Love Slave

by Terry Wakelin

  Rough hands released her wrists and pulled her inboard where, unable to control her limbs, she slumped limply to the deck. “Come, slave! ” growled Jahwar, dragging her callously along the deck by her long hair. “I have a mind to take pleasure with you!

  Chapter Nine

  ‘A Girl Learns Obedience’

  Despite Charlotte’s desperate pleas for mercy, Jahwar

  dragged her inside the little aft cabin, where he threw her to the floor at his feet. “Kneel up! ” he ordered, hands already fumbling at his robe.

  Charlotte’s face was white with fear and revulsion, even as she tried to gain control over her shaking limbs. “No . . . please! ” she choked. “I do not want this. I belong to Khalif. Please! ”

  Jahwar glowered at her. “Kneel up! ” he repeated grimly.

  Charlotte couldn’t help herself. “No! ” she whispered.

  The Berber smiled grimly. “So, slave,” he growled, “it seems you must learn what it means to disobey. ”

  The whipping he gave her was terrible; twelve full-blooded blows with the slave-whip, breaking her resistance completely. A cacophony of screams issued from her contorted mouth at every stroke until, after the sixth, she was begging him to stop. Even so, the lesson continued until every promised lash had been laid across the fearfully marked flesh of her back, buttocks and thighs.

  She was completely defeated!

  As soon as she was able, sobbing hysterically, she struggled up desperately to her knees and abjectly . . . brokenly . . . begged his forgiveness; promising to do anything . . . ANYTHING . . . just as long as he did not whip her again.

  Jahwar thrust a dusty foot in front of her face. “Very well, slave. Beg to be forgiven like the slut you really are! ” he growled.

  Charlotte took a deep breath. The Berber’s meaning was perfectly obvious. Her humiliation was to be complete.

  “Lick! ” he commanded. “Show me how penitent you are! ”

  She closed her eyes in despair. There was no help for it. Jahwar meant to demonstrate his power over her; and desperately . . . oh how desperately . . . did she not wish to be whipped again. Hesitantly, she bent to her task, soft tongue licking out gently over the sweaty skin.

  “Harder, Inglése! In between the toes! Lick carefully now! As you can see, my feet are in dire need of a wash! ”

  Feeling sick, Charlotte licked the salty sweat and dust from her captor’s feet. First one and then the other; licking and licking until her tormentor finally ordered her to cease her labours.

  “Now slave . . . you may beg my forgiveness properly! ” he said, loosening his robe to expose his already erecting shaft.

  Tears in her eyes, dust in her throat, Charlotte looked up at the giant in abject misery. She was totally defeated now, her back, buttocks and the backs of her thighs on fire from the terrible whipping. Another whipping was unthinkable. It would kill her. She must obey. “Forgive me! ” she whispered.

  “What? ”

  “Forgive me . . . Master! ” she groaned, then hesitantly took him into her mouth.

  A short time later Jahwar pulled her head away with a muffled oath. He forced her hands behind her back and, submissively, Charlotte allowed her wrists to be re-secured. Then he gagged her with a wadded, sour-tasting piece of cloth.

  Momentarily, she wondered why. Surely he could see that she would not now resist. Then she pushed the thought from her mind. Jahwar was her Master; he had broken her and whatever he wished, she must bear. She moaned into her gag as the big hands roved unchecked over her squirming nakedness.

  “Truly you were made for the pleasure of men, nasrani! ” growled the Berber, pushing her to her back on the dusty floor, his knee forcing its way between hers to roughly part her thighs. She moaned again as his weight pressed on her, the solid length of him already nudging at her entrance. He was large . . . not as large as Khalif, but still very big. . . and she was not yet ready for him. Suddenly panic-stricken, she writhed and twisted under him, trying frantically, desperately to dislodge him, but it was useless. He was far too strong and far too heavy.

  Tiring of her struggles, he cuffed her viciously round the head. “Be still, slut! ” he snarled. “This will not take long. ”

  Blood running from a cut lip, Charlotte stared up at him as if in a daze. Slowly and painfully, deliberately not waiting for his victim’s natural lubrication to ease his path, Jahwar forced his length into her as yet unprepared sexual passage. She screamed into the sour-tasting gag, begging him to stop; to give her time. It was painful . . . so painful . . . as her captor wished it to be, of course.

  With a satisfied grunt, Jahwar slid into her right up to the hilt; and Charlotte nearly passed into unconsciousness. She felt as if she had been split in two. And he did not stop there! In the following long minutes he continued to drive powerfully into her, ignoring her muffled shrieks and screams as he sought and found his revenge.

  At first, as her rapist had planned, there was no pleasure in the act for the pinioned girl - only pain and humiliation. On and on he drove, revelling in her discomfiture. He looked down at his skewered victim in satisfaction. This was exactly as he wished it. This was Khalif’s preferred slave . . . now his! Revenge, truly, was very sweet.

  The human body, however, is a marvellous instrument and after a time, even Charlotte’s sense of pain and desecration could not stop her natural juices beginning to flow, thus aiding even this most brutal of penetrations. Slowly, slowly, the pain eased and the pleasure pangs began.

  She was helpless to stop it. Her body was, even now, betraying her. Despite the loathing she felt for her attacker, the ramrod battering at her lower belly was beginning to elicit the age-old instinctive female response as she was possessed sexually by the stronger male. Unconsciously, she relaxed and widened her legs further, allowing him even easier access.

  Eyes glazed, she no longer resisted - or in truth no longer wished to. Sweat running freely on her pale skin, the big perfectly formed breasts heaving, she matched her rapist thrust for thrust, building slowly yet inexorably towards her own orgasm.

  “Now Inglése,” gasped Jahwar, his pistoning action growing faster and faster as he neared his own climax, “now you know what it is to truly serve a Master! ”

  Even in her extremity, Charlotte divined his approaching climax and raised her hips to facilitate her own. With a muffled scream, she arched her back, rising climactically to her finish; at the same time bringing Jahwar to his.

  When it was all over, battered and bruised, Charlotte lay still under the harsh-breathing body of her ravisher. Now that the moment had passed, she felt sick, a deep sense of guilt filling her being as she remembered the illicit pleasure she had felt during the assault. Dimly she became aware of Jahwar’s diminishing member slipping stickily from her and her stomach heaved.

  Some time later he left her. She now stood on tip-toe, arms stretched up tautly, wrists tied to slave rings set wide apart in the beam above her head, legs spread wide to similar rings set in the cabin floor. She felt sick as the hideous truth of what had happened washed over her. As he had promised, her ravisher had taken his pleasure with her, fully and completely, and she had also . . . God help her . . . found her own satisfaction in the act.

  Straining to maintain her balance, Charlotte moaned softly as the pain from her ravaged buttocks and thighs made itself evident; and the shocking realisation that, despite the whipping and the trauma of what followed, she had actually climaxed during the brutal possession of her body. She remembered how easily Khalif had aroused her in his cabin. How easy it had been to make her address him as ‘Master’. How right he had been. She was truly a slave, as much to her own passions as she would be to those who would own and use her in the future. Her shoulders shook and a sob gathered at the back of her throat as she thought how Jahwar had used her . . . and the pleasure she had experienced.
There was no denying it, she was just a slut; no more worthy than the lowest whore in the slums of Valletta! She was an animal . . . a helpless slave to her own base desires! She felt the wet stickiness between her thighs and tears filled her eyes. Would she ever see Khalif again or, after what had happened, would he now even want her? Desperately she wanted to believe the former . . . yet feared the latter.

  Shouts came from outside and the galley heeled over sharply. Charlotte gasped as, for a moment or two, she was forced to take her entire weight on her wrists. Desperately, she scrabbled with her toes to regain her footing, suppressing a shiver of fear as she listened to the shouts and cheers coming from the shore and felt the galley bump along the quayside. From the noise, there was obviously a large crowd on shore waiting for the ship to berth. She cringed mentally, seeing in her mind’s eye her own soiled and whipped nakedness paraded through the town for all to see.

  Jeers and the rattle of chains heralded the departure of the captured Spanish sailors who had been forced to man the oars of the Persephone. Trembling, she listened to the taunts of those reviling the naked wretches as they were herded ashore, a sudden memory of the captured Moslem girls being similarly treated on the dockside back in Malta springing into her mind.

  She remembered what Meylissah had told her about the Barbary Coast. The Arabs had long memories and remembered only too well the atrocities committed by crusading European armies in the name of their crucified God. Life for a captured Christian sailor was neither pleasant nor overlong. By and large there were just two alternatives; tortured servitude in the galleys or forced labour in the mines and salt flats of the Sahara. In both, life expectancy was short. Two or three years at the outside in the galleys, maybe eighteen months in the mines if you were lucky.

  Of course, if the captive were young and good-looking, he might be purchased by one of the rich men whose sexual preference lay in that direction. Even so, this was usually but a postponement of the inevitable. Sooner or later the rich man would become bored . . . after all there was no shortage of young and handsome slaves . . . and send his plaything back to one or other of the living Hells.

  The door swung open and the huge figure of the Berber filled the opening. In one hand he held a cloth bundle, in the other a leash and some chain. With a grunt, he dropped the items to the floor and knelt down to release her ankles.

  With a sigh of relief, Charlotte drew her legs together to relieve the strain on her wrists.

  “It is time, infidel! ” grunted Jahwar, reaching up to unchain her wrists. “Quickly now, hands behind your back! ”

  No thought of argument even entered Charlotte’s head as she lowered her aching arms, so awed was she by the ease with which Jahwar had achieved mastery of her. Trembling, she pressed her wrists together behind her, standing meekly as he fastened the slave bracelets together.

  Desperate then, Charlotte dropped to her knees and thrust her face against his thigh. “Please . . . ,” she whispered, “. . . do not take me like this, Master! Allow me some clothing, I beg! ”

  Jahwar grunted, kneeling to lock one length of chain between her ankle bracelets. Already the English girl was becoming compliant. The word ‘Master’ had slipped almost naturally from her lips.

  “Do not worry, infidel! ” he grinned. “It would not be prudent to walk either you or your companion through the streets without clothing. There are many here who would gladly fight to possess such. ”He slipped a hand between her thighs and smiled with satisfaction when she widened them accommodatingly. Swiftly he completed fastening the chain between her ankles, then a shorter one from this to her wrists, lifting the first so that it did not drag on the floor. He stood up and surveyed his handiwork. “Good! Now stand while I put this on you! ”

  ‘This’ proved to be a hooded, shapeless, sack-like garment which, drawn over her head, covered her from top to toe. All that could be seen now were her chained feet. She breathed a little easier. At least she was not to be paraded naked in front of the town’s inhabitants. She stood quietly while the corsair slipped a leash around her neck before pinning a fold of the coarse material over her face. Tears scalded her eyes as she pictured how she must look now; totally anonymous, just another female slave - to be disposed of as her captor wished.

  “Come! ” ordered the Berber, jerking on the leash. Shaking, Charlotte followed him from the cabin and out on to the deck to the leering looks and ribald comments of Jahwar’s crew. There, dressed in a similar, sack-like garment, Meylissah stood meekly, leash hanging down the front of her body.

  Jahwar paid no attention to the jeers and coarse shouts of his men as he led both prisoners to the gangway, where a noisy crowd waited ashore to greet them. To Charlotte, pride already shattered by her twin ordeals, this was the final blow to her self-esteem. Even as her bare feet touched the shore the crowd rushed at them, but Jahwar was ready for them. Brandishing his great axe in one hand, he strode forward, pushing and shoving mightily to make a path through the jeering throng.

  Charlotte was terrified. Forced to follow awkwardly, shuffling along as quickly as the chains on her ankles allowed, both girls flinched and twisted wildly as dozens of marauding hands grabbed at the soft contours under the sack-like garments. Chained as they were, they were completely unable to protect themselves.

  Then, suddenly, they were clear of the crowd and moving away down the dock. Jahwar looked back and grinned. “Do not fret, slaves,” he said, “I shall not let anyone hurt you. You are much too valuable for that. ”

  Now that they were clear of the crowd, the Berber slowed his pace somewhat and Charlotte found it a little easier to keep up. The hobbles on her ankles still threatened to trip her but, with a little practice, she found that by taking quick short steps she could actually keep pace with their captor and at least partially avoid the threat of the leash strangling her.

  She even found time to look around her and was astonished at what she saw. The harbour was big . . . and so crowded with ships that it seemed impossible that any more might find shelter there. Dozens of galleys, Arab dhows, graceful feluccas, even a big Ottoman war galleass, all jostled for space in the crowded water. A strange, alien, cacophony of sounds filled her ears; wood on wood, canvas billowing in the stiff breeze, the shouts of men, the cries of slaves, children and animals. The smell of strange spices, of cooking food filled her nostrils.

  Helplessly, urged on by the insistent tugging on the leashes, Charlotte and Meylissah followed as Jahwar made his way confidently along the quay to the huge, metal-studded gate which led into the city; a gate guarded by a squad of blue-cloaked soldiers in strangely shaped felt headpieces. The English girl looked closer at the beardless, strangely European faces and remembered what her uncle had told her about them. These were the dreaded Janissaries, sons of conquered Christian vassals, converted to Islam and instructed from boyhood in the arts of war; the Sultan’s fearless and dedicated soldiers, armed with crossbow, matchlock and sword, the mainstay of the all-conquering Ottoman army. Even the Sultan treated these terrible men with the utmost respect, knowing he could not govern without their support.

  They passed through the gate into the city proper. Though the streets and alleyways were crowded with people, dark faces looking curiously at the huge corsair and his charges as they passed. Charlotte, too, stared around in wonder as she trotted along. The shops and multitudinous stalls seemed full of the most incredible treasures. There was Tibetan coral, exquisitely sewn custom-made garments both for men and women, brilliant hand-dyed textiles, flowered fabrics, ornate silver jewellery, long filigree earrings, chokers, finely etched bracelets, smoky amber beads and many intricately carved items in ivory and bone.

  And of course . . . slaves!

  A strange little procession approached and, at Jahwar’s bidding, they stood aside to let it pass. Escorted by six black slaves and driving a small, chariot-like vehicle, was a richly robed man brandishing a long,
wicked-looking whip. Chained between the shafts of the chariot, hands pulled up tightly between her shoulderblades and strapped to the heavy iron collar padlocked around her neck, trotted a young black girl, controlled by reins running from thick iron rings set barbarically in the flesh of her swollen nipples. Charlotte shuddered at the sight. Unlike most of the slaves she had seen thus far in the city, this girl was completely naked, livid crimson stripes from the carriage whip criss-crossing the tender flesh of her back and buttocks.

  Charlotte was horrified. The girl looked to be younger even than herself! Whatever might she have done to merit such treatment? Her heart thumped painfully in her chest and, beneath the all-enveloping garment, she began to sweat freely. Did a similar fate . . . or worse . . . await her?

  Further into the city they went, eventually entering a large square in the centre of which a squad of blue-cloaked Janissaries were hustling a naked, blonde-haired young man towards a thin wooden stake planted firmly in the ground. The stake was about four feet in height, shiny with grease and sharply pointed at the upper end.

  Soberly, Jahwar stopped to look and Charlotte’s heart leapt into her mouth. She knew well what was about to happen. After crucifixion, this was the Turks’ favourite method of executing infidel prisoners. Stripped naked, the victim’s hands would be secured behind his back and he would be lifted breast high to allow the point of the stake to enter his anus. Slowly, then, he would be lowered onto the stake until he was firmly wedged and there was no danger of him toppling off. The victim’s feet would be left free, scrabbling desperately at the greased pole as his own weight drove the stake deeper and deeper up into his body, until at last they rested on the ground. Even then his agony was sometimes not over. It was a horrible death; the victim oftimes lingering for hours in excruciating pain while the wooden stake in his vitals did its work.