zamil to the men below, then casually opened his arms as the man directly underneath looked up. Charlotte gave a piercing scream as she fell. The surprised pirate managed to half-catch her, though not quickly enough to prevent him being knocked to the deck amid howls of laughter from his comrades.

  “Fool, Zamil! ” gasped the man, struggling out from underneath the winded Charlotte. “You might have killed me! ”

  There was another howl of laughter from the watching corsairs, and Zamil grinned hugely. “Forgive me, Saiid! ” he chuckled, turning to pick up the gold-nippled Leila and hold her, too, out from the rail. “Here . . . this one is not quite so heavy, I think! ”

  This time the pirate was ready and managed to catch his human prize without any trouble. Still grinning, Zamil repeated his action with a trembling and white-faced Meylissah, then swung down to reclaim his charges and, encouraging them with sharp swats to their backsides, swiftly herded the three girls below decks. There, he threw open the door to a tiny, windowless room and thrust them inside. “Kneel! ” he growled.

  Charlotte, looking in horror at the room’s occupants, hardly heard him. On the floor was the body of a man, a Spanish officer by the look of him. On the bunk, securely fastened by her outstretched arms and legs, lay another young, dark-haired female gagged with a wadded cloth. The girl was naked and, looking closer, Charlotte’s flesh crawled as she saw the bruised and discoloured breasts and other marks of abuse which someone . . . some devil . . . had inflicted on the soft flesh.

  “Kneel! ” growled Zamil again.

  Shocked to the core and sick at heart at what she perceived to be her betrayal by Salim bin Rahdi - alias Khalif, Charlotte remained on her feet even as Leila and Meylissah fell submissively to their knees. Bound and helpless as she was, she nonetheless tried to speak with some dignity. “Please,” she said, trying desperately to recall the Arabic words, “I am not a slave. My uncle will reward you well if you return me to him. Release me, I beg you! ”

  Casually, Zamil cuffed her round the head, the blow setting her head spinning. “Learn to obey! ” he commanded. He pointed to the floor at his feet. “Kneel! ” he repeated.

  Tears welling from her eyes, still Charlotte persisted. “Please, Zamil! ” she begged. “I am not a slave. You know this. Your Master knows this. Much gold will be paid for my release. Do not treat me so, I beg! ”

  Zamil’s eyes narrowed and he reached out to take a murderous looking, three-thonged whip from its hook on the wall.

  “You have already admitted to being a slut and a whore, nasrani,” he growled. “I have told you to obey! ” he growled. “Do you wish to be taught? ”

  The meaning was clear, yet still Charlotte’s ravaged modesty would not allow her to retreat.

  “Please . . . please! ” she whispered, this time in her own language. “I am not a slut . . . or a whore . . . do not treat me so! ”

  “Very well, foolish one! ”Taking hold of one soft shoulder, he forced her easily to her knees, then jerked her bound wrists sharply upward to press her nose firmly to the dirty floor. Charlotte gasped in terror as her rounded bottom and the backs of her thighs were presented as a perfect target. Then she screamed; shoulders almost threatening to break under the strain as, once . . . twice . . . three times the whip fell. The pain was almost unbelievable. Charlotte couldn’t even scream . . . the shock had taken her breath away so completely. Utterly vanquished, she writhed at the Nubian’s feet. “Oh God . . . oh God . . . oh God,” was all she could gasp.

  Still Zamil had not finished with her. Reaching down, he took her by the hair and pulled her back to her knees, roughly kicking them apart as she fought for breath. “A slave kneels thus! ” he growled.

  Charlotte was shaking uncontrollably, nine crimson swathes of fire lining the creamy flesh of her bottom. Never had she felt such atrocious pain. Zamil examined her candidly, initial anger cooling a little as he regarded his shuddering but now acquiescent captive. He turned to replace the whip on its hook and then looked back sternly.

  “Silence now! ” he ordered. “Remain as you are until I return! ”

  The door banged shut and Charlotte, bottom on fire where the lash had struck, looked at her companions in misery through tear-filled eyes and began to sob aloud.

  Leila’s reaction was not entirely sympathetic. “Stop that! ” she whispered fiercely. “Did you not hear? We are commanded to be silent . . . and I fear the lash, even if you do not. ”

  “Please, Mistress,” whispered Meylissah. “You must be silent now, or we shall all be whipped. ”

  The words sank in to Charlotte’s brain and, desperately, she tried to stifle her sobs. The thought of being whipped again was unthinkable. Another assault with that fearsome weapon would surely kill her. She looked at the sprawled body of the Spanish sailor and shuddered, managing to gain control of herself only with a mighty effort, though her shoulders continued to shake with silent sobs.

  Leila regarded her impassively, shifting slightly on her haunches to make herself more comfortable. The glint of gold caught Charlotte’s eye and she shuddered at the sight of the heavy rings set in the tender flesh. Oh God, she thought, what sort of world was this where men might do such barbaric things to helpless women?

  Feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her life, Lady Charlotte Brandon - now a bound and naked slave - knelt on the dusty floor of the cabin, the silent sobs continuing as the awful reality of what had happened to her began to sink in.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Retribution’

  Like two sleek sharks cradling a cumbersome whale, the two
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br />   corsair galleys ‘Jehad’ and ‘Persephone’ lay warped either side of the captured galleass. The corsairs’ prize was wallowing, first to one side and then the other; a stiffish off-shore breeze along the Mediterranean swell doing nothing to steady her as she lay with sails furled and oars banked.

  Around half the surviving Spanish were already chained to the rowing benches of the galleass, replacing those unfortunates who had been the previous occupants. Others were prisoners at the oars of the two Corsair galleys. At Khalif Barbar’s direct order, the two surviving Englishmen had already been released from their chains and were even now being cared for in a cabin below.

  Angry growls came from the corsairs as one poor whip-scarred wretch was laid gently on the deck. For him, rescue had come too late. Starved and beaten until he was not much more than a blood-encrusted skeleton, he had died, still chained to his oar, almost at the moment of liberation.

  Chained hand and foot, one small group of carefully selected Spanish prisoners remained huddled together in a forlorn group by the mainmast; corsairs and freed slaves alike circling them threateningly. Questions were asked; fingers pointed accusingly; and the San Cristobal’s brutish oar-master, kicked, punched and spat upon, was dragged from the little group.

  There was a chilling vengeful shout from one of the freed slaves, a gaunt figure with an unsheathed scimitar in his hand. “He is mine! I claim the right! ”

  Amid hoots and jeers, the oar-master, struggling and pleading for mercy, was dragged from the little group of prisoners and frog-marched to the same plank that had been the instrument of Charlotte’s surrender. The victim, foreseeing his fate, threw himself to his knees in front of the slave, tears running on his cheeks as he begged desperately for his life.

  It was useless!

  With an impatient growl, the former occupant of the rowing bench hauled the man to his feet and forced him up on to the plank. For a moment the man stood absolutely still, terror-stricken at the sight of the menacing black fins cruising the blood-stained water around the ship. Then the scimitar jabbed sharply between his buttocks, forcing him, blubbering and pleading, to shuffle awkwardly out on to the swaying little platform. Desperately, the man turned to face his tormentor, his entreating words turning to screams as the razor-sharp blade, jabbing and slicing, cut bloody patterns into his flesh. Reluctantly, step by hesitant step, urged on by the relentless blade, the wretch backed away along the crazily dancing plank. He was near the end now, teetering desperately as it bent further and further under his weight.